by Sandra Byrd
“Splendid.” He lowered his voice and rested his hand on my shoulder in a protective fashion. “The stipend is generous and will include a small portion of the show’s proceeds. I’m sorry about your father.”
Wilhelm, son of a shipbuilder, understood what it was like to need to earn one’s keep. “Thank you. I shan’t let you down.”
“I know that, my dear. That’s why I chose you.”
With that, he left the room. I waited till he had cleared the area entirely before racing up the aisle in sheer delight.
I had just been assigned the plum design role in all London! Now, to find seamstresses. It would be difficult, this time of year. The Season was under way and all the best seamstresses had already been engaged. I thought on the passage in Philippians that promised that God shall meet all of our needs. Lord, please lead me to qualified seamstresses. Quickly!
I exited the theater, and as I did, a policeman stationed outside caught and held my gaze and then touched his helmet with a wry smile.
Had he been the one lurking in the theater corridor? I had never seen a policeman stationed outside the Drury—especially in the morning. Perhaps a ghost didn’t haunt the corridor, but someone had. I hurried away.
To conserve money, I did not hire another carriage. Instead, I began the long walk home; walking would help me think and plan the costumes. The day was cool but dry, and there were several routes I could take.
I thought, Luck is with me this day. I’d take a different route and return via King Street, a long, broad, and very popular thoroughfare. Perhaps I would even knock on the door of the address on Papa’s card, which I had tucked into my bag.
Someone may answer, clear his name, and the day would become even more sublime!
I reached the house, confirmed the address on the card once more, and after slipping the card back into my pocket, walked up the steps. I sharply rapped the brass lion door knocker. I waited a minute, and when no one came to the door, I rapped it again. This time, someone opened.
“Yes?” He was middle-aged, well dressed, with a tuft of unruly white hair and a look in his eyes that was both wary and predatory at the same time. His eyes swiveled, reminding me of an owl. Just beyond him, I could see a most expensive oriental rug covering a highly polished floor. The smell of fine tobacco smoke drifted out, and I could hear the light tinkling of piano keys from somewhere deep within.
He cleared his throat.
Now I was there, I had no idea where to begin. “Hello,” I said. “I had a friend who I thought lived here. I thought I’d call.” Weak. But I had nothing else to offer.
“Your friend’s name is . . . ?” he enquired.
“Miss Buttersley,” I said, thinking quickly of a young seamstress I had known the Season before.
“No,” he replied. He did not offer to be of assistance in any way. He looked me up and down and after having found me unsuitable for whatever purpose I was being evaluated, shut the door without a further word. Light, feminine voices could be heard from inside just before the lock snapped.
That was all. I stood there for a moment then made my way to the bottom of the steps and looked up and down the street. Just across the way, there were some poorly dressed men and women—one looked to be selling matches and another was shrieking that he would sell or sharpen knives. He appeared as someone well versed in their uses, too. I shivered.
Military men, forgotten, their uniforms in tatters, noses bulbous and red, loitered nearby on the edge of despair. A pair of police constables moved them along and, surprisingly, one caught and held my attention for a moment. Something passed between us. Did I know him? Or he, me?
When they left, I approached the knife hawker.
“Hello, sir,” I began. He laughed and spat through the considerable open space in his gums.
“Sir.” He laughed, with no mirth. “I don’ think so.”
“What is that”—I pointed to the house I’d just been at—“building?”
He glanced at it and then back to me. “I don’t speak with toffs unless they’re buying something,” he said. “Not even their women, unless they’re selling something.” He laughed, and it was as vulgar as the meaning behind his statement.
I had never considered myself a toff; certainly those in the upper classes would never accept me as one of their own.
“But . . . ,” I began. He turned his back on me and walked away.
I sighed, heavily. As I began to walk, a man appeared from nowhere and appeared to follow me. I picked up my pace; he did, too. The London fog had rolled in, blocking my ability to see who or what was nearby. The street appeared to be unusually quiet.
Another man popped out from a hidden crevice within the alley wall just feet away from me. I thought I could hear their breaths. Did they mean to rob me or . . . worse? They increased their pace. I could hear their footfalls on the uneven cobbles. I began to walk even more quickly, taking care not to catch my foot on those cobbles, causing a stumble. I looked to the left and right but no escape route appeared—the alley arteries could pose more danger than hope. I gathered my skirts in my hand and started to run.
Once out of the alleys and back on King Street, I continued walking quickly. I turned around and saw the two men following me still. Or were they? Could I be imagining it? The street was blocked just ahead. It looked as if there had been a terrible carriage accident, which often happened when the streets were darkened by the London Peculiar, a brew of smoke, fog, coal, and mist.
My father’s death had been blamed on a cart accident. I did not have reason to question it then, but I did now.
The area was soon cleared for movement and I did not see the men who had been following me, if, indeed, they had been.
I looked at the addresses on the nearby buildings; though King Street was a broad trunk of a road, I was but a few blocks from the Theatrical Mission mentioned in Mamma’s clippings.
I walked, breathing more easily now, and finally noted a lovely but nondescript building. It was the correct address, confirmed by the motto carved in stone over the entrance: BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT, FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. Matthew 5:3. Perhaps if I would not have one answer today, I might seek another.
A rough-hewn woman stood outside the front door.
“Hello,” I said. “Is this the Theatrical Mission operated by the Cause?”
“Yes,” she said. “We seek to give shelter, succor, the Gospel message, and hope to those who have been tossed out of the theater world.” She looked at my fine outfit. “Likely you wouldn’t know much of that.”
“Oh,” I said, glad to have a ready response this time. “But I do. I am a costume seamstress.” She warmed a little. “And my mother was an actress who was very involved with the Cause. Her heart was to serve others. Her name was Mrs. Victoria Young. Have you heard of her?”
The woman shook her head no, but smiled. “My name is Mother Rachel. Do come in, if you like.” I decided I did like and followed her inside, noting that the men who’d been following me melted away into the dirty haze that smothered the city.
Beyond the foyer was a proper sitting room, and beyond that much of the room had been turned into an extensive dining room. “We feed up to fifty at a time,” she said. “Though not all of them live here. Upstairs, we have rooms, four or five to a room sometimes. And downstairs, the kitchen, and the workshops.”
“Workshops?” I asked.
She nodded. “Come with me.”
We made our way down the stairs and as we did, I saw to the left a mock kitchen, parlor, and bedroom set up in one large area. “They’re training to be maids,” Mother Rachel said.
Oh yes. The clipping had mentioned training former actors and actresses for new, viable professions. “They?” I asked. “Actresses?”
“Some are actresses,” she said. “But mostly we care for the poor little pantomime waifs.” Pantomimes had become the most popular offering of the London theatrical Season. They often included casts of one hundre
d, including child actors, and families from the lowest middle class all the way to the Queen’s own loved the music, joking, and spectacular comedies based on fairy tales. Each Christmas season theaters competed to outdo each other, and themselves.
I tilted my head.
“We care for the children who are no longer hired for the spectacles—not young enough, sweet enough, or simply have outgrown their roles. The highborn love to see them onstage. Plan their Christmases around it, don’t they? But once the little ones grow up into young men and young ladies, they don’t want to be tainted by their presence.”
“Surely not!” I protested. And yet, with Mamma’s experience in the Cause, I didn’t find it impossibly difficult to believe that even young actors and actresses would be shunned as those expected to have low morals.
She took me to another room, where several girls and women were head down over treadle sewing machines.
“See her?” she whispered, and pointed toward a young lady with red hair. “Hired as a nurse, after training, till they found out she’d once been an actress. Swiftly dismissed, I tell you. Twenty thousand working to perform each year, none of them wanted after they’s through.”
I did believe that. I’d heard the stories. “They like us like they like coal,” Mamma had once said. “We keep them warm and happy, but they do not want to come too close lest we soot them.”
What seemed to be a young boy—but in a dress?—approached me. Perhaps he was in costume. “Hello, miss.”
If it truly was a boy, his voice had not yet broken.
“How do you do,” I said. “What is your name?”
“My name is Ruby.”
Ah, of course it was not a lad. Ruby grinned, and when she did she became lovely. She must have seen me eyeing her very short hair, which had led to my confusion.
“I sold my hair to buy myself some time for training and to find a situation.”
Plainspoken, forward-looking, unflinchingly honest with herself.
“It’s a pleasure, Ruby,” I said. She tugged at my arm and brought me deep into the sewing room.
“This is my friend Charlotte.” She pointed at a demure young woman sewing decent piecework on a machine. “And Mother Martha.”
Mother Martha looked to be about fifty years old, but by her title I guessed that she’d shepherded and steered the pantomime children in one of the many theaters of London, earning the honorary title of mother as many in theater did. “How do you do?” I asked.
“How do you do?” she replied, perfectly properly. She held out her hand, and as I took it, I noticed it was sheathed in the most beautiful glove I had ever seen.
“The beading . . .” I barely got the words out. “Where did you find these?”
She smiled; she had lost several teeth. “I stitched them myself. Have you heard that old saying, miss, ‘It took three kingdoms to make one glove: Spain to provide the kid, France to cut it out, and England to sew it’? I’m the sewing part, though I cut, too.”
Suddenly, I could see Cinderella’s ball gown remarkably sewn with rare beads and rare talent, something that would catch Drury Lane’s light at every turn. I could not do it myself, nor could any woman I’d ever met bead as well as Mother Martha could. I must have her. I, and no one else.
“Are you looking for engagement, Mother Martha? I am in immediate need of seamstresses.”
Even as I said it, though, I did not know how I could follow through. Yes, I needed her skills, but I could clearly not send pieces to her here, and anyway, I knew most missions only offered temporary housing. Ruby had alluded to as much. They had a new wave of those needing help approach them each month. Where would she live?
Mother Martha put her arm around Ruby. “I shan’t leave my little friend.”
Ah. I wondered if she was her real mother. “Do you sew, Ruby?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, miss. I’ve not talent for it, and I’ve tried.”
That forthright honesty again. I could not afford to take on anyone who couldn’t sew. But those beaded gloves . . .
“I can be a butterfly, miss.” Ruby spread her wings and danced with unbelievable grace through the room. “I’ve played a ladybird.” She crawled on the ground, screwing her face into a knot with pretended fear and frustration, imitating the red, black-spotted insect as she scuttled through the room. “I can be a gnome.” Suddenly she appeared gnarled. “Or a fairy.” She was light as sponge cake then. The room burst out in applause, and I joined them.
“Alas, I do not have need of a butterfly or a ladybird,” I said. “Though I sincerely wish I did.”
Ruby took my response in good cheer. “If you think of something I can do for you, miss, please return for me. I work hard. You can ask anyone.”
“I shall.” I did not know what she could do for me, or why she had so suddenly captured my heart. I could see why this mission would have been important to my mother. I’d been here less than an hour, and it was already important to me, somehow. I wouldn’t displace my housemaid and cook, Louisa, and there was no indication the young girl would be any better at housework and cookery than she was at sewing. I had no money to spare for anything but that which could help me fulfill my new sewing commission.
“I have but thirty days,” Ruby called after me.
I followed Mother Rachel up the stairs and she held my hand tightly for a moment. “The girls have few options and sometimes do what they must to get by. Mother Martha, though she says she will not leave Ruby’s side, is destined for a workhouse if a position cannot be found. Ruby is just a month or two beyond the legal age. There are plenty who would place them in working situations where men like them young and fresh and free from disease. Their runner comes round often, hanging about, promising and luring.”
With dismay, I understood exactly what she meant. Girls may “consent” to relations with men when they were aged thirteen, not that any of them understood, in full, what they were consenting to. It was perhaps better, for a time, that beautiful Ruby had transformed herself into someone who looked like a young boy.
But her hair would quickly grow back.
CHAPTER FIVE
One afternoon in late April, when the season and the smoky fog still conspired to snuff the sunlight much too early, I decided I had waited long enough. I arrived, alone this time, at the Metropolitan Police Chelsea division my father had served in most of his career. I did not want Mrs. W to see me shamefully rejected once again, if, indeed, it came to that. I walked through the front door alone, damp and smudged, and approached the desk. I did not recognize the young constable manning it.
“Good afternoon.” This time, I did not present my card. “I’m here once more to see Inspector Collingsworth.”
“One moment.” This officer smiled at me; how different from my last visit! He disappeared and in a few minutes returned not with the inspector but with his son, Francis Collingsworth.
“Francis!” I cried in pleasure at the appearance of the young man. “I mean, Constable Collingsworth.” The son of my father’s longtime friend had, as expected, followed in his father’s footsteps. We had been friends since childhood, and it was a great relief and comfort to see him. “I hadn’t expected you—I’d come to see your father—but this is a very happy mistake indeed!”
He took my hand in his own, and he embraced me, as longtime friends might do. “It’s lovely to see you again, Gillian. Oh, I mean Miss Young.” He blushed. “Come along. I shall take you to Father myself.”
We walked down the narrow hallway, and passed several officers, many of whom I recognized, but some cast their eyes away from me, and toward Francis, who nodded as we passed. Soon, we arrived at the office of Inspector Collingsworth. I looked wistfully down the hallway, where Papa had once worked. Francis opened the office door and let me in.
“Father, Miss Young has come,” he announced. Inspector Collingsworth looked up at me and a wave of surprise and perhaps distress crossed his face. He quickly replaced it with a smile,
stood, and came forward to embrace me in his long, strong arms.
“Miss Young, I am so sorry I have not come to call. Florence was just chiding me today, saying we needed to make time for a call or to extend an invitation. She’ll be well pleased to know you’ve called by.”
He made no mention of my earlier call. Had he been told? I was certain he had been. No one would withhold information from an inspector.
Except, perhaps, Roberts. “I should be delighted,” I replied.
“How may I help?” He got right to the point, in the manner of most officers I’d known.
“I’ve a bit of a concern,” I admitted, fidgeting with the looped, bouclé yarn on my new scarf. “The day I returned from burying Papa, I arrived home to find Sergeant Roberts rummaging through our house.”
He looked concerned, but not overly surprised. “Yes, I’d heard.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. Roberts had meant to keep that a secret. I’m likely to be followed from now on, he’d said. “It was most irregular, and truth be told,” I continued, “frightening.”
The inspector sat down behind his desk, across from me, but leaned forward. “Did he take anything from your house?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
He smiled. “He said he found nothing, and I’ve questioned him repeatedly of late.”
That phrase. Roberts had said he’d been questioned repeatedly. Did Collingsworth believe Roberts was somehow involved, too, in dubious activities? Roberts had been Papa’s final protégé.
Collingsworth nodded. “I’ve put a stop to it; I’ve put a stop to everything. He won’t enter again, nor trouble you, nor make any enquiries. No one will. It was out of line for him to be there in the first place and he’s been . . . disciplined.”