Chapter One

In December of 1875, the first telegraph cable was laid between Britain and the United States, Dvorak completed his fifth symphony, Tolstoy published Anna Karinina, and Edith Baskin added another illegitimate child to the surplus population. Three guesses which of these went all but unnoticed by the citizenry of planet Earth.

There were a few witnesses: Edith was fairly caught up in the event, of course, as was the baby, and the back-alley midwife Edith had paid four shillings to deliver the baby and another two to keep it quiet. The father was vaguely aware that something close to the usual number of months had passed since he and Edith had dislodged a bit of hay from the hayloft, though he couldn’t be positive because he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since and had neglected to record the date of the dislodging on the flyleaf of the old family Bible.

For the most part, the blessed event was just one of the thousands never noted in the census books. Chances were good the kid wouldn’t last all that long anyway, what with the neighbors more than happy to share their cholera, influenza, smallpox and what have you with the little thing.
It wasn’t a week after the birth that Edith found herself, miraculously, housemaid to the Tophams of Ludgate Hill at nine shillings and 6p a week. And if she had doubts about it before, there was no question about keeping the child now.

Virtue was a national mania, proclaimed from the pulpit, in pamphlets and newspapers and the public square. The lowest born bugger could plunge a butcher knife up to the hilt into the chest of his fellow man and still expect a fair trial, but heaven help the unwed mother.