An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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feet back up the stairs.
‘I’d forgotten that Annie and Martha were sailing today,’ said Dickens.
‘We’re up to our ears in drama and packing cases. Your new girl will think she’s landed in Bedlam.’
‘Is she awake yet?’
‘Awake, washed, and dressed. I’ve given her one of our gowns. Her own was soaked through.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, she hasn’t said much, but she seems well mannered enough. She tells me her name is Rebecca Wood, and she seems keen to stay. I suppose there will be room now.’
‘I will interview her this morning, as I’m here.’
A thump shook the ceiling, followed by a wail.
‘Missus!’
The Matron looked heavenward and sighed. ‘Give me a few minutes, sir, and I’ll bring the girl down.’
He stretched his toes to the fire. A visit to Urania Cottage never failed to warm his spirits, even when the girls were acting up. Their behaviour was always at its worst in the winter months, when they were cooped up for so many dark hours indoors, but that was due to high spirits rather than outright badness. He was glad to be able to help ‘his’ girls. There were so many of their kind in the city, women obliged to sell themselves for a bed for the night, or to keep their families out of the spike line. His pulse quickened when he thought of the humiliating workhouse queue, where a family would be forced to stand for hours. And for what? To be separated from each other, and put to labour for a bowl of thin skilly and an even thinner mattress. He had seen the workhouses for himself, at close hand. When he had passed on his discoveries in Oliver Twist, some of his readers had wept for pity.
Tears were easily wrung, but pockets proved a little harder. He had no intention of abandoning his campaign to help the poorer elements of the city, but there were times he was discouraged by the relentless effort necessary to achieve so very little. No matter how many times he wrote of the plight of the poor, no matter how many petitions he signed, refuges he set up, or funds he raised, the spike lines outside the workhouses grew longer every year, and more and more unfortunate women were obliged to put themselves in danger.
He glanced at the newspaper that lay on the table, still open at the article that had caught his eye at breakfast – yet another prostitute, found slaughtered on the floor of her lodging house, just like his own poor Nancy. How his readers had thrilled to Nancy’s death! How they had sighed over it, and raged against Bill Sykes and the circumstances that had forced her to such a life. But they had soon forgotten their grief. Nancy was merely fiction, after all, and Dickens was coming to the regretful conclusion that fiction had no lasting effect.
But his work at Urania Cottage was different. He found it both heartening and delightful to think what his young charges had once been, and to imagine a different future for their children. His optimistic thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the reappearance of Mrs Wallace, accompanied by his nocturnal petitioner. He got to his feet and nodded to one of the chairs.
‘Sit down, my dear.’
Her cheeks had been scrubbed of rouge, and she was dressed in one of their bright blue gowns – a uniform, of sorts, but much more cheerful than the black and white worn by the women at the Magdalen Hospital for the Reception of Penitential Prostitutes. He had personally insisted on having something brighter for the girls at Urania Cottage. There was nothing more depressing than pretty birds with drab plumage.
‘Did you sleep well, Rebecca?’
She looked blank.
‘It is Rebecca, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. And yes, thank you, I slept very well.’
His interest was piqued. She was well-spoken, even more so than he had realized the night before. ‘You came looking for me last night,’ he continued, ‘so I imagine you had heard of our work here?’
‘I read about it in the Evening Chronicle, and your Journal.’
That was unusual. Only one or two of the Cottage residents could write their own name, and none could read a newspaper. He estimated Rebecca was older than the other girls too, perhaps around twenty, or thereabouts.
He cleared his throat. ‘I set up Urania Cottage, with our patron, Miss Burdett-Coutts, in order to help rehabilitate young women such as yourself. It is not a fashionable concept that a woman once fallen into sin can be lifted up again, but it is something we believe in here, most fervently. Our emphasis here is not on repentance, but hope. Not in looking back, but forward, to a better life.’
‘I could wish for nothing more.’ Her large eyes were fierce.
‘Don’t have family somewhere? A mother? A father?’
Her lips thinned.
‘I must ask,’ pressed Dickens. ‘But once you have told me, you have my word of honour it will never be spoken of again.’
‘My father was a factor, sir, on an estate near Chelmsford. He’s dead now. My mother died a long time ago. I’ve been in service ever since I came to the city, but I lost my position, when … ’ she broke off.
‘I assume you have been earning your living on the streets?’
She flushed and lifted her chin. ‘If you can call it that … I did it twice, because I had to.’
Dickens nodded. ‘It’s fortunate you found us so quickly. Is that not so, Mrs Wallace?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir.’
‘There is another thing I must ask you.’ He met the girl’s gaze, unflinchingly. ‘If there is any chance at all of your being in a … delicate condition, I’m afraid we cannot accept you. We cannot accommodate another generation here at the cottage.’
‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Good. There are also certain further conditions to accepting a place with us. We will keep you only for a year, to prepare you for a new life, in a new country. In short, we expect you to emigrate. Do you understand what that means?’
‘Transportation?’
‘No, no, my dear, nothing like that. This is not punishment. This is the chance to begin again, free of stigma: to find yourself a husband, to start a family.’
She paled.
‘You would have to leave everything behind.’ He took care to labour the point. It was important for all the girls to realize the significance of the step they were taking.
‘There is nothing left for me here.’
He nodded, satisfied.
Mrs Wallace leaned forward. ‘While you stay with us, we expect you to adhere to a certain code of conduct.’
‘You want me to go to church?’
‘Well …’ Mrs Wallace glanced at Dickens, thrown by the question. ‘All our girls attend church on Sunday, and we always have prayers in the evening, at bedtime.’
‘I won’t do that.’ The girl’s face was set, stubborn.
‘But, surely … ’ began Mrs Wallace.
Dickens interrupted her. ‘I don’t think that would necessarily be a problem. I don’t hold with sermonizing. As good Queen Bess once said, I do not wish to “make windows into men’s souls”.’
Mrs Wallace seemed for a moment as if she might take issue. She opened her mouth … and closed it again.
Rebecca Wood glanced at her. ‘If that is the case, I would like to stay.’
‘Excellent.’ Dickens beamed. ‘It’s decided, then. Now run along and get some breakfast.’
They watched the girl rise and