“Does she have a name?” I ask.
“Dorothy, Master. I’ve no clothing for her, an’ it be cold.” The woman pulls her threadbare coat closer to her body.
I turn away from the door. “Betty,” I call, “bring me yer coat.”
“What are ye doing, husband?” Elizabeth asks.
“Practicing Christian charity. It is not the child’s fault her mother is a slattern.”
Betty hands me her coat. I shake it out and turn back to the doorway.
“Ye there, girl . . . Dorothy. Put this on.”
The child wraps the coat around her. The woman watches and holds her fingers to her lips. Elizabeth comes up behind me with a small loaf of bread. I give it to the woman.
“Shelter elsewhere,” I order, “and earn yer way properly.”
“Properly. Aye. Thankee fer yer kindness, Master.” The woman curtsies. “Come, Dorothy.”
The woman mutters as she walks away, but whether she voices a blessing or a curse, I cannot tell.
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