Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  She returned his gaze and smiled, or more precisely she beamed with anticipation and enthusiasm. No doubt picturing herself an avenging angel, prepared to swoop down upon the demons of disease, despair, and drunkenness.

  “Thank you again for accompanying me, Lucien. I know today will be a glorious experience. Here is my list of addresses from Father Woolsey.” She waved a paper containing the information. “We’ve blankets, soap, candles, dried fruits, and even a few Bibles. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “it’s my understanding most of the people we shall see today can neither read nor write. That in itself is a tragedy, is it not?”

  “Oh quite,” he replied, working to suppress his sarcasm. “However, I doubt the inability to read or write is the most pressing concern in their miserable existence. Dying of fever from living in the miasma of their night soil, as well as their animals’, is probably higher on their priority list.”

  “Oh, Lucien, do not be distasteful and pessimistic. I’m sure the area to which we travel cannot possibly be as awful as we have been led to believe. No one could live in such conditions. Most people probably just need encouragement, and the knowledge that some of us truly care about their circumstances. Perhaps they simply need a little advice on managing and running their households.”

  Familiar with the less glamorous parts of London, Lucien knew the stories were true enough. Smog, filth, and ignorance teamed unchecked there. Yet he supposed it was beyond comprehension to someone who had never witnessed the degradation existing but a few streets away from the grand cathedrals and opulent opera houses. Besides, Trelayne’s innocence was one of the qualities he loved best. She was so trusting and easily swayed by high ideals and charitable causes.

  “Whatever you say, my dear. I am at your service. Although I still contend you have no business exposing yourself to the disease breeding in these neighborhoods. Your intentions, while valorous, will not protect you from pox and pestilence.”

  “Should I then let my fears dictate my actions and decide for me what is right or wrong?” she defended, her cheeks colored with passion.

  “No, of course not Trelayne, but common sense might serve you better than the common cause.”

  “Oh, please,” she pouted, “let us not bicker. I have been looking forward to this day for nearly a month. I shan’t let you spoil it with your mulish bad attitude. Now give me a smile, and try to be more positive.”

  “You know I will do anything for you darling, and I will try my best not to say ‘I told you so,’ yet I fear the occasion will be upon us shortly.”

  Trelayne leaned forward and peered out the window. Lucien was content just to observe Trelayne.

  “Why is it getting darker Lucien? There were no storm clouds in the sky when we departed.”

  “It’s the normal atmosphere here,” he enlightened. “The foul brown cloud is created by the poisonous vapors spewing forth from the noxious trades. It blots out the sun, just as it blots out the hopes and dreams of the poor wretches living here. It’s no wonder they turn to gin and opium for solace.”

  “Lucien, you are too hard on these people.”

  “On the contrary. I’m being practical. One coach full of supplies will not change the reality of the situation. I say let them escape by whatever means they can obtain or afford.”

  She seemed to consider this information then asked what he had meant by noxious trades.

  “Dear Lord, where to start?” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Fell-mongers, tripe boilers, blood dryers, gut scrapers, tanners, glue makers…. They all reside here, from manure and tar works, to sugar refineries and fat extractors, and each trade gives forth its own distinctive by-product of choking smells. The resulting combination is the most horrible conglomeration of odors one can imagine. It’s a stench vile enough to generate pestilence.”

  “But how can anyone stand to live here?” she said, her voice muffled and her expression of distaste barely concealed behind the hand now cupped over her mouth and nose.

  “Trapped by circumstance and caged by misfortune, they have little choice.”

  Like a roving beast, the foul smell crept closer. There were tears in Trelayne’s eyes; were they caused by the acrid smell, or sympathy? Probably both.

  “Well,” she sniffled, lowering her hand, “it’s no wonder they’re so downtrodden and disinclined to dream of higher aspirations.”

  Before he could respond, the coach came to an abrupt halt. Damn. Had they reached their first stop already?

  “Move those bleaters and mowers,” Jeb issued orders, “and be quick about it. Me coach is sinking in this river of mud you call a street. I can’t keep stationary waitin’ for ya. We’ll soon be up to our hubs.”

  The baaing of sheep and the mooing of cows issued all around as animals ran in every direction.

  Jeb urged the horses back into action. They strained in their traces, but nothing happen. Then there was a sucking sound and the carriage wheels jerked loose from the mud. Without warning, the vehicle surged forward. Trelayne slid from the seat landing unceremoniously on the floor.

  “I love women at my feet, dearest, but this is hardly the time or place.”

  Trelayne rolled her eyes at his lame jest. “For heaven sakes, Lucien, do lend a hand.”

  He reached to assist her, one hand on her upper arm, the other taking liberties with her thigh. The muscles of one long leg flexed beneath his fingers, and a rush of lusty imaginings made him wince. Oh, to see those long legs naked and spread beneath him.

  Trelayne settled back against the squabs and adjusted her shawl. Preoccupied with her mission of mercy, she seemed unaware of the wayward touching

  “What in heaven’s name are all these animals doing running loose in the city?” she asked, renewing their conversation.

  “The same thing they do running loose in the country.” This time he just couldn’t suppress his sarcasm.

  “You know what I mean,” she persisted. “I had no idea people were allowed to keep livestock in their very yards. It does little to improve the smell of things.”

  “Come winter,” he said, flicking a bit of dust from his lapel, “they will probably keep the animals indoors, eating and sleeping right along side of them.”

  “Mother of mercy, why?” She appeared sickened at the prospect.

  “It’s the only fresh meat the poor beggars can obtain. The offerings available at the butchers being abominable in both price and condition.”

  Trelayne stared out window. “This truly is a different world,” she whispered. “Even the snatches of conversation drifting by are thick with brogues and so filled with street slang, I can barely understand a sentence spoken.”

  ****

  Trelayne’s spirits faltered. It was dark and smelly here…and noisy. As they reached one of the few cobbled streets, the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels, mixed with the sounds of the animals and mongers, created a hideous din. It was enough to give one a case of the jitters. No wonder people threw straw in front of houses when the occupant was ill. Anything to mute the noise and offer ease and quiet to the ailing party. Living in the country, lack of peace and calm had never been an issue.

  Entering a mud-filled side avenue, Jeb drew the team to a halt. He scrambled down to assist her, and ended up carrying her through the muck to the front door of the first dwelling. Although grateful for his assistance, from there on out, she insisted on making her own way down the oozing street, one hovel to the next.

  Dispensing the supplies as she saw fit was hard reckoning. All the families were one step away from destitution. She could easily leave all the comforts at just one house, but parceling out the items would bring a little happiness to a number of people rather than a great joy to just a one.

  But the faces of the children touched her the most. Overly docile and already giving in to their lot in life, they languished in dank rooms, resignation emanating from their dull eyes. They stared at her with vacant looks, not laughing or playing or responding to her smiles and
teasing. When she talked to them, they glanced around as if to see to whom she spoke.

  Reaching the final house on her list, she was flooded with guilt at being so grateful for her first tour of facing poverty to be finished. The old woman inside gladly accepted the last basket of food and a handful of candles.

  “These gifts are from the Altar Society of St. Alban’s,” Trelayne repeated for the final time, “and the thoughts and prayers of the congregation accompany them.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, but your prayers be too late for that one.” Bent with age and grief, the old lady nodded in the direction of an adjacent room.

  Although Lucien tried to stay her actions, Trelayne went to the doorway. As her eyes grew accustomed to the bleak light, she detected a young woman lying in the bed, a near-naked newborn at her breast. The girl was still as a statue, her stare unblinking. Was she even alive? The shallow rise and fall of her chest gave credence she was, but this welcome relief was short lived. The babe she held did not move nor cry, and his little arms and legs seemed unnaturally stiff, his coloring dusky, not pink.

  Fighting to remain calm, Trelayne turned back to the old woman. “How long has the baby been....dead?”

  “Nearly a day and a half. She will’na let us take him from her arms. She has nothin’ warm to bury him in, and she’ll not have her Jordie spend all his eternity suffering in the cold ground.”

  Trelayne glanced back into the room, and her throat tightened with sorrow.

  “She hasn’t been right since the wee lad died,” the old woman lamented, “and after such a terrible birthing it were. She’s worried about the resurrection men too. We’ve no money to pay for a decent burial plot where the babe’s body will be left in peace and not stolen for the surgeons to practice on.”

  Trelayne retrieved a one-pound note from her drawstring purse, and gave it to the tearful woman. “Please take this. Buy him a funeral that will put her mind to rest.” She entered the room and eased closer to the bedside, removing her cashmere shawl as she advanced.

  “Now then,” she said softly. “This will keep little Jordie warm as he sleeps with the angels. He must truly be a special boy if our Lord wanted him back so soon. Come now,” she coaxed, extending the shawl closer.

  The young woman turned her head toward the sound of her voice. She appeared young of age, but her eyes mirrored a hundred years of pain and anguish. Trelayne almost glanced away. The new mother released one hand from its fierce grip on the infant and shakily reached toward the fine woolen garment. A barely audible “thank you” passed her lips.

  The elderly woman retrieved the tiny body from its mother’s arms, and carefully swaddled it in the shawl. Rolling onto her side, the girl shook with great sobs and moans, releasing all the grief and sorrow she had been holding back. Trelayne and the older woman quietly left the room.

  “Bless you, missy, for what you done. The way she was acting we were afraid we would lose our Bessie as well as the little one. It were most unnatural the way she just stared into the air, clutching that poor dead babe to her breast. She never ate a bite nor spoke a word the past day and a half. And she never shed a tear until now.”

  Trelayne blinked back tears of her own. “I’m glad I could help.”

  ****

  Grasping Trelayne’s elbow, Lucien escorted her out of the house and toward the waiting coach.

  “Good God, Trelayne. Heaven only knows what the child died from. Do you wish to contract it as well? We are leaving this fever nest immediately, and I’ll not listen to any protestation on your part.”

  None came. In truth, Trelayne appeared stunned to silence. Meeting no resistance, he led her from the nightmare toward the refuge of the carriage. When she wasn’t looking, he shoved aside the throng of children begging for coins and kicked at a skinny dog hoping for a stray morsel of food.

  “Get us out of here,” he barked, to Jeb as he helped her board. “The quickest way possible. Stop for no one.”

  Social rules forgotten, he sat beside Trelayne. Her chin quivered, and she wouldn’t look at him.

  “There, there,” he crooned, boldly putting one arm across her shoulders. “This is only your first experience with the crueler side of life. You will no doubt grow accustomed to it.”

  Tears wet her cheeks, and she buried her face against his waiting shoulder.

  “How can one ever grow accustomed such pain and sorrow? Perhaps I’m not suited for comforting the poor, or standing strong in the face of their suffering. I thought it would be different.”

  “But you were wonderful, my pet,” he soothed, indulging in a self-satisfied smirk.

  In retrospect, the day had not been a total loss after all. Trelayne was broken in spirit and turning to him for solace. Events could not have turned out better.

  And this was just the beginning. In less than a week, she would be obliged to negotiate the wages and cargo fees for the Romney Maiden, her father’s ship. If his plans for sabotage went well, that disastrous experience should be the final blow. With Garrison gone, and her parents still incapacitated, there would be no one to whom she could turn. And he would be there to pick up the pieces.

  Chapter Fourteen

  His body felt unbelievably heavy, as if cast from lead. Maybe he was dead. But was it Heaven or Hell to which he’d been assigned?

  Opening his eyes, Walker peered around. The light from a nearby fire, brighter than a sunburst, nearly struck him blind. Pain shot through his brain, and his stomach heaved. He snapped his eyes closed. It must be the inferno of Hell. Then the comforting aroma of food filled his nostrils. Surely the devil would not offer such tantalizing fare.

  “Where am I?” he asked, but only an animal-like croak came out of his mouth.

  At his pitiful utterance, someone drew near. Squinting open his eyes, he focused on the hulking form towering over him.

  “Praise Odin. You are back from the darkness.”

  The man’s booming voice reverberated from wall to wall, making him cringe.

  “I am called Hargis. What is your name, fine fellow?”

  A good question. What was his name? The pounding in his head increased as he tried to reason out who he was, and what had happened. Having nothing to offer, he remained silent.

  Moving only his eyes, he studied the small room. An odd assortment of animal hides, shields, and weaponry covered the walls. The metal gleamed as if newly polished, the intricate designs were of finely wrought patterns and runes. It wasn’t Hell—it was Valhalla.

  Maybe he was dreaming. He tried to move and the pain took his breath away. He was wide-awake now. Hargis reached to settle him back against the pillows.

  Illuminated by lamp glow, the man dwarfed the room, his shadow darkening the walls. A golden beard, mustache, and shoulder-length hair surrounded his piercing blue eyes. He looked like a Norseman, stepped from the pages of Beowulf.

  “I been calling you Little Hern,” the big Viking informed him, “after my brother, Big Hern. You remind me of him. He is dead and buried five years now, gone for a soldier in the old country. He had the fighting spirit just like you.”

  Hargis touched Walker’s brow then stood back and smiled. “Your fever is finally broken. For a while, I feared my possets and poultices were not equal to the seriousness of your injuries. Only in wartime have I seen a man hurt as badly.”

  Turning, the big man fed more wood to the fire then stirred what was cooking in the pot hanging over the flames.

  Walker tried sitting up. Pain slammed through him again. He sucked in a deep breath, regretting the action as what felt like the tips of broken ribs stabbed at muscle and ligament. He collapsed back on the cot, his mind a dizzy blur of urgent questions needing answers, but he couldn’t pull together a decent thought.

  “You are not ready to be sitting up ways, friend,” Hargis pointed out the obvious. “I get for you some water and good hot soup. Don’t be worrying about your horse,” he added, gathering the bowls and spoons.

  The horse?
He’d forgotten he even had one.

  “I found a ticket for the stables in your pocket. Someone at work knew what it was and where to find the barn. I gave the man money to feed and watch over the animal.” He ladled out the soup. “It has been one hell of a few weeks.”

  A few weeks—good Lord. Again Walker tried to speak, but his tongue, too big and unresponsive, sabotaged the effort. It stuck to the roof of his mouth making even swallowing an effort. Resigned to silence, he ate the soup while casting a covetous stare at the bread and cheese on the cutting board beside Hargis.

  “No solid food for you yet friend. Cheese will bind you. You must be up and about before I dare let you eat such fare. You will tell Hargis your name now?”

  He still couldn’t remember who he was, or what had happened. Only that it seemed vitally important he find out. “Thank you for taking me in,” he managed to say, his throat soothed by the hot soup. “I can’t remember much of anything,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand across his brow, “including my name.”

  “Maybe it is here on this paper?” Hargis rummaged around in small trunk. “It was also in your pocket. I’m good at many things, but reading is not one of them.”

  Intrigued, he slowly reached for the proffered parchment. It was a receipt for a hotel in London, signed by a Captain Walker Garrison. Seeing the name in print opened a door in his brain, and the trapped memories slowly fought their way to freedom.

  “My name is Walker…Walker Garrison,” he muttered. Saying his name aloud prodded his jumble of thoughts into a more logical order.

  Relief eased through him as detail after detail fell into place. Then an image of Trelayne blotted out everything else. Was she safe? How long had he been gone? He had to get back to Royston Hall.