After the Rain

by Elizabeth Johns

  The water was rough as they neared chalk cliffs, to which she could attest by the violent upheaval many of her fellow passengers were experiencing. Her serviceable brown boots were soiled and it was likely her dress was too. She said a silent prayer that she would find her way without too much difficulty. She spoke English well, but she was young and poor, and that did not get anyone far without an additional dose of good fortune.

  Christelle observed the movements in the port as she waited for her trunk to be unloaded. Some passengers had family to meet them, and many others were heading up the hill towards the town. It was her best hope, since she could not afford to travel post to London. She would not make it far on foot, either, with her trunk being nearly as heavy as she was.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  She looked up, startled. An immaculately-dressed man in a silver waistcoat, black coat and trousers was looking down at her with a kindly expression.

  She had to remind herself to speak in English. “I am looking for the way to London.”

  “You may catch the stage at the Royal Hotel. Allow me to help you with your trunk.”

  “I am very much obliged to you, sir,” she replied as he took her heavy burden from her.

  “It is my pleasure. Where are you from? I cannot quite place the accent.”

  “Paris. I hoped I have no accent,” she said, feeling shy.

  “It is very slight, I assure you. I travel widely for the Foreign Office and am used to listening for the differences. I am heading back to the Continent myself, or I would see you to London.”

  “You have been very kind...” she said hesitantly. She neither knew his name, nor why he was helping her.

  “Oh, forgive me! I suppose there is no one to introduce us. James Cole at your service.” He removed his hat and performed a jovial bow.

  “Mademoiselle Stanton,” she said, trying out the feel of her new name on her tongue.

  “That sounds like an English surname. Pleased to meet you, Miss Stanton. Wait here a moment,” he said. He placed her trunk by her feet and strolled into the coaching inn, returning a few moments later. “The stage leaves at half past the hour. They are accustomed to timing departures with the packet arrivals.”

  “That is very convenient. Where may I purchase a ticket?” she asked.

  “No need.” He handed her one with a big smile.

  “Oh, monsieur! I cannot! You must let me pay you,” she said with astonishment.

  “Consider it a gift to welcome you to England. I wish you well in London. Maybe I will have the good fortune to see you again one day.”

  “That would be very nice. Thank you so very much, Mr. Cole. I would be glad to repay your kindness in the future, if all goes well.” She regretted the words the moment she said them. What if he took them for an invitation of the dishonourable kind?

  “Do you have a direction?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I hope to find work as a seamstress while I search for my family.”

  He paused for a moment with a contemplative look. “I would recommend going to Mayfair, then. The best shops are on Oxford Street and Bond Street.”

  “Oxford and Bond,” she repeated so she would not forget.

  “I had best be going,” he said as a whistle blew the signal for the packet to return to France. He doffed his hat to her and walked away to the ship.

  Christelle took a deep breath of briny sea air with a small feeling of hopefulness. “Let it be a good omen,” she said to herself. Looking heavenward, she waited for her journey to begin as she watched the bustle of the passengers and ostlers changing teams of horses.

  She began to stew as she sat inside the coach a few minutes later. She had no idea what the fares were, or how indebted she now was to Mr. Cole. But she could allow herself to panic and make herself ill, so she determined not to think about it. It was over and done with.

  Christelle was also nervous about the new beginning. She tried to focus on the passing countryside and villages, but it was raining and dreary, and the poor roads with their deep ruts caused her to become overly familiar with her fellow travellers.

  Several hours later, she was deposited from the crowded stage coach onto the doorstep of another coaching inn on a very busy street somewhere in London. At least she had had the reprieve of riding inside the coach, she thought, as she was pelted by the freezing rain. It was dark and very late.

  She entered The White Bear to ask where to find rooms and was greeted with disapproving stares. The low-ceilinged room was crowded, warm, and bore the smells of ale and roasting meats. There was a bar filled with men and Christelle stepped forward bravely.

  “Excuse me, sir. Have you a room for tonight?”

  Several men looked up from their conversations and their tankards as the barkeeper looked around her.

  “Where is your maid?” the innkeeper asked impatiently. Many of the stage passengers were also coming inside for assistance.

  “I have no maid. I have only just arrived and have come to look for work.”

  “You had best try the workhouses across the river. Nobody will employ you around here without references,” he said curtly.

  “I have a letter from my headmistress,” she replied with her chin up.

  “That might do. You can try in the morning.” He turned away to tend to someone else.

  “Where may I find rooms tonight?” she asked to his back.

  “A boarding house in St. Giles might take you alone. Ain't no reputable place going to take you here,” he called over his shoulder.

  Christelle gasped. She would freeze to death on the streets in this weather. Where was St. Giles? She could see she had reached the limits of the innkeeper’s helpfulness, if one dared to call it such. She began to drag her trunk by the handle. It would not survive long with such treatment. However, she could not lift it for more than a few minutes at a time. She walked outside into the elements and looked around for another inn where she could try and find a bed for the night.

  There was one across the street, which she thought another passenger had called Piccadilly. She said a prayer that she would receive more kindness, such as Mr. Cole had shown her in Dover. She picked up her trunk and struggled to make it across the cobblestones without being run over by the traffic.

  The White Horse was about the same as The White Bear had been. The public room was full of men drinking and many stared at her when she walked in. She was too tired to care. She set her trunk down inside the door and looked for the innkeeper.

  “Sir, do you have a room I may rent for tonight?”

  The man looked her up and down. “I don't run that kind of place, miss.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, where is your maid or your chaperone?”

  She hung her head. “I have none.”

  “Then I have no room.”

  “Can you tell me where to find one?”

  “Covent Garden would take ye,” he snorted out to guffaws from several of his patrons.

  “I'll take you, sweetheart!” one man called across the room.

  She ranted under her breath in French and dragged her trunk out of the door. Men could be disgusting pigs in all countries, apparently. The publican did not run that kind of place, her right eye! He did not think she could pay.

  Slowly she walked a few paces and asked the next person she saw for directions to St. Giles. He gave her a strange look but pointed the other way.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The man walked away, shaking his head.

  Christelle began walking once more, lugging her trunk along behind her and picking it up to cross the road. After she had passed a few streets, she could no longer feel her fingers or toes. She looked up to discover a large bridge over the river in front of her. To the right, there was an imposing palace and church. Was this the right place? The first innkeeper had mentioned workhouses across the river. She had gone the wrong way.

  The wind was noticeably fiercer and colder alongside the
water. Tears began to stream down her face, partly from the wind and partly from the growing despair she felt. She refused to go to a workhouse. She knew precisely what that meant—she refused to sell her soul to one and die young.

  She walked a few more feet on to the bridge and looked down into the water. Sobs shook her body and she began to consider the water to be more and more inviting. A conversation with herself ensued. Jumping was the coward’s way out, and she was no coward. Surviving ill treatment at school and her mother's death were proof of that. However, she knew what the man at the inn had been referring to. Why was selling one's body the only alternative for a woman in her position? She was not afraid to toil hard, but first she had to find work. Leaning her arms against the bridge, she put her head down to shield it from the freezing wind and rain; she was too cold and tired to think rationally. Perhaps she could find a stable to sneak into for the night and everything would look better in the morning.

  Suddenly she felt a body crash into her and she stumbled.

  Seamus was whistling as he went along his usual route home from the hospital on this drizzly, foggy January evening. He was feeling unrealistically hopeful for an early spring, and he was becoming accustomed to city life. He was not yet certain he had done himself a favour by removing to London, but it had only been a few weeks which was too soon to pass judgement.

  He looked across the bridge towards Lambeth and remembered Mr. Baker, the baker. He had not returned for his appointment that day. Perhaps he would try to find his way to the bakery on his next morning off.

  He headed to the edge of the bridge to buy his evening meat pie from Mrs. Higgins on the corner, but hesitated and decided to keep going across the bridge to Lambeth instead. He had eaten too many meat pies since leaving Wyndham, which was not one of the finer points of bachelorhood.

  It felt as though he had passed into the country, so different did the south side of the bridge look from the north of the river. There was a boat builder lining the bank, the large covered riding ring of Astley’s Amphitheatre, and in the distance he even spied some windmills.

  A few streets away, he found the bakery situated in between a greengrocer and a wax chandler, with rooms above for living. It was a neat establishment, the front windows displaying samples of its wares, surrounded by chequered green and white curtains to match the letters over the shop door. He immediately felt welcome as he opened the door to a bell's jingle. The delicious aroma of baking bread assailed him and his stomach rumbled in response.

  An older woman, whose white hair showed around the edges of her mob-cap, smiled at him while looking over her spectacles.

  “How may I help you, young man? We were about to close for the day, but I still have a few items for sale.”

  “I apologize for my lateness, Mrs. Baker. Do you happen to have any chocolate puffs left?”

  “Why, no.” She looked at him strangely. “How did you know my name? Have we met before?”

  “I think not. I am your husband's physician, Seamus Craig. He did not keep his appointment today and I wanted to see how he was faring.”

  “Oh!” She scurried around from behind the counter and came to greet him. “You are such a dear to call on that old rogue.” She walked to the door behind them and locked it. “Follow me, Doctor.”

  She walked through the kitchen to a set of stairs at the back of the building and began to climb slowly. Seamus was uncertain what he was walking into, but house calls were a normal part of his work.

  “Raymond,” she called.

  “Eh?” the old man answered from an armchair near the fire.

  “Your physician has come to see you. You failed to mention you had an appointment today,” she said standing with her hands on her hips and looking down at her husband.

  “It is not until Thursday,” he said defensively.

  “Today is Thursday!”

  “It matters not.” Seamus intervened before their exchange got out of hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Please have a seat, Dr. Craig,” Mrs. Baker insisted before leaving the room.

  Seamus pulled a chair up from the nearby table and sat close to Mr. Baker so he could examine him.

  “I do feel better,” the old man admitted. “My legs are less swollen and I can breathe easier."

  “You have been using the foxglove?”

  The dour man grunted assent. “And I have been putting my legs up on the foot stool after I work, as you can see.”

  “Excellent. Continue the medicine as prescribed and try to come and see me in about a month.”

  “I suppose I will receive a bill for your house call,” he said in his gruff way. “I do not suppose you take payment in pastries.”

  Seamus had to grin at the old man. He started to leave when Mrs. Baker returned through the door with a tray.

  “Where are you going, young man? You may not leave until you have eaten your fill.”

  Seamus promptly sat down again as though he were back in school. She had likely heard his stomach growl earlier.

  He spent the next hour sampling some of the most delicious pastries, a mixture of savoury meat pies and sweet cream tarts—the best tea he had ever tasted—and being fussed over and coddled by Mrs. Baker. He discovered the couple had only had one child, who had died from a putrid throat before the age of five. They had been left to work in their bakery. He felt sad for them, as they were growing old alone, and this strengthened his desire to have a large family.

  “I had best take my leave now, Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I must be back to work early in the morning,” he said as he placed his cup in its saucer and stood.

  “Yes, the day begins early for us as well. I will see you out,” the woman said.

  He followed her down the stairs to the shop entrance.

  “Thank you for coming to see my husband, Dr. Craig. I knew you would be able to help him. He was able to make his chocolate puffs again for the first time yesterday. You are always very welcome here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I am just doing my job. Thank you for the tea.”

  She handed him a small box of pastries. “These were left after the shop closed today."

  He did not object as he could tell it made her happy to give him something.

  “If you insist."

  She smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. "Good night."

  He could have hailed a hackney, but he preferred to walk, even though it was dark and rainy as it had been for most of the day. Night was his favourite time to see Westminster, the gaslights illuminating the bridge and medieval palace.

  He began to rethink his decision to walk when the rain started to come down in small pellets that stung his skin. He pulled his collar up and his beaver hat down to shield his eyes from the sleet. He thrust his hands in his pockets and doggedly put one foot in front of the other, thinking about the fire and glass of brandy that awaited him in his rooms.

  He was so distracted, he ran straight into someone in front of him.

  “I beg your pardon!” he said, reaching out to steady the person from falling. “Are you hurt?”

  The small figure shook its head, but continued looking down.

  “Miss?” he guessed, although he had not seen the face. “Have I harmed you?”

  “No. I am unharmed,” he heard a feminine voice with a slight lilt say.

  “Do you need help? Why are you standing on the bridge in this weather?” He was being intrusive, but his physician's instinct was warning him a body did not stand on a bridge in freezing temperatures for pleasure. “Miss?”

  The woman finally looked up at him, her lids red-rimmed from crying. Seamus took in those large eyes staring helplessly up at him and his heart squeezed inside his chest. He could not walk away, much though his bones were growing weary and his feet were becoming numb. What of this little waif? How long had she been out here in the freezing rain?

  “My name is Seamus Craig. May I escort you home?”

  She shook her head violently and turned away tow
ards the water. He blew out a frustrated breath.

  “Miss, I cannot allow you to stay here and freeze to death.”

  “Je n'ai nulle part où aller!” she said with surprising spirit.

  Seamus looked up in astonishment. He was not expecting French. He looked over her appearance and noticed she was dirty, but wore well-made clothes under her coat.

  “If only Margaux were here,” he muttered under his breath, wishing his half-French step-mother could intercede. His sisters had learned to speak more fluently than he had, since he had been away at school when Margaux came into their lives. He cleared his throat and tried.

  “Je t'aiderai.”

  She looked up with wide eyes. “Parlez vous Français?”

  “I am not certain I do. Let us find shelter from the cold and you can explain everything to me.”

  He began to lead her away, but she had stopped to pick up a trunk. He groaned to himself. She was either fresh from the boat or had been evicted. “Allow me.”

  “Have we far to go?” she asked innocently.

  “Far enough,” he replied as he walked to the end of the bridge and hailed a cab.

  Chapter 3

  You are well served, Seamus thought to himself as they climbed into the hack. He had wondered how he would meet a female, but this was not quite what he had had in mind.

  “Where to, guv’nor?” the cabbie asked.

  Seamus froze. He lived in a bachelor’s apartment and it was frowned upon to take women there. Options ran through his mind—he could try his grandmère, Lady Ashbury, but he knew nothing about this person—except she was French, and that was not a good enough reason to impose on her ladyship late at night. He could not take her to Craig House and leave her alone. It was closed up and would not be ready for a guest. He had no alternative but to sneak her into his rooms for tonight.

  “St. James's,” he answered hesitantly.

  Fortunately, his rooms were on the first floor and he could enter without a great deal of fuss.

  He handed the girl down, paid the driver and unstrapped her trunk from the boot.

  “We need to be quiet,” he said to her and she followed him through the door. “These are bachelor rooms,” he explained once they were inside.