by Sarah Lark
“Gone?” Nora furrowed her brow. “What is that supposed to mean? Has my father dismissed him?”
Peppers shook his head. “No. Not that I know of. I’ve only heard in passing, but it seems he hasn’t shown his face in the office since that meeting with your father.”
Fear flashed in Nora’s eyes. She wasn’t surprised that the servants knew of Simon’s proposal. Such things never remained hidden. But Simon being absent from the office? She couldn’t imagine that. Undoubtedly, her father had hurt his pride, but Simon Greenborough’s dignity had suffered other blows. He was a gentleman and he had obligations — not least debts to pay. Furthermore, she didn’t believe for a moment that he had given up so easily. He loved her no less than she loved him. Something must have happened.
Nora straightened herself up and made a decision. “Will you please drive me to the office?” she asked Peppers. “I must … I must find something out there.”
Peppers looked at her sympathetically. “My dear, let it go. The fellow doesn’t love you!”
Nora shook her head. “Nah, Peppers!” she said, mimicking his broad Cheapside dialect. “I won’t give up that quickly. And if Simon Greenborough no longer loves me, then he will have to tell me that himself!”
Peppers tensed. Although his master had forbidden him from driving Nora, Thomas Reed wasn’t even there. He had set out on a trip to the continent that would lead him and a business friend to Amsterdam and Lübeck. Peppers had driven him to the man in the morning. The two wanted to discuss something and their ship left that evening. The coachman thought it rather unlikely that Reed had called in on the office in the meantime. Luckily for little Miss Nora, as what she wanted there was certainly not to speak to her father.
“Miss Nora, I can’t tell you where Mr. Greenborough lives!” Mr. Simpson, the short, portly head clerk behaved as if Nora’s request was a personal insult. “Your father wouldn’t find that appropriate. And anyway, the man is no longer working with us.”
“Perhaps I just want to write him a letter,” Nora said. “But I need his address!”
The man laughed contemptuously. “There’s probably no postman that would go there,” he said. “Now please go, Miss Nora. I have to continue working and am unable to help you.”
“Of course, you could wait for your father in his office,” George Wilson, a younger clerk, eagerly offered as she stepped into the corridor. “Maybe he’ll still drop in. I’ll bring you a cup of tea, as well.”
Initially, Nora had wanted to turn down his offer, but then decided to extend her stay in the office. Maybe there would be another opportunity to find something out about Simon.
“My father dismissed Mr. Greenborough?” she inquired when Wilson brought in her tea.
The young man smiled at her. The petite, young woman looked adorable sitting enthroned in her father’s massive chair, her farthingale draped over it, and her clever green eyes drifting across the books and folders along the wall of the office.
Could it have been true that Simon Greenborough had dared ask for Nora Reed’s hand?
“Yes, regrettably,” Wilson then answered. “After he didn’t appear at work for a week. Naturally, that was not acceptable. We—”
“Wilson?” the head clerk’s voice sounded cutting. “What are you doing there? I hardly think it proper that yet another man be dallying with the daughter of his employer. I’ve asked you to go home, Miss Reed. And you, Wilson, give Bobby the authorization letter that he should be taking to the docks!”
The man glared at Nora, as well as his subordinates. He seemed to feel very secure in his position; few men would have dared treat the daughter of his employer as such.
Wilson sighed when Simpson turned around, but left the door of the office open. A clear sign that he was keeping an eye on him. “Well, then, Miss Reed …”
Nora was about to get up, but then suddenly had a brilliant idea. “Mr Wilson, this dismissal of my … uh … of Mr. Greenborough. Was it delivered in writing?”
Wilson nodded. “Of course, Miss Reed, it must be done properly. He also received the rest of his salary, Mr. Reed is very decent. He even offered him a recommendation. I wrote the letter myself … but I … I don’t remember the address any longer.”
Wilson blushed at the lie, but Nora was not paying attention to him. Thomas Reed had dictated a letter, and Bobby, the little messenger boy, would have carried it! Nora now knew to whom she could turn!
She quickly and formally parted ways with Wilson, who seemed relieved when she left the office without asking further questions.
In the building’s driveway, but out of view of the coachman, she waited for Bobby. He was a skinny, red-haired, thirteen-year-old boy who carried letters for Reed’s office. The boy grinned at her courteously when she spoke to him, the freckles dancing on his childlike face.
“Can I help you, Miss Reed?”
Nora nodded and expressed her wishes. “You must still know where you delivered the dismissal.”
“Was he really your sweetheart, Miss Reed?” Bobby asked cheekily instead of answering her question. “That’s what they’ve been saying in the office, but the poor fellow and such a princess as yourself, Miss Reed—”
Nora tried to act enraged. “That has nothing to do with you, Bobby!” she exclaimed. “And, by the way, you could show some propriety! Mr. Greenborough is, after all, not simply Mr. Greenborough, but a viscount. A nobleman, a lord—”
Bobby grimaced. “But his palace is about to collapse around him,” the boy scoffed. “Honestly, Miss Nora, it’s a dump where I delivered that letter, I have a lordly lifestyle in comparison … and the quarter there behind the tower … the slaughterhouses—”
“I’ll see that for myself, thank you,” Nora interrupted his flow of words. “Would you please lead me there?” “You?” Bobby furrowed his brow. “Miss, I can’t do that, it’s no place for a lady. Your father would … he would crush me—”
“My father doesn’t have to know,” Nora said, and pulled a coin from her pocket. Bobby looked at the penny covetously.
“Your coachman will surely tell him,” he shrewdly noted, and gestured towards Peppers with his shoulder.
Nora bit her tongue. The boy was right. Peppers couldn’t find out.
“Can’t we pass somewhere in the carriage without him seeing us?” she asked.
The boy giggled. It clearly amused him that this lady was planning an adventure with him.
“Nah. How would that work, he keeps looking over. If you take one step forward, he’ll see you. But hang on!
Bobby winked to her, trotted over to the coach, and exchanged a few words with Peppers. Even before he had returned, the horses had started moving. The carriage drove off.
“I told him that you were waiting for your father in the office,” Bobby explained and gestured for Nora to follow him. “But now you should come along, otherwise someone else will catch you here — and me too. Besides, it’s a detour; we have to go quickly, so that Simpson doesn’t catch onto us. He counts every step I have to take between the offices and the docks, and there’s trouble to pay if I’m even a few heartbeats late.”
Nora hoped that Peppers had really believed the excuse — after all, her father hadn’t anticipated returning to the office prior to his departure. On the other hand, he could’ve changed his plans, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for the coachman to ask too many questions. As such, she tried not to worry as she followed Bobby along the bank of the Thames. They first walked past the newly built, venerable office buildings and guildhalls, then through the small side streets of the poorer districts. Nora had forgotten her fears of the coachman following her discreetly. In fact, the streets were so narrow, dirty, and crowded, that the horses could hardly pass through anyway. There were no more carriages or hackneys to be seen, but instead old, two-wheel carts with clacking horses or mules in front.
Nora was becoming increasingly uneasy. Simon had told her that he lived very modestly in the East End, but these huts
and narrow, cheaply built homes, the rubbish-strewn streets where dirty, barefoot children played as dark figures seemed to linger in the corners … well, Nora thanked heaven for Bobby, who moved through the area with ease. Apparently, he had come from hardly better circumstances himself. In any case, he flitted so rapidly through the streets that Nora could barely keep up. She became aware of her shawl and afternoon crinoline dress, which was simple, but clearly made of the finest fabrics. It was a good thing that she didn’t powder her hair. It appeared that no one in this wretched quarter powdered theirs. The women who hastened through the streets or peddled wares on the side of the road seemed just as unkempt as their children.
“Has Simon, Mr. Greenborough said anything about why he didn’t return to the office?” Nora tried to start a conversation with her guide. Bobby shook his head. “He didn’t say much,” he answered. “He was sick in bed, Miss. And not just a bit, if you ask me. He looked as if he’d gone three days without food. Nonetheless, he wanted to give me a penny for the delivery, although God knows it wasn’t good news. I gave the penny to the woman downstairs, so that she’d bring him something to eat. I just hope the old lady did it—”
Nora’s fears grew — along with a feeling of warmth for the boy beside her. “That was very decent of you, Bobby!” she praised him.
He shrugged. “The pastor says: ‘give and ye shall receive.’ Or something like that. My mum doesn’t really believe in it, but somehow I felt pity for him, your … lord.”
The boy grinned apologetically, and then stopped in front of a two-story, stone house, undoubtedly built after the Great Fire.
“Here it is. But it’s best you don’t go in alone.” Like a proper gentleman, Bobby held the door open for Nora, which led to a dark, foul-smelling hallway. The door to one of the rooms was open, and it looked to Nora like a caricature of a parlor. There was an old armchair in front of a fireplace, a table, and chairs, but everything seemed dirty, gray, shabby — it seemed like no one ever tidied up in here. Scraps of fabric and old clothing lay all over.
“This is her business,” Bobby explained to the appalled Nora. “Old lady Paddington, I mean, the landlady. She buys and sells second-hand clothes. She heads over to Cheapside on market days. And otherwise, she lets the house — how she came to own it, no one knows …”
A shrewish voice came from the apartment. Bobby ducked his head. “Come upstairs quickly, Miss Nora, before the old crone notices you!” He urged, and hurried towards a wooden staircase, which might have been more appropriately called a ladder.
“I’ve already seen you!” The woman screeched from behind them. “Fanny Deary’s boy and a fine, young lady. Are you perhaps too good to say hello to an old friend, Bobby? And where’re you going?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Bobby whispered, embarrassed. “My mum is not really friends with her; she just sold her clothes when my old man died … Visiting Mr. Greenborough, Mrs. Paddington!” he called over his shoulder to the old hag, who was now standing at the base of the stairs; curiously peering up at them.
Mrs. Paddington was not really old, but corpulent, and red-faced. Her hair was stringy and her small eyes were glassy, but nonetheless angry and suspicious. Nora now believed she could identify the smell permeating from her apartment: gin or some other cheaper kind of booze.
Even the rooms on the first floor seemed to be inhabited, as voices could be heard behind the closed doors. But Bobby climbed up another narrow, rickety flight of stairs. With every step, Nora feared that the brittle, creaky wood could give out. Upstairs, there was just one small door that had clearly been constructed from waste wood. Bobby knocked, Nora’s heart beating so hard that she thought it would drown out the sound of his knuckles pounding on the rotten wood.
There was no answer. Could Simon have gone out? With disappointment Nora considered leaving. But then her young companion pushed open the apartment door without further ado.
“Mr Greenborough? It’s me again, Bobby. But this time with better news!”
The boy’s voice sounded deliberately cheerful and optimistic. Nora entered the room behind him — and held her breath in horror.
Simon’s quarters lay directly beneath the roof. The room didn’t contain a single straight wall, and there were a few buckets distributed around the space to catch the rain leaking through. It must have been unbearably hot in summer and ice-cold in winter. It was dark and Nora could hardly see anything at first glance. There was no fire burning in the fireplace. It was only when her eyes slowly adjusted that she noticed the meager furnishings — a table and a chair, over which Simon had sloppily thrown the clothes that he’d worn that Tuesday night. That was unlike him. On a hook fixed clumsily to the wall, there was a second shirt that had been very carefully pressed, with the iron resting on the table. Nora shamefully remembered the day when he had confessed to her that he took care of his own clothing. She had laughed at him for doing the work of a laundress and feared that her sweetheart was a bit stingy. But now she saw Simon’s harsh reality — and then finally her beloved himself on the plain bed, which, for some unknown reason, he had pushed as close as possible to the cold fireplace. It had been a long time since a fire had burned in the furnace. Simon lay curled under his thin blanket; desperately trying to keep in the warmth it provided him.
Nora ran up to him — and was even more horrified when she saw his haggard, feverish, flushed face.
“Simon! Why didn’t you tell anyone that you’re sick? Why didn’t you let me know? Oh God, Simon, you need a doctor!”
Simon opened his eyes — they were red and glassy from the fever, but still lit up when he saw Nora.
“Nora … you … is it you … or … a dream?”
Nora smiled and fought back tears. This was bad. Much worse than she ever could have imagined.
“No, it’s really me!” she said, stroking Simon’s hair. It was sweaty, even though he was shivering. “And now I will take care of you. I should have been here sooner … heavens, Simon, you’re trembling.”
“It’s cold …” Simon whispered.
He was only wearing a shirt, the same one that he had on when he came to speak with Nora’s father. That evening, he had collapsed on his bed soaking wet, humiliated, dejected, and had awaken the following morning with a fever. He had only managed to take off his jacket and trousers before he had fallen back onto his bed coughing. He hardly knew how he had survived the first days before Bobby came by with the dismissal. Simon had a faint memory of his landlady’s daughter occasionally bringing him something to eat. Since Bobby had been there, she had looked in on him once a day. However, Mrs. Paddington had been keeping an eye on her, since she knew that Simon lay sick in bed. As a result, the sympathetic, little Joan only sometimes brought up thin beer soup or a chunk of bread.
Nora took off her cloak and wrapped it around Simon.
“We have to light the fire!” she decided, surprised at herself. In the novels she’d read, the heroine would first take her lover in her arms, and he would’ve reassured her that her love alone would be enough to immediately heal him. But for Nora that adventure ended when she entered this attic. Now she had to accept the reality: that Simon needed kisses and affection less than he needed blankets, warm food, a fire, and a doctor.
“Can you find wood somewhere, Bobby?”
Simon shook his head. “Smoke …” he whispered. “Smoke and soot … no heat …” He coughed as he uttered the words.
Nora looked to Bobby for help. “What should we do?” she asked, at a loss.
Bobby shrugged. “A chimney sweep,” he said. “I can go, if you …” He made a gesture that meant, but it’ll cost money.
Nora gave him a few pence. “Is that enough?” she asked, unsure.
Bobby rolled his eyes. “That’s enough for three times, Miss … and for a few more things. Let me take care of it. But now I really have to go — Mr. Simpson will be waiting.”
The young boy left for work, but Nora heard him on the stairs talking to
Mrs. Paddington. She answered bitterly that this wasn’t a hotel and that she wasn’t a messenger. But then the nagging faded away, and Nora found herself alone with Simon. In the absence of any other option, she kneeled down beside the bed. She vaguely recollected what she knew about nursing. It wasn’t much, only what she remembered from her own sick days. If Nora had a cold or upset stomach, the housekeeper made her a calf compress and boiled herbal tea. There wasn’t even a kettle here. Nora put her arm around Simon. If she helped him to sit up, she could shake out his pillow — if you could even call this hard, lumpy thing a pillow.
Simon looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Nora had a change of heart and pulled his head to her chest.
“You needn’t be sorry about anything, darling,” she whispered. “You can’t help that you’re sick. And now … now I’m here.”
Simon coughed again as he tried to break away from her.
“You can’t stay here, Nora! You shouldn’t be here, you need to—”
At that moment, the door opened and a gaunt, dark-haired, young girl walked through. She was carrying a mug with a bitter-smelling concoction. Nora thought she could smell hot beer, and maybe there were also herbs in it. The stuff was steaming, so it might at least make Simon a bit warmer.
The girl curtsied in front of the upper-class visitor. “My mother sent this,” she said quietly. “The Deary boy paid for it. And there’s also stew, mother says, but that costs another penny …” The girl kept her head down. Her mother’s greed seemed to embarrass her.
Nora was already reaching for her purse, but then she thought better of it. She was a merchant’s daughter! And even if it was only for a few pence, she shouldn’t allow this Mrs. Paddington to shamelessly exploit her like this.
“Tell your mother that I know very well that Bobby has also paid for the food!” She said as firmly as she could. “If she wants another penny, then she should send you up with two more blankets, but warm ones, not rags like these!” She pointed to the flimsy thing that was hardly keeping Simon warm. “And a pillow along with them too!”
