Lady of Ashes (12 page)

A porter stood guard outside a nearby building, presumably some sort of administration offices, and asked Violet’s business. When she explained that she needed to see whoever was in charge of women and children in the workhouse, he pointed to a forbidding brick building across the street that resembled nothing less than a flat-faced fortress. She couldn’t tell what the building’s origins may have once been. Surely no one had ever lived here before it was a workhouse building.

Susanna began tugging on Violet’s hand, but Violet refused to stop. “Susanna, we have a bargain, remember?”

The inside of the female quarters was even more unwelcoming than the outside, if such a thing were possible.

Dark and low-ceilinged, the building was a rabbit’s warren of hastily—and poorly—constructed wards, hallways, and individual cells. Water seeped down the walls in endless moldy streams. Turning a corner, she entered a cavernous hall. At least it had a towering ceiling with windows at the top to permit plenty of light. But seated shoulder to shoulder at row after row of rickety tables were the women of the workhouse, slurping up a thin soup from bowls Violet suspected were none too clean. The women had an air of defeat, as though chatting among themselves would require too much energy and an admission that it was worth doing. The hall reeked of disinfectant, a noxious odor to contend with while trying to eat, although perhaps the smell of cleaners was preferable to what they were eating.

Violet quickly left the dining room. She was aghast as she pulled Susanna along in her investigation of the workhouse. How did such a place remain in existence? Surely the parish did not knowingly permit such appalling conditions to exist. No wonder Susanna acted as though she was being forcibly sent into Roman slavery.

She was.

She stopped and touched the shoulder of a seated woman, who was bent over and offering milk to her baby. “Please, can you tell me where I might find the matron?”

The mother looked up, wan and devoid of hope. As inexperienced as Violet was with babies, it was obvious that this child was not going to survive. The mother pulled a hand from around her child and pointed down another hallway.

“Thank you,” Violet said, pressing a coin into the mother’s hand. The workhouse resident offered her a silent, gummy smile.

Picking up Susanna’s hand again, Violet hurried down the hallway the mother had indicated. At the end was a closed door marked “Private. No residents beyond this door.” She knocked twice and entered, too sickened to consider whatever etiquette might apply to a workhouse.

A ruddy, stern-looking woman sat behind a desk heaped high with papers. She wore a plain gray dress with no decoration, no jewelry or feminine touches whatsoever. A frilled cap provided the only relief in the severity of her fashion. She was busy making entries in a log book, and looked up in surprise at the interruption.

“You are?” she asked without preamble.

“Mrs. Violet Morgan. This,” she said, “is Susanna Sweeney.”

The woman’s face was blank. “Yes?”

“Does she not look familiar to you?”

“Should she?”

“Yes. She ran away from here recently and into my care.”

“A runaway, eh? Happens all the time. There’ll be no supper for you today, little miss, and you’ll be stuck with scrubbing privies for the next week.”

Susanna shrank back around Violet.

“You must be joking. This child is hardly nourished as it is, and you intend to starve her further?”

“We have rules, Mrs. Morgan. Running away from duties comes with consequences for our pauper residents, whether they be eight or eighty. If there is no punishment, what prevents anyone from running into the streets during the day and returning each night for a meal and warm bed without making a contribution here?”

“It must be difficult to make a contribution when you’re half-starved.” Violet’s sarcasm was lost on the matron, who was busy studying Susanna as though trying to place her.

“What’s the child’s name again?”

“Susanna Sweeney.”

The matron looked through her log book, running a chipped fingernail down the columns of several pages and stopping at one entry. “Here she is. Susanna Sweeney, aged twelve.”

The matron looked up at Violet. “You’re obviously not her mother come to claim her. Says here Ellen Sweeney died shortly before the girl’s arrival. Let’s see—” She studied the log book again. “An intestinal disorder. Father died sometime in the past. Who are you?”

Susanna must have witnessed her mother’s death. What happened to her mother’s body? Was there a funeral? Was it just thrown in a pauper’s grave? Violet felt bile rising up in the back of her throat, not only for the appalling conditions of the place, but for the matron’s indifference to Susanna. Mary would be horrified when she learned how accurate Mr. Dickens had been in
Oliver Twist
.

Violet squinted at the name badge sewn onto the matron’s dress. “Mrs. Baker, is it? I believe I have several questions far more important than my own identity. First, who is in charge of this pestilent place? Second, how do you come in here every day and look this horror in the eye? I am an undertaker, and the corpses I prepare for burial are healthier than the poor women and children I see here. I can only imagine what the men’s ward looks like.”

Mrs. Baker leaned forward and folded her arms on the desk. “Let me guess who you really are, shall I? You live in a nice townhome in one of the new, fashionable neighborhoods of London. You have plenty of coal to get you through the winter and a pantry full of dry goods and staples. I bet if I saw the hem of your skirt, there would be only a single day’s worth of dirt on the edge.

“This little girl was your first real encounter with poverty except to perhaps toss a coin to a beggar before completely dismissing him from your mind.”

Violet winced at the woman’s description.

“Yet you march in here with your outrage and presume to tell me exactly how a workhouse should be run. Do you think you’re the first high-handed lady to do so?”

Seeing Violet’s chagrin, Mrs. Baker relented. “This is a workhouse, madam. The poor come here as a last resort to
work,
as the name implies. They are given a clean roof over their heads, hot meals, and a small wage to sustain them until they can find outside work. In return, our buildings stay maintained, laundry is washed, and gardens are tended by the residents while they stay here, so as not to put too much of a tax burden on the rest of England’s citizenry. It is a helping hand to most of the men and women here.”

“Surely there must be a way to do this that doesn’t pain the citizenry but provides conditions that are better than those of the zoo. Susanna is a child, not a chimpanzee. Don’t our poor laws prevent workhouses from being prisons?” At the sound of her name, Susanna popped back out from behind Violet and leaned against Violet’s side. Violet instinctively wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Quite the opposite. Clearly, madam, you have no idea how the poor laws have completely hampered our ability to serve the destitute among us, who are expanding at a great rate. Church parishes and relief societies can hardly keep up.”

“You’re correct, Mrs. Baker, I have no knowledge of a workhouse’s operations and I am not experienced with the poor. But here’s what I do know, which is that I can at least make a difference in this one child’s life. You can send every constable in London after me; I’m not leaving Susanna here with you.”

Mrs. Baker shrugged. “One less orphaned mouth to feed and find placement for. I’ll just need you to sign her out.”

Violet did so, practically tearing through the page with the pen point in her haste.

She grabbed Susanna’s hand and marched out of the administration building with Mrs. Baker calling out after her, “She’s old enough for service. Place her now and it will save her from prostitution later.”

Violet didn’t look back, and in fact maintained a long stride until they were physically out of sight of the building. Susanna ran to keep up with her hand securely lodged inside Violet’s. When they were a quarter mile away, Violet stopped next to a music seller’s shop and knelt once again before a now-breathless Susanna.

“I promise I will never bring you back here again. Never.” Violet felt tears pricking her eyes.

Susanna sniffed and threw her arms around Violet’s shoulders, nearly toppling her over backward. Violet responded by hugging the girl around the waist and whispering to her.

“I’m sorry, Susanna, I’m sorry. I had no idea how terrible it really was there. Please forgive me. You’re safe now with me.”

Susanna pulled back, with both hands on Violet’s shoulders, searching Violet’s moist eyes as if to determine whether or not she meant it. In a rush she threw herself against Violet again and placed a kiss on the undertaker’s cheek.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“I have an idea. How about if we visit my friend, Mrs. Overfelt, who I bet could make you a perfectly lovely dress of blue to match your eyes? With buttons up the front and grosgrain ribbon around the hem? I imagine she might even have a crinoline just the right size for you.”

Still clinging to Violet, Susanna nodded her head up and down.

“Perhaps then you might speak to me?”

No response.

 

Arranging a trousseau for a girl, even one as small as Susanna, was expensive, even with Mary offering as attractive a price as she could and throwing in a shawl for free. What did Violet expect, since the girl had nothing, not even her own chemise? It was comical to watch Susanna’s pained expression as she was fitted for her first corset.

They tramped around London buying boots, bonnets, and a couple of children’s books. Violet hoped that even without speaking, Susanna might be able to learn to read.

Violet sent Susanna downstairs with Mrs. Porter before Graham arrived home, telling the housekeeper to delay dinner for a half hour while she spoke to the master about the girl. Mrs. Porter nodded and took Susanna by the hand, promising to show her a kitten that had been hanging about at the basement door.

“Please, Mrs. Porter, no animals in the house.” Violet suspected her instruction would be completely ignored.

Graham’s eruption was as volcanic as anticipated.

“You
what?
You brought some other woman’s daughter into our home? Have you lost your senses?”

“Hush, Graham, our neighbors will hear you.”

“Perhaps they need to know that I’m married to a Bedlamite. For just how long do you intend to keep her here?”

“I don’t know. Until I can figure out where to place her.”

“How long is that? Where can you possibly place her other than an orphanage? Unless you’re going to put her in service. If she’s twelve years old, she’s old enough.”

He sounded like Mrs. Baker.

“I’m not putting her into service.”

“Why the hell not? You’re not getting attached to the child, are you? For heaven’s sake, Violet, she just woke up inside one of our coffins not twenty-four hours ago. She’ll have to work off that damage, let me assure you.”

“I’m not putting her into service, and she will not be our slave for accidentally soiling some coffin padding.”

Graham looked at her incredulously. “You’ve never been able to produce a child born of our union, yet all of a sudden you’re defending this fawn like a mama red deer. What has happened to you?”

“Nothing has happened. I simply feel responsible for her. She would never have even gotten into the shop if you hadn’t disappeared, leaving the door wide open for her—or any other sleepy Londoner—to wander in for a nap.”

“I don’t understand you. I give up.” Graham threw up his hands. “Do what you will; I have more vital things to think about. We have a guest coming on Thursday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Mrs. Porter has things well in hand with the menu, and Mr. Porter has been shaking out every curtain in the house.”

“Mmm, and hopefully none of it goes missing. This meeting is the most important one of my life, Violet. Fletcher believes he has secured an investment banker for our new enterprise.”

“The enterprise I’m too simple to understand?”

“The enterprise that doesn’t concern you yet. Honestly, as much as I have to worry over, and here I am arguing with my wife about lost, flea-infested orphans—”

“She doesn’t have fleas, she’s perfectly clean.”

“—and whether or not she can have a suitable dinner party prepared in a few days’ time. I’m finished with this discussion, wife. I’ll see you again on Thursday.”

True to his word, Graham managed to avoid Violet completely until the all-important dinner party featuring Mr. Samuel Harper.

 

The all-important Mr. Harper wasn’t what Violet expected. She assumed that he would be rough-hewn, illiterate, and bad-mannered, given that he was from Virginia.

Instead, he was well-dressed, well-mannered, and, well, strikingly handsome, with intelligent dark eyes and fashionably long side whiskers. Even Mary, supposedly long beyond any desire for men, fluttered and flirted amusingly during dinner. Unfortunately, Mr. Harper had no wife, so the table balance was upset, but Graham didn’t seem to mind.

For his part, Mr. Harper was unfailingly gracious, although his strange speech was drawn out slow and sweet, like molasses from a spoon. His lilt was full of self-assurance and good humor. Did all Americans talk this way, or was his a special dialect?

He said that he was a lawyer by training, but now served the new Confederate government in special acquisitions. Graham shifted uneasily in his chair when Mr. Harper said that.