There was a knock at the door and again a servant entered.
“This just came for you sir.”
“Thank you,” William said as he took the letter off the silver platter.
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William had been spending the week in grief and drunkeness, but had finally come to his senses. He knew that what he needed most, was to leave London and any reminder of what had happened in the fire. There were of course reminders of Adeline at Linwood, from her time as a maid there, but those were more pleasant memories, not ones of her burning to her death.
But as he readied to set about on the town to get his business affairs in order so that he may leave, a letter had arrived. He turned the letter over to see who it was from and whether or not it could wait til he returned later in the night.
It was from Andrew Davis at Salt Rock, the name of his seaside home in Brighton. It most certainly could not wait until evening. William jumped to his feet and opened the wax seal and read the letter with quickness.
Mr Dawson,
We have received your letter and the news of the Douvaine Theatre. We are all distraught to hear the news and it grieves us greatly. Thank you for taking the time to write. To answer your question we have not heard from Miss Adeline Simmons Proctor in some time. We are not for certain if she perished in the fire or not, but it is possible that she did not. For my brother Robert, having been distraught by the news beyond measure, had his man in London try to find the officer in charge of the response to fire. The records are not complete to that officer but it was said that after the fire a woman was held overnight at Scotland Yard. We have not been able to get an answer to the name of this woman and some say it was a neighbour of the theatre whose home also burned. I hope this helps in your efforts for the truth. Our deepest sympathies go out for our friend Adeline from myself, my brother and our dear little sister Willameena.
With sympathy, Andrew Davis
William’s eyes grew wide. This was news indeed and he was grateful to have received such a letter. He read the letter again to be clear on its information. Then he set it down and leaned on the windowsill to gain some fresh air.
Why had he not looked into Scotland Yard himself? Of course there would have been a response to the fire. They had answers. Suddenly a new surge of hope moved through him.
He went down to breakfast and ate voraciously and quickly, for he had not eaten in some days except for bottles of scotch and the occasional chunk of bread and cheese that would allow him to drink more. He drank three cups of black strong coffee that had come from Italy. He ate three ham steaks and four boiled eggs along with two boiled potatoes, some bread, and butter.
“Have the carriage brought to the front. I leave in minutes,” he said, getting up from the table. The servant nodded and made his way to run down the block to the carriage house where the carriages and horses of the refined society that lived on that side of the street were kept.
A few minutes later, he sat in the carriage and off to his first order of business, Scotland Yard.
“I am here to find out who responded to a fire that took place. The name is William Dawson,” he said to the clerk at the front of the police station.
“What fire, sir?”
“The Douvaine Theatre fire in the borough of Cheapside.”
“We do not keep records as to which police officers were on the scene but I can go through that file to see who may have some answers for you.”
“Thank you, I will wait.”
One hour later William was called into a room where another clerk waited for him.
“What can you tell me? I was told a woman was interviewed and held over night. Is there a name?” he asked frantically.
“I do not see a name. I only see that a woman was questioned about the fire. I am sorry that there is no name sir. If charges are not brought then there is no need to keep that information,” the clerk said.
“That is proposperous,” William said.
“It is the way sir.”
“What about the man that interviewed her? May I speak with him?”
“That would be Detective Garrison but he is not here sir.”
“Where is he? I will go to him,” he said.
“America.”
“What?”
“He left to New York, or was it Boston?”
“Damn it.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No that is all. But take down my name. I live in Mayfair and would want to know any updates on this case.”
“Yes sir.”
William stomped out feeling angry as ever. The department was ran like all city dealings, with complete incompetance. If Adeline was the woman questioned than there was hope that she was alive. But then why would she not go to Katrina in Brentwood? Perhaps she was on her way there now.
His second order of business entailed stopping at his textile factory that he owned with a few close acquaintances. He needed to speak with the floor manager right away.
“Mr Merner. Good to see you as always. How does my factory-fair?”
“Very well Mr Dawson, it is good to see you as always. Please come in come in, see for yourself.”
The floor manager Mr Merner lead Dawson inside and led him directly to his office where he overlooked the ledgers, but Dawson was in no mood to see to such business, he had only come to convey a message.
“Mr Merner, I have come to inform you that I will be departing London tomorrow. Therefore my lawyer will be overseeing any business concerned with the factory. Please see to him, Mr Trevon, if you shall need anything. He will get hold of me immediately. I will not be visiting for some time, many months, but John Huntley will be here next month I am told. So he will oversee and come to check on the factory.”
“I understand, sir. Of course, whatever the case may be, we will work together and I shall contact your lawyer if anything urgent comes up, but the factory runs smoothly and we tend to keep it that way. But if something should come up with the shipment of material or the lack thereof we will be in contact. Thank you for coming to tell me yourself, sir.”
“It is my responsibility to do so. Good day, MrMerner, I am to Mrs Wilcox to oversee business matters there. Her house is still supplying you with fair workers, no complaints.”
“Yes sir, no complaints. Those be the fairest and strongest women that work in the factory. Something tells me it is because they are well looked after; a clean home and good food makes a person stronger and able to handle the work of sewing textiles that much better.”
“Good. That is always good to hear. As you know that home is very dear to the wife of my business partner, John Huntley. She has a very special place in her heart for that work house and she sees to it directly that the women are treated very well there, funded by myself and her husband of course. If there were any word of mistreatment she would have her husband's head, and he would have mine. So I trust that you would report any sort of indecent actions,” William said.
“Of course sir. You have my word on it.”
“Good. Good day sir.”
William left the factory, and turned away his carriage, telling his man to follow him for he much rather would walk to miss Wilcox for it was just a few blocks away. He walked taking in the scenery, looking at the block of London that his business sat upon. It was a very rough borough, but this close to the East End docks, of course it would be. But that was where the shipments of cloth would come in and it only made sense to have the textile factory within close range.
As he approached the front of the Brick House of Mrs Hannah Wilcox, he saw a young slip of a girl in a plain brown dress with very short hair chopped above her shoulders. Her back was to him as she walked down the stairs to the servants entrance. There was something about her though, something in the way that she moved that was very familiar. But he could not place his finger upon such a notion as to why.
He dismissed the thought
altogether and proceeded to knock on the front door in order to take a meeting with Mrs Wilcox, before he returned to his home in London to make ready his trip to the countryside and back to Linwood. Away from the haunting thoughts of Adeline burning alive in a horrible fire.
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“This way. Hurry up girl. You be wasting my time with your nonsense,” the woman said as she pushed Adeline down the hallway of the workhouse.
Adeline was very frightened about leaving her only home. Being pushed out the doors meant that she would be homeless. Had she been homeless before? The workhouse was the only home that she had ever known and she only knew the parts of London that Ginny had showed her after her fainting spell. For after she lost her memories there was very little that she remembered. It was only through Ginny that she knew that she had not always lived in this particular workhouse, but she did not know if she lived in others before arriving at this one.
“Now get out and do not return,” the woman pushed her out the door.
“Where will I go?”
“Make no matter nor concern to me. Go sell yourself at the taverns if you like. You are a pretty one – at least you have that going for you,” the woman laughed and then slammed the gate in her face.
Adeline turned to face the buildings of the London streets. You must walk, move your feet. Ginny told you where to go, now go!
The gray gloom of London only took on a much gloomier presence to Adeline as she walked along the cobblestone streets. The air, black with smoke from the factories, made her feel as though it were harder to breathe than any other day previous.
The streets were wet and people’s boots sloshed through, kicking up mud onto her dress. The atmosphere took on a blurred vision as she looked around. This was panic and she knew it for she had felt it before sometime in her past, even if she could not remember such a time. She took a breath and leaned against a wall trying to stop the spinning and letting it pass. Once she had it under control, she again moved down the street, walking slowly and cautiously.
Bustling people bumped shoulders, and she tried not to cry for her misfortunes, but she had never felt so confused. Her memory still had not returned to her and the chaos of that made for an unnerving and stressful experience indeed. For how could one have their wits about them, when they did not know their past, nor their future?
Walking through the borough of Whitechapel she stopped in front of a posted police officer. “Excuse me sir do you know where I might find the workhouse of Mrs Hannah Wilcox?”
“Another one eh? The likes of you. She is on Brick Lane street. Now be off with you.”
“Thank you sir.”
Adeline was glad to have a street to go off of at the very least and after a few more times she was pointed at the correct building on Brick Lane.
She stood in front of a large three story building, rough on the outside but there was nothing of the unpleasant smell that had eminated from the workhouse she previously lived in. This particular brick house sat next to large warehouses, and she could only hope that one would offer her work.
She knocked on the door. A scrawny woman with a stained apron, small eyes, and grey hair answered.
“Who ye be? What ye be wanting?” The maid said.
“I come to inquire with Mrs Hannah Wilcox. I seek a place here and work in the factory. I am strong and ablebodied.”
“Another one. Hold right here and don’t ye move,” The maid closed the door, leaving Adeline on the front step. The street filled with carts and carriages rumbling past, kicking up dust toward her.
Finally the maid appeared in the door again. “All right then. Follow me.”
“But I want to see Mrs Wilcox.”
“And ye shall. You think she be here in this God awful place? No she live down the lane in a nice ol’ home. Ye see.”
“Oh, I see.”
Three blocks down the lane led them to different home, a grand posh home, but still quite comfortable looking. For some reason Adeline felt an ache inside of her, as though she had been accustomed to such an accomodation as this in her past, but that was possibled.
“Ye wait here.”
The maid knocked on the door, and another maid answered and let her in.
Adeline stayed outside once more, waiting.
“Alright, ye come into the servant’s quarters down below,” the maid appeared from the basement door and shouted up at her. Adeline climbed down the steps and followed the maid into the servant quarters below the street level. Her breath quickened as the time grew near to speak with Mrs Wilcox.
“Mrs Wilcox be in a meeting with a very important gentleman. He own the factory, he do. Ye can sit here until she be ready to see you.”
“Thank you,” Adeline sat down on a wooden bench in the hallway. She could only hope the meeting with the factory owner would bring more open positions. If that were so than her timing could not be better. Perhaps he was giving Mrs Wilcox more coin to house more women to work for him. She could only hope.
Adeline waited and waited. One hour passed complete and Adeline was beginning to think that perhaps she had been forgotten. It was possible as she was used to being invisible.
Finally, the maid came to her again.
“The gentleman just left he did. But you must wait a little longer for Mrs Wilcox needs a break. Then we call you in.”
“Yes of course, thank you,” Adeline said. She was glad the gentleman had left for she thought a meeting such as that could take all day. She fancied her imagination to wonder what such a gentleman would look like. He no doubt was very refined and elegant.
A few minutes later, she sat in front of Mrs Wilcox, a very thin woman with blonde hair and green eyes. Her complexion was quite pale and Adeline estimated she must be of middle class wealth, perhaps from a family of trade. She wore a black waist shirt that buttoned all the way up to her neck with a brooch pinned there, and seemed freshly pressed.
“What are you doing on my doorstep?” Mrs Wilcox asked bluntly.
“I come to inquire if there would be a place for me in your workhouse. I seek work and accomodations. I beg that you would have me as I have no place to go,” Adeline answered.
“You speak as though you were brought up a lady,” Mrs Wilcox narrowed her eyes at her.
“Me? A lady? No I am not.”
“You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
“No. I do not believe so. I came here from the Grace Church Street workhouse.”
“And why did you not stay there?”
“I was asked to leave. You see the factory manager laid his hands upon me and I fought back. He had me let go immediately. I am desperate now.”
“That pig. I know of who you speak. You will be happy to know that the factory where my girls work is not run by the likes of scum like him. They are treated fairly, though it is hard work like any other.”
“Oh yes. I can work hard and without a peep from my lips. I work hard and keep to myself. I will not be any trouble.”
“Twelve hours of labour a day Monday through Friday, then six hours on Saturday. You have Sunday off, it is the Lord's day. You would be living at the workhouse down the street near the factory. You would share a room with other women. But rest assured the entire work house is only for women, it is good and safe,” Mrs Wilcox added.
“I understand. I am accepting of those terms, and the factory work to be had?”
“It is in textiles. You will be weaving fabric, it comes in by the bolt off of ships from the River Thames. This is the work, it is hard on your hands. Have you any weaving or sewing experience?”
“Yes, indeed I do,” Adeline answered though she did not know where this skill came from with her lack of memories, but she did know how to sew. For she could not remember that she sewed her own costumes at the theatre.
“You will be running sewing machines, are you willing to take on this sort of work and for the long term? For I e
xpect my girls to give me two years of service straight at the very least.”
“Yes, I accept.”
Mrs Wilcox grew silent as she looked at Adeline up and down. “And what is your name? I still believe I have seen you before.”
“Adeline Blakefield.”
“Hmm, I do not know the name,” Wilcox answered. But what Adeline did not know was that Mrs Wilcox had been a patron from time to time of the Douvaine Theatre. With it be very close indeed to White Chapel, it was one of the few theatres for those in her position to attend. But with the enormous amount of make-up and costume required on stage, Adeline could only resemble who she looked to be on stage at the present moment.
“Very well then you may have a bed and a position in the factory.”
“Oh thank you. I am so very grateful.”
“The women rise early for the 6 a.m. breakfast and enter the factory across the street at 7 a.m. sharp, being late is not tolerated and is grounds for immediate termination.”
Adeline stood. “Thank you Mrs Wilcox. I will not let you down.”
Mrs Wilcox shouted, “Karen!”
“Yes ma’am,” the maid entered. “This is Adeline Blakefield. Take her to an empty bed. She starts work in the factory tomorrow.”
“Yes Mrs Wilcox.” the maid escorted Adeline back out the basement door onto the street level and back to the workhouse.
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Adeline felt complete relief. It was miraculous that she did not have to spend one night on the streets of London. She had walked from one workhouse to another and had a position. She knew this was not the way of things for she had heard many women talk about the horrors of having to wait in very long lines in order to find a bed in a workhouse or position in a factory.
She felt that it had been silly of her to be so fearful of the outcome of her dismissal. It made her sick to her belly that she had been robbed of her wages, but at least she now had shelter.
A Poor Girl's Peril (#4, the Winds of Misery Victorian Romance) (A Family Saga Novel) Page 6