by Jim Piecuch
The rain had increased in fury, and Tim wondered how Ginny Whitson and Jonathan were faring in such weather. Familiar with the East End and other neighborhoods populated by London’s poor, he knew that a search for them would likely prove futile. Perhaps the best course would be to wait for them to come to him.
Tim had trouble finding a hansom—there was much competition for them, given the weather—but finally found one. Nevertheless, he had gotten soaked during his search. He was in his foyer holding his sopping overcoat, wondering what to do with it, when Bridget appeared, having come to see who had opened the door.
“Doctor, you’re home early,” she said cheerfully. “And dripping wet, too.”
“Sorry to make such a mess, Bridget,” Tim said. “It was hard to get a cab.”
“Leave your boots here and go up and change,” Bridget told him. “I’ll be up for your wet clothes. I’ll start dinner and put your hat, coat, and boots next to the stove to dry.”
“Thank you,” Tim replied. He was always pleased with her attentiveness. She performed her duties with genuine goodwill, unlike some servants he had seen who went about their tasks sullenly. He needed to show her more appreciation. Henry and William, too.
Tim had dressed in dry clothes and boots when Bridget knocked on his chamber door. She put the wet clothes in a wicker basket that she had brought, and accompanied him downstairs.
“I’m very grateful for all you do,” Tim told her. “Sometimes I forget to show it, but be assured that I am.”
“I know how busy you are, Doctor, so pay that no mind. Thank you.”
Tim sat down in the dining room. William had come in to stoke the fire, and Tim moved his chair closer to enjoy the warmth. He thanked the gardener for his kindness. William laughed it off. Tim examined the Christmas decorations in the room, and found them wonderful. Holly surrounded the bases of glass lamps, each containing a red candle. These adorned the fireplace mantel and the tops of side tables. Pine boughs wrapped loosely in red and gold ribbons were draped from hooks installed near the tops of all four walls. Interspersed among the greenery and ribbons were clusters of lemons, oranges, and bright red apples, adding additional splashes of brilliant color. From each corner of the room, more ribbon-bedecked pine garlands stretched to the central chandelier, where the four strands met in the pine-and-holly wreath that surrounded the brass fixture. Tim inhaled the pleasant scent of pine. William and Henry had clearly outdone themselves, and he was impressed.
“This is wonderful, William. I love it!” he said with exuberance. “I can’t wait for the guests to see it. My nieces and nephews will be amazed.”
William again laughed off the compliment, though Tim could see that the gardener was much pleased by his reaction.
“If the fire’s got the chill out of your bones, Doctor, come along and look at the foyer, if you please.”
The foyer had been dark when Tim got home; since he was not expected that early, no one had lit the gas lamps, so he had not seen the decorations. William now took care of the illumination, which revealed more holly-ringed and glass-enclosed candles on the tabletops, and a similar array of pine and ribbons on the walls and ceiling. The gardener pointed to the staircase, where red, gold, and green ribbons were intertwined on the banister. The railing on the upper floor was draped with pine garlands, colored ribbons, and fruit.
“Wonderful,” Tim repeated. For the first time that year, Tim felt the special twinge of joy that he identified with the Christmas spirit. William strode to the door under the stairs and opened the closet.
“Look here, Doctor,” he said. “We’ve made two wreaths, but haven’t hung them yet. Didn’t want the rain to wash the color out of the ribbons.”
Each pine wreath was adorned with sprigs of holly, a repeating pattern of red, white, and gold ribbons, and several lemons and oranges to add brightness. Tim guessed that each wreath was about three feet across, perfectly sized for each of the double front doors. Tim was admiring them when Bridget appeared to announce that dinner would be ready in a half hour.
“I hope you’ll all dine with me tonight,” Tim said. “We need to talk about the party.”
When the invitation was put in those terms, the servants could not easily refuse. Nor did they really wish to; after Tim’s trouble with the Langdons the previous day they felt that he might benefit from a gesture of support.
Once they were seated around the dining room table, their conversation focused first on the party. Bridget announced that she had begun receiving replies to the invitations, and it appeared that all of the prospective guests would attend.
“Did the Cromptons reply?” Tim inquired. “I know I asked you to send them an invitation, but I may have forgotten to mention that their daughter, Jane, will be acting as hostess this year.”
This unexpected bit of news caused eyebrows to rise around the table. Henry and Bridget shared a surprised look.
“Of course, Doctor,” Bridget said after a moment’s hesitation to ensure that her voice conveyed no surprise. “The Cromptons still haven’t replied to their invitation.” Pausing again, she continued, “I know that in the past you’ve always invited Dr. Eustace in person, but he never comes. Do you want me to send him a formal invitation this year? As a way of making amends?”
“What makes you think I’ve fallen from the doctor’s good graces?” asked Tim.
“It seems a safe bet after that row with the Langdons,” Henry observed.
“You’re quite the perceptive group,” Tim noted with a smile. “And you’re absolutely right. But the doctor already rejected my personal invitation before this little incident, and it will take more than a written invitation to the party to satisfy Dr. Eustace now. So don’t waste your time, Bridget.”
“I know it’s not my place to say anything,” Bridget replied, “but I don’t really care for that man.”
Tim found her comment amusing. He found her forthrightness appealing and sometimes wished that he could speak as freely.
“You’re right, Bridget,” Tim conceded. “But unfortunately, the man is the senior partner in our practice. Really, he’s my employer rather than my partner. As the three of you seem to have surmised, he paid me a visit today.
“After the Langdons left yesterday evening,” Tim continued, “they rushed directly to his house to complain. The old man told Eustace that I insulted his wife and that he was sassed by a scullery maid. We really made an impression.”
“Partners in crime,” William noted dryly.
“The nasty creature!” Bridget declared. “And Eustace took their part, I daresay!” She was about to say more, but Henry reached over and placed his hand over hers to calm her. A few moments later she rose from the table and began gathering the empty plates.
“Let’s just say my partner wasn’t happy with either of us. He has forbidden you from assisting me in the office, and he also ordered me not to treat any more poor people who might call on me there in the future.”
“How will that affect Ginny and Jonathan?” Henry asked, anxious to change the subject before Bridget’s temper flared.
“I’m still going to try to help her son,” Tim said. “If I can’t do it at the office, I’ll do it here, or in hospital. But first we have to find her. Henry, I know it’s getting late, but do you mind preparing the coach for a ride to the East End?”
“Not at all, Doctor.” Henry replied. “I’ll go and harness the horses.”
“I’ll help you,” said Bridget, who had just returned to the room to gather the silverware. “William will help me wash up the plates after you and the doctor leave.”
“I will?” asked William. Bridget gave him a stern look. “Right, I will,” he said with feigned exasperation.
In the carriage house, Henry cinched tight the harness on the dappled gray gelding and turned to Bridget. “I thought you might say something about us to the doctor
at dinner, since he was in fairly good spirits.”
“I nearly did,” Bridget replied, “but with all that’s gone on with Dr. Eustace and the Langdons, I was afraid his mood was fragile, and didn’t want to upset him.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” the coachman said. “And he was so generous in complimenting us tonight, it was better not to hurt him by telling him that you’ll be leaving his service when we marry.”
“Things may change and make it easier,” Bridget observed. “He surprised me when he mentioned that young lady.”
“I nearly choked on a mouthful of peas when he said it,” Henry agreed. “It would be good for him, providing that she’s a good woman. Like the one I’m going to marry.”
Bridget blushed, her freckles turning a shade darker than her reddened cheeks.
Henry drove the carriage around to the front door, helped Bridget alight from her perch beside him, and opened the door for Tim, who had been waiting. The rain had stopped, and the night was not too cold.
“I’ll ride up top with you,” Tim said, “and give directions. I don’t know the addresses of a lot of the places we’re going, but I can tell you how to get there.”
“It’s going to be hard to find two people in that maze of streets, and such crowds,” Henry noted.
“Just about impossible,” Tim said. “I gave it some thought, and decided it wasn’t even worth trying. We’d never manage it on our own. But I have another idea.”
During his years of treating London’s poor, Tim explained to his coachman, he had come to know many people who were acquainted with a large number of the inhabitants in the impoverished districts. Often it was they who learned of someone in need of his services, and directed him to that person. Some were postmen, costermongers, shop and tavern keepers, midwives, even a few political agitators casting for support among the lower classes. By spreading the word among twenty or thirty of these people, and asking them to pass it along, Tim figured that within a day or two there would be hundreds of people looking for Ginny and Jonathan. Although he could also inform the constables, who knew the inhabitants of the neighborhoods where they patrolled, Tim was aware that Ginny didn’t trust them, and so he had decided not to enlist their help.
As the brougham made its way through the crowded streets, Tim wondered how the people he planned to call upon would respond to his request for help. Would they still be willing to assist him, or would they feel that he had abandoned them for the riches of Harley Street and refuse?
Such fears were put to rest at Tim’s first stop in Whitechapel. Spying a familiar costermonger, he asked Henry to stop. He was climbing down from the driver’s bench when the vendor, who sold apples from a pushcart, shouted a greeting.
“Dr. Cratchit, I do believe!” the weathered man, well into middle age, called. “What a pleasure this is!” He wiped his right hand on his dirty apron and extended it to Tim. The doctor shook it gladly.
“Jack, still here, I see,” Tim said. “I’m happy to see you.” He hesitated a moment, groping for a memory. “How are Charlotte and the children?”
“You do remember,” said the impressed costermonger. “All quite well, thank you, Doctor. Little Catherine is growing up strong and bright as a new penny, thanks to you.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tim replied. After a few minutes of catching up, Tim explained his errand. Jack promised to keep an eye out for Ginny, and to spread the word to his fellow vendors and anyone else who might be of help. Tim thanked him.
“My pleasure, Doctor,” Jack assured him. “You ought to come ’round more often. We all talks about you, and how we wishes we saw more of you. Merry Christmas!”
Tim met with similar responses from everyone else he called upon. Warm greetings, a chat about old times, a gentle chiding at his long absence, and sincere promises of assistance.
Henry, having overheard many of the conversations, ventured a comment as they drove home.
“These people love you, Doctor,” he said.
Tim nodded in acknowledgment. They do, he thought. Even though I’ve abandoned them for the past several years, they still do. They remember me. This realization brought him a measure of comfort. It also brought him a great deal of pain.
“I worried that they might have forgotten me,” Tim replied. “But I’m the one who’s forgotten them.” The coachman turned, saw the sorrowful look on the doctor’s face, and said nothing.
Chapter 10
Ginny had not gone far from the mission after she left on Sunday evening. The sidewalks were slippery with snow, and after walking about a quarter mile she decided not to risk a fall that might injure Jonathan. She found a bakery with a recessed doorway, where she sat and cradled her son in her arms. She wished that she had a blanket, but after swaddling Jonathan in the extra clothes that Bridget had bought for them, the best she could do was place her satchel in front of her: a pitiful barrier against the freezing night.
It was barely four o’clock in the morning when the baker arrived and rousted her from her shelter. She stuffed most of the clothing that had wrapped Jonathan back in the satchel and then, to keep warm, she walked about aimlessly in the gray predawn light, grateful that the boy still slept, yet worried by his frequent shivers. At last the sun came up, bringing a bit of warmth. With the five shillings she had reluctantly accepted from Bridget, she bought milk and cheese from a dairyman’s cart. Jonathan ate as much as he wanted, which was very little, while she ate sparingly, not wishing to indulge when her resources were so scanty. She also bought a wool blanket at one of the shops she passed, and was pleased that the man at the counter treated her with politeness rather than the scorn to which she was accustomed. Evidently, he judged her by the quality of her new, if badly rumpled, frock.
Ginny pondered what she should do next. With only three shillings left, she would have to seek work, but she concluded that it was more important to find a room where Jonathan would be sheltered from the nighttime cold. She began threading her way through the streets toward the factory district.
An hour later, the changes in the air told Ginny that she was nearing her destination. The dirty, gray-brown haze that usually covered London grew thicker and dimmed the sun, and an occasional shift in the wind brought clouds of tiny black flakes swirling downward from unseen factory chimneys. Men in frayed clothing, who had been unable to find work that day, stood on the sidewalks in small clusters, sharing talk and sometimes a bottle of cheap gin. Ginny’s level of alertness, conditioned by her hard-earned survival instincts, automatically rose. She kept to the outer edge of the sidewalk, away from the buildings, scanning the doorways ahead for lurkers and frequently turning her head to check behind her.
Approaching an alley to her left, Ginny noticed a young girl sitting languidly beneath the loading dock of a manufactory. As Ginny came nearer, the girl got up and moved quickly toward her.
“Spare a penny, m’lady?” the girl asked.
Ginny studied the girl, who seemed no older than twelve. She was very thin, her face dirty, her short brown hair unevenly cut and matted with grime. She wore a colorful outfit sewn from old burlap bags and lined with rags. Ginny was surprised to see the neat stitching that held the makeshift garments together. Half a dozen needles of various sizes, trailing different hues of thread, were stuck in a strip of burlap just below the girl’s left shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Ginny inquired.
“’Liz’beth, mum,” the girl answered. “Like the queen back in olden days. But I like to be called Lizzie. Now, about that penny.”
Ginny smiled at the girl’s persistence, but was forced to admit that she had no money to spare.
“Yer kind is all like that,” the girl sneered. “You can spend a week’s wages on a new frock, but not a copper for the likes o’ me.” She turned and began walking back to her lair beneath the loading dock.
“Wait a minute!” Gin
ny called, and the girl spun around. “You’re right, I do have a nice dress, but only because a friend bought it for me. So I don’t want to hear anything about ‘your kind.’ If you want the truth, I’m your kind. Except for one night at St. Luke’s Mission, I’ve been sleeping in doorways for more than a year. Now come back, and I’ll give you some cheese.”
“Sorry, mum,” Lizzie said, genuinely apologetic. “I don’t never see folks like us dressed so nice. Maybe you oughter sell them clothes. You could eat for a week on what that frock would fetch.”
The talk about her clothes reminded Ginny that she needed to let Tim know what had happened. She decided to find him after she got a room, and see if he had learned anything that could help Jonathan. Meanwhile, she could not abandon Lizzie to the streets. A young girl like her could easily fall prey to a host of abuses.
“I’ve got a few shillings left and was going to get a room,” Ginny explained to Lizzie. “Why don’t you come with me, and you can watch my son while I go out and find work. Then we can all sleep indoors for a change.”
“Do you have to work again?” Jonathan said sadly. “I like it better when you stay with me.”
“We’ll be fine,” Lizzie told the boy. “I’ll sing you my favorite songs.”
On their walk to the rooming house, Lizzie told Ginny her life’s story with scarcely a pause for breath.
“Me mum and papa apprenticed me out to a seamstress when I was six,” Lizzie said. “I was hard used, but learned a lot, and was getting good at sewing and such. Then the mistress’s business got slow, so she sent me back home.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “Mum had died, and Papa’s new wife said they couldn’t afford to keep me with them, and turned me out. That was near a month ago, and I’ve been living in that alley since. I knocked on some doors and offered to sew, but had ’em slammed smack back in my nose. So I begs, and sometimes get enough to buy a little food. I can’t scrounge nothing from the trash to eat, the men and women fight each other over it, and I don’t dare get near ’em. Is that how you got them marks on your face, fightin’ for somethin’ to eat?”
