Where Love Shines (9 page)

Livvy hesitated, but Richard was adamant. “That would never do, Miss Neville. You have been summoned to Lady Eccleson’s tea table. ‘Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die.’”

Jennifer smiled, then murmured a farewell to Richard and obediently followed Livvy from the room. “So you are Livvy. I wrote several letters to you for Richard.”

Livvy stopped and flung her arms around Jenny. “Oh! How marvelous! I can’t wait to tell Mama. It will mean so much to her. Just think of you being there with Dick, and here we are together—it’s like Providence. It must have been
meant
.” She took Jenny’s hand and almost dragged her down the long, oak paneled hall hung with dark, gilt-framed portraits. “We’ve longed to know more of what happened in Turkey, but Dick simply refuses to talk about it.”

As soon as they were settled in a corner of Lady Eccleson’s parlor, Livvy began plying Jenny with questions. But Jennifer felt a restraint. If Richard had not chosen to tell his family about it, she wasn’t certain it was her place. So after a few comments about how heroic Florence Nightingale and the sanitary commissioners were, it was easy to encourage Livvy to return to what quickly proved to be her favorite topic of conversation—her brother.

“I think we were all surprised when Dick chose a military career. Of course he always played soldiers when he was young, and he was an absolutely mad rider—no fence was ever too high for him to jump. But he was so quiet and gentle too. The thought of him killing anything always seemed strange to me.”

The perky features of Livvy’s round face softened with memory. “I was sickly as a child. Dick would amuse me by the hour, reading stories he couldn’t possibly have enjoyed. And he could always make me laugh. He would slip little asides into the stories. He was very sly, so I had to listen carefully, or I’d miss the fun. And then he would take me out in the pony cart when I know he would rather have been riding pell-mell over the fields.”

Jenny listened with amazement. Here was a side of Richard she had not seen at all—or even thought to look for. Suddenly she began to wonder more about what he had been like as a child. All at once he was more of a person to her—not just a case to be cured by her skill.

“Mrs. Biggar, please take another of the egg mayonnaise sandwiches, but do avoid the smoked salmon. It is far too high for your constitution.” As Lady Eccleson gave her peremptory order, another surprising thought came to Jennifer. Had Lady Eccleson known perfectly well that Richard was in the library?

Jennifer toyed with her cucumber sandwich. So what was she to do about Richard? The problem he faced now, and the challenge to her if she were to help him, made the demands of Scutari seem almost simple. If only the problem of redirecting one’s life—of finding a purpose for living—could be overcome with the directive of a sanitation commission to flush a sewer system and lime-wash a few walls.

She did, however, have one glimmer of an idea. “Livvy, what about your brother’s horse? I know he cared for him a great deal—he used to talk to me about him in hospital. Did he ever find out whether Legend survived?”

Livvy set her cream horn back on her plate and licked a few traces of Chantilly from her fingers. “That horse was a magnificent creature. Named for Royal Legend—our most popular pottery pattern—but then I expect Dick told you that. No, I don’t think he’s made any attempt to learn anything. Of course, we’ve only been in town a short time.”

“Do you know where one would go to make such inquiries?”

Livvy considered. “Horse Guards, I should expect. Aren’t all army records kept there? About men and regiments anyway—I don’t know about horses. Why?”

“I was thinking of making inquiries myself. Would you like to go with me?”

Livvy, at least three years Jenny’s junior, arranged her blonde hair in clusters of ringlets over each ear and wore a violet afternoon dress with each flounce trimmed in ruffles of lace. Now all the curls and ruffles bounced. “Oh, what a charming idea! I should like it above all things.”

Sometime later in the dark library, Richard heard the rattle of carriage wheels on stone and knew his aunt’s guests, including Miss Jennifer Neville, had departed. With a sweeping gesture he pushed the books and Braille-dotted papers from his table to the floor. But the effect on the thick carpet failed to satisfy. He had hoped for a gratifying thud or crash. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the solid oak of the desk. Then, fighting for control, he lowered his head to his tight fists. It was no good smashing things. He must channel the energy of his outrage. He must find a useful outlet for all he felt churning inside him.

And right now he must use that energy to fight down his fear—the fear of having to grope through another day, another week, a week that would grow to a month and then a year. He could not go on like this endlessly. He must make something out of the perpetual darkness he found himself locked in.

Perhaps he would get better—but perhaps not. He had to assume he wouldn’t. He couldn’t sit and wait for an outcome that could take months or years—or never come at all. He had to find a source of inner light to replace the external light denied him. He must walk by faith rather than by sight—as that preacher at Cambridge had said. But he had no idea how to go about it.

T
he expedition to Horse Guards was not as easily accomplished as Jennifer had hoped. Mrs. Neville would not hear of her daughter gallivanting about town unescorted, and Miss Greyston hardy constituted a proper escort. Jennifer’s mother herself could not be expected to go off on such a hair-brained escapade, as her calendar was quite full. Besides, all matters of livestock were clearly men’s business. “When Arthur has time to see to it, I’m certain he will deal with it in the most competent manner, my dear.” And that was an end to the matter.

As Arthur had gone to Bristol on a factory inspection, it would be sometime next week before he could go with them.

Jenny did not bear waiting with patience. “Mother, I am going to take up my charity work again,” she announced.

“Certainly, my dear, you must accompany me next week. We shall distribute baskets of food to the deserving poor of the Norton Street settlement, as we discussed at Lady Eccleson’s. That should be quite enough alongside your social obligations.” Mrs. Neville regarded herself in the heavily beveled glass of her oval mirror. “What do you think, Jenny—should I have this gown trimmed in the ivory lace or the blue fringe?”

Jennifer advised the ivory lace and left her mother’s room. Why could no one understand her desire to do more than deliver food baskets once a week? But then perhaps it wasn’t so strange, since she wasn’t sure how well she understood herself. As she walked down the polished corridor of their home in Portland Place, she recalled the fetid, body-filled corridor of the Scutari hospital and Miss Nightingale describing the voice she had heard from God asking her to do a special work for Him. Jennifer sighed. How simple it would be if she could hear such a voice. That would remove all her own doubts and give her courage to stand against her family and the social expectations hemming her in.

As it was, however, a vague desire to help people and a need to find an outlet for her energy was all she had to lead her forward. But forward to what? She wandered into the morning room, assured of being alone there so late in the afternoon. On a table by the sofa was the copy of
The Times
her father had read before leaving for work. As always, Mr. Neville had pulled out the society pages for her mother.

Jennifer picked up the rest of the paper and leafed through it. An advertisement caught her attention: “Special Sale Announced at Tattersall’s. The finest in well-trained, well-bred military horses, both light and heavy. At auction, Saturday fortnight.” She thought of Legend and the unlikelihood that they would be able to find him for Richard. Perhaps they could choose another horse.

Before she had time to dwell on that, however, another notice took her attention: “Ragged School opens in Westminster. Any lady or gentleman willing to assist as teacher on Sunday or Thursday evenings will be greatly welcomed.” Jennifer carefully noted the address and went to get her bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Neville was busy with her dressmaker now and would then take a nap before dinner. Jennifer would not disturb her. The butler appeared moments after she pulled the red velvet cord. “Please secure me a cab, Hinson. And if my mother asks for me, tell her I’ve gone calling.”

“Very good, miss.” In a matter of minutes, he returned from the sheltered cab stand at Langham Place with a hansom cab. Jennifer took a seat under the calash cover and gave the address to the driver perched high above the rear of the passenger seat. He flicked the reins passing over the roof of the hansom, and soon they were trotting along Tothill Street.

Jennifer had thought that the horrors of Scutari had made her proof against any shock, but she was appalled at the slum that had grown up in Westminster, almost against the walls of the Abbey itself. Only two streets away on the banks of the Thames, the Palace of Westminster, being rebuilt after the devastating fire, was rising elegant and golden, with its imposing towers and ornamental oriels, pinnacles, and turrets. But all around the two grand buildings, the rabbit warrens of poverty and filth made the Barracks Hospital seem practically clean by comparison. Children of all ages stood or sat in squalid groups at the entrances to narrow, fetid courts and alleys. Their wan faces and haggard eyes followed the progress of the traffic choking the winding cobbled streets. Gray laundry drooped on lines stretched overhead between crumbling buildings.

The cab stopped in front of a converted warehouse. A small sign over the door read “Westminster Mission and Ragged School.” Hesitantly, Jennifer asked the cabby to wait for her.

She stopped just inside the door and surveyed the plain but well-scrubbed room.

“Welcome, miss. And how might we be helping you?”

Jenny smiled at a man with dark hair and beard salted liberally with gray.

“Hiram Walker, at your service.” He sketched a slight bow. The fabric of his black suit showed shiny spots from long wear and many pressings, but Hiram Walker was as well-scrubbed as his mission.

“I’m Jennifer Neville. I’ve come about the school. I’ve had some experience teaching. Not much really, but I’d like to help.”

“Splendid, splendid. What an answer to prayer. The fields are white unto harvest, but the laborers are few indeed. Come, let me show you.” Already he was in motion with the short, rapid steps of one who knows where he’s going but doesn’t want to rush his companion. Energy and enthusiasm for his work showed in the missionary’s soft brown eyes as he led her through remodeled rooms that housed a soup kitchen and meeting room, a schoolroom filled with rows of wooden benches, and two small rooms where he lived. The soup kitchen was abuzz with women whose well-made dresses were covered with copious white aprons, doubtless borrowed from their own cooks. They stirred vast pots of steaming soup and pulled loaves of crusty brown bread from the oven.

“We feed upwards of a hundred poor every night,” Mr. Walker explained, “and then follow with a service. Feed their bodies, then their souls—that’s my motto. We give them lots of singing—that’s the part they like best. And then go to the schoolroom and feed their minds. We have adults and children both. We try to teach all who want to learn.”

Jennifer thought of the half-naked children crowding the doorways of the rookeries beyond the mission. Their clothes were too ragged for them to go to a regular school. This small, struggling mission was their only hope of a better life. “Thursday evenings, your advertisement said?”

Rev. Walker’s brown eyes sparkled brightly above his beard. “Thursday evenings at seven o’clock. We use a most progressive method here. The beginners are taught their ABCs by one teacher; then they move on to the next, who teaches them to form words; from words a third teacher helps them form sentences. They are reading the Scriptures within the shortest space of time.” He would have gone on to explain his ideas for teaching mathematics, but Jennifer was content to know that she could be of use teaching the alphabet to the newest entrants.

She returned to Portland Place with a perhaps unladylike bounce in her stride and a gleam of determination in her eyes. She felt more alive than any time since returning home. It was wonderful. In the space of three days she had discovered work to be done in two great causes—Richard and the ragged school.

Mrs. Neville, however, was not pleased. “Mr. Neville, you must forbid this.” She turned to her husband after Jennifer’s announcement at dinner that night. “I have heard much of the Tothill Street area. Thousands of people live together in squalor, crime, and wretchedness. They resist all efforts for their own betterment, and they are bitterly hostile to those who seek to do them good. Why, even policemen only go into the area in groups, and I’m told they often go armed with cutlasses.”

Mr. Neville had not risen in the banking profession by making snap decisions. He savored his last spoonful of mutton and barley soup, then returned the spoon to its plate and wiped his mouth on his white linen napkin before answering. “It seems to me, wife, that you may be giving in to the hysterical reports in the popular press. Surely all young ladies should be encouraged to do appropriate charitable work.” He rose to go to the sideboard where the roast joint of beef stood, crisp and golden brown on its platter. With a few precise cuts of the carving knife, he placed thick slices of beef on the plates Hinson then presented to Mrs. and Miss Neville before offering the vegetables and gravy around.

Jennifer seized her opportunity. “That’s right, Papa. Westminster is no worse than the Holborn area where I assisted before going to Scutari. And the mission appears very well-run and clean.”

She had miscalculated, however, in mentioning Scutari, for her mother had heard of the conditions there. “I’m sure we should never have permitted your going out there if we’d had any idea. Mary Stanley spoke only of soothing the brows and easing the suffering of our brave young men.”