There are no detailed records of what transpired that day. The London Metropolitan Archives contained only perfunctory minutes reflecting who was in attendance and the committee’s final decision. The meeting was chaired by Sir Roger Gregory, a hospital governor who served from 1892 until his death in 1938. I didn’t uncover much about Gregory, only that he was a solicitor who served as a senior partner at the prominent London firm Gregory, Rowcliffe, & Co. A portrait of Sir Gregory hangs in the Foundling Museum gallery today. In it, his rumpled black suit seemed modest compared to the attire of other governors I’d seen portraits of, and he had the look of a charitable man, with tufts of gray hair, a trimmed mustache, and kind eyes. Eight other men, listed in the archives’ minutes only by their surnames, joined Sir Gregory that day. The notes reveal nothing of how they treated Lena, whether they expressed sympathy or judgment. Lena would have sat alone on the other side of the table, allowed no assistance from counsel or even a trusted friend, as the governors deposed her about the details of her misfortune. The proceedings typically included an inquiry into the nature of the liaison that had led to the unwanted pregnancy.
How long have you known the father?
Did he use force?
Was there alcohol involved?
I don’t know whether Lena stuck to her story—a stranger passing through town, no promises made, no information exchanged. According to a scholarly article detailing the process of admissions, an applicant who claimed a promise of marriage prior to sexual intercourse was more likely to receive admission for her child. Lena might have understood that answers reflecting a woman’s naïveté and a man’s duplicity were much more likely to lead to her desired outcome. In her written application, she had included few details of her illicit liaison, only that in February 1931 a man had taken “liberties” with her during a walk to the Wrekin, an iconic rock formation on the outskirts of Wellington, and that this had been “repeated the two subsequent weeks.” The timing of Lena’s story would have resulted in an improbably long pregnancy, and I had no way of knowing whether the governors conducting the interviews were astute enough to question Lena’s chronology of events. With no record of the details of the meeting, I knew only that her pleas were successful as she received a letter the following day.
27th January, 1932
Dear Madam,
With reference to your application for the admission of your child to this Hospital—the Governors decided yesterday to have enquiries made into your case.
Yours faithfully,
Secretary
Despite its dry tone, the letter was an indication of success. I silently cheered when Lena passed through the first threshold of the arduous process, but there was more to come. Next, the governors would investigate whether Lena was who she claimed to be—a respectable woman. She had already assured them in her application that she was virtuous, and that “this is the only occasion on which I have ever been interfered with, and if the Governors relieve me of my child I propose to return home to look after my brother.” But Lena’s word would not be enough. Instead, the governors sought corroboration from the men who knew her—her brother, her doctor, and her pastor. Her family’s physician, Dr. Mackie, supplied a reference vouching for Lena’s respectability, while censuring the “lapse” that had occasioned her current situation:
I have been Medical Attendant to the Weston Family for years and have always had a great respect for them all. . . . I have never heard the slightest hint or suggestion of any moral turpitude in her character, in fact the recent lapse came as a great surprise to me, and from what I know of her I am pretty certain it will never happen again.
Her pastor, Reverend Nock, added his voice to the chorus: “This is to certify that I have known Miss Lena Weston for a number of years and she is of a most respectable family and attends my Church as one of my Church followers.” The underlining, presumably added by a governor reviewing Lena’s case, was telling—respectability was essential for an applicant to succeed.
The governors were exceedingly thorough in the execution of their task, going so far as to dispatch an investigator to interview each of the letter writers personally. More notes and documentation would follow. During his interview, Reverend Nock reiterated his earlier assessment, that Lena came from “respectable people,” adding that they were “highly thought of in the district.” He described Lena as “truthful, reliable and dependable,” and he “had never seen her about with any men.” Dr. Mackie affirmed Reverend Nock’s assessment that Lena came from a “very respectable family,” adding that “the girl was quite straight-forward, but easily led.” The not-so-subtle implication behind the assurances from these male guarantors was that Lena wouldn’t stain the Foundling Hospital’s reputation by repeating her mistake—nor were they at risk of housing the offspring of the worst kind of repeat offender, a common prostitute. For his part, Lena’s brother, Harry, attested that “his sister had always been a very nicely conducted girl” and that “if the Governors helped her, he was quite willing to have her back.” (Quite a turnaround, given that he’d thrown her out just a few months earlier.)
Shuffling through the reports and letters, I could feel the blood rushing to my head. How freely these men rendered their opinions! Scrutinizing my grandmother, adjudicating her virtue, deciding whether she measured up to their exacting standards; it all seemed to come so easily to them. I felt oddly protective of a woman I had never known, whose name had held no meaning for me until so recently.
In the end, Lena succeeded. Vouched for by her doctor, her pastor, and her brother, she received the following letter a month after her interview:
24th February, 1932
Dear Madam,
Referring to your application—the same was considered by the Governors at their Meeting yesterday and I am pleased to inform you they decided to receive your child. You must bring her to these Offices yourself on Wednesday morning next, the 2nd proximo, punctually at 10.30 o’clock.
Please acknowledge this letter and be punctual as there are other children for admission the same day and if you are late it will upset the whole arrangements.
It will not be necessary for you to provide any additional clothing for the child.
Yours faithfully,
Secretary
As instructed, at the appointed time, Lena Weston brought her baby girl to 40 Brunswick Square. Just blocks from the fashionable Russell Square, where gray-and-white buildings with brightly colored doors and large brass door knockers housed wealthier inhabitants of London, the Foundling Hospital was modest, constructed of common red brick, its windows adorned with crisp white trim that gave the facade a well-ordered and tidy appearance. There was only one entrance, a set of plain concrete steps that led to an unassuming wooden door.
How Lena must have trembled as she walked up those stairs, the hope of sparing her family from disgrace fueling her with the strength to lift her each step. In truth, I don’t know much about Lena’s character or her thoughts on that day, since the only trace left of her is the trail of administrative bread crumbs in the Foundling Hospital’s files. But by the measure of the times, Lena had been given a rare gift, one that would allow her to regain her respectability and no small degree of security.