The Color of Death

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By the end of that day in 1772, a concatenation of events would have begun which would alter considerably the circumstances of life there at Number 4 Bow Street. We had no notion of that, however, as we sat together like a proper family at breakfast. Annie, the cook, had baked a fresh loaf, and we ate it warm with rashers of bacon and lumps of good country butter. The mood was festive. It was seldom, after all, that the five of us were together at the table so early in the day. More frequently, we came one by one, ate what was conveniently at hand, and headed off along our separate paths. On that morning, however, Lady Fielding was to attend a meeting of the board of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes, a charitable enterprise which she herself had brought into being. Her preparations for this event had lasted well past the usual hour of her departure for the Magdalene Home. Nevertheless, there was then time for her to converse with Sir John; to give the day’s orders to Annie and me; and to tease her secretary, Clarissa, the orphan who Sir John had taken on as his ward that she might be saved from the Lichfield poor house.

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