“Pressing on.” Miss Whymsy cleared her throat. “Miss Bowman, have you any parting words?”
Mary stood, though she was hardly taller than her chair even when she arose. Mina’s heart squeezed. She would love to be married—especially to Will—yet when that day came, if it came, she would miss this fellowship, and judging by the trembling bottom lip on Mary, she would miss them too.
Bravely, Mary smiled at each of them in turn. “Ladies, it has been my joy to serve with you, and I thank you for the opportunity. I shall never forget any of you, my sisters, and though I will be married”—a lovely flush of pink flamed on her cheeks—“I shall endeavor to always look for ways to help downtrodden women everywhere.”
“Well said.” Mina smiled.
“I’ll miss ye.” Effie sniffed.
“Hear, hear.” This time Miss Minton challenged Miss Whymsy with an arched brow.
Miss Whymsy ignored it. “Godspeed, Miss Bowman. You go with our blessings.”
They all stood, and each one hugged Mary before she exited the room. Mina’s gaze lingered on the door long after it closed, conflicting emotions roiling in her stomach. It would be lovely to walk out of here into the arms of a husband. Yet the bonds she’d made with these women would leave a mark once broken.
“Our next, and last, order of business for today is a new project.” Miss Whymsy rushed ahead before Miss Minton could utter another hear, hear. “I have been approached by the director of the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen.”
Effie’s teacup rattled on her lap. “But how would a gent know of us? I thought the whole point o’ our society was to remain secret, doing deeds unannounced, just like the good Samaritan.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Gedge.” Miss Whymsy leaned across and patted Effie’s knee. “I have taken care to keep all of your identities secret, referring to you simply by the first letter of your last name. You are Miss G, Mina is Miss S, and of course Miss Minton is Miss M.”
Mina eyed Miss Whymsy over the rim of her teacup. “Pardon me, but isn’t that slightly confusing?”
“Not at all. I can keep you straight, and I don’t think it will matter to the director”—her gaze drifted to Effie—“who happens to be a woman, not a gentleman.”
Effie gasped. “A lady?”
“Indeed.”
Mina’s cup tinkled against the saucer as she set it down, the glorious possibility of such a position sending a charge through her. Perhaps life could be more than serving mugs of ale at an inn—for clearly this woman, whoever she was, had found a way to do something important with her life.
“What is it the director would like us to do?” she asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t think we can possibly manage to do all she asks. The institute is growing at such an alarming rate that they are short on staff, funding, and housing. I am happy to volunteer my services, for the hospital mainly cares for my own kindred—retired governesses—and I suspect, Miss Minton, that you would be perfect for that role as well. Rolling bandages or serving tea and the like.”
A smile spread broad and bright on Miss Minton’s face. “Hear! Hear!”
This time, Miss Whymsy smiled as well. “Good. That takes care of the volunteering. Mina and Effie, is there any way the two of you would be able to help out?”
“Well,” Effie tapped her teacup with her finger, clearly deep in thought, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve got it! As ye know, being that I’m a lady’s maid, I have a fair amount o’ castoffs from my employer. I could see my way to parting with a few. Talk is, Bagley’s Brokerage in the Houndsditch Market is the place to sell. I’m sure I can wheedle a fair penny for some gowns.”
Miss Whymsy clapped her hands. “Brilliant thinking, Miss Gedge.” Her gaze drifted to Mina. “Have you any thoughts on the matter? I realize this may be a bit forward, but I feel I must at least bring it up…. Is there any chance of housing some of the women at your father’s inn?”
She shook her head before Miss Whymsy could finish, a rudeness on her part, yet entirely unstoppable. Father would never allow such an unprofitable use of space, especially before Christmas. “I don’t think that’s a possibility.”
“I see….” Miss Whymsy’s voice tapered to nothing.
The ensuing silence poked her conscience like little needles. The two older ladies would be volunteering their time. Effie could donate money. And she’d offered nothing but a big fat no. Yet what could she do? Oh, that she were a wealthy woman, able to bless others out of a storehouse of coins.
She bit her lip, picturing her tiny crock at home filled with shillings and pence—all the money she’d saved these past three years to purchase a new fob for Father’s watch … a fob her mother had dearly wanted to purchase before her death. Since a girl, it had been Mina’s dream to make her mother’s wish come true. Should she sacrifice it for the sake of a request by a director she didn’t even know?
But as she looked from Miss Whymsy’s expectant face to Miss Minton’s, the wrinkles carved into their parchment skin were a stark reminder that other women—sick women—were in need of that money. More than Father needed a fob, for had he not lived this long without one?
She sighed and, before she could change her mind, said, “I have a small amount on hand at home that I could contribute.”
“Wonderful!” Miss Whymsy beamed. “That covers staffing and funding. And as for the housing, well, let’s pray about it, shall we?”
Bowing their heads, they set the needs of the institute before the Lord, primarily the housing concern, then went on to bless Miss Bowman’s upcoming marriage.
Miss Whymsy ended with an “Amen,” and Miss Minton with a rousing “Hear, hear!”
“I believe that officially concludes this meeting. Ladies?” Miss Whymsy stood and held out her hand.
Each of them rose, forming a small circle, and put one of their hands atop the others’ in the center. In unison, they lifted their voices. “To God’s glory and mankind’s good, use our hands and feet in service, oh Lord. Amen.”
Before anyone could speak further, Mina edged toward the door. “As much as I’d love to stay and visit, I have to run. Do forgive me. Good afternoon, ladies.”
“But Mina—”
She shut the door on Effie’s voice, wincing at her own impropriety. But it couldn’t be helped. If she didn’t dash out of here now, she’d never make it on time to meet William Barlow’s carriage.
But even if she were to run, she’d still be late, for the bong of the downstairs clock chimed two.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oh Sairey, Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!
Martin Chuzzlewit
Mina huddled closer to a streetlamp. The cold, iron pole offered little protection against the afternoon’s bluster, but her black veil and cape might blend in with the dark pillar so she’d not draw undue attention. Hopefully.
Where was William? She hadn’t been that late getting to the corner—only five minutes. Surely he would have waited that long.
Fighting the urge to lift her veil and survey the lane, she forced herself to remain statuesque—especially when pedestrians strode past. She’d taken the precaution of instructing Will to meet her five lanes away from the Golden Egg, but still … If one of her friends—or worse, Father’s friends—chanced by and recognized her, she’d be hard-pressed to explain why she waited on a street corner alone for an unchaperoned ride with a man. Was she doing the right thing? The twisting of her stomach said no.
But even so, a small smile curved her lips. Though this was a mischievous charade, the forbidden excitement of taking tea with the man of her dreams pulsed through her. Was this how Bleak House‘s heroine Ada Clare had felt when sneaking off to marry Richard Carstone?
Minutes later, a hansom cab rambled closer, and the jarvey pulled on the reins, stopping the carriage at the curb in front of her. It had to be Will, and though she knew it in her head, her heart still fluttered as he climbed out.
He studied he
r as he held the door open with one hand. “Mina, is that you?”
“Shh,” she warned as she drew near, casting a look over her shoulder. Thankfully, no one stood close enough to have heard her name. “Yes, it’s me,” she whispered.
He offered his hand and a brilliant smile. “Then shall we?”
His strong fingers wrapped around hers as he boosted her into the cab. Once they were both seated, he rapped on the roof, and the carriage lurched into motion.
Sitting this close to Will, she fixed her gaze straight ahead. One peek at him would only add to the jitters in her stomach. Simply breathing in the scent of his bergamot cologne and bumping into his shoulder upped her pulse.
“I understand your desire for disguise, but …” He tugged the hem of her veil. “Uncle Barlow might get the impression ours is not a happy marriage.”
Leaning forward, she scanned the street to make sure none of the figures they passed looked even remotely familiar, then she sank back against the seat. “I suppose I could take it off now.”
She lifted the lacy fabric from her head, then worked to tuck the veil into her reticule. The small pouch strained at the seams, and the drawstring fought against her as she tried to tighten it. Perhaps she ought to have made sure the head covering would fit inside her bag before she’d left home. What would William’s relatives think of her with such a lump hanging from her arm?
“I appreciate you going along with me.” The warmth in Will’s voice stilled her hands. With him beside her, would it even matter what his relatives thought?
“I hope this meeting won’t prove too uncomfortable for you,” he continued.
She faced him, and her heart rocked every bit as much as the cab’s wheels juddering over the cobbles. This close up, his eyes were bluer than she’d credited, like a sea without shores, endless and sparkling. Half a smile softened his clean-shaven jawline, and for the first time, she noticed a slight tilt to one of his front teeth—an endearing little flaw.
“Don’t fret about me.” She clutched the seat to keep from banging against him as the cab turned a corner. “If I can manage a taproom of clerks and solicitors, I am confident I can manage your uncle.”
“That’s the spirit.” His grin faded, and he looked away. “Though it’s not my uncle I am concerned about.”
At least that’s what it sounded like he said. Hard to tell the way he’d spoken under his breath. She leaned toward him, ears straining. “What was that?”
“Oh, er, I was just wondering …” Once again, his blue gaze met hers. “Have you been to Purcell’s before?”
“Purcell’s? Oh, my!” Immediately her hand shot to her hair, tucking in strays and straightening her bonnet. How often she’d fancied a visit to the famed literary haunt, rubbing shoulders with some of her favorite authors, and now she was to actually patronize such a place? Why was God so good to her?
Clenching every possible muscle to keep from bouncing on her seat in anticipation, she smiled at Will. “Do you think we might spy Mr. Dickens or Mr. Tennyson? Maybe even the Bells or Mr. Melville?”
“I doubt I should recognize any of the fellows you just mentioned.”
Her smile faded a bit. “But surely you’ve heard of them?”
“No, not a one. Should I have?”
Her smile disappeared altogether. He seriously didn’t know such august names? Did William Barlow not read? Her throat closed, and she swallowed back the lump clogging it. This was a definite chink in her hero’s armor.
“Mina? Is something wrong?”
Alarm deepened his voice, and she determined not only to forgive him for his ignorance but to introduce him to the wonders of literature as well. “No, nothing. That last bump didn’t set well with my stomach, is all.”
“Well, then thank goodness this ride is over”—the cab stopped—“for here we are.”
Will opened the door and helped her out. While he paid off the jarvey, she forced the strap of her unwieldy reticule onto her wrist and looked up at the renowned establishment. Mist settled on her face and eyes, and she blinked so much it was hard to read the fancy name shingle with PURCELL‘S painted in gilt.
“Let’s get you out of this dreadful weather.” Will offered his arm.
She wrapped her fingers around his sleeve and walked into heaven. Inside the large reception area, her feet sank into a thick Turkish carpet. Wall sconces flickered, and a massive overhead chandelier glittered light like fairy dust over all. Beyond the podium, where a concierge stood as a sort of gatekeeper, the drone of voices hummed. How many stories were being hatched even as she stood here? How many clever ideas? What kind of great minds fortified themselves with tea while working out plots and characters and all manner of epic tales?
Will approached the concierge. “The name is Barlow, meeting with a Mr. Charles Barlow.”
The man ran his finger along a document. Halfway down, the motion stopped, and he looked up. “Ahh, yes. One moment, please.”
As the man turned to summon a porter, the front door opened. A gust of wind howled in—accompanied by a woman’s strident voice remarking on the excessive chill of the day.
“Well, well, look at this. William already here and on time, no less.” A man’s voice attacked them from behind. “My fine cousin appears to be all cleaned up and with a pretty little bauble on his arm. How on earth did you manage either of those two miracles?”
Beneath her touch, Will’s muscles hardened to steel. He blew out a low breath, then winked at her. “I hope you’re ready for this.”
Without waiting for her response, he guided her around to face two scowls.
The woman in front of Mina was dressed head to toe in midnight blue and ornamented with an extravagant amount of black lace. Her blond hair was coiffed into a coil beneath a feathered hat and pierced through with a silver bodkin, as was all the rage. She was curvaceous, pretty, tall. All in all, quite striking.
Yet something wasn’t right about the woman, giving Mina a queer feeling in her stomach. She edged nearer to Will. Nothing appeared untoward about the lady. Every button and thread was in place. No … it was more of an invisible atmosphere that clouded about her. A kind of foreboding. Like being alone in a big house and hearing a door slam—and knowing that something was coming for you.
Swallowing, Mina shifted her gaze to the man. He was shorter than the woman but every bit as snappily dressed in his dark grey suit with a white, high-stock collar. His round spectacles enlarged his eyes to dark marbles, and his black hair was pasted back with pomade. He might be a businessman. Or a lawyer. But the longer Mina stared, the more she suspected he might be better suited as an undertaker, so emotionless and coldly did he look upon her.
“Percy, Alice, good to see you.” Will’s voice strained on the word good.
The woman—Alice—sniffed as if he’d offered her a plate of rotted cabbage. “A pig in a suit does not a gentleman make, exemplified in your lack of introductions.” Her head swiveled to Mina. “I am Alice Barlow, Percival’s wife. And you are?”
Mina tensed. These were William’s relatives? No wonder he spent most of his nights at the Golden Egg instead of taking part in family affairs.
Will placed his hand on the small of her back in a show of affection. “This is my … this is Mina.”
Alice’s upper lip twitched. “Mina? What sort of a name is that?”
“It’s, uh …” Mouth suddenly dry as bones, Mina licked her lips, hoping to grease the way for more words to slip out. “It is the shortened form of Wilhelmina. My father’s side of the family has Dutch roots.”
“Oh.” Alice said no more, but she didn’t have to. The tone put Mina in her place—on a ladder rung clearly beneath Alice’s jewel-toed shoes.
“Uncle mentioned you’d taken a wife.” Percy’s gaze drifted from Will to Mina. “My condolences.”
Mina blinked. Were these people flesh and blood, or were they some of Mr. Dickens’s villainous characters?
“Mr. Barlow,” the concierge call
ed out. “You may be seated now.”
The man barely finished speaking before Percy and Alice shot into motion, nearly knocking her sideways were it not for Will’s strong arm behind her. Her reticule swung wild, smacking into Alice as she passed—and earned Mina yet another glower.
Mina peered up at Will as his cousins disappeared through the door. “Are they always this way?” she whispered.
“No.” A devilish grin tugged his lips. “Usually, they are worse.”
But as she stepped into the grandeur of the tearoom, all thoughts of Will’s cousins vanished. Walking beside her handsome prince, it was easy to pretend she was royalty. White linen tablecloths with fresh flowers adorned every table. Men and women of stature lifted dainty cakes to their lips or sipped from fine porcelain cups. The whole room twinkled as light shimmered off the gilded stripes on the pale blue wallpaper.
Slowly, the tight knots in her shoulders loosened, and she lifted her chin. This was where she wanted to belong, not slaving away in an inn that reeked of ale and grease. If she lived in such a world of opportunity and wealth, she could actually do something worthy with her life. Instead of scraping up saved coins to benefit the likes of the institute, she could give so much more. Do so much more. Be so much more, a benefactress that would really make a difference to others.
By the time they reached a table in the back corner, Will’s cousins had already taken their seats, but yet standing was a thin fellow, dressed all in brown. White hair circled the man’s head like a crown, tufting out at the sides near his ears. His face was a road map of years. Grey eyes—as piercing as Will’s—twinkled with humour and something more … an innocence of sorts. As if, were the lines and grey hairs taken away, he might be naught more than a schoolboy looking for a good game of cricket.
“Uncle Barlow?” Will stared at the man. “Is it really you, sir?”
“Posh! Such formality. Of course it’s me. Though I suppose I am quite a few stones lighter than when you last saw me.” A cough rumbled in his chest, and he pulled out a handkerchief, holding it to his mouth until the spell passed.
Once Upon a Dickens Christmas Page 17
