“The size of the building, unfortunately, is testament to the extent of the need,” Susannah said grimly.
Margaret shuddered. “It looks like a prison. You would have to be absolutely desperate to summon the courage to knock on that door.”
“Homeless, penniless, and usually starving. Everything possible is done to discourage supplicants and to make them as miserable as possible while they are in the workhouse.”
“That’s barbaric!”
“Poor relief is funded from the parish rates. In impoverished parishes, such as this, there are many people in need but few ratepayers, and this heaps pressure on available funds.”
“So they deliberately make desperate people miserable?”
“In order to make the alternatives more attractive,” Susanna said bitterly. “Even if it means risking gaol.”
Like the woman who stole the rabbit, Margaret thought. “Do women really abandon their newborn babies on the doorstep, as I’ve heard?”
“Tragically, they do.”
“Because they can’t afford to feed them?”
“That is one reason,” Susannah said, looking uncomfortable. “Lady Margaret . . .”
“I am not a fragile flower to be protected from the realities of life. Please don’t spare my blushes.”
“If you must have it, they are more often than not women whose child has no father.”
“You mean women of the night?”
“No, I don’t. I mean servants who have been abused by their masters, girls who have been foolish enough to succumb to the blandishments of the chap they’ve been walking out with. Young women desperate to save their reputations or their livelihoods but quite unable to do so and still keep their child.”
Margaret stared at the huge workhouse door. If the vile story told about her in the Morning Post had been true, what would have happened to her child? They would have taken it away from her, but what would have happened to it? In that moment, it didn’t matter that there had never been a child. The fury that gripped her made her hands curl into fists. Looking at that door, she tried to imagine a young woman like herself creeping up under cover of darkness, clutching a screaming bundle to her chest.
“Do they leave notes? Names? Do these poor women ever know what becomes of the little ones?”
“I believe it is thought to be for the best not to maintain any ties. Each workhouse has its own method of naming the children.” Susannah forced a smile. “You know, there are worse lives. There is a school attached to this workhouse that provides a basic education for both girls and boys. When they are of age to work, they are found a trade or placed into service. If they are sick, there is a dispensary. The food is nutritious if not exactly tasty—and it’s a lot better than the poor fare our soldiers endure when on campaign. And talking of Christian soldiers, here comes my brother.”
Father Sebastian was dressed all in black, the skirts of his coat flying out as he strode towards them, a smile lighting up his face. “Lady Margaret, welcome to our humble parish.” Doffing his hat, he made a bow.
“It is a pleasure to be here, Father Sebastian. But you should know that I am to be plain Miss Scott.”
“The daughter of a Scottish man of the cloth, who has come to see what examples of our good works she can take back to Edinburgh,” Susannah elaborated, with a wink.
“An excellent cover story. One of your own making? Then you will be a welcome addition to Susannah’s Saturday and Sunday schools.”
“If I can manage to get away, then I would be delighted to attend.”
To her embarrassment, Margaret felt her cheeks colour under his scrutiny. Father Sebastian was not conventionally good-looking. His mouth was too generous, his nose too decided, but he exuded a beguiling natural charm. His hair had a wave that he made no attempt to tame with the foul Macassar oil that far too many men used to sculpt their locks. Though Susannah had informed her that he was twenty-seven years old, he looked boyishly younger. And, goodness, he had the most delightful smile and a way of looking directly at one, as if he was hanging on every word. Unlike some other men she could think of, who treated her conversation merely as a convenient stopgap to allow them to formulate their next sentence.
“Well, now,” he said, beaming, “has Susannah shown you enough of our little patch of God’s earth? Are you ready for a cup of tea?”
“Actually, Seb, I’m going to leave you to escort Miss Scott back to the rectory,” Susannah said. “I have a call to make just around the corner from here. Would you mind, Margaret?”
Would she mind! Repressing this unworthy leap of excitement, she shook her head. “The last thing I want to be is a hindrance to either of you. Unless you would prefer that I came with you?”
“Not on this occasion,” Susannah answered, to Margaret’s secret relief. “Mary Webb’s daughter, who is only thirteen, is with child. I have yet to establish the full story, but it seems she is too far gone for them to consider any form of drastic remedy. It has taken me a while to gain her trust. I don’t want to introduce her to another stranger at this point.”
“Thirteen! That is two years younger than my baby sister. The man responsible should be put in gaol.”
“The law deems twelve to be of age to consent. What I haven’t yet been able to fathom is if the child did in fact do so. Walk back with Sebastian. I shouldn’t be too far behind you.”
“It is shocking but sadly not uncommon, I’m afraid,” Father Sebastian said, as they watched Susannah hurry away.
“What will happen to the baby?” Margaret asked, eyeing the forbidding entrance to the workhouse. “Will it end up there?”
“Unless the grandmother passes it off as her own, which happens more often than you might imagine. But that, I’m afraid, depends on whether she can persuade her husband to go along with the deceit. In the end it will come down to what is considered the lesser of two evils. And money, of course. Everything comes down to money in the end, around here. Shall we?”
Margaret fell into step beside him. “The woman who stole the rabbit the day we met, you remember? You said that was about money.”
“Peggy, like many in this parish, is struggling to keep the wolf from the door. She takes in laundry, and her husband sells flowers at the market. They’ve five little ones. The eldest is seven, I think—Susannah would know. The long and the short of it is, she pawned some of the laundry she’d been paid to wash, giving the cash to her husband to buy blooms, intending to redeem her bond when he sold them later that day. Sadly, her husband drank and gambled the funds away instead, so in desperation she stole the rabbit to raise the money to get the laundry out of hock and keep her job.”
“That’s simply awful! What happened?”
“I managed to smooth things over with the stall-holder. Fortunately, Peggy had the sense to use a legitimate pawnbroker, so she wasn’t in debt to one of the sharks that feed on the unfortunate and needy.”
“Susannah said you make enemies by helping people.”
“You can’t do the work I do without treading on a few toes. Moneylenders, shopkeepers who charge a small fortune for credit, landlords who won’t make repairs, governors and vestrymen who won’t spend a penny more than the bare minimum, they all like to point the finger of blame at me. But I’ve a thick skin, and not only am I sure I’m in the right of it,” Father Sebastian said with a wry smile, “I’ve God on my side.”
“And any right-minded decent person, too, I should hope.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but there’s scores of so-called upstanding citizens who would be happy to see the back of me.”
“Did you have words with Peggy’s husband?”
“Heavens, no. He’d view it as meddling in his affairs and it wouldn’t be me who’d suffer the consequences.”
Margaret shuddered. “Surely she won’t end up in that dreadful place back there.”
“A last resort, but a sadly necessary one for some. Husbands and wives are k
ept apart, you know, and siblings, too. We do what we can, distributing coals and food to keep people in their own homes, but the parish purse has its limits. My bishop is of the opinion that those who can’t help themselves should be left to God’s mercy, but what His Grace doesn’t know won’t harm him.”
“That sounds somewhat heretical!”
“Ah no, I’m simply a practical man who believes there’s more than one way to bring God into people’s lives. You can’t frighten people with eternal damnation if they’re already living in hell, Lady Margaret, and you can’t nurture the spirit if the body is starving. To me, that’s just common sense. We’re very grateful, Susannah and I, for your interest in our parish.”
“I simply want to help,” Margaret said earnestly, “even more now that I know a little of what you do. I have not much to offer, but I am willing to learn.”
“Then that is all that counts, for it shows you have a good heart.”
“Susannah suggested that I could help you with your parish correspondence. One thing I can do is write a neat hand.”
“That is a most excellent idea. Bureaucracy is my biggest bugbear. What else has my sister suggested?”
“Teaching children sewing. Oh, and telling them stories.”
“Clever Sue, to pass that task on to you. She’s an eminently practical woman, my sister, and terrifyingly well-organised, but she’s a bit too—let us say, restrained—to be a good storyteller. While you now, my instincts are telling me that you are the type to throw yourself into it with gusto. Am I mistaken?”
Margaret burst out laughing. “No, you are quite right. I love making up stories for children, and telling them, too, for what it’s worth.”
“Oh, it’s worth a great deal more than some would credit. Life can be tough around here, even for little ones.”
“Then anything I can do to make life easier, I will do. But I don’t just want to dispense charity, Father Sebastian, I want to understand why charity is required in the first place.”
“Finding the root cause and doing something to alleviate it is exactly why I am here.” He smiled down at her. They had reached the rectory. She stopped to allow him to open the front door. He paused in the act of brushing past her and their eyes met. It was the strangest feeling, as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She was sure, in that moment, he felt it, too. But then he opened the door and muttered something about fetching tea, and she decided she must have imagined it after all.
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday, 17 March 1866 (Five Weeks Later)
“And from that day forward, Jenny had jam sandwiches for breakfast every morning.” Margaret finished her story and smiled at the cluster of children sitting in a semicircle on the floor. There were eighteen today, three more again than on her last visit. “Now, since you have all been so very well-behaved, there are jam sandwiches for you, too, and milk, over on the table in the corner.”
Scrabbling awkwardly to her feet, she made her way across the hall to join Susannah and the children’s mothers, but before she could sit down, Sally Jardine thrust a squirming, wet, and very, very smelly bundle into her hands.
“Miss Scott, would you mind changing Alfie’s napkin, there’s a dear. Only I’m just about to have my tea.”
Before she could stop herself, Margaret screwed up her nose. “Pooh.”
“Yes, sorry about that. He’s teething, got a bit of an upset tummy.” Sally didn’t look in the least bit sorry. “Course if you’re too posh to get your hands dirty, I’ll do it myself.”
Sally knew Margaret had a sensitive nose, because Sally had taken great delight, the first time they met, in ridiculing Margaret for carrying the lavender sachet that Susannah had given her. Margaret had very nearly succumbed to tears, and Sally had noticed, of course.
Margaret knew better than to show weakness now. “Come along then, Alfie,” she said, deliberately snuggling him close and smiling over at Sally. “Let’s see if we can make your bottom half match up to that sweet little face of yours.”
Swallowing hard to prevent herself gagging, aware of the damp residue seeping into her gown, Margaret carried the baby over to the small table where Susannah kept a supply of fresh napkins and cleaning cloths. Her first attempt to change a napkin, on her first day here, had been a disaster, ending with both the child and herself in tears. Through the jeers and laughter Verity had come to her aid, gently talking her through her second attempt, earning herself a few cheers and a smattering of applause. Persistence had paid off. She was rather proficient now, and most of the women had warmed to her. Alfie, however, and his mother, were determined in their own way to challenge her. She could sense everyone watching as she gingerly removed the pins.
“Come on, Alfie, let her know who’s boss,” Sally called.
Desperate not to be found wanting, Margaret gritted her teeth, took shallow breaths, and proceeded to clean up the revolting mess. To her profound relief Alfie was too delighted to be pristine and dry to do anything other than coo. Handing a fresh, smiling baby back to his mother ten minutes later, she made an extravagant curtsy. A cup of strong tea was thrust into her hands, and a chair patted for her to sit on.
“I suppose you’ve earned that,” Sally conceded, setting Alfie at her feet. “My Robert says he’s never smelt the like, and he’s a tosher.”
Baffled, Margaret looked to Susannah for clarification. “He goes down the sewers with a fishing net looking for coins or nails to sell on,” she explained.
“You know what they say,” Sally chipped in irrepressibly. “Where there’s muck, there’s brass!”
Shuddering, Margaret took a sip of the stewed tea, bracing herself for its fierce, tarry taste. On the other side of the room, the children had finished their jam sandwiches and milk, and were playing one of their complicated ball games. Most of the mothers were either knitting or stitching as they drank their tea, their eyes on each other rather than their work. Stockings, shirts, and chemises were created at speed. Rips were repaired, holes darned, and new cuffs and collars attached. How many times, sitting through a tea with Mama’s friends, had she heard the oohs and aahs of admiration for an entirely useless sampler!
“Verity couldn’t make it today?”
“Her ankles have swollen up so much she can’t hardly walk.” Agnes tutted. “I brought her two littlest ones along, told her to put her feet up, though whether she will or not . . .”
“I have some Epsom salts,” Susannah said. “Tell her to mix them with cold water and rest her feet in the solution for fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll tell her, but you know Verity,” Agnes said. “Can’t sit still for a second. I remember when she had her first, must be fifteen years ago now . . .”
“No more than thirteen, for her eldest isn’t twelve yet.”
“And this will be what—baby number nine?”
“Ten. Fingers crossed. She’s not kept well since the last one. You must remember, she had a terrible time of it.”
Margaret listened with her customary fascinated horror as the women embarked on a graphic description of the experience of giving birth. It was a popular topic, second only to the demands placed upon them by their husbands. Unlike pregnancy, which was universally abhorred, husbands split the group. Some of the women claimed discharging their marital duties was an endurance test, but a majority, to Margaret’s astonishment, seemed to enjoy it.
“I make sure Robert has a good wash first, mind.” Sally cackled. “You never know where he’s been!”
“The problem is, we do!” Agnes retorted, and the group of women erupted with raucous laughter.
The bawdy jokes, the innuendos that mostly went straight over Margaret’s head, were a revelation. She had never heard anyone talk so candidly. There were no veiled hints, no euphemisms, nor any pretence. It was liberating, for even when the women teased her ignorance, they did so mostly without malice. In the early days here, which seemed like a lifetime and not merely a month ago, her cheeks had burned constant
ly with embarrassment. These days, she occasionally felt bold enough to add a ribald comment of her own. It gave her a warm glow to make these tough, resilient women laugh.
“I’m afraid that we’ve run out of time again, ladies. Agnes, if you wait behind I’ll fetch the Epsom salts.”
Chairs were scraped back; mending, sewing, and knitting put away in deep pockets; and children rounded up. “I see Alfie has left his seal of approval,” Sally said, pointing at the brown stain on Margaret’s bodice. Leaning closer, she wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. Good luck getting that out.”
Cursing under her breath, wondering if even ever-resourceful Molly would find Alfie’s legacy a challenge too far, Margaret ignored the mother, smiling at the baby instead, gratified by the beaming smile she received in return. “Poor lamb, you have enough to fret about getting those teeth through. You let me worry about my dress.”
“Milk will remove the smell,” Agnes said, shooting Sally a dark look. “You see if it don’t.”
“Would you mind tidying up?” Susannah returned with her hat and basket. “I have a house call to make.”
“Of course not. Is something wrong?” Margaret asked, for her friend was looking worried.
“You remember the girl I told you about the first day you were here, Mary Webb’s daughter?”
“The thirteen-year-old who was expecting a baby? Oh no, Susannah, has she . . .”
“The baby was born yesterday. A boy. Early, but he seemed healthy enough. Unfortunately, he died this morning, poor little mite.”
“Oh, Susannah.” Tears started in Margaret’s eyes. “As if that girl—she’s no more than a child herself—hadn’t suffered enough already.”
Susannah blew her nose. “Right now, what we need to do is concentrate on the living. It was not an easy birth. I am going to see what I can do to persuade them to allow a doctor to call discreetly and examine her. If I don’t see you later, I’ll see you next week?”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 12