In the Shadow of the Lamp

by Susanne Dunlap

  SUSANNE DUNLAP

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Also By Susanne Dunlap

  Imprint

  To my beloved brothers:

  Keith, who builds worlds out of words,

  and Duff, who builds worlds

  Chapter 1

  I was only fifteen when I went into service. Scullery maid first, but the master thought me too pretty to hide away in the kitchen. Anyway, that’s what Will, the valet and my friend, told me later. So when I turned sixteen they made me an under parlormaid. Instead of washing dishes, I cleaned grates, mended linens, and swept the stair carpets.

  I got higher wages—four shillings and eight pence a week—and could take more home to my mum in the East End so she could get shoes for the little ones. That made her proud. And the work wasn’t nearly so hard as scullery maid.

  At first it was me and Janet. But then Janet got diphtheria.

  Poor Janet. She was the same age as I was and she died. Cook blamed it on her coming from the country estate where the air was fresh, and said the London fog didn’t suit her. No one would go in and see her while she was so sick. Except me. I couldn’t bear to think of her suffering all alone. She could hardly draw breath her throat was so swelled up, and the room smelled horrible.

  They said to stay away, but something about Janet pulled at me. I didn’t know what it was then. I went up to her room, just as bare when she was sick as it was before, only with some sweet-smelling oil in the lamp so the stink wouldn’t be too awful for the doctor.

  “You awake, Janet?” I asked from the doorway. Her eyes were open, but she was out of her head a lot, so it didn’t mean she was really awake. I walked over to her. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish just caught, or like she wanted to say something, only she couldn’t. Her neck was so swollen it was hardly there. I felt my own throat, skinny enough to almost circle with one hand, and thought how painful it must be for her.

  I don’t know what made me do it, but I reached my hands out and put them against her throat. Softly, like I was holding a butterfly. I felt her warmth, a high fever they said, and was sure the cool of my hands might make her feel just that bit better. The corners of Janet’s mouth stretched a little wider. Seemed like a sort of smile. Then she said, her voice all scratchy, “Thank you.”

  I didn’t know if what I did was any help, but it surely didn’t hurt her. I would’ve stayed, but Collins, the butler, opened the door all sudden-like. “Get away from there, Fraser!” He said it like I was touching a burning stove.

  I jumped I was so scared. I’ll never forget the look on Janet’s face. It turned from light and calm to hopeless and scared, and her mouth closed into itself like she’d never smile again.

  The doctor came the next day and bled her, but it didn’t do a bit of good. She died just the same.

  I was ever so sad about Janet. Not like I knew her well, but she was sweet and helped me learn my duties. It was different doing them all alone, not having someone to point out where I missed a speck of dust or hadn’t piled the coals up so they’d catch proper.

  At first I took no notice when Mavis Atkins started in on being jealous of me. I was too busy learning what to do, and then all worried about Janet. Mavis worked in the kitchen as Cook’s maid, which wasn’t such a good job as mine, and she was desperate to get out. She had dreams, she told me. She said, “A girl with ambition could go far in a ’ouse like ours.” Mr. Abington-Smythe, the master, was in Parliament, and men came to dinner and talked about important things over brandy and cigars. Mavis wanted to be under parlormaid so she could clean up after the gents, maybe get someone to notice her.

  “It ain’t fair!” she said every time she saw me after I changed my position. “A smart uniform and all. I say it ain’t fair!” I couldn’t believe she wished for the black dress that itched so, and the white apron and cap I had to clean and starch day after day.

  “They’ll probably give you the position soon too,” I said, trying to make her feel better. “It’s a big house. They should have two parlormaids. They did, till Janet got sick.” Mavis and I’d been friends when she was above me and I was just a scullery maid. We even brushed each other’s hair at bedtime. Hers was light brown and straight, down below her waist. Mine was thick auburn curls that didn’t seem so long because it kinked up that way.

  But then Mavis said, “There’s no room for another parlormaid. Not unless you get diphtheria, like Janet.” Seemed to me like she wished I would. I tried not to think anything of it, just got on with my work and hoped Mavis got on with hers.

  I should have known Mavis wouldn’t just let it go at that. First she stopped brushing my hair of a night. I tried to be friendly and nice, but she ignored me. She was up to something, I thought. But when I discovered what, I couldn’t believe she had such a mean spirit in her.

  It all came out when we were getting ready for bed one night.

  “Fraser!”

  Mr. Collins’s harsh voice yelled from right outside our bedroom door. He never talked soft and nice, but I’d not heard him so cross before. “Yes, Mr. Collins,” I said, opening the door.

  “Stand over there, Fraser.” He pointed to the window. I looked at Mavis, but she wouldn’t look back, so I just did as Mr. Collins said.

  “Atkins, kindly show me the evidence you discovered.”

  Evidence? Of what? I didn’t know anything then and I thought they’d gone stark mad. Mavis pointed under my bed. Mr. Collins got down on his knees, moved my valise aside, and started pulling out bits and pieces of things from all over the house. He stood up with his hands full of silver and trinkets. “What do you have to say for yourself, Fraser?”

  “I … I don’t know. I never seen those things—’cept where they was s’posed to be.” My mouth went dry, and I could feel the heat rising up into my face.

  “I must inform the master and mistress that we have a thief in our midst. Be ready to leave in the morning.”

  No! I wanted to scream out that it wasn’t fair. I hadn’t done anything. I reached a hand toward Mavis, not threatening exactly, but she clutched her robe around her and turned her shoulder to me like she thought I was going to hit her.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Collins,” Mavis said, her voice high and quaking, “I’d rather not stay here with Fraser.”

  “There’s a cot by the coal hole. That’ll do for you,” Mr. Collins said to me.

  Still not believing this was happening, I got my things. He went so fast down the stairs I could hardly keep up with him, then he pointed to the cot, with its dirty old blanket. It was where they sometimes put beggars to sleep when they knocked on the door in the midst of a storm or something.

  The dust made me cough all night. I was too angry and upset to sleep, so I spent my time thinking of ways to get back
at Mavis. Now I could see she must’ve been up to that mischief ever since Janet died. Perhaps even before, when I first got my new position. I wanted to creep up on her while she slept and cut away a chunk of her hair that she was so proud of. Or maybe put salt in the sugar bowl, so she’d get in trouble. But it wouldn’t have done any good.

  The next morning they made me stand up in front of all the servants while Mr. Collins accused me and lectured everyone. My knees felt weak. I tried to say I didn’t do it, but no one listened. After all, things only disappeared after I started working upstairs. I tried to tell them I’d have to be stupid to keep things I stole right where they might be found by anyone, but nobody’d let me say a word.

  Only Will spoke up for me. Will was tall and straight, and he had kind eyes. He didn’t treat the rest of us like we were dirt, like Mr. Collins did. Perhaps that was because he wasn’t much older than us, maybe eighteen, maybe twenty, and he came from London too. He helped me lift the heavy coal buckets sometimes, and always asked after my mum and dad when I came back from my half days. He didn’t have a mum and dad. They died of the cholera a few years back.

  “This is just circumstance,” Will said, the only one brave enough to answer Mr. Collins. “Molly’s never done anything dishonest before. We should hear her side of the story.”

  I wanted to thank Will. I looked at him, trying to push how grateful I was through the air so he could feel it. I don’t know if he did, but I saw just a bit of a smile on his face. I knew then he’d say something reassuring to me if he could get a word in.

  Since Will couldn’t get them to listen I thought I’d best pluck up the courage to defend myself. “I ain’t no thief!” I said, lifting my chin and staring down my nose at Mr. Collins. I’d no intention of giving Mavis the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  “See! That just proves what a devious chit she is!” Mavis practically screamed. Even Mr. Collins flinched. No one wanted to believe anything but the obvious. What a drama! After a bit I felt far away from it all, like it wasn’t me they were talking about and I was looking in the window watching everyone’s mouths moving and their hands and arms waving about. Mavis played shocked and innocent quite well, her eyes open wide and eyelashes fluttering. Practicing to go on the stage, I thought. She had apparently got over how nervous she was the night before.

  I don’t know what’s become of her, whether she stayed on as parlormaid there in Cadogan Square or ran away herself and put her play-acting to good use on the stage. I don’t know, and I’ve come so far myself since then that I don’t much care now.

  Fact is, when I think about it, in a way I owe everything to Mavis and her scheming.

  Chapter 2

  I soon enough found myself out on the street, with only the clothes on my back and a small bag with a few bits and pieces—a hairbrush, clean underthings, some ointment my mum made in case I got chilblains. I’d walked around London often enough on my half days, from Knightsbridge to the East End, down Whitehall across Trafalgar Square, past St. Martin-in-the-Fields and St. Paul’s. I crossed over Fleet Street where the newsboys cried out the headlines—I couldn’t read then, so it was only gossip and the other servants talking and what I picked up on the street that told me what was going on. Right then, the news was all about the war with Russia, in the Crimea.

  I remember that day like it just happened. It was just about the end of the second week of October. The air was chilly, but I wasn’t cold in the coat my mother made for me. It’d be no match for a real icy winter, though, and I knew I’d be wishing I could’ve stayed on at Cadogan Square and earned enough for Mum to make us all new coats that winter. As it was, I’d probably have to work in one of the dark, cold factories, feeding cloth through a sewing machine, like the girls in the house next to ours, with their pale faces and hollow eyes. No one else would hire me without a good character—now that I’d been named a thief thanks to Mavis. At the factories they didn’t check. They took you if you were young and healthy enough to stand up twelve hours a day.

  “You’ll be lucky if they don’t send the police after you,” Mr. Collins said just before he shut the door behind me. That gave me a chill. It was one thing to lose my position. Another thing entirely to go to Newgate.

  I turned toward home because I had nowhere else to go, and I wanted my mum to tell me I was good and everything would be all right, that Mavis would get her punishment for lying and I’d be able to get another job. My feet took steps without me even thinking about it.

  I don’t know exactly what made me stop and listen to the criers, waving their broadsheets about and selling them to City gents. Perhaps I was tired by the time I reached that part of town, but I stood there like a pillar, people around me busily going to offices or delivering packages. I nearly got run over by a carriage that came fast around a corner, but I jumped away just in time, splashing right in a puddle. My shoes were ruined. I didn’t know where I’d get another pair.

  “Scandal at war! Our brave soldiers land with no medical supplies! Doctors amputate in the field!”

  I’d heard some of this belowstairs at Cadogan Square. Mr. Collins sometimes read us articles in the Times at tea. It sounded horrible. There was a fierce battle about a month ago. Young men far away, fighting for our queen and getting horribly wounded, and not even a bed to lie in or someone to say a kind word to them. I paused and listened, just in case there was anything new to hear.

  “Party of nurses to go with Miss Nightingale! Times raises a thousand guineas for the cause!”

  That was news. How I wished I could read and find out more. I had a penny, but with no prospects of earning so much as a farthing anytime soon, I wouldn’t have spent it no matter how desperate I was to know the whole story. Besides, I’d have to get someone else to read it to me anyway. Instead I walked along slowly, hoping I might hear something more.

  And I did. An old gentleman with his coat unbuttoned and a stained waistcoat showing leaned against a lampost, a copy of the paper open in front of him. A group of curious folks gathered round. I stayed at the back like I wasn’t interested, but I listened anyway.

  “Mr. Sidney Herbert has asked the capable Miss Florence Nightingale to assemble a team of a hundred nurses to set things right in the Crimea, where our brave soldiers who have fallen at Bulganak and at Alma have not adequate supplies and medical care to treat their wounds, slight and serious. Applications to accompany Miss Nightingale should be addressed to Mrs. Stanley of Belgrave Square. Qualified nurses only need apply. Wages and expenses will be paid.”

  That started everyone murmuring and talking. Some said, “I wouldn’t go halfway across the world to nurse—there’s enough that need it here.” Others said, “Shame I’m not younger, or I’d go myself.”

  Me? I was thinking, hard.

  The paper said that wages and expenses would be paid. And these nurses would be going away, far away. Would a body need references? But I was no qualified nurse. I’d helped my mum with the little ones, sure, and was by the midwife when my youngest sister was birthed. And there was the time I had to dress Jimmy’s broken arm because we couldn’t afford a surgeon to do it. And what happened with Janet. But no one would think of me, a parlormaid who’d been let go without a character, as a qualified nurse. Unless …

  I don’t quite know what got into me, but I knew then that I would do whatever it took to be one of those nurses, or even a charwoman along to do the laundry and clean the grates. At least I’d be out of London.

  And besides, the closer I got to home, the less I felt I could face my mum. She was so proud when I went off to service at such a grand house. Dad could only work a little because of his bad hand that was crushed on the docks, and his wages weren’t enough to take care of all eight of us. I could hear Mum’s voice saying, “You saved us from the poorhouse, you ’ave, my Molly. I knew you for a good girl.” Ted had started going with Dad to work on the docks, but he only earned a penny now and then because he was so young and not strong enough to lift the heavy crates.
And now? What would she say now?

  I stopped again. I felt like someone wrapped a band round my chest and squeezed, and my eyes stung. I told myself it was the wind that blew off the river, cold and damp and unhealthy, stinking of dead fish and tar. But I knew different, deep inside. It was shame. I had to do something to make it better. No one would believe what I said, so I had to do something to prove it. I knew I was a good girl, that I worked hard and was willing and honest. I would show all of them at Cadogan Square. And Mum would be proud of me—even prouder than before.

  Chapter 3

  I was nearly home, but I turned right back toward the West End, this time walking like I meant it. Instead of being in a fog, I was in a hurry. It was late afternoon, and that time of year night fell early—hardly seemed like there was any day. By the time I got to Belgrave Square—not so far as Cadogan Square, so that and my fast pace made the walk much quicker—the lamplighters had already finished their business, and the mist was that sickly yellow color that makes me think of piss. I never liked being out at dusk.

  The grand houses in Belgrave Square looked identical, and there were no tradesmen about to ask which one was Mrs. Stanley’s. I walked all around the square once, peering at each door to see if I could tell anything, hoping a bobby didn’t see me and think I was a thief—once in a lifetime was more than enough for me. There wasn’t anything at all to tell me where Mrs. Stanley lived, though I don’t know what I expected. Hardly likely they’d hang a sign or set a servant out on the street to show the way. I finally worked up enough courage to ask. I could see a light in the stairwell that led down to the kitchen floor of one house, and thought I might as well knock.

  It was teatime. The irritation in the parlormaid’s voice when she answered the door told me that clear enough.

  “ ’Scuse me, miss, but could you direct me to Mrs. Stanley’s house?” I asked.

  “It’s number fifty-four,” she said, closing the door without even a by your leave.

  I soon found it, only a few houses up. I started down the steps to the kitchen and the servants’ hall, then stopped. Why would I go there? I wasn’t applying for service. If I was to persuade anyone I was a nurse, I’d better act like one for sure and all. That is, if I had any idea what a nurse acted like, which I didn’t, but most likely not like a parlormaid.