"But surely the work with the girls ..." Hester was completely amazed at such a warning.
"Yes, that is of great value. And if you handle your story well, Miss Lane, you might even attract some patrons for Mrs. Kirby's work. But do not associate your account too strongly with the Army. Now, you wish to visit with Mrs. Kirby and meet her girls. That can be arranged. Mattie—"
She raised her voice and one of the seamstresses at the end of the table arose and bobbed her capped head in answer.
"This lady is to meet with Mrs. Kirby. Will you go with her and show the way?"
Then she spoke in a lower voice. "Do not be dismayed at what you see. Poor Mattie was very badly injured when she came to us and she was with Mrs. Kirby several months recovering from her wounds. She is a little simple because of what has been done to her but teachable in some ways, and she is very timid except when she knows you well. We try to aid her by giving her work here and trusting her in small errands. Come, Mattie!" She raised her voice again to call to the girl, who was lingering, her head down. One of her neighbors at the table reached out and patted her arm, then grasped it firmly and turned the girl toward the head of the table, which she approached as one who dreaded what she would face there.
Even having been warned, Hester was barely able to suppress a gasp as she saw the scarred face beneath the edging of the cap that had been pulled forward as far as possible in a vain attempt to hide the battered features.
Without a word Mattie pulled a shawl from one of those hanging on pegs driven into the wall and stood waiting by the door, her face averted, for Hester to join her. Uncomfortable, fearing that maybe her horror had shown, Hester forced a smile as they went out together.
"It is very kind of you, Mattie, to take me to Mrs. Kirby's— "
The capped head did not turn and there was only a very faint murmur from the girl. But Hester refused to be so rebuffed.
"I have heard many good things of Mrs. Kirby ..." Perhaps she could even add something to her knowledge by learning from one of the girls who had benefited from this help earlier.
This time there was an understandable answer. "She is a saint—one o' them angels as them back there"—she twitched her shoulder to indicate the building from which they had come—"says as there is. Nursed me her ownself so she did, miss. Not many as would'a even looked at me, so nasty-lookin' as I were. I'd do anythin' for her—so I would." She even raised her bowed head to look Hester straight in the face.
"Me—I'se a proper one, now ain't I? Carved me up good, Jed did, jus' as 'e swore 'e would if I didn't go wi' that there devil. But I couldna, 'deed I couldna, miss. 'E were bad— we's all bad in someway or t'other. But 'e was black bad an' I couldna let 'im take me. 'Eard tell as 'ow someone did for 'im good not long ago—that was a proper end, so it was!" Her voice was raised as she spoke and she ended with a flare of anger.
Mattie turned her head sharply away and there was something now that kept Hester from trying to get her to talk further. As it happened their walk was not a long one. But despite the weak sun, which reached these streets as if it grudged the need for touching into such shadows, the dilapidated buildings and the lounging men, the wan-faced children who played listlessly about gutters full of foulness, were daunting, and Hester had to fight the tendrils of fear that reached for her. If Mr. Prothore could see her . . . Hester's chin went up. She identified him with the investigator Captain Ellison had mentioned; both were on the side of that aloof authority able to brutalize people below their own lofty stations.
When they reached the drab street that she was familiar with from the other evening, the house to which Mattie led the way stood out sharply from its neighbors. The roof showed fresh patching, the windows were clean, and behind them hung fresh curtains. The sills and the door had been painted not too long ago and the scrap of yard before it, though mainly beaten earth, also gave rootage to some small scrubs, which dared to display green, if soot-spotted, leaves.
Even the knocker on the door must have been freshly polished, for the sunlight glinted on it brightly as Hester raised a hand to use it. But she needed not complete that gesture for the door was opened quickly and a girl in a trim dress of blue, warm chestnut hair braided and coiled around her head, stood smiling.
"Come in, miss— Oh, Mattie—you, too. We'se got bun tea in the kitchen and there's aplenty. Come on with you!"
She stepped aside into the hall and motioned to Hester. "Mrs. Kirby, she's in the parlor, miss. Jus' step this way, please."
The girl could not have been much older than Major Ames's daughter but she had an assurance that was in no way impertinent, merely that of one who knew her duties and found satisfaction in them. Then the parlor door closed between them and Hester found herself facing the mistress of the establishment.
Mrs. Kirby, staid as her dress and unusual as her chosen work, was unmistakably a lady. Her parlor could not be compared with the splendid setting that Lady Ames used to her advantage, but there was no doubt they were of the same class, as different otherwise as they might be.
She was slightly taller than Hester and her figure was matronly. Though she made no pretense of anything approaching the realm of fashionable dress, her black basque was relieved with a narrow ruffled collar of fine old lace fastened by a jet brooch. She wore a small apron over her skirt, the drapery of which hung in no-nonsense folds, having nothing but a very narrow niching of the same material as trimming. But it was not the apron of one who had just put aside some demanding task, rather it too was of fine muslin edged with lace.
Her hair was dark and dressed very simply, though on her temples and across her forehead small wisps suggested that it was naturally curly. Her face was plump and she was smiling, dark eyes regarding Hester with what the girl recognized was a shrewd and weighing gaze.
Now she held out her hand and said: "My dear, Emily sent me a note to tell me about you—but I feared we would not see you after the terrible events of last night! That you have come assures me you are indeed interested in what we strive to do. And, my dear Miss Lane, any help is so welcome. Come now, sit here with me and then . . . you will ask questions, will you not? I know so little of what your task involves. Be assured that I shall answer them to the very best of my ability."
Hester found herself in a plumply upholstered chair before the fire, her hostess half facing her. There was a knock at the door and the girl who had met her at the door entered with a tray. She walked very carefully, and Hester noted the tip of her small tongue just showed on her lower lip as if she were engaged in some task she was not quite sure of but wished to accomplish with success.
As she placed her burden on the small table by Mrs. Kirby's side Hester was certain she heard a sigh of relief. However, her hostess was inspecting the tray with what seemed an oddly critical glance and then she nodded.
"Excellent, Sallie—very well done."
Sallie beamed and bobbed a small curtsy and then left the room. As the door closed firmly behind her Mrs. Kirby spoke.
"Sallie will be one of our great successes. She is very bright and quick to learn and has amply repaid all the instructions we provide. There will be no trouble in finding her a good place in a month or two. In fact, I have one already in mind. But you would not believe, Miss Lane, that this could be the same girl who was brought to me two months ago. She had been badly beaten"—Mrs. Kirby's eyes flashed—"and they had given her gin until she was sodden drunk. It is unbelievable how some of these wretches use their own children!"
"Captain Ellison told me about Mattie ..." Hester ventured.
A shadow fell across Mrs. Kirby's face. "Yes, yes, that poor child. She has been so abused that she is hardly more than half-witted. I could find no place for her. But she is fairly good at plain sewing and she feels safe in the company of Captain Ellison and those who run that small industry. She has food, and clothing, a safe place to stay, and work for her hands. In that much we have changed her lot for the better. But her case was one of the worst I have
seen . . . Tea, Miss Lane?"
Her hands had been busy with pot and cup and saucer—it was perhaps not the fine china one would find under Lady Ames's roof but it had a flower-sprigged daintiness that would not be out of place in any respectable household. Mrs. Kirby must have been very acute to catch the glance Hester gave to the tray, the plate of nicely sliced bread and butter, the offering of small cakes.
"This is all part of the training for our girls," she explained. "They must get used to things of a standard different from any they have seen or thought existed. You see how Sallie has set up the tray? She did it on her own with no supervision this time. And it has been very well done. Josie, who is training for a kitchen maid, cut this bread and baked the cakes this morning. She too is going to be one of our successes, though she is not as bright and quick as Sallie. And there is Violet, who looks after the younger girls—she will turn out to be an excellent nursery maid. We can well be proud of them."
"And they are all . . . from the streets?" Hester found it hard to connect Mrs. Kirby's girls with those she had seen outside.
"Every one of them! Josie now—" Mrs. Kirby launched into a story that to Hester sounded impossible, as if she were spinning some nightmarish tale meant as a dire warning, as a nurse might do for a naughty child.
Hester had groped for the small notebook and pencil she had thoughtfully brought along in her reticule, but she discovered that the facts as they fell from Mrs. Kirby's lips were so dark that she had trouble setting them down. The woman must have noted her distress for she interrupted herself.
"I speak frankly, Miss Lane, perhaps too frankly. You are young and not of London, I have heard. Perhaps in your homeland there is not such want, such evil to be known. But I have so long worked with these poor girls that my indignation, no, my anger, sometimes leads me into speaking more plainly than I should."
Hester remembered the warning Captain Ellison had given her earlier—that perhaps some facts would be too strong for her readers. Now it seemed that Mrs. Kirby had come to the same point of view.
"The stories I have to tell, Miss Lane, are perhaps not for the eyes of the readers of The British Lady. It is best to show a brighter side, present our needs in a softer and more acceptable fashion. I am sorry that I became so carried away as to show you the darkest side of the lives of these girls. Let us turn to more cheerful matters—the first being what happens to girls such as Sallie and the rest after they have had a chance to better themselves and move into a sunlit world." And she talked of the teaching practiced in her establishment, of this graduate (as one might term them) or that who had gone forth to very acceptable positions. These young girls found that they could make their way as respectable workers able to hold up their heads with pride.
After Mrs. Kirby finished her stories, she showed Hester through the establishment. There were eight girls there now, and each showed a happy face as Mrs. Kirby complimented one after another on the work they readily showed to the visitor.
"If we could but attract some patrons," Mrs. Kirby said with a little sigh when they had returned to the parlor. "There is a probability we could buy the house next door, give more girls a chance. Oh, we have some very kind and charitable people who remember us from time to time, but only three assist us regularly. Now that you have seen our life, Miss Lane, do you think you can show it to others by the aid of your pen?"
"Oh, yes!" Hester's eagerness had grown with every new project Mrs. Kirby had revealed. She could write such a story as would bring the patrons Mrs. Kirby needed—certainly she could.
And back in her boarding house, write she did. Perhaps this was far too long, she thought, troubled, as the sheets covered by the careful penmanship her father had demanded piled up. But also perhaps Miss Scrimshaw would find it of such importance that she would make two rather than one article of it.
Her lamp had to be trimmed when she finished and there were ink stains on her fingers, even one on her cheek where she had brushed aside a wandering wisp of hair. She looked at her watch—it was a quarter to twelve! Now she realized that her back ached and her fingers had so stiffened around her pen that she had to rub them. But the story was finished—all of it. And inside herself she was certain that it was the best thing she had ever written.
She was still certain of that the following morning when she gathered all her sheets of paper and folded them into an improvised envelope she tied carefully together. And she hardly waited to choke down her meager breakfast before she was off to the office of The British Lady.
Her manuscript was accepted with a gesture not far from disdain by the ruler of the outer office and she was waved to the bench while it was carried within. She waited, leaning forward in the hard seat. The first flare of the enthusiasm that had been with her ebbed as time passed. Then there was the sharp ping of the bell from the inner room. The woman at the outer desk answered it and reappeared to motion to Hester. She was smiling sourly as she watched the girl pass into Miss Scrimshaw's private sanctuary.
"So ..." The editor of The British Lady had leaned back in her chair to stare at Hester as if the girl were as strange and unpleasant a sight as some Hester herself had seen on her ventures into that other London. The sheets she had brought in were no longer in a neat pile—several had been crumpled as with a very angry hand and at least two had been torn across. "What do you mean by bringing this—and expecting a respectable publication to even consider it?"
There was flaming anger in Miss Scrimshaw's voice. Her broad countenance was fast turning a dusky red and her eyes bored into Hester as though she were something as dirty as the street.
"Muck! Miss Scrimshaw's beringed hand turned into a fist and she brought it down with punishing vigor on the remains of the manuscript. "Filth!"
Chapter 10
As Miss Scrimshaw's fist came down, Hester felt her temper rise.
Somehow she managed to control the level of her voice, but not the words that came unbidden from her tongue. "You call this muck? All I have set down is simple truth. If what I wrote is filth, it's because what I saw was filthy. I think it high time your readers' eyes were opened—"
Again Agatha Scrimshaw's fist slammed down on the desktop; this time as interruption rather than indictment.
"That's enough, gel!" Apparently her anger had ebbed as Hester's flowed, and she spoke firmly but without ill-temper. "D'ye take me for an utter fool? I'm far from blind to reality, and far more willing to face it than most. But it's my readers whose opinions I echo. One look at this rubbish and they'll call for their smelling salts; a second look and they'll cancel their subscriptions."
Hester leaned forward. "But at least they would be given the opportunity to see."
"And so might you, gel. An opportunity to see the inside of a British gaol."
"Surely you're not serious?"
"This is." Miss Scrimshaw tapped the tattered sheets on the desk before her. "The implication that Mr. Morton intended to sell his own daughter is highly distasteful. Worse still, since you possess and present no proof of this allegation, it could lead to a suit for libel."
"But gaol . . . ?"
"My apologies, Miss Lane. Since you speak our language, I tend to forget your foreign origin. But it would seem to me that even in the wilds of Canada the exploits of W. T. Stead would not be altogether unknown."
Hester shook her head. "I have never heard that name. Was he someone like Sallie Morton's father?"
For a moment there actually seemed to be a gleam of mirth in Agatha Scrimshaw's eyes; if so, it was quickly suppressed. "Quite the opposite. Mr. Stead was interested in buying, not selling."
"I understand. You are speaking of what they call a procurer."
"Stead was called far worse before they finished with him." Again the glint of mirth in Miss Scrimshaw's eyes, but there was no hint of it in her voice. "Actually, Stead was a member of my profession, the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, no less. A highly successful journal, which, aided by proper puffery, he hoped might soar ev
en higher. To this end he sought to prove his contention that a young girl, virgo intacto, could be purchased here in London for as little as five guineas.
"I shall spare you the sordid details; suffice to say that he made good on his word but only ill came from it in the end. Even the Booth family—yes, I speak of the Salvation Army leadership—became involved in the lawsuit that followed.
But it was Stead himself who was convicted and imprisoned two years ago. Granted, the sentence was short and served in comparative comfort, but I have no desire to follow his example. I much prefer remaining here in my private dungeon, with my own dragon to guard it."
Hester spoke quickly. "I had no idea—"
"I fear quite the opposite," Agatha Scrimshaw said. "You have far too many ideas, and all of 'em wrong." Her sigh was sonorous. "That nephew of mine is an insufferable prig, and a bore to boot, but for once in his life Albert was right. I had no business entrusting you with a mission you were incapable of performing."
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