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opportunity to help your family as much as this.” Then she added, “Especially . . .” but did not finish her sentence. I wished her dead at that moment, because her words, as she’d meant them to, made my father’s hand tighten on my arm.

    Of course I ended up going. My father made my decision for me. He beat me til I shrieked and then, out of his mind, he made for the cradle. When my mother stood in front of it, he smacked her til she bled from her nose. My father had a vicious streak in him, and though I couldn’t believe he’d hurt a baby, twas hard to know what his anger would let him do that a milder man wouldn’t have. In the end, I could do nothing else. I packed my two frocks and my aprons and my caps and then I nursed my baby one last time. He suckled something fierce, staring at me til his eyes drooped and he slumbered. I wept and wept and wiped the tears off his sweet face before I put him in his cradle.
    “I’ll see to him, Susan,” said my mother, kissing me gently, as her lips were still puffed from my father’s fists. “Don’t worry your head. He’ll be right as rain, never you mind.”
    And so with a last sob into his cradle, I took up my bundle and went to meet Mrs. Potts and go to Aubrey.

    MRS. MOORE’S REASON

    I am Mrs. Moore, first name of Prudence. My husband is half-owner of Cranford & Moore, which I am sure you have heard of. He owns exactly half of the company, not a bit less, though our name is second, but do not let that fool you. Someday, and I think it will not be very long, my husband’s name may be the only one on the sign.
    The shop you see on the street is only a small part of the business. There is a warehouse of some size here in Seagrove which, as you must know, is a town that is growing like a foot grows out of a shoe. Seagrove is not simply a holiday seaside spot, not anymore. It’s shipping that’s made it grow so. That’s how my husband, who started in the navy I am proud to tell you, made his mark. He learned the ins and outs of the shipping business from Mr. Cranford—there’s no denying that the old man knows that part of the trade.
    Mr. Moore, my husband, says he cannot do without me. I do not need to boast, I only repeat what he says. He consults with me quite constantly. Just the other day at dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Steele I heard him say this, “I know shipping, but it’s Mrs. Moore, here, who knows the shop. I’ve never seen a head for business like she has. Knows just what to stock, she does, and . . .” then he whispered, “If the baronet’s man has special-ordered a fancy silk, well then, he might have to pay a bit extra for it, not that he’d know it.” And he cast me a naughty look and then didn’t we all laugh.
    It was no trouble to me to take care of Charles and Henry when the shop was smaller. I had only to bring them with me and the ladies of Seagrove thought nothing amiss about it. But now that the town is growing and we are serving the likes of baronets, well, it’s different. Mr. Moore and I were both surprised when I realized, though it was late in our marriage, that I was with child; after all, the boys are both big enough to be away at school, which gives us our days to attend to the business. We talked together about it as we do with all our business deals and thought to put this one out to nurse.
    Before the child was born, I had made my inquiries and had found a fine spot with a lady named Mrs. Rose down in Leighton, not five hours away by coach. I reserved the spot and pre-paid an extra half-shilling in advance, in order to hold it. I knew better than to depend on the shopgirls to keep the business going while I hunted for a wet nurse. Sometimes, I told my husband, money spent is money earned.
    “That’s the way to do it, Mrs. Moore,” said my husband to me when he’d heard what I’d done. I also told him that I’d made the nurse sign her X to a paper that said if the baby died before the first three months, I would