Where Love Shines (16 page)

Lady Eccleson sniffed. “Scandal indeed. I do not repeat scandal, young lady. But I do not care to have my house visited by a man who is reputed to have fathered fourteen illegitimate children; whose mother-in-law, from whom he inherited property, died within a fortnight of moving in with him; whose wife died after a single premium had been paid on a large insurance policy; and whose brother was called to heaven less than a year later also with a large policy in favor of Pannier.”

“But surely—” Caroline Greyston began.

“Aunt Charlotte, how do you know these things?” Richard frowned. He had not cared for the man, but such accusations went beyond mere gossip.

“Lord Selbourne is well acquainted with the matter through some business interests of his in the city. He was telling Colonel Biggar much of it at a recent committee meeting. Pannier’s name came up as a member of the Public Health Department, and Selbourne’s opinion was requested.”

Dick considered. “To be fair, that sounds like a most suitable appointment. Service in the Barracks Hospital should teach one all there is to know of the need for sanitation.”

“What a tragedy for the poor man to lose so many of his family members.” Livvy bit her lip. “It is shocking that people should spread such gossip about a man who served England and her army so valiantly.”

Richard turned to the matter he had come to discuss. “Be that as it may, Mama, if you are not pleased with his advice, there can be little reason to remain in London for more of it. Livvy is longing to return home. Do you think you would be strong enough to make the journey—say in a fortnight?”

Caroline sank deep into her pillows. “I should like that very much. But what of Dr. Halston, Richard? Surely you would not want to be without his care.”

Richard snorted. “Halston knows two sentences: ‘Wait,’ and ‘Live in the dark.’ I can do both as easily in Newcastle. And apply Dr. Pannier’s bread-and-water poultices as well—should I run mad enough to choose to do so.”

“Oh, that’s famous!” Livinia flung her arms first around her mother and then her brother. “Oh, I’ve been longing to return for ever such a time! Richard, you are the best of brothers!”

Richard had accomplished what he intended, and he had made his sister excessively happy. He could not understand why the prospect of leaving London did not make him happier.

E
ach morning of the following week, Jennifer found herself growing increasingly impatient with her father’s droning Bible reading at morning prayers. She longed to be about her work. So far only one of the shoeblacks had died of the cholera—testimony to the efficacy of Edith Watson’s remedies and insistence on open windows and clean floors.
The Times
had reported nearly a thousand deaths already in the poorer parts of the city. The newspapers were calling for the newly formed Public Health Department to do something before the epidemic spread to the better quarters.

“O Lord, from whom all good things do come, grant to us Thy humble servants, that by Thy holy inspiration we may think those things that be good, and by Thy merciful guiding may perform the same…” Jenny agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment of her father’s prayer, but she was thankful when at long last it came to an end and she could
do
those good things.

Which today meant, as it had every day for almost two weeks now, taking a hansom cab to the Westminster Mission and helping Edith Watson nurse the cholera-stricken. Although Mrs. Neville didn’t approve of such unfashionable clothing, Jennifer had taken to wearing again the gray tweed skirt and jacket Florence Nightingale had prescribed for her nurses in the Crimea. To Jenny their comfort and convenience far outweighed the risk of being identified as a member of the disreputable nursing profession. With determination she tucked her hair inside her white cap and drew her short gray cape around her shoulders.

At least it was raining this morning. The cooler air would bring welcome relief to her fever-ridden patients—and to those who worked in stuffy, fetid rooms to bring them comfort.

And this morning she was well-rewarded for her efforts. Josh was sitting up in his cot practicing his alphabet with one of the older boys. Jenny gave him a hug as she handed him his cup of quince seed tea. He grinned. “I’ll be back ta school next week, Miss Neville.”

“And ready to go on to the next group, it seems. You’ll be reading before the year is out, Josh. There is a fine story in the Bible about a man named Joshua. You must learn to read it.”

The blue-brown eyes shone.

Jenny moved on down the row, noting three beds emptied by boys who had recovered and returned to the streets with their shoeblack kits.

But most of the city could not report such success rates. A doctor who had served with Shaftesbury on the now-defunct Board of Health was asking in newspaper articles and public speeches that all sewers be flushed regularly. Public opinion was divided between those who supported this sanitary practice and those who opposed it on the grounds that it fouled the Thames—the city’s main water supply. Some rash young doctor had even gone so far as to assert that cholera could be spread through infected water as well as infected air. But few were ready to accept such radical thinking.

Mrs. Watson brushed strands of gray-brown hair out of her face as she approached Jennifer. “I ’aven’t the right to ask this of a gently bred young lady such as yourself, but I’d be right thankful for your help at another call.”

Jenny put her cape on and picked up her basket. “Of course, Edith. What is it?”

“It’s, as you might say, a ’ouse for fallen women.” Her eyes did not meet Jenny’s as she spoke the words.

Jenny laughed as she started down the narrow, twisting stairs from the boys’ dormitory. “Edith, do you think I don’t know of such things? Why, even my mother contributes to the Society for Rescuing Fallen Women, Especially those Descended from Respectable Families. Are you afraid some of these in need of our help mightn’t be descended from respectable families?”

Edith sucked her lower lip before she replied. “It isn’t so much that, miss. It’s more like these ’aven’t been rescued yet.”

They were now on the rain-washed street. “Mrs. Watson, do you mean we are to nurse women who are still, er, practicing their—that is, their trade?”

“That’s it. I knew I shouldn’t ’ave asked you. You just take a cab on back to the mission and direct those as are there to start the soup pots.”

“Don’t be silly, Edith. I don’t know anything about making soup. But I’m a good nurse. I’ll come with you.”

Edith Watson looked relieved. “If you’re sure.” She stepped across a puddle and passed a cripple selling matches. The rain, which should have been cleansing, made the gray stone buildings and garbage-choked street look all the dirtier as it streaked the soot-blackened walls. Children played in the gutter, splashing sticks in puddles and sailing paper boats. A rag and bone cart trundled by, spraying them with muddy water while its owner called out his wares. The lane, lined with pawnbrokers, sweatshops, and tenement buildings, curved higgledy-piggledy down the hill. Jenny was astounded that Edith could find her way in such a maze. “We’re almost there, Miss Jenny. I wouldn’t a asked you to walk, but there weren’t no cabs in sight.”

“It’s all right, Edith. I’m warm enough.” And physically she was, but Jenny’s mind was chilled. This was worse than anything she had seen yet. It was unthinkable that anyone could live in these rotting tenements. The buildings were warped with damp, the walls patched and repatched, looking ready to fall down at any moment. Even with the rain, and now a chill wind had picked up as well, the doorways and sidewalks were crammed with people huddled together. Here and there someone was lying on the stone sidewalks. She wasn’t even certain some of them were still alive. And through it all was the smell of human waste and the squeak of rats. Jenny lowered her eyes and hurried on.

Two more twists of the street brought them to the brothel. Inside, the gaudy hangings of soiled red velvet and cheap lace seemed even more obscene to Jennifer than the filth on the street. A fat woman with brightly rouged cheeks and orange hair directed Mrs. Watson toward an upstairs room. Jennifer had just started up the stairs behind her when a door on the landing opened, and a man in a dark suit erupted with such speed he almost bowled Jennifer over. “What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Wimple? I was not informed—” The gravelly voice stopped sharply at the sight of Jennifer in the uniform of a Crimean nurse.

Jennifer looked again at the man. “Dr. Pannier. We were told they were in need of nursing here, but if they have a doctor—”

Mrs. Watson turned, halfway up the next flight of stairs. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’ll just go ahead with my special elixir—same one as we used in Scutari, so I’m sure you’ll approve.”

Dr. Pannier didn’t even reply. He just nodded and motioned for her to continue before he pulled his tall black hat well down over his head and pushed out the door.

Jennifer and Mrs. Watson administered their doses in record time to the six women suffering from cholera. Edith gave explicit instructions for their continuing care to the orange-haired woman in charge, and Jennifer all but ran down the stairs to the street. Sooty and garbage-choked as it was, she preferred the street to the heavy, over-perfumed atmosphere of the brothel. A cab was just setting down a flashily dressed young man when they came out, so they were able to ride back to the mission. “Imagine that fine Doctor Pannier coming to care for those poor women,” Mrs. Watson said once she was comfortably settled in the cab. “He never struck me as the sort to be abounding with charitable works. Just goes to show you can’t tell a dog by its spots.”

Jennifer nodded, but she was feeling too dispirited to talk. By the time they got back to the mission, she was considering going home. How lovely it would be to sit in a quiet, well-appointed room and read the latest installment of Mr. Dickens’s new novel in “Household Words” while Betsy built up the fire on the grate and Hinson brought in a tray of tea and sandwiches. Yes. She would just look in on the mission work and then go home. Surely she had done her share for the day.

But inside there were three new volunteers to be trained, and Reverend Walker was busy leading the midday service before the soup was served. Mrs. Watson would take care of the two kitchen workers—would Jennifer be so kind as to guide the young lady who had come to see the ragged school?

Jennifer smiled at Miss Susannah Thompson and led her into the schoolroom. In a few minutes Jenny felt the beginnings of a warm regard for the lovely blonde girl dressed in a subdued blue afternoon walking dress. After showing her the schoolroom and explaining Mr. Walker’s unorthodox but effective teaching methods, Jenny suggested they sit on one of the forms to continue their visit. She was too warm in her tweed uniform and felt a little light-headed, but she did want to get to know Susannah better. “And what has turned your mind to ragged school teaching, Miss Thompson?”

Susannah laughed. “Do I still look so frivolous? I daresay a few months ago such an idea would never have entered my mind. But that was before our new preacher came to Park Street Chapel.”

“Oh?” Jenny knew little of nonconformist preachers or chapels.

“Yes, he came to us from Cambridge where—”

“From Cambridge? A nonconformist?”

Susannah nodded, and her curls bounced. “You are right—that would be most unusual. The Reverend Charles Spurgeon is from the town of Cambridge, not the university. You have heard of the famous Robert Hall? Mr. Spurgeon preached in Hall’s church in Cambridge—St. Andrews Street Baptist. That was where one of our church board members heard him and recommended that he be invited to fill our pulpit. Already we have added five hundred new souls to our congregation. Charles is the best preacher and the finest man—oh!” Miss Thompson flung a small white hand over her mouth. “Oh, that is, I mean…”

It was more her blushing confusion than the fact that she had called the minister by his first name that made Jenny understand the true state of Miss Susannah Thompson’s feelings. “I see. You mean that as your minister urges you to good works, you wouldn’t wish to be found wanting.”

Susannah’s round blue eyes shone. “Oh, it’s more than that. He doesn’t really say much about good works. It’s just that he preaches so forcefully about having the love of God in our hearts, and then he goes out and ministers to the less fortunate himself. So how could we do less?”

Jenny nodded. Susannah seemed to have found a key to questions she had been asking herself. And the accord Susannah Thompson and her Charles Spurgeon seemed to share over such matters made Jenny think of Arthur’s long absences from her presence—and from her mind—and of her strained parting with Richard. It seemed that all society was agreed on the necessity of performing works of mercy, and yet something seemed to be missing in all the flurry of good works—something that apparently Susannah had found.

Jennifer’s old goals had been set by the standards of society and the position of her family in that society. But recently she was realizing that there was a power more potent than society. Of course, she had always acknowledged the existence and authority of God. Indeed, all of society was built on that foundational understanding. And she had gone to church regularly, participated in all the Christian observances, and most mornings attended carefully to her father’s Bible reading at family prayers. But now she wondered if there could be something more.

Susannah was still talking in her soft, musical voice, but Jenny’s mind continued to wander in a somewhat different direction. It had been almost two weeks since she and Richard had parted. She had seen nothing of him or of Livinia since then. They must have returned to Newcastle. But would Richard have gone without bidding her farewell?

“…and you can’t imagine what an impact that had on the entire congregation.” Jennifer brought her mind back to grasp the thread of Susannah’s conversation. “Last year when the cholera was so dreadful, Mr. Spurgeon had been with us for only a few months—and he was already so popular—especially among the poor—that he was sent for by the sick and poor without intermission day and night…”