Sisterhood meeting November 10th
2:00 p.m.
Drat! That was a week from next Thursday. How was she to be in two places at once?
CHAPTER TWO
I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape.
Great Expectations
No matter the time of day, London streets teemed as if a great bucket of humanity had been upended and dumped onto the sidewalks. And late afternoon was the worst. Cabs, drays, and coaches filled the cobblestones, forcing pedestrians to travel as far from the gutters as possible, lest they be splashed with liquid refuse of all sorts. William Barlow not only took it all in stride but relished the challenge as well. A good leg stretcher, that’s what he needed—especially after the ridiculous proposal he’d just issued to Mina Scott. What in the queen’s name had he been thinking?
“Hold up!” Fitz’s voice turned Will around—his sudden stop earning him a scowl and a curse from a fishy-smelling sailor who smacked against him.
The man gave him a shove as he passed. “Watch yer step, ye carpin’ swell.”
Ten paces back, Fitz dodged a knife-seller’s cart, one hand holding his hat tight atop his head, and caught up to Will. “I didn’t realize this was a race.”
“Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Hmm, let me guess. Somewhere back at an inn with a certain blue-eyed beauty?”
Will clouted his friend on the back, and they fell into step together. “You can’t be serious. Mina Scott is a sweet girl. Nothing more.”
“As I suspected. And now that Miss Scott is out of ear range, how about you tell me the real reason for such a scheme?”
Will shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. Ever since Elizabeth, you’ve avoided anything to do with women other than lighthearted banter, and you’ve never given Mina Scott a second thought. Something else is going on here, something mighty powerful to be prodding you to play the part of a husband.”
Thankfully, they stepped off a curb to cross Bramwell Street, where it took all of William’s concentration to weave in and out of traffic unscathed. And just as well—for he’d rather not dwell in the unforgiving land of memories.
Once across, Fitz joined his side, with only somewhat muddy trouser hems to show for the experience. “You know I won’t be put off so easily.”
That was an understatement. When Thomas Fitzroy was set on something, there was no turning the man back—a trait that served his friend well down at Temple Court. Even so, Will plowed through a few more pedestrians before he answered. “I told you everything. Uncle Barlow is—”
“Yes, yes.” Fitz waved his fingers in the air like an orator making a point. “Uncle Barlow, what have you, and so on and so on. Not that I don’t believe every word you said, but I suspect there are a few more words you’ve conveniently left out. So let’s have it.”
He snorted. “Perhaps you should have been a barrister instead of a law clerk.”
“Perhaps you should get to the point.”
Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Will stared straight ahead. Better that than witness the pity that was sure to fill his friend’s eyes once he told him. “It’s my mother. She’s not doing well. I can barely keep abreast with her medical bills, let alone continue to manage her housing expenses.”
“Oh…” Fitz’s feet shuffled. “Sorry, old chap. I didn’t realize. Is she that bad off?”
“Hard to say. You know doctors.” He shook his head as the last of October’s light faded into the first gloam of evening. “I shall have to move her from France, which will mean setting up a household of my own instead of rooming with you.” He sighed. “And that will come with a hefty price tag.”
“I see. No wonder this whole inheritance thing is so important to you.”
“It is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish any ill on Uncle Barlow. Quite the contrary. I hope the old fellow lives a great many more years. But were I to be named heir, I’d have the collateral of the position if I must apply to a banker for funds. Lord knows I wouldn’t get a penny on my name alone.”
His friend’s hand rested on Will’s shoulder, slowing him to a stop. Will braced himself for the concern sure to be etched on Fitz’s brow. But despite his preparation, he sucked in a breath at the sympathy welling in the man’s eyes.
“I hope for your sake, and your mother’s, that this all works out.”
“Indeed.” He cleared the huskiness from his voice and forced a half smile. “Let us hope so.”
“But I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention this.” Fitz rubbed the back of his neck. “Miss Scott is a beauty, no doubt. And ladylike. She’s been nothing but kind and ever attentive. Yet is she the right sort of woman to impress your uncle as a realistic bride? She is an innkeeper’s daughter, after all. Not exactly a highborn miss. And she’s nothing like… Well, you know.”
While it was a champion thing of his friend to voice his misgivings so earnestly, Will cast Fitz’s cares aside. Mina Scott would charm Uncle Barlow, perfect manners or not, for she was a perfectly charming sort of girl.
“Maybe so, Fitz, but you have to admit she is a genteel sort of woman, well spoken and well read. And besides”—he shrugged—“there’s no one else to ask.”
The truth of his words hit home. Pulling away, he strode ahead. There was no one else to ask, and if this didn’t work, how would he ever pay for his mother’s increasing care? Even with Mina Scott’s help, it would take a miracle for him to be named heir. He’d not even seen his uncle in over a year—a relationship he’d like to mend but didn’t quite know how for the shame that still haunted him.
Last time he’d seen Uncle Barlow was when the man had bailed him out of gaol.
CHAPTER THREE
If there be aught that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on the faith of a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to the death.a
Master Humphrey’s Clocka
It was a grisly kind of day. The type of gloomy afternoon that stuck in one’s craw and worked one’s teeth to keep the cold at bay. Autumn was such a fickle friend: warm one day, frigid the next. Today, November’s rude manners chased away the remnants of October’s warmth. Mina tugged her collar tight against her neck as she dashed down the street.
Two blocks from the Golden Egg, she clutched her skirts in one hand and trotted up the stairs to a grey-stone lodging house. As soon as she ducked inside the entrance hall, she removed her veil and shrugged out of her black cape, hanging both on a peg near the door. The other ladies should already be here and wouldn’t notice her dark wraps, or she’d have to field a surplus of questions, the chief one being, Who died? Her mourning cloak and veil would be a good disguise on the street when she later waited for William, but here?
Not at all.
She hurried up the stairs, passed the first floor, and stopped on the second. Halfway down the corridor on the left, she paused in front of a door with chipped paint and rapped thrice—twice—once. The door swung open, and she entered the meeting room of the Single Women’s Society of Social Reform—which looked an awful lot like a bedchamber. The occupant, her friend Miss Whymsy, greeted her with a smile. The former governess was a plain-faced woman with steel-grey hair and posture that would make a marine look like a slouch.
“Welcome, my dear.” Miss Whymsy pulled her into a prim embrace, smelling of lavender and well-used books. “We were beginning to think you might not make it.”
“My deepest apologies.” She pulled away with a sheepish smile, for it had been her request that the meeting be moved to an hour earlier than first announced. “Father kept me later than I expected, and it was hard to beg off without rousing his suspicions.”
“No apology needed. I am glad you are here no matter the time.” Miss Whymsy swept out her hand. “Please, have a seat.”
Mina crossed the small room to an even smaller sitting area. Three other ladies perched on chairs ne
ar the tiny hearth, soaking in what warmth could be had from the sparse bit of burning coal and from the teacups clutched in their hands. Mina took an empty chair next to Effie Gedge, one of her dearest friends. Her skirt hardly touched the seat before Effie leaned toward her and whispered, “I so hate to see another one go.”
“Me too.” Mina’s gaze landed on the woman across from her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how Mary Bowman was holding up, this being her last meeting. Apparently, not too well, for after naught but a flickering smile, Mary stared into her teacup, as if all the courage in the world might be found there.
Miss Whymsy settled on the last remaining chair and lifted her chin. “I call this meeting to order, ladies.”
Next to Effie, Miss Minton, every bit as grey-haired as Miss Whymsy, chortled a “Hear, hear,” and set her teacup on the floor beneath her chair.
“Now then,” Miss Whymsy continued, “as you all know, today’s gathering is bittersweet. While we are happy one of our members is soon to be off on a journey of matrimonial bliss, it is always a bit of a sorrow to see one of our colleagues leave. Yet it is necessary if we are to remain the Single Women’s Society of Social Reform.”
“Hear, hear,” Miss Minton rattled off again.
Miss Whymsy lifted a brow at her before she shifted her gaze to Mary. “Miss Bowman, you have served the society well these past years, and we thank you for your service.”
“Yes, thank you,” Mina and Effie said together.
“Hear, hear—”
“Millie.” Miss Whymsy skewered Miss Minton with a stare that could knock the fidget out of a child. “You do not have to ‘hear, hear’ everything I say.”
“If it is good enough for Parliament”—Miss Minton bunched her nose, adding wrinkle upon wrinkle to her face—“I should think it is good enough for us.”
Miss Whymsy blew out a sigh, and Mina stifled a smile. The two were a cat and dog pair, always scuffling and ruffling, yet, at the end of the day, more often than not were willing to share a saucer of milk together.
“Pressing on.” Miss Whymsy cleared her throat. “Miss Bowman, have you any parting words?”
Mary stood, though she was hardly taller than her chair even when she arose. Mina’s heart squeezed. She would love to be married—especially to Will—yet when that day came, if it came, she would miss this fellowship, and judging by the trembling bottom lip on Mary, she would miss them too.
Bravely, Mary smiled at each of them in turn. “Ladies, it has been my joy to serve with you, and I thank you for the opportunity. I shall never forget any of you, my sisters, and though I will be married”—a lovely flush of pink flamed on her cheeks—“I shall endeavor to always look for ways to help downtrodden women everywhere.”
“Well said.” Mina smiled.
“I’ll miss ye.” Effie sniffed.
“Hear, hear.” This time Miss Minton challenged Miss Whymsy with an arched brow.
Miss Whymsy ignored it. “Godspeed, Miss Bowman. You go with our blessings.”
They all stood, and each one hugged Mary before she exited the room. Mina’s gaze lingered on the door long after it closed, conflicting emotions roiling in her stomach. It would be lovely to walk out of here into the arms of a husband. Yet the bonds she’d made with these women would leave a mark once broken.
“Our next, and last, order of business for today is a new project.” Miss Whymsy rushed ahead before Miss Minton could utter another hear, hear. “I have been approached by the director of the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen.”
Effie’s teacup rattled on her lap. “But how would a gent know of us? I thought the whole point o’ our society was to remain secret, doing deeds unannounced, just like the good Samaritan.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Gedge.” Miss Whymsy leaned across and patted Effie’s knee. “I have taken care to keep all of your identities secret, referring to you simply by the first letter of your last name. You are Miss G, Mina is Miss S, and of course Miss Minton is Miss M.”
Mina eyed Miss Whymsy over the rim of her teacup. “Pardon me, but isn’t that slightly confusing?”
“Not at all. I can keep you straight, and I don’t think it will matter to the director”—her gaze drifted to Effie—“who happens to be a woman, not a gentleman.”
Effie gasped. “A lady?”
“Indeed.”
Mina’s cup tinkled against the saucer as she set it down, the glorious possibility of such a position sending a charge through her. Perhaps life could be more than serving mugs of ale at an inn—for clearly this woman, whoever she was, had found a way to do something important with her life.
“What is it the director would like us to do?” she asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t think we can possibly manage to do all she asks. The institute is growing at such an alarming rate that they are short on staff, funding, and housing. I am happy to volunteer my services, for the hospital mainly cares for my own kindred—retired governesses—and I suspect, Miss Minton, that you would be perfect for that role as well. Rolling bandages or serving tea and the like.”
A smile spread broad and bright on Miss Minton’s face. “Hear! Hear!”
This time, Miss Whymsy smiled as well. “Good. That takes care of the volunteering. Mina and Effie, is there any way the two of you would be able to help out?”
“Well,” Effie tapped her teacup with her finger, clearly deep in thought, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve got it! As ye know, being that I’m a lady’s maid, I have a fair amount o’ castoffs from my employer. I could see my way to parting with a few. Talk is, Bagley’s Brokerage in the Houndsditch Market is the place to sell. I’m sure I can wheedle a fair penny for some gowns.”
Miss Whymsy clapped her hands. “Brilliant thinking, Miss Gedge.” Her gaze drifted to Mina. “Have you any thoughts on the matter? I realize this may be a bit forward, but I feel I must at least bring it up…. Is there any chance of housing some of the women at your father’s inn?”
She shook her head before Miss Whymsy could finish, a rudeness on her part, yet entirely unstoppable. Father would never allow such an unprofitable use of space, especially before Christmas. “I don’t think that’s a possibility.”
“I see….” Miss Whymsy’s voice tapered to nothing.
The ensuing silence poked her conscience like little needles. The two older ladies would be volunteering their time. Effie could donate money. And she’d offered nothing but a big fat no. Yet what could she do? Oh, that she were a wealthy woman, able to bless others out of a storehouse of coins.
She bit her lip, picturing her tiny crock at home filled with shillings and pence—all the money she’d saved these past three years to purchase a new fob for Father’s watch…a fob her mother had dearly wanted to purchase before her death. Since a girl, it had been Mina’s dream to make her mother’s wish come true. Should she sacrifice it for the sake of a request by a director she didn’t even know?
But as she looked from Miss Whymsy’s expectant face to Miss Minton’s, the wrinkles carved into their parchment skin were a stark reminder that other women—sick women—were in need of that money. More than Father needed a fob, for had he not lived this long without one?
She sighed and, before she could change her mind, said, “I have a small amount on hand at home that I could contribute.”
“Wonderful!” Miss Whymsy beamed. “That covers staffing and funding. And as for the housing, well, let’s pray about it, shall we?”
Bowing their heads, they set the needs of the institute before the Lord, primarily the housing concern, then went on to bless Miss Bowman’s upcoming marriage.
Miss Whymsy ended with an “Amen,” and Miss Minton with a rousing “Hear, hear!”
“I believe that officially concludes this meeting. Ladies?” Miss Whymsy stood and held out her hand.
Each of them rose, forming a small circle, and put one of their hands atop the others’ in the center. In unison, they lifted their voices. “To God�
�s glory and mankind’s good, use our hands and feet in service, oh Lord. Amen.”
Before anyone could speak further, Mina edged toward the door. “As much as I’d love to stay and visit, I have to run. Do forgive me. Good afternoon, ladies.”
“But Mina—”
She shut the door on Effie’s voice, wincing at her own impropriety. But it couldn’t be helped. If she didn’t dash out of here now, she’d never make it on time to meet William Barlow’s carriage.
But even if she were to run, she’d still be late, for the bong of the downstairs clock chimed two.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!
Martin Chuzzlewit
Mina huddled closer to a streetlamp. The cold, iron pole offered little protection against the afternoon’s bluster, but her black veil and cape might blend in with the dark pillar so she’d not draw undue attention. Hopefully.
Where was William? She hadn’t been that late getting to the corner—only five minutes. Surely he would have waited that long.
Fighting the urge to lift her veil and survey the lane, she forced herself to remain statuesque—especially when pedestrians strode past. She’d taken the precaution of instructing Will to meet her five lanes away from the Golden Egg, but still…If one of her friends—or worse, Father’s friends—chanced by and recognized her, she’d be hard pressed to explain why she waited on a street corner alone for an unchaperoned ride with a man. Was she doing the right thing? The twisting of her stomach said no.
But even so, a small smile curved her lips. Though this was a mischievous charade, the forbidden excitement of taking tea with the man of her dreams pulsed through her. Was this how Bleak House’s heroine Ada Clare had felt when sneaking off to marry Richard Carstone?
Minutes later, a hansom cab rambled closer, and the jarvey pulled on the reins, stopping the carriage at the curb in front of her. It had to be Will, and though she knew it in her head, her heart still fluttered as he climbed out.
A Tale of Two Hearts Page 2