Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Tentatively she approached a woman, carrying a basket of laundry on her head. “ ’Scuse me, mistress, I’m lookin’ fer the Eagle and Dove?”

  The woman barely glanced at her and hardly broke stride. “Corner o’ Scandrett.”

  And where or what was Scandrett? Clarissa looked around again helplessly. It must be a street close by. She set off along the muddy lane that stretched behind the warehouses, picking her way through evil-smelling puddles. The powerful, vile reek of a tannery made her catch her breath as she passed one building, and then there was the more familiar and certainly pleasanter smell of a livery stable a little further on with a narrow alleyway running alongside it.

  A stable lad came out of the livery stable leading a brown cob and Clarissa accosted him. “I’m lookin’ fer Scandrett Street.”

  He looked at her as if she’d walked out of Bedlam. “Y’are standin’ on it.”

  Clarissa looked behind her up the alleyway. “This is it?”

  “Aye, where you from, then?”

  “Not around ’ere,” she said shortly. “I’m wantin’ the Eagle and Dove.”

  “Up top.” He jerked his thumb at the alley and continued on his way.

  Clarissa followed direction and ventured into the alley. There were houses on either side, the street so narrow that their rooftops almost touched across the lane. It was dark and dank and strewn with rubbish. How could Francis possibly survive in one of these filthy hovels? Anger burned deep within her, giving her strength. Luke would pay, and he would pay dearly.

  The Eagle and Dove was at the far end of the alley as the boy had promised, and to Clarissa’s pleasant surprise the alley opened onto an expanse of green, with the tavern sitting on the edge of it. It was as if suddenly she found herself on a village green in the countryside, and her spirit lifted a little. Maybe Francis wasn’t buried in those reeking alleys. Maybe he was in one of the cottages scattered along the sides of the green.

  Emboldened, she pushed open the door of the tavern below the creaking sign depicting an eagle with a dove in its talons and found herself immediately in a small taproom, heavy with the odor of spilled beer and the sea coal that burned sullenly in the fireplace.

  The taproom was deserted and she went to the counter. “Landlord?”

  An elderly man shuffled through a door in the rear wall and peered myopically at her. “Who wants ’im?”

  “Me. I’m lookin’ fer a woman what takes in babies around ’ere. Is there one?”

  His eyes became mere slits as he took in the slight swell beneath her cloak. He began to rub the stained countertop with a filthy rag. “Depends on who wants ’er.”

  “I does, sir.” Clarissa decided she would get what she wanted more quickly if she went straight to the point. “I’ve coin t’ pay for the information.” She huddled closer into her cloak, turning slightly sideways, laying a hand on her belly.

  The old man’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “Let’s see yer money then.”

  Clarissa slipped her hand into the pocket of her cloak and felt in her coin purse. She didn’t dare bring it out into the open in what was inevitably a den of thieves, and she didn’t dare give the impression that she had more than a few meager coins. She identified a sixpence with her fingertips and laid it on the counter, letting him see it before covering it with her hand. “Where will I find her?”

  “Dundee, next street along the green.” He reached for the coin but she kept her hand over it.

  “ ’Ow will I know the ’ouse?”

  He grunted and blew his nose copiously on the filthy rag he’d been using on the countertop. Clarissa controlled her revulsion and waited. Finally he said, “Third ’ouse down on the right.”

  Clarissa lifted her hand off the sixpence and it disappeared in an instant. “Is she the only one ’ereabouts?” She gave him a pleading look, her hand stroking over her belly. “Please, sir. I need ’er real bad.”

  He grunted again, and seemed to consider his answer, before he said grudgingly, “Nobbut our Bertha on Dundee.”

  “Thankee, sir.” She gave him what she hoped was a pathetic smile of gratitude and left the taproom, heaving a sigh of relief once she was out in the fresh air again. The stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke seemed to be stuck in her nostrils. But she had the information she needed.

  She found Dundee Street easily enough; the name on a wooden plaque was actually screwed into the wall of the first house. At the third house, she stopped, her heart racing. It was a house like any other on the mean street, its crooked tiled rooftop almost touching the one opposite. There was no knocker on an unpainted door opening directly off the street, and the tiny windows were ill fitting, their frames slightly askew.

  She touched the shape of the cushion, making sure it was firmly in place. It would be a disaster if it drifted loose during the coming interview. Then she raised her hand and banged vigorously on the door.

  It seemed to take a long while before the sound of bolts being drawn on the far side of the door told her someone had heard her knock. The door opened a crack and a small girl peeped out at her. “Yeah?”

  “Is Bertha ’ome?”

  “Who wants ’er?”

  It seemed to be the first question anyone asked around her. Clarissa said firmly, “Me. Is she ’ome?”

  The child leaned back and yelled with surprising power into the gloom behind her, “Mam, someone’s ’ere.”

  “I know that, yer daft biddy. Who is it?” The yell was loud enough to bring down the rafters and Clarissa winced. Francis hated loud noises. A woman appeared behind the child before the echo had died. She cuffed the child across the head. “Get back inside, yer lazy good-fer-nuthin’. See to that babby what’s cryin’.”

  Clarissa could hear a baby’s thin cry now coming from somewhere above. The woman stood in the doorway drying her hands on a dirty apron, treating her visitor to a thorough scrutiny. Her eyes lingered on the swell of her belly. “Best come along in, then,” she said eventually, turning away from the door, leaving Clarissa to follow her. “Shut the door, we don’t live in a barn.”

  Hastily Clarissa did so and found herself in a narrow dim passage. She could hear sounds of children now, cries, whimpers, murmurings, all coming from above her head. She could hear them through the ceiling, where cracks of light showed through the gaps in the floorboards of the room above. It was cold, drafty, and damp in the passage, but the woman was heading for the rear and Clarissa followed, wondering how she would discover if Francis was among the children upstairs.

  The kitchen was warmer at least, although it smelled of boiling clothes and fried onions. A man in his shirtsleeves sat in a rocker by the range, a tankard in his hand, his stockinged feet propped on the andiron. He glanced incuriously at the visitor and growled, “Fetch me another jug o’ gin, Nancy.”

  “Jem says as ’ow ’e’ll not give you ’nother without threepence.” A girl, older than the one who’d answered the door, materialized from a shadowy corner. She carried a baby against her shoulder.

  “Eh, mother, give the girl threepence,” the man demanded of Bertha.

  “Give it to ’er yerself,” she retorted. “I’m sick o’ keepin’ you in gin with me own ’ard labor.”

  The man was out of his rocking chair in a trice and came at her, fists clenched. She backed away. “All right, all right. Just one, mind. An’ ’tis only to keep you away from the babbys’ bottle. Nancy, take threepence from the jar, an’ hurry back. ’Tis time to give that lot upstairs their dosin’ or they’ll be screamin’ all afternoon.”

  The girl handed over the baby, picked up a jug from the dresser, and disappeared through a back scullery and out of a back door, presumably heading for the Eagle and Dove.

  Bertha sat down at a deal table, the baby propped against her shoulder. “So, what can I do fer you? In trouble are you?” The baby began to whimper and she rocked it.

  Clarissa nodded, keeping her shoulders hunched, her face slightly averted. “Aye, someone sai
d you’d ’elp. I can’t keep the babe, someone’ll ’ave to to care for it after.” She kept her hand on the cushion beneath her cloak.

  Bertha nodded. “Aye, thought as much. When’re you due?” The baby’s whimper turned into a shrill cry and with a muttered execration she got up and went to the dresser. She took a brown bottle and a spoon off the shelf and sat down again with the baby held against her arm. She poured clear liquid into the spoon and pushed it between the child’s lips.

  Clarissa smelled the powerful aroma of gin and a wave of nausea swept over her. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She had heard of poor mothers feeding their babies gin because they couldn’t afford milk, but this woman was paid to care for these babies. Dear God, was she giving gin to Francis?

  “So, when’re you due?” the woman demanded again as the baby went quiet and limp against her arm.

  “Dunno, really. About five months give or take.” Clarissa tried to inject a note of desperation into her voice even as she fought her horror. There was no child, but how did all those women feel who had no choice but to give up their own children to this woman’s gin-soaked mercies? “I can’t lose me position, ’tis a good one. I’ve a good mistress but she’ll not keep me if she finds out about the child.”

  “You’ll be showin’ good an’ proper soon enough,” Bertha said matter-of-factly. “ ’Ow d’you expect to ’ide that?”

  “I won’t ’ave to. Me mistress is going abroad fer six months and she don’t need me to go with ’er. I’m to be sent to the country ’ouse, where me mam’s ’ousekeeper. I’ll ’ave the child there and bring it to you when we gets back to London. That way I’ll be able to visit it sometimes.” She managed a pathetically hopeful smile.

  “Oh, they all says that,” Bertha said with a degree of scorn. “But soon enough it’s outta sight outta mind. You’ll be no different, mark my words.”

  Clarissa felt as if she herself were being so categorized and had to fight down a surge of resentful anger. She took a deep breath. “Will you take it?”

  “Aye, there’ll be room enough. ’Tis sixpence a week. You can do that?” Her gaze sharpened.

  Clarissa nodded. “Just about. I ’ave some savings too. I wonder . . . d’you . . . d’you ever take children as well as babies? I’ve a friend who’s in need of a caregiver for ’er boy, ’e’s around ten. She’s ’ad a good offer from a good man, but ’e won’t take another man’s child.”

  Bertha nodded. “Aye, I’ve a ten-year-old lad ’ere now. Nuthin’ but trouble ’e is.” She stood up and put the now quiescent baby into a basket by the hearth, muttering, “That’ll keep ’im fer an hour or so.”

  “Where d’you keep the older ones?” Clarissa looked inquiringly around the kitchen.

  “Oh, we puts ’em out as ’prentices soon enough,” Bertha said. “Soon as someone wants a likely lad or lass, most times we ’ave one t’ suit. Chimney sweeps fer the most part wi’ the lads; lassies go fer scullery maids or down to the wash’ouses.”

  Clarissa had a vivid memory of the child scrubbing the steps at King Street that morning, with a dozen fireplaces to clean before she’d be given breakfast. Rage filled her and she had to force herself to keep still, to nod as if what she was hearing was only to be expected.

  “The boy you ’ave now . . . is ’e goin’ fer a ’prentice? Me friend would like ’er son to be ’prenticed to a good trade.” She offered an ingratiating smile, as if she didn’t know that such a trade condemned a child to a tortured existence and an early death, if he were lucky.

  Bertha gave her a sharp look. “None o’ your business, mistress. His keep is paid, an’ there’s no ’urry to ’prentice ’im out. But if your friend wants the best fer ’er lad, then she’d best come and talk to me ’erself.”

  “Yes, o’ course.” Clarissa offered another placatory smile. “I’ll be off then an’ tell me friend to come ’erself. I’ll bring the babe when ’tis born.”

  Bertha nodded, then said casually, “There’s ways to stop that ’appening, you know.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Babbies bein’ born. I can put you in the way of a woman who knows ’ow t’do it. Safe as ’ouses, it is. It’ll cost you, mind.”

  Clarissa felt an extraordinary attachment to the cushion. “I don’t ’ave that kind o’ coin, mistress.” She began to move to the door. “I’ll let meself out.” As she reached the door a loud shriek came from above followed by the sound of a piece of furniture clattering to the floor.

  Bertha got heavily to her feet. “Wretched tykes, always fightin’ over summat. I’ll larn ’em.” She grabbed a broomstick and pushed past Clarissa into the passage.

  Clarissa followed her and when Bertha went up the stairs, hauling herself up against the rickety banister, she followed a few steps behind. The woman was so intent on her mission she didn’t seem to notice she had company.

  Clarissa kept three steps from the top, but she still had a clear view of a narrow attic space scattered with cots and mattresses. It was a cacophony of infant bellowing and the shrill cadences of fighting toddlers.

  She saw Francis. He was standing on a chest, his arms hugging his body, as if protecting himself from the chaos exploding around him. He was pale, peaky, thinner, but he was on his feet and his eyes were gauging the scene around him with the same swift intelligence he had always shown.

  Clarissa stood motionless. She couldn’t take him out of there now. She had no way to combat the opposition of the fearsome Bertha and the gin-sodden man in the kitchen. But her heart swelled with relief at the sight of the boy. He was a long way from succumbing to the death trap that held him. And there was no immediate danger of his apprenticeship to a chimney sweep, not between now and Sunday, certainly. But she wanted him to see her. To know that she was there.

  She made a tiny movement with her hand, willing him to take his watchful eyes off the chaos around him for just a minute, just enough for a quick glance to the stairs. And it happened. He did. Francis, still in his protective stance, glanced across the room, over the scene where Bertha was wielding her broomstick to devastating effect, sending weeping children scattering to the corners of the attic, and he saw Clarissa.

  He stared at her blankly for a moment, then a look of uncertainty crossed his face. His brow wrinkled, his mouth pursed. And she realized with a shock that he wasn’t recognizing her. She reached up and pulled the kerchief from her head, looking him straight in the eye, and then his face lit up.

  Hastily she pressed a finger to her lips and his expression changed. The guarded awareness in his eyes made her want to weep for what had been done to him. He stared at her, still frowning, the hope that had sprung into his eyes now vanished. She tried to give him a reassuring smile even as she was terrified Bertha would suddenly turn and see her standing at the top of the attic stairs.

  Francis’s expression cleared abruptly. He put a finger to his own lips, which moved in a tremulous smile. His sister nodded vigorously as if to answer an unspoken question and the child swallowed hard and nodded in response.

  Clarissa forced herself to turn away, to descend the stairs as silently and swiftly as she could, tying the kerchief back over her head. Bertha was still wielding her broomstick and bellowing as she restored a semblance of order to chaos when Clarissa let herself out of the house.

  Without looking back, she hastened down the alley and back to the water stairs. She licked a finger and wiped the smudges of ash from beneath her eyes as she went. She couldn’t go into 32 King Street looking quite so haggard.

  Francis had seen her; she hugged the thought to her. He knew now she would get him out of there. That knowledge would give him the strength to survive that hellhole for a couple of days. On Sunday she would have him safe.

  Chapter Nine

  Jasper adjusted the ruby pin in the snowy lace of his cravat while his valet hovered at his elbow. “Does that meet with your approval, Simmons?” the earl asked as he shook out the froth of lace at his wrists.


  “Of course, my lord. Always, my lord.” The valet bowed and stepped back. “But may I suggest the black striped waistcoat with the red silk coat?”

  “You may, Simmons.” Jasper stepped away from the mirror and allowed his valet to help him into the black and silver striped waistcoat and the full-skirted coat of dark red silk. The valet lovingly smoothed the silver lace that adorned the wide turn-back of the sleeves. He took his master’s appearance a great deal more seriously than did the earl himself.

  Jasper’s appearance interested him for as long as it took him to dress in the morning; after that he gave it not a second thought. His thoughts this morning were on the next step in his wooing of the elusive Clarissa. He had met with the decorator before visiting Clarissa the previous evening and work on Half Moon Street would begin this morning. He would stop by the house and see how the work was proceeding, after which he would visit Clarissa to discuss her morning’s appointment with the milliner.

  He was at breakfast when his butler with an apologetic bow told him his coachman waited to speak with him on a matter of some urgency.

  Jasper looked up from his deviled kidneys with a quick frown. It was already eleven o’clock and the coachman had a morning’s work that would take him until well past midday. “I’ll see him now.”

  The coachman bowed in the doorway, his cocked hat held tight to his liveried chest. “Forgive the intrusion, m’lord, but the young lady wasn’t there.”

  Jasper set down his knife and fork. “Mistress Ordway was not at King Street when you got there?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Where was she?” He took up his ale tankard.

  “Well, no one seemed to know, sir.” The man looked as miserable as if Mistress Ordway’s absence could be laid at his door.

  “No one?” Jasper set down the tankard and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Mistress Griffiths was unaware of Mistress Ordway’s whereabouts?”