Not from Bromley, of course. From Hackney.
Afterwards, the whole family were going to chapel for the prayer meeting, and though I told Clara I had a slight headache, and wished to prepare for my journey, she insisted, and I relented. The chapel was almost as busy as it was on the Sabbath, and we sat in the pews quietly whilst Tom played the Fantasia in C Major by Bach, and the reverend sat at the front, his head bowed. I looked around at them all: the Humphreys, the Milsteads, Susannah Garn and her brother Alfred; the Beezleys, the Durhams, the Robertsons; Mrs Verrall was there, with Ruth.
Emma Milstead was keeping a beady eye on the man she thinks is hers, looking daggers at me only when she could tear her gaze away from her beloved. She is a pretty girl, fair-haired, with a delicate little face. I think they shall make a handsome couple, if an unhappy one.
Prayers were said for the sick, and for the town, that it should turn from sin and come to the Lord; for the missionaries; for the Queen; for those who were suffering from want and hunger; for the poor, and the destitute, and those who had fallen into sinful practices. And I prayed, quietly, for the reverend, and for St Albans, and that I should know the correct path and have the strength to take it. A period of silent prayer gave way to those in the congregation leading us in their own prayers; Joseph Milstead prayed for his grandmother, who was poorly; Emma offered a prayer for the deacons, that their wisdom should increase. Ruth Verrall, in a timid voice, prayed for her brother, to know the love and support of his congregation, and to be steadfast in the face of temptation and the evils of the world that beset the chapel from every side. At every prayer we all said, ‘Amen.’ And, to finish, the reverend blessed us and this place and asked that we should all go forth as missionaries for Christ into the town, and to know that God’s love carried us.
I made to go swiftly, but the reverend stopped me at the porch to talk. I lowered my eyes because I did not want to look at him, and he asked after the school at St Albans, and I told him I was to travel north tomorrow, and to begin work there on Monday. He said he was pleased but he looked flushed and his brows creased into a frown. He wished me well and asked if I required him to write to the local Congregational chapel there, to recommend me to them? I told him I was grateful for his concern but I could find my own way to the chapel and I should not wish to trouble him further. He wished me Godspeed and held out his hand for me to shake, but I hesitated.
Indeed, when I glanced behind me I saw that his wife was standing very close, and her eyes were upon us. I looked from her to the reverend and I saw from his expression that he had also only just realised how near she was, and he had been startled by it, and I thought that perhaps he had intended to kiss me. He said that he hoped to see me at chapel for the morning service before I caught the London coach.
I shook his hand, and left, and at the gate Thomas Churcher asked me if I would like him to see me safely across the fields, for it was growing dark.
I saw Emma Milstead waiting for him with her brother, and saw again the foul look she gave me, and so I told him that I was quite happy to walk by myself. He asked if I would come to chapel in the morning, and there was something about the way he asked that made me want to see him again before I left for St Albans, and so I said I would.
Wednesday, 16th August
I have been at St Albans for three days, and this is the first moment I have had the energy or the inclination to write.
The inn is perfectly reasonable, if a little noisy. I have been so very tired at the end of every day that I have fallen straight into the rough bed and been asleep almost immediately. The innkeeper’s wife is a miserable woman, who keeps an orderly house above stairs, which means I am to be out of the room by eight and not return to it before six; I am to take my supper in the parlour of the inn and nowhere else, although I cannot imagine where she thinks I would go, as I am on my own here and know no one. That said, I am to entertain no visitors whilst I am here and I am to pay in advance.
I had thought that the school board would pay for my accommodation for the first week or so, but they have not, and so the little money I brought with me has almost gone. I have kept back enough to afford a passage back to Bromley, or at least to London, but if my wages are not to be paid weekly then I shall have no choice but to use that money for board and lodging.
St Albans is a miserable place, damp and grey and sootstained; rather smaller than Bromley, and without its warmth and familiarity. There is a good abbey, and I am told the market is held twice a week, on a Wednesday and a Saturday, but otherwise there is little to recommend the town. There is something bad in the air here, as I have not felt entirely well since I arrived. It has rained every day.
The school itself is passable; it is smaller than the Hackney school, and larger than Frances’s National School in Bromley. The boys have three classes, and there are two for the girls, one for infants and one for older children. I thought from my previous experience that I should be leading the older girls’ class, but I have been put as second teacher with the infants, under the supervision of a Miss Mackenzie. She is younger than I am, and very brisk in her manner. I told her I had expected to be put in charge of the senior girls, and she laughed at that and was quite cool with me afterwards. She said that we must all labour for improvement, and that I took to mean that all teachers began with the lowest position and worked their way up.
The girls themselves are good enough, well-disciplined if not well-taught. The youngest ones are still learning their letters and even the oldest in this room are not reading well when they leave it. They are taught sewing, singing, reciting of poetry and Bible verses, some numbers although nothing beyond addition and subtraction, and they are taken outside for lengthy drills every morning, no matter the weather, boots or no boots. Several of the children are unwell with coughs and colds, and I fear that being made to perform drills in the rain cannot be good for them. Some of them are very thin. The result of the constant marching around outside is that the schoolroom floor is wet and muddy and it has been made my duty to sweep the floor and scrub it every day after school. There are two pupil teachers, and I believe one of them could do it well enough, but for some reason Miss Mackenzie has tasked me with it, whilst the pupil teachers tidy the books and count the slates and do other such duties.
Today after school I asked to speak to Mr Torrance, the headmaster. He had spoken to me briefly on my first day, but I had not seen him since then. Miss Mackenzie set her lips into a line. Perhaps she thought I intended to complain about her. Mr Torrance agreed to see me and I ventured into his office after I had cleaned the floor, and washed my face and hands.
‘Well, Miss …?’
‘Monckton, sir,’ I said. At first I felt a little nervous, not so much a teacher as a pupil about to receive a punishment, and then I thought of Frances and her bravery and I remembered who I was, and why I was there, and I lifted my chin and smiled at him.
He did not return the smile, but I felt a little better for it. I asked him about the accommodation and the wages, and was told that payment was not made until the first of the month, and so I had almost three weeks to wait. I told him I could not afford to pay for the inn, and was there somewhere else I might find lodging? He said that was up to me, that where I chose to live was none of his business … in summary, he was as unhelpful as it was possible to be.
I returned to the inn and took my supper of bread and cheese and a slice of cold ham, and after that I came up to my room and cried. I am so very lost, here. I have nothing, no friend, or proper place to live, or solace. I miss Richard, and now I miss Frances, and even, in a strange sort of way, I miss Thomas Churcher and the chapel and the place I was made to feel so welcome. I even think fondly of my mother and my sister and think, perhaps, that despite it all I was better off in Bromley.
Friday, 18th August
Last night I wrote a letter to Richard, asking if I could come to London for a brief visit. I did not say why, or when, but I posted the letter without further
ado.
This morning I woke with a new resolve, and I packed my bag, and settled my bill, and went to the school to give my resignation to Mr Torrance. He was very angry. I went to Miss Mackenzie’s room and told her that my circumstances had altered and I would not be staying, and offered my apologies to her, for she should have to manage without me. She lifted her chin and told me she had thought me rather unsuited to the position and that she hoped I should manage to find employment elsewhere. The first coach was full, and so I had to wait until the afternoon for the next with a free place, and thus it was early evening when I reached London and so too late to catch the coach for Bromley, even though that had not been my intention. I made my way to Fieldgate Street on foot, not wishing to spend the last of my coins on a cab, hoping that Richard had received my letter or at least, that Maria and he would not mind my arriving unexpectedly at their door.
In fact, they both seemed pleased to see me. They welcomed me in, and had the cook fetch me tea and a cold supper, and they sat with me in the parlour while I regaled them with my sorry tale of St Albans. Richard was very quiet, and I could scarcely look at him for fear of giving my feelings away, but Maria seemed in good spirits and enlivened by my conversation.
Maria thought it very ill of Miss Mackenzie and Mr Torrance not to make me more welcome; Richard sat and listened, and at the end said he was sorry for it; he had hoped that it would be a fresh start for me. Maria hid a yawn behind her hand, and said that she should like to retire. Her dresses no longer hide the evidence of her pregnancy, and I had not mentioned it, but Richard said to me that she has been very tired. Still she sat with us, until I realised that she did not wish to leave me alone with her husband. The thought made me sad, and I told them I should retire and leave them in peace. Richard said that the maid had made ready my old room, and now here I am, writing these sorry words in my journal and listening to the sounds of the house as it settles down to sleep.
This room at the top of the house I had once shared with Maria; it had two neat little beds, side by side, with a counterpane on each; a narrow window looking out over the street outside, with a view over the rooftops and the chimney stacks, smoke rising from each of them. On that bed I lay with Richard, more than once, on the nights he came to me. When it was first beginning.
I cannot think about him, not any more.
Saturday, 19th August
I am back in Bromley, at my mother’s house. My sister has barely spoken to me, and my mother looks at me peevishly, her mouth set tight. I am a disappointment to them. If I could only be a better daughter, a better sister; if I could only have found a decent husband, or any husband, instead of entertaining such wild ideas. If only I could have been someone else.
I am sad and lonely and tired, and if it were not for the wrath of my mother and my sister I should go and visit Frances. She, at least, will be happy to see me. I could go to the market or for a walk, but I do not wish to see anyone else, and have them all gossiping about my returning so soon. Time enough for that!
Richard was up early and away to his business yesterday morning, although I said goodbye to him it was of necessity a very brief farewell. I had breakfast with Maria, who had some milk pudding; I felt a little unwell at the thought of the rattling coach journey ahead of me, and could only eat some dry bread. I asked her how the pregnancy was progressing, and she answered that it was mostly exhausting. She feels tired all day, and has felt so from the very beginning. She says she does not feel nauseous any more. She has unexpected aches and pains, and none of her dresses fit her. She gets pains in her chest and has difficulties with digesting rich food, hence the milk pudding. She is sick of it, but eats it ‘for the baby’, and says she is already tired of doing things ‘for the baby’, and knows that the rest of her life will be thus.
I asked her if she felt the baby move, and she said she had felt it for some time, beginning as little flutters, and it grew stronger and stronger and now it sometimes kept her awake. She said it was an odd feeling, and not always a pleasant one.
I believe she was tired, but she was also ill-tempered, which I thought might be because she had slept poorly, but when I asked she said that was not the case. She said she is often disturbed by Richard, who has never slept well, and often gets up in the night to read or sit in his study.
I had been about to say that I thought he had always slept soundly, but I bit my tongue. We continued in this rather awkward fashion for a while and then she asked me how I had slept. I told her well, although it was not entirely true. I had lain awake for a long time, worrying about how it would be to go back to Bromley so very soon after leaving it.
Their latest servant, Bessie or Betty or some such name, was bustling about us and so it was difficult to speak freely. I felt sad. We had used to be such firm friends, before Richard had come between us. Even then, even during that time when he was taking turns with us, we were still kind to one another. It had been like a sort of a game to us, entertaining Richard. There had seemed to be no jealousy between Maria and me, not that I had ever discerned. We had talked about everything; until it had all come to an abrupt end that night, with Maria sobbing in my arms.
She kept her head down over her plate and made no effort to improve the conversation, and I excused myself as soon as I could, to wash my hands and gather my belongings. It was still very early, too early for the coach, but I fancied the walk would do me good. Richard had given me money for a cab, but I gave this back to Maria as I stood in the hallway, putting on my coat.
She seemed to brighten. I took her hands in mine, and smiled, and said the next time I saw her she would have a child, and how very exciting that was!
She nodded and I think she wept a little. I embraced her and said she was my very good friend, and I loved her dearly, and she wished me a safe journey home, and promised to write very soon.
I slept very ill last night, too, even though I was home safely and back in my familiar bed. I thought of Maria, and Richard, and how very badly I wanted them to be happy and yet some sinful part of me wanted them to be unhappy, too. I thought of Maria’s sullenness yesterday and I wondered if she knew that my intimacy had continued with Richard until the very day that I had left, and whether she had been expecting it to happen again, perhaps while she slept. I felt very sorry for her, then, and I wondered if I should write to her, and reassure her, but perhaps that might just make everything worse?
I have the curious sensation that my life is unravelling, and I have no power to stop it.
Friday, 25th August
I have been unwell for several days since my return. A sickness kept me in my bed, and since then I have been so very weary that I have remained indoors. I think it is St Albans; that place has sickened me to the core. Mother wanted to send for the doctor, but Mary Ann stopped her, and I was glad. I knew it would pass; our mother needs to save what money she has left, to keep her. There is no money coming into the house at the moment other than the small amount Mary Ann makes by taking in dresses to be altered; my brother Stephen sends money now and again, but that is soon spent.
Frances came to see me, and Clara. Clara brought a cake and some fresh eggs, but Frances stayed and read to me, and when she was gone Mary Ann came to bed and said she thought her very high and mighty and eggs were far more useful, and I was too nauseous to even argue with her.
I am sick at the thought of seeing Mr Verrall again, at what might happen, at what he might say.
Saturday, 26th August
Mr Carter paid a visit this morning. It was a surprise, although it should not have been, for he wrote to me a while ago to say that he was coming to Bromley and should like to call in to see me. With all the confusion over St Albans, I had not replied, expecting to be away.
He has written to me several times, and I have responded in kind, but my letters have always been brief and formal. He seems to view me as some sort of friend, which is odd, given our very brief exchange at the reverend’s tea party.
This morning
I was called to the door by Mary Ann, and there he was. I did not want to invite him into the house, but I felt very awkward talking to him on the doorstep. In the end I told him we had all been unwell recently and I coughed loudly and that seemed to do the trick, for he backed away and hoped we would all be better soon.
Of course, Mary Ann wanted to know all about him. I told her he was an acquaintance only; she persisted and nagged, and in the end I went out to escape her.
I had supper with Frances and told her about Mr Carter’s visit. She thinks it is very ill to be pursued thus; she thinks I should speak to the reverend about it. I showed her some of Mr Carter’s letters, which she examined to see if I had perhaps given him a false impression. Frances said that she thought them improper in tone. I told her I had done nothing to solicit such attention, but she was comforting and suggested that men are often thus, and need to be spoken to very firmly in order to relieve them of their misapprehensions. She says she has spurned male advances vigorously in the past, and now she rarely receives any unwanted attention.
Sunday, 27th August
Clara and Thomas walked across the fields this morning to see if I was well enough to attend chapel. I was up and dressed, and, although I had not been intending to go, I felt a little guilty for not being more willing, and because they had made the effort to fetch me I put on my green shawl and bonnet and boots, and went with them.
The fresh air was invigorating, and I felt better in it, although my limbs were weak. Clara took my arm and Thomas walked ahead of us, as though we were explorers and he our guide, clearing the path and making it safe for us. I watched his back while Clara talked, for he is certainly pleasing to look at, fine and strong and tall. Emma Milstead will be lucky indeed, if he chooses to take her as his wife. The day was bright and clear and the path across the fields well trodden and not at all muddy. Clara chatted about the Sunday School and how well the little ones were doing, and of Betsy Taylor, who had been very ill with a fever and everyone had thought her lost, until they had brought the reverend to her with some of the church members, including Clara, and they prayed over her, and now she is quite recovered.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 36