Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  “You looked as if you enjoyed yourself.”

  “I did!” said Rebecca. “It was so interesting seeing all the goings-on, and the people you have talked about. And it all seems so . . . ” She paused to find the right word. “So very useful.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “I hope it wasn’t too bad having me there.”

  Jack squeezed her shoulder. “It was lovely.”

  “You didn’t look enthusiastic about my presence on the journey there.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No, you looked positively sullen and sulky.”

  “That wasn’t a sullen and sulky face,” Jack confessed with a laugh. “That was me suddenly realising I was doing the address today and not Smith!”

  “So you prepared it on the journey?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that. With a volley of arrow prayers.”

  “Well, I believe they were fully answered.”

  “Thank you—and thank God!”

  “Yes.”

  “And when will her ladyship next see fit to accompany me again?” asked Jack as he helped his wife alight from the carriage.

  “As soon as his lordship sees fit to invite her.”

  Hessie was very interested to hear about the soup kitchen and encouraged Rebecca’s involvement, but not everyone was quite so enthusiastic. Mrs. Hill disapproved of the project. Giving out food encouraged idleness. She had to work for every meal and penny she received, and so should others.

  Rebecca understood her disappointment. For years Mrs. Hill had longed for a lady of the house to bring an air of gentility to the establishment; but instead of Rebecca organising at-home afternoons with cucumber sandwiches and bone china tea cups, she was now organising bags of pearl barley to be delivered to the Whitechapel slums. Instead of welcoming elegant ladies and gentlemen to 27 Milton Square and watching them admire the furniture and flowers, Mrs. Hill now lived in fear of smelly beggars knocking on the door and being invited inside—no doubt, they wouldn’t even have the decency to go to the servants’ entrance! How could one run a house like a well-oiled machine if those in charge were cranky Christian enthusiasts? She wondered how poor Mr. Stubbs really felt about the couple’s choices.

  CHAPTER 40

  SOMETIME DURING THE SMALL HOURS of the third of September, Hector Stubbs drew his final breath and departed to his eternal destination. Rebecca was distraught that she had been fast asleep and not by his side for the fateful moment. The physician’s conjecture was that his patient had suffered a massive stroke in his sleep and had died instantly. This was somewhat reassuring to Rebecca.

  While Hessie and Rebecca laid Uncle Hector out, Mrs. Hill draped the whole house in mourning. Black crepe was tied to the front door knocker, curtains were drawn, and all mirrors were veiled. She even stopped all the clocks and put them to the time she suspected her master had died. Jack thought most of her actions were superstitious hocus-pocus, but as they were harmless, he let her continue in her self-appointed task. Meanwhile, he ordered black-edged stationery and routed through Uncle Hector’s desk for addresses of those he should inform.

  The arranging of the funeral, the hearse, and carriages for the mourners occupied Jack’s time; Rebecca was busy making black mourning clothes from cloth secretly ordered in spring in readiness.

  On the appointed day, Jack led the small group of mourners out through the front door and into the funeral coaches. Rebecca ushered the female servants and Hessie into the dark, draped mourning room. The servant girls looked ill at ease as they perched on chairs in respectful silence. Rebecca, dressed in black and with a veiled hat, felt equally as uncomfortable. Was anything expected of her? They could not just sit in silence for an hour. As the church bell tolled, Rebecca picked up a Bible and read Psalm 90. She knew she was adding to Mrs. Hill’s discomfort, but felt she had to pray, so pray she did. After a reverential pause in which everyone studied the carpet, Rebecca broke the heavy silence.

  “Now we need to ensure that all is ready when the guests return. We do not know how many will come back here for refreshment, so please ensure some food is kept back for latecomers.”

  With relief, the staff fled the room and returned to their work. Rebecca and Hessie remained seated. Rebecca felt numb: the magnitude of eternity and the uncertainty of Uncle Hector’s fate hung so heavily upon her that a detached benumbing was welcome. How she longed to throw herself into the activities of the kitchen! Instead, she would have to formulate appropriate responses to the polite and wooden condolences of Uncle Hector’s acquaintances, who had long ago stopped visiting him.

  Having quenched their thirst with tea, the mourners drowned their professed sorrow with Uncle Hector’s liquor. Once the atmosphere had degenerated to that of a men’s club, Rebecca silently withdrew. She headed upstairs and aimlessly entered her uncle’s now-empty bedroom. At least, for the first few seconds, Rebecca believed it was empty, but on turning herself away from the striped bed, she was surprised to discover Hessie weeping in a chair next to the unlit fireplace. Hessie seemed embarrassed at being caught and tried to hide her tears when Rebecca approached her.

  “Hessie, you must be freezing. I’ll fetch your shawl and ring for the fire to be lit.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  Ignoring this, Rebecca hurried away, returning with a shawl that she draped over her dear friend’s shoulders.

  “It has been a sad day,” she observed, not knowing quite what to say.

  “That is how my job always ends.” Hessie sniffed pitifully.

  “It must be very hard,” said Rebecca, wishing she could offer something less bland and more encouraging.

  A maid entered the room to light the fire. Rebecca asked for a tray of food to be sent up for the neglected nurse. Once this had been arranged, Hessie observed, “Some bereavements are harder than others. Sometimes it is a relief to leave a house, but other times, it is a huge wrench. And this will be the hardest. When would you like me to leave?”

  Hessie leaving? This was an aspect of the passing of Uncle Hector that Rebecca had not anticipated. The prospect of her faithful companion leaving the house and having to embark on a new, lonely situation seemed unthinkable.

  “Please don’t leave yet!” urged Rebecca. “Stay for a while as a houseguest. You deserve a break—a month at least.”

  Hessie looked at her through tear-filled eyes. “I could not impose on you like that. Reverend Hayworth would not like me tarrying here aimlessly.”

  “He would be delighted, I’m sure. Why, you could also come and see the soup kitchen!” Rebecca made it sound as if she were suggesting a visit to Buckingham Palace.

  “That would indeed be fascinating,” admitted Hessie.

  “Well, that’s it then!” said Rebecca. “You stay on and be our guest. And don’t you dare suggest packing your cases until you are utterly fed up with us.”

  Hessie smiled. “If you really, genuinely insist, I will gladly accept the offer and make myself as useful as possible.”

  “Hessie, you don’t have to earn our hospitality—you have more than done that already. Please have some leisure and please yourself for once.”

  And so it was decided to the mutual satisfaction of both women.

  Even without the responsibility of caring for Uncle Hector, life at 27 Milton Square remained busy. In fact, the business seemed to gain momentum. Jack, Mr. Smith, and another worker from the London City Mission decided to venture into a small slum nearer South Kensington. As its name suggested, The Devil’s Acre was a notoriously vile and depraved area. Almost in the shadow of Westminster Abbey, the squalid slum was an embarrassment to be ignored and avoided. It was renowned for its wretchedness, filth, and disease. The Catholics had been unable to penetrate its spiritual and moral darkness, and this was enough of a challenge to provoke Mr. Smith’s interest in the area.

  Also closer to home, Jack now had access to St. Mary Abbots, the Kensington workhouse in Marloes Road. Not only was Jack able
to conduct Sunday services, but he was also allowed to visit those in the infirmary during the week. Whether this ruling was a sign of the board members’ concern for the souls of the sick or merely their realisation that the ill were not working anyway and thus a ministerial visit would not impair productivity, nobody could say, but Jack took advantage of it.

  As well as these new ventures, the Whitechapel visits and soup-kitchen work continued as usual. The team and attendees welcomed Hessie into their midst, and she soon found a useful role treating various ulcers, boils, and sores. Back at Milton Square, she and Rebecca were not only ordering ingredients for the soup but also finding stockists for bandages and herbal remedies. Much to Mrs. Hill’s disgust, they used the kitchen to experiment with honey, charcoal, bran, and bread for absorbent poultice mixtures.

  When Jack offered the use of the dining room for a weekly prayer meeting for local London City Mission workers and supporters, Mrs. Hill decided that enough was enough and handed in her notice. The cook and footman followed suit. They were all given a generous gift from Uncle Hector’s estate and a good, clean reference, and so left with little ill feeling.

  Though busy, Jack and Rebecca still wondered about the Lord’s purpose for their lives. Was London to be their permanent sphere of labour? How were they to use Milton Square? In bed, late into the night, they proposed and rejected various possibilities. Should they open a hostel for fallen women? Or maybe an orphanage? Although with what Rebecca had inherited they could continue to live in London, should they sell the property and use the money elsewhere? They prayed much for guidance and clarity in these decisions.

  Their prayer for children remained unchanged. They had been able to see wisdom in being childless during Uncle Hector’s illness, but now, surely a child could fit in with their work and life. Even in all her activities and duties, Rebecca knew there was an aching void in her heart that nothing but a child could fill. Despite her prayers, the ache did not disappear, and the gap remained unfilled.

  CHAPTER 41

  REBECCA SAT DOWN AT UNCLE Hector’s desk in the front room to write a long-overdue letter to Sophia. The kind ladies of Capford had sent a large parcel of blankets and clothing for the Whitechapel families, and this needed acknowledging. For the time being, Hessie had appointed herself as cook and was busy in the kitchen. Rebecca hoped she would not confuse the pie and poultice recipes.

  Rebecca was just signing off her letter when a bedraggled Jack charged into the room. His wet outerwear and muddy shoes would have caused Mrs. Hill to expire.

  “Rebecca, you must come quickly! Something must be done!”

  Rebecca leapt up. “Whatever has happened? Is someone ill?”

  “Just get your bonnet and shawl. I will explain on the way.”

  Instead of waiting for a servant, Rebecca rushed upstairs to grab her things.

  Trotting after Jack along the wet pavement, Rebecca could hardly make out his breathless explanation. Gathering together fragments, she understood they were going to St. Mary Abbot’s workhouse, where there were three orphan infants almost dying.

  Jack knocked loudly on the imposing workhouse door and was admitted by the warden.

  “Back already, parson?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brocklehurst. I want my wife to see those poor infants.”

  “Them of the dead woman?”

  “Yes.”

  The warden shuffled his way along a dark corridor to the infirmary.

  “It were a strange thing,” he explained as he went. “She were almost dead at t’ door last night. Like she used ’er last bit o’ strength to bring ’er bairns ’ere.”

  Opening a door, he let the Hayworths into the gloomy infirmary ward.

  “Here they be.”

  The infirmary looked more like a mortuary. Situated in the cellars, the only thing likely to flourish in such a chilly, damp environment was the mildew. Rebecca shuddered as she entered.

  Jack hurried her along to a little cot. There, huddled in a corner sat the most pathetic sight Rebecca had ever seen. A tiny tot of two or three years old was hugging her two scrawny brothers close as they cried for milk. The little family was dressed in clothing that had long ago turned to rags. The girl’s brown curls hung matted around her grimy face. Tears had created clean streaks down her hollow cheeks. The boys were of an undeterminable age, probably somewhere around a year old, and their careworn faces testified that they had experienced much hardship in their short lifetime. Their rags were wet and their thin, underdressed bodies shivered with cold, hunger, and misery. The cot was wet with tears, urine, and spilt milk.

  Putting her thumb in her brother’s mouth and temporarily silencing his cries, the girl looked up to the adults with her brown trusting eyes and said, “Baba, gink.”

  “She wants a drink for ’em,” Mr. Brocklehurst said. “Me wife tried ’em with weak tea earlier but got nowhere.”

  “What will happen to them?” asked Rebecca. “Could anyone try and trace their father?”

  “The muver were in widow’s weeds, so there ain’t a farver. We’ll feed them a bit, but I reckon them boys’ll join their poor muver within two days. They never survive. I’ll keep ’em quiet on laudanum till they slip away.”

  “And her?”

  “She may be okay. Bit young really. Too young to put to a trade. Could send ’er to an orphanage, then she’ll go into service. Mind you, me wife reckons she’ll die of a broken ’eart, and I reckon she’s right.”

  Jack’s eyes were full of tenderness as he gently picked up the most distressed twin. Nothing could have been clearer.

  “Jack, we need to take them home.”

  “Immediately!” agreed Jack as he tucked the baby inside his coat.

  “They’ll die within a week,” the warden warned them.

  “Then they can have a week of love,” said Rebecca.

  She picked up the girl, who kicked and screamed until the other baby was removed too.

  “She don’t ’arf fight for ’em,” said the warden. “I fort me ’eart were ’ardened wiv me work and that, till I saw them li’le uns.”

  Jack and Rebecca headed toward the door.

  “But ’ang on. No one is allowed to leave the workhouse without the board members’ permission.”

  “And do the board members know about these children?” asked Jack.

  “Not yet. I ’aven’t ’ad time te inform ’em.”

  “Then they need never know. It’ll save you a job.”

  Rebecca imagined an officious board member paying an unexpected visit and catching them baby-stealing. She wanted to smuggle them out of the building as quickly as possible. But Jack wanted to see the poor dead mother first. With great reluctance, Rebecca had to leave the sobbing children in their stinking cot and face the stark scene of the mortuary.

  In a small, cold cell, forsaken and neglected by all, the young woman lay, unreachable to either love or help. Her bare, ashen arms were crossed over her rough workhouse shroud. Her only personal possession was a curtain ring as a wedding band. Her pallid face was peaceful in repose and might once have been beautiful, but now only her hair remained stunning. Rebecca almost wanted to comfort the corpse with a warm blanket.

  “We’ll sell ’er ’air te cover any cost,” said Mr. Brocklehurst.

  Rebecca was aghast. The poor girl has lost everything, surely she can take her own hair to the grave!

  “Jack, we can’t let that happen!”

  Routing in his pocket for loose change, Jack paid the warden the going rate for long hair and extracted a promise that her tresses would remain on her. Just before leaving the room, Rebecca approached the body.

  “We will do all we can for your lovely children, I promise,” she said through her tears.

  Persuading a hansom cab driver to allow them a ride with three dirty, squawking infants was not easy, but finally a horseman obliged. As they neared Milton Square, the enormity of what they were attempting hit Rebecca. How could they provide for these vulnerable, defensel
ess little people whose reliance on them was absolute? Just keeping them safe in a jolting carriage seemed a big enough task! To engage in conversation with Jack over the cries of the perplexed infants was impossible, so Rebecca addressed her Heavenly Father instead. As she clung onto the seat and her wet, wriggling charges, she sent up a quick prayer for divine assistance.

  Surprised by the bedraggled group that met her eyes when opening the door, Kitty, the housemaid, did what any rational creature would do in these circumstances: she called for Hessie. Emerging with floury hands from the kitchen, Hessie took stock of the situation. In a few short sentences, Rebecca explained the salient details, and Hessie took control. Water was heated for bathing; the charity boxes were raided for clothing, and the kitchen maid was sent out to find goat’s milk.

  “Now, take note, child,” Hessie said firmly, “we don’t want cow’s milk—goat’s is best for little tots. Use your extensive family contacts and find someone who has a goat. We need a regular supply and will pay beyond the normal price if a reliable source can be found.”

  Meanwhile, the little girl was offered bread spread with butter and honey and then dipped into milk. She pointed to her brothers. “One a baba,” she insisted.

  Rebecca understood. “She wants the boys to have some.”

  The lads were less keen, spitting out spoonful after spoonful, then totally refusing to cooperate. The girl finished her bowlful and her brothers’ as well. Now content, the girl submitted unprotestingly to a warm bath and fresh set of clothes. Thumb in mouth, she sat full square and serious on the sofa before flopping to one side and falling asleep.

  The boys were less easy to please. Still hungry and irritable, they cried and splashed their way through a bath, soaking Rebecca for a second time. Every cup in the kitchen must have been used in trying to encourage them to drink. Some made them splutter, and some they just flatly refused to try. Rebecca could have wept in desperation. Finally Hessie suggested dipping fingers in honey and letting the boys suck them. Using their little fingers, Hessie and Rebecca did this with success.