After the funeral, I climbed into the carriage following the hearse. As my father’s only family, I would have been entitled to my own transportation, but I simply didn’t have the extra funds for that. Instead, I shared a carriage with Dr. Taylor and his wife. I didn’t care to talk to them. Talking could lead to crying, and I had been trying so hard to be strong. Crying could lead to the weight of everything crashing down on me, and I would end up losing all decorum and making a fuss. We couldn’t have that. Instead, I looked out the window and dabbed at pretend tears. If they thought I was crying, they wouldn’t talk to me. It worked. Mrs. Taylor babbled on about her women’s reading group, and Dr. Taylor replied with noncommittal grunts. It was easy enough to block out her blabber as I watched the streetlights go by in the fog.
The carriage came to a stop outside the tall iron gates of the cemetery. Dr. Taylor stepped out first and helped both his wife and me out. I wrapped my cloak around myself, hoping that it would keep me warm despite the spots where it had thinned. Although it was almost summer, we hadn’t seen the sun in days and the air was chilly. I kept my head down as I followed the pallbearers through the cracking tombstones to the grave that had been dug. I stood on the edge, looking down into the dirt hole that would soon hold my father. The ornate gravestone was in place, just as dull and gray as the sky. I bent down to read the inscription.
Arthur Croft
March 15, 1843 – May 20, 1891
Loving husband, doting father,
Outstanding doctor.
The angels have gained another.
The epitaph touched me, and I blinked back tears. I hadn’t told Mr. Payne to write that. I wondered if he had chosen the words himself, or if someone had done it for him. Dr. Taylor, perhaps, or my mysterious benefactor. Either way, it was lovely and made me unexpectedly emotional. I brushed away tears with my glove.
The pallbearers slowly lowered the coffin into its final resting place. I didn’t recognize any of them. It wasn’t the usual close family friends that were carrying the casket for this funeral. My father hadn’t had enough of those in his last few years. These men were young, and I assumed they were Dr. Taylor’s medical students. I supposed some of my father’s old colleagues could have stepped up to the role of pallbearers, but most of them looked like they weren’t too far from death themselves. That included Dr. Taylor, whose hair was beginning to gray and who seemed to be forced to squint without his glasses. Dr. Allen was even using a cane.
For some reason, the idea that these men who had been unable to help my father might be in their own graves soon was a bit comforting, but I chastised myself. That was a bitter shrew talking, not a lady. I kept my eyes down, focused on the grave, as the pallbearers stepped away from the grave and toward the back of the small crowd. It seemed not everyone from the church had made it over. It even appeared a few new faces had joined us as well.
I looked up from the grave into a pair of intense blue eyes. They belonged to a man standing across from me, regarding me with a tilt of his head. His face was smooth and clean–shaven, uncommon but not entirely rare around these parts. Under his hat, his hair was dark, small curls poking out from under the brim. His face was chiseled, like that of a statue carved from marble, though his lips were soft and full. I didn’t recognize him, but I was immediately drawn to him. He was well–dressed in a dark suit and top hat, and was much younger than anyone else gathered around the grave, with the exception perhaps of myself and the pallbearers. He nodded at me and my heart began to beat faster.
Something about him intrigued me, though I didn’t know if it was his unfamiliarity or that he certainly didn’t seem to belong with this crowd. I was about to ask Dr. Taylor if he recognized the stranger when the preacher began to speak, saying a prayer and blessing over the grave.
I was unable to focus on anything being said. Though I tried to keep my head bowed and my gaze low, my eyes were fixated on this stranger. He looked more solemn than most of the people gathered here. In fact, it seemed entirely possible that he and I were the only ones in true distress. I couldn’t understand it. I had never seen this man before, and I hadn’t left my father’s side for the last few years. How did he know my father?
Could he be in the wrong place, at the wrong funeral? No, the inscription on the headstone was clear and the preacher had said my father’s name several times. I briefly wondered if he was in the wrong place, but everything about the man, from the way he was dressed and styled to the way he held himself, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead, was deliberate. No, this was a man who was always where he intended to be.
His eyes were downcast and filled with sadness, but at one point during the prayer my eyes flicked to him and I saw him gazing back once again. My heart raced as our eyes locked. I averted my attention back to the grave, tugging at my gloves. Something about him clearly captivated me, but it wasn’t appropriate to stare. After a moment, I gathered myself and glanced at him again, under the guise of surveying the other mourners. Again, our eyes met, drawn together like magnets. I swallowed hard as he gave me a small, sad smile. It was a comforting gesture, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Whoever he was, he was at the very least somewhat kind. With his finely tailored suit and clean countenance, he oozed wealth and aristocracy.
That last thought struck a chord with me. Mr. Payne had mentioned that the man who had paid for my father’s funeral had been broad–shouldered with dark hair. That was a perfect description of this man, and he also looked to have the sort of funds to pay, unprompted, for a funeral. Did he know my father in a way that I didn’t know about? Or was he just someone trying to do a good deed, a philanthropist? Or perhaps I was wrong, and it wasn’t this man at all. I would have to ask Mr. Payne once the funeral had ended.
As soon as the funeral was over, the small crowd began to disperse. Mr. Payne went one way, and the mysterious man went another. I looked between them, debating which one I wanted to go after. Mr. Payne, to ask about my anonymous benefactor? Or the possible benefactor himself? It was a quick decision. I would go see this man. I could ask him if he had given his money. If he had, I could thank him. If not, I could take the opportunity to see if someone as wealthy as him was in need of a servant. I could even ask if perhaps he knew of someone looking for a maid or a nurse. Really, either way was fine. This man had a sort of draw to him. I could talk about the ducks in the pond behind us and I would be happy.
I was about to follow him when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to see Mrs. Taylor there, her red hair bright against her black bonnet. I had only met her a handful of times, but had never much cared for her. She and the doctor had three children, all boys, and she seemed to not care for raising or punishing them in the slightest. I was relieved that she had left the children at home, but I had a feeling the good doctor had insisted on it.
“How are you holding up, dear?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” I told her. I was trying to crane my neck, to follow the mystery man with my eyes, but she pulled my attention back.
“You poor dear, all alone in the world. How ever will you survive?”
I took a deep breath, trying hard to avoid getting frustrated by Mrs. Taylor. I turned my head again, but the man was out of view. I sighed.
“It won’t be easy,” I said.
“Of course not,” she said. “I remember when the boys’ nanny passed. It was quite tragic.”
I bristled at her comparison of her nanny to my father, but then I paused. If I had lost the man, maybe she could help me.
“Mrs. Taylor, you don’t happen to know anyone looking for help, do you?”
She shook her head. “Are you looking for work? Oh, you poor dear.”
“Something as a maid, perhaps? Or as a caretaker or a nurse?”
“Do you have experience with children?” I hated the smirk on her face. I doubted it was intended to be malicious; surely it was supposed to be sympathetic, but it just twisted her face into an ugly grimace that made her look like a gremlin
from fairytales.
“I don’t. But I worked alongside my father for a very long time. I could work with someone who was sick or elderly.”
She tutted. “Oh, my, that won’t do. I’m sorry, dear. I don’t think anyone I know would hire someone so inexperienced.”
“Of course.” I nodded curtly. “Thank you.”
“But you could always check the papers,” she continued. “Sometimes, if people are looking for help, they’ll post an advert in the paper.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised by her advice. “That’s very helpful. Thank you.”
“Anything I can do to help,” she said, flashing me a smile. There was lip color on her teeth.
When she left me be, I looked around the cemetery. My heart sank when I realized what I had hoped against. The mystery man was gone, and I had none of the answers I was looking for.
Chapter Three
Mr. Douglas was an ugly man. His face was always some sort of shade of red, and his eyes were squinty and his mouth large. He looked like a puffer fish, only without the spikes and with a bulbous nose.
“I’m trying to find work,” I pleaded with him. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“You’re two months behind. I need that money now,” he said, saliva spraying from his mouth as he spoke.
“If you throw me out, you’ll never get it,” I said, trying to reason with him.
“I’d rather have a tenant that pays me every month,” he said. “Now pack your bags. You’re out.”
“Please,” I begged him. “I just need to find work. As soon as I do that, you’ll get your rent.”
“Sorry,” he said, spitting tobacco on the ground. I clenched my fists by my sides, pushing down panic.
“What can I do?”
“You can pay me.”
“I have nothing,” I told him. The last of my money had been spent on a loaf of bread. I was completely destitute.
“Well, there is another way,” he said, sliding his fat finger along the buttons on my chest. “You could come inside with me. I’m sure we could work something out.”
I stepped back away from him. “I’ll go pack my bags,” I said coldly.
“Suit yourself,” he said, waving his hand. “But I offered.”
I turned away from him, my skirts whirling around my legs. For good measure, I slammed the door behind me, but it was more than likely he didn’t notice or didn’t care. I started packing a bag, trying to decide which of my belongings to take out onto the street with me. Tears of anger and fear filled my eyes as I stuffed some clothes and a blanket into the sack. I wiped the tears away. Stupid pride. Maybe I should have slept with him.
No. I was right. Because if I did it once, what would stop him from making me do it again? It was better this way. Maybe I couldn’t see it, but it would be better. I piled the last of my food on top of the bag, then turned to the overfilled bookshelf.
I couldn’t take any of these books with me. They were heavy and took up precious space, but betrayal tasted bitter in my mouth as I considered leaving them behind. My father loved his books. Even in his last months, I would catch him passing the time reading. When his eyes couldn’t focus anymore, I read to him. It was something we shared, the love of the written word. His books were a hodgepodge, medical texts mixed with Shakespeare. He loved them all equally, and now I would be leaving them behind.
After a moment’s hesitation, I reached over and pulled one tattered book off the shelf. Jane Eyre had been my mother’s favorite before she died, or so my father said. This was her copy, and despite the limited room in my bag, I couldn’t bear to leave it here.
The early afternoon air was chilly and damp, and I stuffed my cold hands in my coat pockets as I ventured outside. With no options, I would have to try Mrs. Taylor’s suggestion. Most readers had finished with that morning’s edition of the paper. I lingered outside a small bakery, trying to subtly peek into their outdoor rubbish bin. I looked around, hoping no one was watching as I plunged my hand in and pulled out an almost complete copy of that day’s edition. I had to brush aside a half–eaten pastry, and for a moment, I considered finishing it myself, but no. I had my loaf of bread. When that was gone, only then would I resort to digging through trash bins for sustenance.
I sat down on a bench in the park, my bag tucked under my feet. I paged through the paper until I found the segment that Mrs. Taylor had been talking about: help wanted. Much of it was for factory work that I wasn’t strong enough for or apprenticeships that wouldn’t hire me. But there were two listings that interested me, one for a nanny position, and one for an elderly caregiver. I could do both of those things. The ads listed addresses so I could inquire. They would be a bit of a walk, but I didn’t have money for a carriage. Besides, if I kept moving, I would stay warm.
When I arrived at the first house, the woman regarded me with a mix of disgust and pity.
“Do you have any experience with children?” she asked.
“Well, no,” I say. “But I’ve been told I’m very compassionate, and—”
“They don’t need compassion, they need discipline,” she snapped. “We’re not interested.”
I took a deep breath as she slammed the door in my face. I still had one other option. The address was clear across town, but I could still make it by nightfall. It was a long walk, and I could feel the soles of my boots beginning to wear thin, but I finally arrived as twilight and a heavy fog were setting in.
“Whatever it is, we don’t want it,” said the man who answered the door.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m here for the caregiver position?”
He looked at me and laughed. “Sorry. It’s for my brother. We’ll be needing a man to look after him.”
“I’ve been working alongside doctors since I was a child,” I insisted. “I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t,” he said. “Goodbye.”
Another door slammed in my face. I made it just a few blocks before collapsing against a wall, sobs racking my body. That had been my last hope. Being hired on as a nanny or caretaker meant my living situation would be taken care of, but now I’d be sleeping out in the cold.
A mist began to fall, blanketing the streets in a soft haze. I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling myself in as tightly as possible to keep myself warm and to hide my sobs. My fingers were beginning to stiffen in the cold, and I rummaged in my bag for gloves. Realizing I had left them all in the shack, I began to cry all over again.
“You all right, miss?” a woman asked me. I looked up. She was just little taller than me but probably younger, bright rouge splashed across her face and a dress made of a garish, cheap fabric. Still, she was the first person to show me any sort of concern since the funeral, and so I answered.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry,” I said, wiping at my tears.
“If you don’t mind me saying, miss, you don’t look fine.”
I wrapped my arms around my knees. “I don’t have any place to go tonight.”
She nodded, tucking her black hair behind her ears. “You aren’t the only one. Would you like to follow me? We’ve got a small camp set up. It’s not much, but we’ve got a fire for some warmth.”
I was touched by her kindness. “I would love to,” I told her. She reached out a hand and helped me up, and I followed her down the alley. I briefly wondered if I was about to get ambushed, and the thought was almost laughable. I had nothing of value that they could take.
“My name is Bridget,” she said.
“Christine,” I told her.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
I could only shrug.
Bridget led me down another alley, and I could see a fire burning up ahead with a few shadows gathered around it.
“I’ve brought someone,” Bridget announced as we grew closer. “This is Christine. She needs a place to sleep tonight.”
Another woman, dressed similarly to Bridget with even more color in
her cheeks, if possible, scooted over and made a spot for me around the fire.
“Nice to meet you, Christine,” she said.
I sat down in the spot she had cleared for me, pulled my blanket out of my bag, and wrapped myself in it. “You all live here?” I asked.
The women, four in total, exchanged looks. “More or less,” one said. “When we can’t find a warm bed elsewhere.”
They exchanged looks again, as if they weren’t sure I knew what sort of women they were. I did, and I didn’t care. They were the only people who had shown me any sort of compassion.
“It’s been a slow night,” Bridget explained. “Thursdays always are.”
“So, you all—?” I asked, not bothering to finish my sentence. They all nodded.
“What’s that like?” I asked.
“It’s a living,” one said.
“We do what we have to,” said another.
“And you’re not able to get lodging?” I asked.
“Most people aren’t willing to rent to us,” Bridget explained. “Sometimes we get lucky, someone decides to marry us. Mostly, we do this while we try to find other work.”
“How long have you lived on the streets?” I asked, looking around the group.
“A month,” said one.
“Six months,” said another. The other responses were somewhere in between there.
“God,” I whispered.
“We don’t have many other options,” Bridget said.
“I tried to get out,” one said. Her lips were the same shade of red as her dress. Had she not been wearing either, I might not have recognized her as a girl. Her hair was cut very short, and she ran her fingers through the blonde strands.
The Wolf's Wife (The Wolf's Peak Saga Book 1) Page 3