by Alexa Aston
On the advice of The Argus editor, she was to use a nom de plume instead of her own name. Oddly, it had given her courage to be more bold in her words and forthright in her telling – something she would never had done on her own.
Tonight, the eve of the publication of the first article, she was to pen the last in the series. From the sheaf on her right, she withdrew the first to read again, a reminder of her mission of hope:
How easy it is to overlook what is right in front of us if it is not convenient to notice.
While one may rail at the cook for the smallness of the plum puddings or the meanness of the flesh to be found on the goose, consider that your blessings may have already been given and you are ungrateful for them.
For so many would be delighted to have a taste of a plum pudding liberally flavored with brandy or savor a slice of meat cut from the breast.
But such want and hardship seem invisible to people who have much, and feel themselves hard done by when they do not have more.
The Christmas season is soon upon us, where the pious and impious among us both will sit in the church pews and be reminded of the Lord of Creation who humbled Himself to be born as a poor babe.
Can we not do the same? Humble ourselves from our lofty positions to see the world from the eyes of those who have nothing?
Charity begins at home, we are told, but when our houses are already filled with food, drink, and pleasure, might we not enlarge our hearts and look beyond our own threshold?
Personal charity, combined with equitable laws to protect the most vulnerable in our society, is a just cause around which all good men ought to rally.
Caroline nodded with satisfaction. Plain speaking was what was needed. There followed her first subject – the plight of youngsters forced into labor as chimney sweeps.
The missive was concluded with her chosen nom de plume – The Nightingale.
She smiled at the name. It seemed appropriate. She was a little voice drawing attention to those in darkness and in need.
She drew a fresh sheet of paper before her, flicked open her inkwell with a thumbnail, and began to write…
Chapter Three
Julian woke and wondered why everything ached. Then he remembered. The surprised look on the boy’s face as he gathered the child in his arms, the closeness of the hoof that grazed him, the bruising fall onto the cobbles…
But mostly he remembered the face of the woman who came to claim the boy.
Her brown eyes framed with finely arched eyebrows were what remained with him. Then her voice, warm and cultured, at odds with her rather plainly fashioned dress and cloak. A governess? If so, why was she out so late with her charge?
Letting out a groan, he rolled up into a seated position on the edge of the bed. He scrubbed his face, feeling the new morning’s bristles.
A sliver of light peaked through the thick, blue curtains that covered the window. He’d slept later than he planned.
He rang for a valet while he attended to his most pressing personal business. By the time he had set out his razor and soaps for washing, two footmen entered, one with a large ewer of hot water, the second with a tray with a small pot of tea with the morning edition of The Argus under his arm.
“Good morning, sir,” said the elder of the two men.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Viscount Carmarthan left instruction for you to sleep as long as you wished, sir. It is currently just after nine o’clock.”
Not so late, then.
The footmen left. Julian stripped, observing in a mirror the dark bruises along his thigh and searching behind him, found the distinct shape of a hoof on his back. That, he hadn’t even felt at the time…
He wished he’d had the opportunity to talk to the woman and child – even if only to scold her for being so careless.
But there was something not right about the pair which he couldn’t put his finger on. If the child was hers as she had claimed, Julian wondered about the father, because there was little of her that he could see in the lad.
He shook his head and continued with his washing. There was no point in pursuing the matter; he would never see them again. Besides, he had important things to attend to, such as the first annual general meeting of the Wheal Gunnis Copper Mining Company.
There was only good news from that quarter. The lode they had discovered had been more promising than preliminary testing had revealed. All the shareholders were to receive a dividend in the New Year, which was quite remarkable for a company so new.
If the meeting was to discuss that alone, he might very well have stayed in Somerset and given up the invitation to London. But Wheal Gunnis’ true owner, Phillip Gedding, the brother of Allie, the new Viscountess Carmarthan, wanted to discuss paying out some minor investors. His plan was to bring the company back into the hands of its three original shareholders – Gedding, the Viscount, and himself – and he was the last to arrive.
Julian spread the newssheets on the bed while he finished dressing.
So, who was bidding what for copper, today?
Part of an opinion item caught his eye.
…that children as young as six are being exposed to such dangers as the illnesses borne from soot. Chimney sweeps younger than eleven years have been known to suffer chimney sweep cancer…
A sharp knock on the door broke his concentration.
“Enter.”
“The viscount asks whether or not you will join him and the viscountess for breakfast.”
Julian hid a smile, viscount… in the year since he met David, never once had the man called on formality. Hell, it had been six months before he even knew the man had a title. Julian found him in the dining room with Allie opposite him.
He had never given much thought to getting caught in the parson’s mousetrap, but ever since this couple’s wedding, he had begun thinking more and more about it – the idea of getting married, of sharing his life with a woman who might take an interest in his work, and one who would want something more than a life of social excitement in the city.
Seeing David and Allie together now and the tender looks they shared across the dining table only reinforced that notion.
Yes, he wasn’t too proud to admit it – he wanted a wife.
But the face of Lydia came to him unbidden. A chill went down his back and he didn’t hold back on the grimace that crossed his face.
Despite the girl’s looks, there could be no doubting a marriage between them would be one of misery. Being fair of face and form was not enough compensation for being shackled to someone as superficial and capricious as he knew her to be.
He hoped Lady Abigail could work her magic and perhaps find the girl some equally empty-headed lord to wed.
Meanwhile, he wanted someone who would be a partner, a help-meet.
“Well, are you going to stand on the threshold all day gurning, or are you going to come in?” said David with friendly exasperation. “How are you feeling today, Winter? You seemed quite knocked about last night.”
“Better for a good night’s sleep,” Julian replied, helping himself to a generous amount of ham, eggs, and toast.
“It could have been serious,” said Allie. “You were lucky you didn’t break a bone or worse.”
Julian took a seat. “I seem to have the worst luck around pretty women, as you well know.” He offered his hostess a self-deprecating smile and received a sympathetic one in return.
“You should leave the matchmaking to me,” she said. “There are a number of very eligible young ladies attending our ball.”
“Don’t think she doesn’t mean it. I’ve seen the guest lists,” David joined in, a twinkle in his eye showing that his friend was having just a little too much fun at his expense.
Nonetheless, Julian bore the ribbing with good humor. After all, if there was anyone who understood the pitfalls of succumbing to family pressure, it was David. It had stolen ten years of the man’s life. Julian didn’t intend to make the same mi
stake.
It was fine, he’d get his own back. There might be a game of cards at White’s after the meeting of the board, and Julian didn’t intend to lose.
He raised a tea cup in salute. “Anything Allie and her godmother can do to thwart my aunt’s hopes and Lydia’s ambition, is quite all right by me, Manston.”
Allie wrinkled her nose. “Do spare a thought for me. While you gentlemen take your leave to enjoy a productive board meeting, I shall be attending Lady Abigail’s ‘at-home’ to welcome your cousin and her friend.”
“I’m sure a trip to the modistes, the milliners and the jewelers will provide adequate compensation,” David quipped.
“You shall know how the day fares by the size of the bills they send you,” she parried back.
Her husband gave a mock shudder and muttered something about bankruptcy.
Julian observed the humorous and affectionate byplay between his friends and fought the small knot of… not jealousy, no, nothing as crass as that – but envy. How can one possibly capture and emulate that spark of romance, that togetherness he witnessed in his two friends? How could he find something like that for himself?
As soon as it was polite, he helped himself to the newspaper and found the article he’d started reading.
The cancer is a less obvious but no less hazardous form of industrial illness. Many dangers are more obvious to the eye. Infections from scrapes caused by rough stones inside the chimney – or even burns if the chimney itself catches alight – are manifold as these boys are often required to do their duty naked.
Imagine the horror of being trapped in a flue, unable to stretch an arm or a leg, in near darkness and in terror of dying in such a spot? Or a child falling to his death from a great height?
Laws are desperately needed to prevent the exploitation of children, some of whom begin their labors as young as six years old, orphans and children from the poor houses favored for their slight size.
The worst offense of all is there is no need for children to be exploited so. Devices so invented such as the scandiscope ought to put an end to the need for such physical labor – especially under such dangerous conditions – and yet far too many of our important households give no thought to performing such a simple service.
Julian continued to read. The writer not only implored for the improvement of the laws but called on the good citizenry of London to consider what they might do personally to alleviate the suffering.
For there is a time to render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s, and that which is God’s unto God, but that ought never to mean one should favor one over the other; the world of the temporal as well as the spiritual, need to work together for the benefit of all mankind.
Julian flipped back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the author of such impassioned prose and it was there, beneath the headline in much smaller type:
The Nightingale.
*
Caroline was up and dressed at the unfashionably early hour of eight o’clock.
She peered in on Lucas who remained fast asleep and instructed Mrs. Stewart to let him sleep for as long as he wished.
When she had found him on the steps of St. Luke’s, he was old enough to walk but not talk beyond infantile babble. In the time since, the boy had thrived. He was an open and curious child and Caroline was delighted to see how much he had developed.
Above all, he loved his wooden Ark and could name all the animals he stretched out in a line, placing like with like, two by two on a march toward the big boat.
As much as she adored having Lucas all to herself, she would soon have to consider his future. He would need a tutor. He would need to be introduced into her society as well as make friends with other children his age.
But there was the rub.
She could not pass him off as her own child. She had been too long a widow. Yet if she announced him as a foundling then he would be forever seen as a child of charity, to be pitied, rather than a boy to be taken on his own merits.
Caroline shook her head. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.
The first of her articles for The Argus would be in the morning edition. She reined in her excitement by attending to her correspondence but, after that was done, she wondered whether she ought to send one of her footmen to the newspaper vendors.
Perhaps she would after a second cup of tea…
A knock at the front door broke her musing. Caroline heard the familiar voice of Reverend Camp.
She emerged from the drawing room in time to see Fordyce take a large bundle of papers from the vicar.
“Good morning, my dear!” said Reverend Camp with warm familiarity. “I knew you’d be up and my dear wife did advise against arriving too early to your door, but I knew you would be most interested in seeing this.”
He handed her a copy of a broadsheet. The Argus.
“Look at the article here in the newspaper – it’s everything we’ve spoken about – the health of the chimney sweeps, the welfare of the children. It’s marvelous! And so close to Christmas, too, when people are more inclined to turn their hearts toward charity.”
Caroline fought a racing heart. Would he recognize there was more to it than that?
She volunteered at St. Luke’s Mission and knew the stories of many of the regulars.
As did he…
She said nothing but watched Reverend Camp and saw the moment he pieced it together.
He looked again at the article, his face beaming. Then his brow furrowed in thought before his eyes slowly rose to meet hers.
“This is your doing? You’re the Nightingale?”
She nodded and held her breath, not trusting herself to speak.
The reverend and his wife had been so kind, she would hate to lose their friendship. But there was so much to be done and these people and their kindly parishioners could only do so much on their own.
Should she apologize? Attempt to explain her actions?
A moment later, the minister blinked away his surprise and broke out into a grin.
“Far be it for me to wave away the hand of Providence!”
He pointed behind him, where a bemused Fordyce still held a stack of paper.
“Your friend at The Argus has gone so far as to print pamphlets! They ask MPs and citizens alike to support new child labor laws. More than that, he appears to have delivered several hundred to parishes all across London!”
Caroline took one from Fordyce and scanned through it. The words were hers, only in larger type, with a call to write to one’s Member of Parliament.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” she said. “What are we going to do with all of these?”
“I have just the suggestion,” said Reverend Camp, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I shall arrange for our party to distribute these in Hyde Park.”
Chapter Four
Julian looked out of the window of the second story office in the city. It overlooked a small square and men and women below went about their business, their heads down against a passing shower. It was a strange autumn this – in its dying days it was warmer than most years and wetter, too. Some said this month might be more like March than the first of December.
The square was surrounded by trees, the foliage of which was bare for the coming winter. Yet there were still evergreen shrubs and, from his vantage, Julian could see the occasional little bird flitting over the greenery.
The Nightingale…
Why had the writer chosen that as a nom de plume? What meaning did it have? The birds themselves were little bigger than sparrows. In their drab, they went unnoticed most of the time and yet, when they sang, men were enchanted.
So, it was a name picked by an educated man…
Julian thought back to his days as a schoolboy being introduced to Greek mythology. The nightingale was said to be their muse, sometimes associated with melancholy.
“While we wait for the new shareholder agreements to be copied, is there any new busines
s before we conclude the first Annual General Meeting of the Wheal Gunnis Copper Mining Company?”
Distracted from his reverie, Julian turned back to the room and regarded his business partners, Phillip Gedding and David Manston.
Julian had first met Phillip nearly two years ago. It had been by chance they were staying at the same coaching inn. Being closer in age and status than the other travelers around them, they had shared a drink and discovered they had mining in common.
The more Phillip told him about Wheal Gunnis, his family’s worked-out tin mine at Stannum, the more certain geologist Julian had been that it was worth exploring for copper and abandoning tin altogether. He decided to risk his own money in the venture, determined to find an independent way in life and to be out from under his estranged father’s thumb.
Julian didn’t like his old man and he certainly didn’t like the way he treated the coal miners at his family’s Yorkshire pit.
Now that Wheal Gunnis was a success, he could afford to do things his way. Prompted by The Nightingale’s words, Julian spoke up in response to Phillip’s question.
“There’s a matter I’d like to raise before we employ more men.” Julian had both men’s full attention. “I’d like to draw up documentation that helps protect the welfare of the miners.”
David reached for a decanter and poured a half-measure of claret. “What did you have in mind?”
“A prohibition on child labor,” Julian answered. “No child below the age of twelve to be employed at the mine and only youths of fifteen years or older to work below ground.”
The viscount nodded. “I concur… and you, Gedding?”
Phillip agreed also and instructed the secretary to write down the resolution.
“We’ve been sharing the same manner of thoughts, I see,” said Phillip. “As you know, in celebration of our success, we’re shutting down extraction work at Wheal Gunnis from the week before Christmas until the day after the Feast of St. Stephen and paying all the workers for their time off. Well, I’d like to propose making that arrangement an annual one.”
