Price of Privilege

by Jessica Dotta

  I nodded agreement and tried to speak without coughing. “It wasn’t this strong at Christmas.”

  He nodded. “Everything was frozen. Imagine how this will be a few months hence.”

  My foot shifted in the mire. I glanced down and studied the cart tracks in the mud and caught sight of a putrefied cabbage leaf. Surely this wasn’t part of the food that had been delivered.

  Before I could ask Edward for his opinion, a woman emerged holding a set of keys. Her dress of black bombazine showed no sign of fading. Swallowing, I followed the lines of the crepe veil draped over her head, barring us from seeing her. My mouth dried as I recalled the first days after Mama’s funeral when I’d been similarly attired.

  The matron reached the gate and stared at us through its iron bars. Up close, I could see through her veil. Dark hair was parted straight down the middle of her head and fastened into a tight bun. Because of the severity of her hairstyle, her ears stuck out on either side of her head. Her eyes looked shrunken they were so swollen.

  Instinctively, I neared Edward.

  “May I help you?” The woman’s voice was raspy.

  Edward bowed his head, removing his hat. “My name is Reverend Auburn and this is my wife, Mrs. Auburn.”

  The woman nodded, her mouth trembling. “Oh, bless you, sir.” She could scarcely speak through her tears as she fumbled with her keys. “Bless you. We were told no one from the church would risk coming, as many have taken ill during the night. But she won’t settle until she’s had assurance from someone.”

  Edward and I stole glances at each other.

  “While you’re here,” the woman continued, near tears with gratitude, “will you read the rites of the little ones that passed too? The teachers’ corpses are gone, but we’re going to bury the girls here.”

  Edward gave a brief nod, eyeing the building as if taking inventory. “Yes, certainly.”

  Trying not to lose my stomach at the stench of illness, I slowly drew in air, wondering how we’d wandered into this. With a shake of my head, I cast off thoughts of Mr. Addams’s claims about me. Epidemics happened all the time. Surely this had nothing to do with me. “What sort of sickness is it?”

  The woman upturned her palms in a gesture of helplessness. “Typhus, perhaps?”

  “How many have died?” Edward asked.

  “Seven. Five adults, two children.”

  “Out of how many?”

  Here the woman’s voice strained. “Of the six adults who contracted it, five died. One is barely alive. The one I’ve summoned you for. Of the fifteen children who were taken ill, two died. Four are still with fever, but the physician says there is good reason to hope. The rest are already recovering.”

  Edward indicated her mourning attire. “Who are you mourning for?”

  I wrinkled my nose, not thinking the question particularly tactful.

  Indeed, the woman’s countenance twisted. “My husband. He . . . he had just been appointed director by the new committee. We ran a successful boys’ school before this. We . . . we just moved from Norfolk. We hadn’t even unpacked. That was three days ago.”

  “Have you slept?” Edward asked softly.

  She shook her head, dabbing her eyes. “There wasn’t time. The fever had gripped the school when we arrived. The poor teachers couldn’t even rise to greet us.” She blinked as if determined to dry her eyes. “Give me one more moment. The girls don’t need to see me falter now. They had quite an ordeal before all this. Bad management and all.”

  I pulled Mama’s shawl tight, unable not to study this woman, wondering if she’d dislike me if she could see the full connection between us. Had I not jumped out of a carriage five months ago and refused to leave, Isaac and my father never would have investigated, and she and her husband never would have come to London.

  The woman took several deep breaths, then gestured to me. “Are you certain you wish to expose your wife, Reverend? If you have children, I’d advise that at least one of you remain here. My husband succumbed to this illness within the space of a day.”

  “No.” I grabbed his arm. “I’m not staying out here. I’m going inside with you.”

  Edward started to argue, but then a look I couldn’t decipher crossed his face. For five seconds, he stood immobile—as if being reminded of something or trying to pick out a specific voice in a roomful of conversation. Disbelief filled him before his face pinched with grief. “If you want to go back to London House,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “I will support your decision.”

  “I’m staying,” I spoke through clenched teeth.

  He glanced heavenward as if to ask why; then, placing a hand on my shoulder, he bent his mouth close to my ear. In an urgent, low whisper he communicated, “There’s no shame in remaining in the courtyard.”

  I gave a small stamp with my foot. “You’re trying to spare me, but you saw my life without you.” Then, seeing my argument had no sway, I changed tactic. “I’m a vicar’s wife. This is what I do now.”

  He ran his fingers through his curls and shut his eyes. “Yes, I know. And I’m not even allowed to stop you. Even now I am reminded of a prayer—” He stopped and glanced at the woman, remembering our audience. “All right, Juls, we go and fight sickness and death together.” He grinned. “Who better to be at my side than Jameson’s faerie queen.”

  I couldn’t help but glance askance at the matron. She was not amused.

  Edward, however, wasn’t paying her any mind. He took me by both shoulders. “Listen carefully—this is something that was taught me by an elderly priest who survived through a nasty plague in his day. We’re not physicians; we’re ministering to their souls and spirits only. Drink nothing. Eat nothing. Touch no water. Touch no bedding. Let me see your hands.”

  I peeled off my gloves and held them out. “What are you looking for?”

  “Cuts or scratches.” He scrutinized them until satisfied. “If you do get a cut, do not wash it; do not allow anyone to tend it. Let it bleed.” He jerked his head toward the woman. “Are they coughing?”

  “Some, but only because of difficulty swallowing.”

  Edward nodded as if that were good news, then squeezed my hands in his.

  Edward kept a firm grip on my elbow as we crossed the threshold of the orphanage, as if we were entering a dark labyrinth and he feared separation. Death became a festering reality. The putrid stench of dysentery assailed me. I gagged, unable to help it, earning a baleful glare from the matron, who led us. The malodor was so overpowering, I had to press my nose into Edward’s wool coat, not certain I could suppress my stomach much longer.

  We passed through a schoolroom, which temporarily had been set up to serve their laundering needs. Older girls, slightly younger than me, gagged as they plunged paddles into tubs filled with boiling water and sheets that looked soiled with bloodied excrement. Next to them, young girls sweated, one cried, as they labored to drag the dirty sheets over scrub boards. They were situated near the fire and perspiring profusely. Their brows looked like they suffered sweat rash. I released Edward’s sleeve as he stepped toward them, noting their hands were cracked and bleeding. Did that mean they would become ill too?

  Edward walked amongst them, placing his hand on the crown of the nearest girl, who knelt before her washtub. “I lay hands upon you in the name of the Father—” he moved his hand to the next girl—“and of the Son—” with his left hand he moved to the next—“and of the Holy Spirit, beseeching our Lord Jesus Christ to sustain you with his presence . . .”

  The older girls ceased work and withdrew their steaming paddles and, after placing them over the kettles, knelt in line, closing their eyes. It was the first time I’d witnessed any group of people praying together or Edward pastoring. I marvelled that he knew what to say and that the girls knew how to respond. Not recognizing the prayer for ministration to the sick, I stared at Edward, wondering by what authority he dared to utter such claims.

  “. . . to drive away all sicknes
s of body and spirit,” Edward continued, slowly making his way amongst them, “and to give you that victory of life and peace, which will enable you to serve him both now and forevermore. Amen.”

  “Amen,” everyone unexpectedly intoned.

  The matron gave a sidelong glance at my silence as if finding my lack of participation alarming. I swiped my brow, feeling dampness seep into all of my clothing.

  “This way.” Frowning, the matron gestured toward a door. “I’ll take you first to Miss Rosen and then to the children who have passed.”

  Clotheslines were strung high above the end of the classroom and ladders placed near them so the girls could hang the washed sheets. Despite the girls’ efforts, stains could still be seen. The sheets dripped continuously, creating a macabre rain through which we had to duck. I started to cover my eyes, but Edward gripped my wrist.

  “No,” he whispered. “Do not touch any part of your face.”

  My only option was to bury it against his sleeve as we walked beneath them. Water dripped down my neck and along the back of my dress. Yellow grime streaked the walls of the chamber we entered. Thick peat smoke veiled our eyes and competed with the cloying scent of death.

  “Miss Rosen,” the matron said, kneeling at the bed and feeling a young woman’s brow with the back of her hand. “The vicar is here.” Then to me, “Call for me when you’re finished.”

  For a moment I feared the girl had already passed, for her neck was arched and her cheeks greatly sunken. One of her legs hung out from beneath the blanket. Her bones, particularly their knobby heads and ends, could be seen as if skin were only draped over them. Suddenly consciousness filled her glassy eyes, and she turned her face toward Edward with a look of fear and desperation that reminded me of Mama’s anguished face from my dreams. Skeletal hands stretched through the air for Edward.

  As he stepped into the light, I backed against the wall, feeling my mouth turn to wool. Gone was my playmate. This was no boy who splashed in creeks and shared his treacle toffees. A paragon of manhood stood in his place. As I blinked, I realized for the first time he truly was a grown man. It was disorienting, for like Jameson, he’d managed to keep that fact from my view as if knowing the realization would be too discomfiting for me.

  Edward sat on his heels, ignoring the grime coating the floor as he enfolded her hand in his.

  It became apparent why Edward took no pains toward dignity. The poor girl had no need for any pretense, for she feared her soul damned. The words she birthed from her chapped lips, uttered in dying gasps, issued from a heart that was as frozen as a Russian winter. She’d survived wretched circumstances before she was forced into the orphanage, where she later stayed on as a teacher. I won’t sketch her deathbed conversation, outside of saying it was the first time I realized that the truest horrors exist outside of nightmares.

  Compassion etched Edward’s features even during the parts that were so unbearable I longed to cover my ears and turn toward the wall. He never flinched, but like a master surgeon extracting slivers of glass, Edward extracted confession after confession, then prayed with her. When finished, she sank against her pillow, wasted. By that time, I doubted she even realized I was there. I decided against making any noise or motion to alert her to the fact that I’d also heard those confessions.

  “God the Father—” Edward’s voice was tremulous. He paused, looking over the empty space around her bed, where a family would normally stand. I somehow understood that this silence was meant to be filled by an appropriate response from loved ones surrounding the deathbed. But in the burdensome silence, his eyes shut with grief before he gave the response alone. “Have mercy on your servant.”

  The brown of her eyes drank him in, still half-fearful, half-trusting.

  He struggled to keep his composure. “God the Son, have mercy on your servant.”

  She blinked as if crying. The rattle in her breath grew stronger. The only support I could offer Edward was my look of loving compassion.

  “God the Holy Spirit—” Edward’s voice grew choked—“have mercy on your servant.”

  By the time he reached the fifteenth line of the traditional prayer, her soul had departed, and a holy quiescence weighted the chamber, pushing against the corners, filling it. This, too, I dared not disturb. I waited as Edward rasped out the last words: “Lord, have mercy.” He wiped his nose, using the cuff of his sleeve. “Christ, have mercy.” He paused, saying a silent prayer, then finished. “Lord, have mercy.”

  He rose. “I hate it when they die alone.” His face tightened along with his voice, but whether in anger or grief I could not say. “The only things going into eternity with us are each other, yet here lay someone dying alone, with that burdening her soul. She lived day after day with something she didn’t need to carry.”

  “But she wasn’t alone,” I reminded him. “We were here.”

  Crossing the chamber and comforting him with an embrace was an impossibility. He seemed a new creature to me—one of manly grace and strength, yes, but nonetheless one I needed more time to consider.

  He sensed my change. “I am so sorry, Juls. I had no idea the sort of confessions she was going to make.” He placed a hand on his hip and looked toward her body with the air of someone too stunned to know what to think. “I wouldn’t have exposed you, or anyone, to that. I’m so sorry.”

  “Should we cover her face?” I asked.

  Edward shook his head and held out his hand for me. “I know it seems crude, but no. We touch as little as possible. And when we go home, we bathe immediately.”

  I picked up my skirts and made my way to him. “You seemed very different.”

  He nodded as he opened the door. “I suppose I did.”

  At the threshold, I stopped and looked over my shoulder at the corpse. “Do you think the little girl we came here to see—?” I swallowed, not wanting to even think it. “Do you suppose her life has been like that?”

  “There’s a strong possibility.”

  I felt ill. “Would she be that hardened? And commit those sorts of crimes?”

  Edward considered a moment. “Now you know why people rarely adopt from institutions such as this. Yes, many are very hardened at a tender age.”

  I felt my brow crease. Perhaps Isaac had not shared all the reasons he had been so firm about not adopting her. As I turned my thoughts back to Edward’s mannerism at the bedside, it suddenly didn’t seem impossible to tell him about blackmailing Macy. Comparatively, my misdeed was a fleabite.

  “Were you truly not shocked by her confessions?” I asked by way of testing him further.

  Immediately I felt contrite, for his countenance grew haunted. “I was grieved, deeply grieved. She spent her life not understanding she was forgiven, loved, and free because fellow man used her so harshly,” he replied. “But no, not shocked.”

  We reached the end of the hall, but instead of leading back to the schoolroom with the laundry, it divided like a T. Edward glanced down both halls. “Did you catch the matron’s name?”

  “I’m not sure she ever gave it.”

  “Well, that makes it hard to shout for her, doesn’t it?” Taking my elbow, Edward headed us back in the direction we came. As we walked, he looked over the halls. “They’re going to need a new housemaster, and we already know they prefer a married couple. I have to be honest, Juls; I really want to find out who is on the committee that runs this school. What if we’re called here?”

  I furrowed my brow, not out of astonishment, but rather because I had knowledge that Isaac oversaw the committee. If Edward truly wanted to be a candidate, he’d have to go through Isaac. As for myself, even though I’d stopped gagging on the putrid smell, I wasn’t certain what to think. A single conversation with me would decide this. If I asked, surely Isaac would hire Edward and keep his involvement confidential. On the other hand, a simple mention of Lord Dalry would be enough to make Edward abandon the idea.

  This time we successfully found the schoolroom again. One of the o
lder girls turned her head our direction, hitting the girl next to her with her plaited blonde hair.

  “Right, there ya be,” she said in an East London accent. “I’m to fetch ya to the mistress. This way.”

  Edward signalled for me to go first. I followed the girl through a narrow passage and then down a set of stairs. Careful not to slip, I steadied myself on the cold metal handrail. “Have you been here long?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were you here when the Emerald Heiress visited?”

  The girl’s plaited hair swung as she looked over her shoulder. “Oi! Why am I not surprised! It’s all anyones talks ’bout. Did I see her? Was she pretty?” She picked at her threadbare skirt and mimicked a high, annoying voice. “‘What did her dress look like?’ Well, I’ll tells ya. I could’ve knocked Miss Heiress flat on her bum in a fistfight, and that’s all that really counts.”

  “I bet she’s tougher than she looks,” Edward said behind me.

  I smiled, imagining that the odds of my being in a fistfight were rather slim. “Well, I care nothing about her dress. But I do wish to know about the little girl she visited that day. The newspapers said she carried one in her arms.”

  “Aye, making a right fool of herself,” the girl retorted.

  “Do you know which girl that was?” I pressed, growing irritated but determined not to be outlasted by ill manners.

  “Maud, ya mean? Yeah, I knows her. Poor chit actually believed the heiress was coming back for her one day.”

  I gave Edward a concerned glance. Of course the child would indulge in such fantasies. What else did the poor thing have to look forward to in a place like this?

  “Where is she now?” Edward asked.

  The girl turned and gave us a smile, but it was shaped all wrong. It contained anger and hopelessness. She opened a door, and the overpowering scent of decay lambasted us. “She’s in there with t’other one who died.”