“You may assist me,” Miss Fergusson began, “by not crediting the lies you have been shown and told today.” Her cultured contralto was steady and confident, but rang hollowly in his ears thanks to his utter astonishment at finding her here.
Her words were punctuated by audible gasps, hisses of fury, and cries of “No, you mustn’t!” and “How could you?” and other, similar exclamations from nearly every other woman in the room.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Fergusson said in a loud, ringing tone, “I am sorry, but surely we cannot allow this sham to continue. We must not think only of ourselves, but of our sisters who will continue to suffer if we do not speak.”
Several women moved in her direction, as though thinking to tackle her, but halted uncertainly when Miss Fergusson threw off her shawl to reveal the thin, shabby work dress and the full extent of her swollen abdomen.
“The women you see are but half of those who reside and work here on a normal day. Last evening after dinner, that woman,” here, she pointed an accusatory finger in Mrs. Chappell’s direction, “told those of us who look strongest and healthiest that only we were to appear for work today, while the rest would be confined to the dormitory and were to keep out of sight. This morning we were given these new wraps and told we would receive extra rations at dinner for the next week if we kept our mouths shut and told any visitors that we are treated well and fairly here. We were also told that, should any of us speak out against the parish, every one of us would lose our nice, new shawls and be put on half-rations until Twelfth Night.” She smiled serenely as her compatriots fixed her with glares that ranged from bitter to hostile to horrified.
In retrospect, Noel would marvel that utter chaos did not erupt right then and there. Under the circumstances, he would not have entirely faulted any of the women had they transformed into maenads and ripped Miss Fergusson to shreds. But instead, everyone simply stood frozen in place, transfixed by the enormity of what she had chosen to do.
Somehow, his wits reasserted themselves quickly enough to avert catastrophe. Miss Fergusson was well-educated and clever, and she had realized that the parish would be unable to follow through on the threats that had been made. By revealing what the workhouse’s staff had been desperately trying to hide from Noel and his companions, she had made it impossible for them to punish anyone…at least in the short term. In fact, parish officials would now be forced to do the precise opposite to prove her allegations false. Not only were all of the women in the room safe from the consequences they feared, but those who had been kept off the floor to hide their infirmity would likely receive better care as well.
For the briefest of seconds, he met Miss Fergusson’s gaze, and the understanding between them was instant and electric. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment that she knew what he was about to do and why.
Ignoring the twinge of guilt in his chest, he turned to look at Mrs. Chappell, whose face was a blank, impenetrable mask. She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to deny the charges, but Noel saved her the trouble. “I am sure this lady must be mistaken,” he said, hating himself for the falsehood despite its necessity. “I’m certain that the parish chose to give the weaker, sicker workers a well-deserved respite from now through the end of the Christmas holiday, and that this good woman misunderstood an act of Christian charity. The rest…” Shaking his head as though he was saddened by Miss Fergusson’s inexplicable fabrication, he shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course, she is mistaken,” Mrs. Chappell responded hotly. “You are quite right, Mr. Langston; we have indeed decided to give those who are not in the best of health the entire Christmas season off, from now until Twelfth Night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps that is where she heard the reference to Twelfth Night, though why she would invent such a malicious lie, I cannot imagine. We keep our residents properly clothed and well-nourished. To do otherwise would be not merely unfathomable, but in direct conflict with our Christian duty.”
Desmond, standing to the matron’s left, rolled his eyes heavenward. Arthur, by contrast, looked puzzled for several seconds, but then his expression cleared and he coughed into a hastily drawn handkerchief to cover what Noel was certain would otherwise have been laughter. Though not an amused sort of laughter.
Noel’s mouth tasted bitter, but he felt certain that even his parents would approve him lying under these circumstances, so he forged ahead. “Perhaps it is her condition. I understand that some women can become somewhat unhinged at this stage of confinement.”
He felt, rather than heard, the ripple of reaction to this suggestion and knew that he had probably offended more than half of the women in the room, but there was naught to be done for it.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Chappell responded with a scowl. “But even so, the parish can hardly be expected to continue supporting her, given her obvious discontentment with us. She may keep the shawl, of course, but she must seek relief elsewhere, I think.”
Better that than remain under this roof, Noel thought. If Miss Fergusson stayed here, she would certainly suffer reprisals, and probably not only from parish officials, but from her fellow residents who would no doubt see her actions as a betrayal.
The question was where she could go.
And then he had an idea. One so cunning and yet so righteous that he simultaneously reproached and congratulated himself for it.
He could marry her.
A Bit of Rough Page 18