“...absolutely not fit for a lady,” Albert was saying. “I have argued the matter with my mother at length now, but she refuses to understand how different this is from her own charity work.”
“Your concern is most touching,” Auntie Frances replied with a polite smile. “But you will find that our dear Dora is unusually resilient. Her affection for those in need is so strong that it allows her to persevere where other ladies might wither.”
This lie was so outrageous that Dora nearly laughed. But she cleared her throat delicately instead, clasping her hands in front of her. “How lovely to see you, Mr Lowe. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Albert shot her a rueful look. “Miss Ettings,” he greeted her. “My mother informs me that you are most eager to help me in my charity work today.” Dora could tell from his tone that he knew very well just who had been so eager to arrange this whole thing, and that it had not, in fact, been her. “I thought I might try one last time to argue against such an idea. I am slated to go somewhere very unpleasant today.”
Dora smiled apologetically. “I am not bothered by unpleasantness,” she said, since Auntie Frances and the countess were watching her like a hawk. “I will do my best not to be a nuisance to your work.”
Albert sighed heavily. “I will not further impede this arrangement, then,” he said. “Lest my mother cook up something even more far-fetched.” He got to his feet and offered out an arm to Dora, who took it obligingly.
“Miss Henrietta Jennings will be accompanying you as a chaperone,” the countess said, and Dora looked over at the third woman, who had been keeping very silent until now. “I am afraid that Lady Lockheed and I are otherwise engaged today, but Miss Jennings was my daughter’s governess at one time, and she will be a fine substitute in our absence.”
Miss Jennings—a neatly-kept brunette in her thirties—did not look terribly pleased by this arrangement. But she rose to her feet as well, and inclined her head towards Albert and Dora. “I am sure that there is nothing to worry about while Miss Ettings is engaged in charity work,” she said. “But I shall be about for the sake of propriety.”
Albert took a deep breath at that. The poor man was already being forced to look after one woman while doing his work. He was probably wondering whether he would be able to do anything of use at all while watching after two women.
“I see,” he said finally. “Well. Let us be off, then. I have much to accomplish, and only so much daylight left to me.”
Albert turned with Dora to head for the front door, but Auntie Frances kept her back for just a moment, encouraging him to go ahead. When Dora gave her a curious look, Auntie Frances smiled down at her in a motherly fashion.
“We have discussed the matter with Miss Jennings,” Auntie Frances said. “She will be very obliging with you and Mr Lowe, Dora. You should have plenty of opportunity to catch his interest in whatever way you choose.”
Dora blinked at her slowly. “Auntie Frances,” she said. “Are you implying that I should openly flirt with Mr Lowe?” Perhaps such a thing should not have surprised her. Auntie Frances was less concerned with maintaining Dora’s reputation than she was in snaring poor Albert and gaining Lady Carroway’s favour for Vanessa, after all.
“You will be helping him directly,” Auntie Frances told her. “I am not sure what all that entails, but you could certainly be forgiven for brushing his hand or leaning in closely to him if it were for a noble, charitable cause. This situation is really quite a boon, Dora, and you must take full advantage while you can.”
Dora resisted the urge to sigh openly. “Of course, Auntie Frances,” she said. This day was looking to be steadily worse for Albert by the moment, and Dora noted to herself that she ought to apologise to him the first instant that she could manage it.
When Dora did rejoin Albert and Miss Jennings at the front door, she saw that Albert had brought an unmarked carriage with him. The driver was an older man with a stiff posture, a balding pate, and a very impressive, steel-grey moustache. Dora could not help but notice that this driver had a flintlock prominently displayed on him, as though to preemptively warn away troublemakers. He shot Albert a bemused look as the two ladies stepped into the carriage.
“I am glad that you have dressed practically, at least,” Albert observed to Dora, as the three of them settled into the carriage. “But I confess, I am not sure what to do with you. I have mentioned need for an assistant, but I will be tending to the sick and injured, and almost all of that will require dirtying your hands. Some of it will be very distressing indeed.”
Dora shrugged. “Auntie Frances was being truthful when she said that I have a very solid constitution,” she told Albert. “You may offer me what work would be useful. I promise to tell you if it would distress me overmuch.”
Albert frowned at that, but Dora suspected that he was genuinely considering her words as the carriage carried on. For her part, Dora hoped that he took them to heart. She was not prone to being upset, after all, and it would make her feel better about the foolish arrangement if she could at least offer Albert some semblance of real help in the process.
When the carriage finally came to a stop, Albert handed scarves to both Dora and Miss Jennings, advising that they wrap the cloth around their noses and mouths, and he soon did the same for himself. “There will be plenty of bile about,” he told them. “Be sure to stay as clean as possible while we are here.”
Here turned out to be an imposing prison-like building which Albert informed them to be the Cleveland Street Workhouse—a place of last resort for the poor and injured and indigent. As they entered, Dora was relieved to have the scarf over her nose, for the smell was absolutely abominable; there was upon the air some damp, acrid scent of lye which stung at her lungs, mixed with more than a hint of offal. Poor Miss Jennings looked about to faint—Dora slipped an arm through hers, just in case, and felt the ex-governess lean slightly upon her.
Dora had heard only general things about the workhouses, but she had never had occasion to enter one before herself. The general dining room, not far from the entrance hall, was currently packed to distraction with men, women, and children in various states of misery. Certain of the men were obviously dreadfully ill or missing limbs; the women were tired and forlorn, and some of the children had too few fingers. Even if there hadn’t been that awful lye on the air, they all would have still had trouble breathing, given the cramped confines and the sheer number of people about.
Though they were in a kind of dining hall, there was currently no food about—instead, most of the people had taken up places at the table or against the walls. All of them had rough hemp rope in their laps, which they were pulling apart strand by strand. The work was miserable-looking; many of the workers were bleeding from their hands, and had long since ceased to notice their injury.
The inmates of the workhouse—for they were clearly inmates, and not benevolent charity cases, as Dora had heard it told—all showed at least some interest in their group’s entrance. A few of them seemed to recognize Albert, for he got nods and murmurs in his direction. Soon, one of the inmates rose to his feet and disappeared down a hallway; he returned with a tall, pinched-looking fellow in somewhat better clothing, who shook Albert’s hand and led them out of the madness, towards a different wing of the facility. This area, though dark and dank, at least seemed somewhat quieter, since most of its inhabitants were stretched out weakly, two and three to each bed against the walls.
“We have some coughing, some vomiting, some simple lack of vigour,” observed the pinched-looking man. Albert had introduced him to the ladies as George Ricks, the workhouse master, though Albert’s aloof tone of voice suggested to Dora that he did not much like the man. “There is one new pregnant woman, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” Albert asked, as he approached one of the beds. “Why is that particularly unfortunate?”
The workhouse master gave him a long-suffering sort of look. “Newborns can hardly do useful work to earn
their keep,” he said. “It’ll be nothing but a drain on us as soon as it is born.”
“How terrible for you,” Dora said evenly, before she could stop herself. Albert shot her a sideways glance, but she saw a mute, frustrated agreement behind his normally-warm eyes.
George Ricks looked down at her condescendingly. “I didn’t realise you’d be bringing ladies with you,” he told Albert. “They’re far too soft for this business. Nothing but trouble, mark my words.” Before any of them could respond, he added: “I have other things to tend to. You can call in one of the inmate nurses if you like.”
As he left the room, Dora stepped closer to Albert, watching him as he opened his leather physician’s bag. He peeled away his gloves, tucking them into the bag; this revealed the silver glint of his right hand, which was very fascinating to look at. “I must admit, I now aspire to be troublesome,” Dora told him. “That unpleasant man truly begs to be caused trouble.”
Miss Jennings sniffed beneath the scarf she wore about her face. “Soft indeed!” she said. “I’d like to see that man run a proper nursery, and then call women soft. This sickroom is a terrible mess.”
It was the first time the woman had evinced anything other than polite greetings or neutral murmurs of agreement in their presence so far. Dora found herself pleased by the hint of contrariness in her character. “It is, isn’t it?” Dora said. “I am sure that we can do something about it, though there is little to be done for the lack of space. The bedding certainly requires changing.”
Miss Jennings turned to Albert. “There must be laundry in this place,” she observed. “I can smell the lye, even from here.”
Albert nodded, and Dora saw pleasant surprise growing upon his face. “This workhouse handles local laundry for a fee,” he said. “The laundry is downstairs, in a basement area. The smell creeps up from there, I’m afraid.”
Albert directed Miss Jennings to one of the inmate nurses—an older woman named Susan, who had a distracted gaze and shaking hands. The two of them headed downstairs to fetch some fresh sheets, and Dora realised shortly thereafter that Miss Jennings had neatly accomplished Auntie Frances’ request and left Dora quite alone with Albert in the process.
“I am very sorry for all of this,” Dora told him promptly, as Albert began inspecting the patients one by one. Occasionally, he would ask her to help a patient to sitting position, or hold his bag while he worked. “I will do my best not to be a bother. But I should also warn you that Miss Jennings is supposed to give me a wide berth so that I might touch your hand and seduce you, or something silly like that.”
Albert shook his head incredulously. “This all seems very ridiculous,” he told her. “I was aware on some level just how far society mothers are willing to go to snare husbands for their daughters... but sending you to a workhouse, Miss Ettings? Have your guardians no appreciation for your safety?”
Dora glanced around herself idly. “I do not know if they truly appreciate the conditions here,” she said. “Pleasant-mannered people do not speak of ugly things, after all.”
Albert shot her a surprised look, and she realised that she had more-or-less repeated something that Elias had said to her. “I nearly forgot that you had seen Elias yesterday,” he said. “He must have made his usual sort of impression.”
Dora considered that. “I believe that he did,” she said. “Though I begin to think that he made a very different sort of impression upon the countess than he did upon me.” She frowned to herself. “I did not realise you had saved his life during the war. It makes sense, of course, given your relationship. That is why he made you that arm, isn’t it?”
Albert glanced instinctively down at his right hand. It was utterly smooth—nearly normal-looking, but for its unnatural material. “I suspect so,” he said. “But Elias will claim that he did it in case I should need to perform surgery on him again. He does not like to admit to generous impulses.” Albert looked back up at her, and she saw surprise in his eyes. “That I saved his life is not common knowledge. Did he tell you himself?”
Dora shifted on her feet. “He did... in a way,” she said slowly. “More by accident than anything.” She did not enjoy the idea of explaining to Albert how personally she had witnessed his past. “It’s the war that he’s angry about, isn’t it? All of that awfulness, and the fact that people refuse to speak of it?”
Albert took a deep breath. Now, he really did look uncomfortable. “Elias is angry about a great number of things,” he said. “And I am sure that he would tell you about all of them at length, if you were to ask him. But he holds onto that anger in a way that is both highly productive and terribly miserable.” He chose his next words very carefully. “I think that he has been angry now for so long that he is scared to let it go—that it would make him too complacent, and he might become all of those things he so despises in others.”
Dora nodded slowly. She had not known the Lord Sorcier as long as Albert had, but this sounded very accurate. “I find that awfully sad,” she murmured, and she could not help but glance at Albert’s silver hand again. Someone who cared enough to create something like that doesn’t deserve to be forever unhappy.
When Dora looked up, she saw that Albert’s eyes were crinkled, and she thought he might be smiling at her from beneath his scarf. “I think you must be one of the only other people in the world who finds it so, Miss Ettings,” Albert said. “Elias is so very good at convincing people to despise him.”
Dora smiled faintly back at him. “I have been contrary since I was very young,” she said. “The moment that it became clear to me how much the Lord Sorcier wanted me to hate him, I think I must have become determined to do the opposite.”
Albert laughed. “He has never had a handle on you, Miss Ettings,” he said. “Not since the moment he met you. I’ll admit, I have a contrary nature of my own—I love to watch him struggle with you. It’s as entertaining a show as anything I’ve ever seen.”
Dora raised her eyebrows at him. “You hide your contrariness well, Mr Lowe,” she said. “I am impressed.”
Albert became absorbed in his work again shortly thereafter. Miss Jennings and Susan came and went more than once while Dora walked with him, pulling down sheets and replacing them with fresh ones. Occasionally, Dora caught Miss Jennings glancing her way, but it was clear that the former governess was being quite casual in her duties as chaperone. Once, Dora pressed her hand to Albert’s shoulder while Miss Jennings watched, just in case the chaperone was supposed to report back to Auntie Frances and the countess on Dora’s efforts.
After a time, Albert and Dora came to a boy with a great gash on his leg, which was bleeding sluggishly beneath a cloth. Albert gently pulled the cloth away, while Dora held the boy’s hand and pulled down her scarf to smile encouragingly at him.
“My name is Dora,” she told him. “What is yours?”
The boy’s eyes glanced warily towards his leg, but he forced them back to Dora in short order, trying not to seem afraid. “Roger, my lady,” he mumbled. The words sounded clumsy, and Dora suspected he wasn’t often prone to such politeness.
“I am sorry that you’re hurt, Roger,” Dora told him. “You are being very brave so far, though. I’m quite impressed.” This made Roger straighten slightly in place, and Dora was surprised to feel a distant hint of pride herself. She was really barely a lady, and most men tended to give her strange or pitying glances as soon as they saw her mismatched eyes. But Roger had no concept that she might be anything but utterly respectable, and his odd need to impress her made the smile on her face somewhat more genuine.
Nearby, Albert winced at the sight of the injury. “This will need stitches,” he said. He looked towards Dora hesitantly. “Are you up to helping with that?”
Roger blanched at that, and Dora tightened her hand on his reassuringly. She knitted her brow. “I can perform all manner of different stitches,” Dora informed Albert. “But I have never tried to stitch up skin before. I am willing to try it, I suppose.”
Albert blinked at her. “I was certainly not suggesting you should stitch him up yourself!” he said, aghast. “I only hoped for you to hold the skin together for me while I did the deed.” He paused, and added: “That is bad enough, I realise.”
Dora nodded. “I can do that,” she assured him. “Please, don’t worry yourself on my account.”
Albert insisted that they wash their hands in hot water first—Dora asked him why and was bemused at his honest reply: I haven’t the first idea, but another surgeon recommended it to me, and it seems to work well enough. This, she thought, was a refreshing thing to hear. She could not think of any other gentleman who had ever admitted to her that he did not know something.
Poor Roger nearly fainted when he saw Albert pull out that wicked-looking needle. Dora tried to console him, but he was already wiggling around in discomfort. “You’ll need to hold still,” Albert told him, gently but firmly.
The gash on the boy’s leg was objectively awful to look at. Dora inwardly blessed the missing half of her soul for once, as she reached down to pinch at the bloody edges of the gash with her fingers. Roger let out a soft whimper as Albert began to sew him up, and Dora became aware that other inmates were watching them with fascination. How awful, she thought. Though I suppose they must have little else of interest to watch.
Thankfully, Albert was quick about his work. He tied off the stitches and wiped down the injury. “This should suffice for now,” he told Roger. “But if it starts to smell, or if it becomes even more painful, you should tell the workhouse master to fetch me right away.”
“He won’t fetch you,” Roger said wryly. “It’d be troublesome on him.”
Albert sighed. “I’ll come and visit again soon, then,” he said. “Just to check.”
As they went on, Dora frowned at Albert from beneath her scarf. “You learned surgery during the war, Mr Lowe,” she said slowly. “But I was told that you’re a physician now.”
Half a Soul Page 9
