Where Love Shines (21 page)

“I have read—”

He was interrupted by a hoot from George. “Read? And since when do blind men read? It’s little wonder you have your information wrong, brother. Why don’t you go play soldiers, and let Father and me run our business?”

“I may be blind, George—enough to prevent my playing soldiers, as you put it. But I have had my eyes opened to things you apparently can’t see. Yes, others have read the reports to me, but I have my facts straight. I know the suffering caused to children required to work fourteen hours a day lugging saggars to the kilns. I know of the lung poisoning inflicted on women who breathe the raw clay dust for twelve hours a day and are not paid enough to afford decent food. They ‘die a little faster every day,’ the white paper said.”

Francis and George both took breath to roar at him, and even Bennett growled again from under George’s legs. But Dick was spared further onslaught by the rapping of an ebony stick on the dark oak doors. Great-aunt Lavinia, elder sister of Great-aunt Charlotte and matriarch of the family, stood in the doorway. Dick made out her tall, thin, black-clad outline and snapped to his feet. “Great-aunt Lavinia.” He bowed in her direction. George and Francis came to their feet more slowly.

Lavinia tapped her stick for attention. “We have endured enough of your caterwauling. Richard, I am surprised at you. You always had better manners than to engage in these slanging matches—and before you greeted your ancient aunt. You may take me in to dinner, sir.”

“With pleasure, Auntie GAL.” Dick grinned, knowing his use of their childhood name for her never failed to soften her.

“I’ll have none of your impudence now.” Her voice was severe, but Dick heard the softer note at the end. He crossed to her, but misjudged the placement of the low table beside the sofa and took a sharp blow on the shin. His face flushed as he heard George snigger behind him.

In the dining room his mother was warmly welcoming, Livvy was still dancing her excitement over the arrival of her brother and his friend, and even Arthur seemed less intense than usual.

But the cheerfulness and the well-served dinner did little to raise Dick’s spirits. It wasn’t the difficulty of trying to convince his father and George to improve the conditions of their workers—he had expected that. Indeed, that was the very reason for his coming. Nor was it the new proof of the awkwardness of his disability—he had had plenty of that already. It was Arthur Merriott’s confidence to him on the train, imparted in a burst of companionship, that he expected to announce his engagement before the end of this parliamentary session. And then when the next election was called, he should be well-placed to stand for Parliament. Richard wished Arthur well in his political career. But Jennifer… he had not realized before that his feelings for her were quite so deep.

“I said, Richard, did you have a pleasant journey?” His mother’s voice penetrated his consciousness.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Mama. Quite amazing to accomplish in three hours what formerly took six or more.”

“Railways.” Great-aunt Lavinia gave a disapproving sniff. “Noise. Soot. Smoke. If the devil traveled, he should travel by railway.”

“Well, I’m exceedingly glad you’re here however you’ve come.” Livvy’s voice reflected her pleasure. “And just in time, too. The Shrewsbury Cup is running Saturday next. We must make up a party for it. Will you be going, Olivia?” She turned to George’s wife seated on the other side of Arthur.

“I think not. I had quite enough of horse racing in Yorkshire.” The tall broad shouldered woman in a russet dress shook her blonde head firmly. The former Olivia Thirkell was the only daughter of a wealthy farmer from the Yorkshire Dales—of sufficiently rugged stock that even George’s blustering failed to intimidate her.

Livvy shrugged. “Windflyer is the favorite, of course. All the county’s talking about him.” Since no one had thought to lower the lights in the dining room, and Dick would not ask that it be done in front of George, he was required to sit with his eyes closed behind his dark glasses. The sound of his sister’s happiness pleased him, but the name Windflyer tickled his memory. There was some controversy attached to the horse—something about his winning an earlier race against large odds… Oh, yes, the voice at Tattersall’s that had turned out to belong to Dr. Pannier collecting his winnings. The horse’s name had been Windflyer.

“I should like to go, Livvy. It would be pleasant to be around horses again,” Dick said.

“Yes, and it will give us a chance to show our county to Mr. Merriott.” Again the smile sounded in Livvy’s voice. But it faded when Arthur explained that he must be on his way in the morning to meet two other commissioners to undertake a factory inspection in Sheffield.

“However, we will also be working in Stafford later.” He turned to Caroline Greyston. “With your permission I will call on our return.”

She turned to Great-aunt Lavinia sitting at the foot of the table. “It is my aunt’s home, sir, but I am certain—”

“Always happy to have young people about.” Lavinia nodded her silver head under its black-ribboned lace cap. “Keeps one young. If they’re cheerful, that is. Bickering will drive us all to an early grave.” She looked meaningfully at George. But he was concentrating on his third serving of meat and potatoes.

Olivia stepped into the uncomfortable silence to inform her listeners about the antics of their little Francis George III, and dinner continued through to the concluding Bavarian cream followed by tart fall apples and a rich, tangy Stilton.

Later when Richard was alone in his room, he walked around slowly, touching each item to familiarize himself with its placement. Bumps and bruises were simply part of his life now, but he would keep them to a minimum when he could.

At last he sat in the overstuffed plush chair by the window. It was not the external bumps that concerned him. He knew his work was cut out for him if he were to accomplish anything at the pottery. It would be a long, hard struggle, but he was prepared to make the stand. He began a careful mental outline of all that needed to be accomplished and how he would approach each challenge.

Richard had been depressed and angry all day, but now as he focused on the task before him, his former discouragement fell away. Gradually he became aware of a vigor he had not known for months. The realization dawned upon him—at last the wall was down; the road was open before him. A steep, twisting road full of boulders and potholes, but there was a road to follow, a cause to fight for, a job to do, and, hopefully, accomplishment at the end. It felt so good he wanted to spread his arms and shout.

But at his next thought his newfound elation died, leaving him flatter than before. He had momentarily forgotten Jennifer. At least he had been warned. She had mentioned receiving letters from Arthur even in Scutari. He had known the blow was coming. And he had been given no reason to expect otherwise. He simply had not realized how much he would care.

Squaring his shoulders, he determined to face that when the time came. In the meantime, however, he could not leave Livvy to the same painful fate. He had heard the note of happiness and caring in her voice tonight when she spoke to Arthur. He must warn her.

A knock at the door brought Kirkham from the adjoining room to answer it. “Is my brother abed yet, Kirkham?” Livvy rushed in without waiting for an answer. “Oh, Dick, I just had to come again to tell you how lovely it is to have you back!”

“Livvy.” He crossed to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I am glad you came. I was just thinking of you. There is something I must speak to you of. I fear the topic will be painful to you. But I would speak now to prevent worse pain later.”

“Dick, what is it? You sound so solemn.”

“I feel solemn.” He took a breath and rushed ahead. “Arthur Merriott told me this afternoon that he and Jennifer Neville are to be wed early in the coming year.”

Livvy went stiff under his hands. She was silent for a long moment and then pulled away. “No. That’s all wrong. I don’t believe it. You misheard him.”

“No, Livvy. I cannot tell you how much I wish I had. But he was very definite, very certain. All timed to have him properly wifed before the next general election.”

“No. It is wrong. Wrong.” She fled from the room.

“Something is wrong, Betsy.” Jennifer dropped the letter from Edith Watson that Betsy had just brought. “Mrs. Watson has visited the brigade. The shoeblacks are to lose their home. The landlord has refused to renew their lease for a reasonable rate. First the mission, now the shoeblacks. How can slum property be that valuable?” Jenny thought for several moments. “Bring my blue woollen mantle, Betsy. I should like to see this property that is suddenly worth so much rent.”

As the hansom drove the familiar route toward the now-abandoned Westminster Mission, Jennifer thought that it was strange how one could feel happier and yet more burdened at the same time. Ever since her talk with the Earl of Shaftesbury at the concert, the meaning of his words and the conviction of their truth had been growing on her. And then a full understanding had blossomed under Spurgeon’s preaching. She realized that their land must be redeemed spiritually before it could achieve lasting reform.

The central problem was that faith simply wasn’t a part of most people’s lives. That must change if the nation were to change. The hearts of the people and the homes where the children were nurtured—those were the building blocks of the nation. Good laws and a sound economy could help create a healthy atmosphere, but the key to true reform was spiritual revival. And there was nothing she could do but pray to that end. The fact was dispiriting and yet freeing.

The hansom lurched over a rough paving stone, and Jennifer looked up from her meditations with a jolt. If she had not been there so many times before, she would not have believed that they were at the correct address. The windows of the former mission were hung with gaudy lace curtains. Even in midday a lamp with a rose glass chimney glowed in the center pane. And the heavily painted woman in the low-cut striped satin dress who lounged by the door was no candidate for ragged school training. Jenny gasped for air.

“Shall I tell the cabby to drive on, miss?” Betsy asked.

Jennifer nodded. But just as they moved back into the stream of carts, carriages, and cabs, she glimpsed a stocky male figure in a black cape. “Stop,” she called to the driver and thumped the top of the cab with her fist. “Wait here,” she ordered Betsy as she gathered the full skirt of her brown merino dress and jumped out.

She was certain the man was Dr. Pannier. If the Health Department was investigating the brothel, maybe there was a chance it would be closed down and the mission could reacquire the property. Or if he was making a professional call, perhaps he would need a nurse. She approached the woman by the door.
Poor thing—she must be freezing, standing about in such a flimsy dress on a chill, gray morning.
“Excuse me, er—miss. But the man who just went in—I believe he’s a doctor.”

The woman shrugged. “So wot? We get all kinds ’ere. They’re all the same.”

Jennifer was shocked when she saw the girl up close. She could hardly have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and pretty under her paint. Probably a parlor maid who, willingly or unwillingly, attracted the attentions of the master or son of the house and was dismissed without a reference when he was no longer amused. Jenny longed to do something for her. “Do you have a family in the country? There is a society for returning girls to their families. They would help you.”

The face before her drew into hard lines. For a moment Jenny thought the girl was going to spit in her face. Then she broke into a harsh laugh. “Do-gooding busybody, are ye? Wot do the likes o’ you know about it? I got no family anywhere. An’ if I did, who’d want me back?”

Jennifer wanted to explain, but the girl cut her off. “Git on wi’ ye now. Yer type’s bad fer business.”

As Jenny turned, the door opened behind her, and a strident female voice shouted, “It’s no use comin’ around ’ere. My girls are ’ard workers, and my accounts are honest. Call a copper if yer don’t believe me.”

The door slammed. The man who had just exited pulled his hat low over his forehead and the collar of his cloak over his cheeks and hurried away. Jenny’s heart sank. If even the Health Department could do nothing, there was little chance of the school reopening. As her cab rolled on toward the bridge, Jennifer had a good idea of what she would find at the Brigade Home—a brothel, a sweatshop, a pawnbroker—some slum business that took advantage of the poor and put money in the pocket of the landlord or owner.

But surely somebody could do something. Pannier must be aided in his battle. Jennifer knew only one person who might be able to help him. The Earl of Shaftesbury. She glanced at the Houses of Parliament standing golden and grand to her right. She had no idea how to go about getting a message to anyone in there. If only Arthur were still in town.

Perhaps someone from church? Then she smiled. Of course. Lady Eccleson could contact the earl, and he would pay attention to whatever she told him. Jennifer rapped on the top of the cab again and gave the cabby the number in Manchester Square.

Lady Eccleson received her wearing a lace-trimmed lavender morning dress. Soon the grand lady was serving small cups of sweet coffee from the tray Branman set before his mistress. The lace lappets of her cap nodded over each shoulder as Charlotte Eccleson bobbed her head in agreement with Jenny’s conclusions. “My dear, I am certain you are quite right. Shaftesbury must be told of these newest developments. Now that Lady Shaftesbury’s stepfather is prime minister, there are no doors he cannot open.”

“Oh, thank you, Lady Eccleson. I thought you’d know what to do.”

“Quite. I always do.” The lady set her cup aside. “But there is another matter that concerns me greatly.” She peered sharply at Jennifer. “You, my dear, do not look well.” She drew her lorgnette from the end of its ribbon for a thorough inspection of her subject. Jennifer tried not to shrink under the scrutiny. At last the glasses lowered. “Skin sallow. Dark circles under your eyes. Too thin. You are decidedly moped. The London air is most unhealthy this time of year. I cannot imagine what your mother is thinking of, but I shall have to take matters into my own hands, or you will suffer a relapse of the fever.”