The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter

by Lawana Blackwell

  The memory was a pleasant one, and he became aware while hailing an approaching hansom cab that he was smiling inanely. He pulled a sober face so as not to frighten away the driver, perched precariously high in the rear of the passenger seat.

  “Take yer somewhere, guv’nor?” he called down in a Cockney voice.

  “Church Street, Chelsea,” Seth told him.

  Some thirty minutes later he was stepping around a clump of weeds in front of a faded whitewashed cottage. His knock went unanswered, and he was about to turn when he heard a noise from inside the cottage. Presently the door opened to reveal a stooped, white-haired woman. Seth remembered her right away as Elaine’s Aunt Phoebe, and he had to restrain himself from leaping across the threshold and catching her up in his arms.

  “Yes, sir?” she said in the manner of one who is not used to having callers.

  Switching his satchel to his left hand, he removed his cap. “Mrs. Woodruff?”

  “Yes.” She tilted her head to study his face. “Who are you?”

  “Seth Langford, Mrs. Woodruff. Do you remember me?”

  “Who’s there, Mother?” came a voice from another part of the cottage just as recognition flooded the woman’s faded hazel eyes.

  “Seth? Is that you?”

  He almost laughed for the joy of it. He had not been totally forgotten by the people who mattered to him. “I was let out of prison today.”

  “Yes?”

  Swallowing, for his mouth had gone suddenly dry, he said, “I’m here to ask about Elaine, Mrs. Woodruff.”

  Her expression clouded. “She’s gone.” Before she could say anything else, another face appeared in the doorway over her shoulder. This woman was much younger, perhaps forty years old, with blunt features and a suspicious expression.

  “Who’s this, Mother?” she asked, as if Seth were incapable of speech. Nevertheless, he took it upon himself to answer.

  “I’m inquiring about Elaine. My name is Seth Langford, and I just want to hear how she is before leaving town.”

  The woman’s expression softened just a little. Gently pulling her mother away from the door, she said, “I’m Lucille, Elaine’s cousin. You’d best come inside.”

  Seconds later he was seated in the small parlor in a worn armchair. He listened as Lucille recounted somberly how her cousin Elaine had married Jack Norton, who owned a little greengrocery in the east side on Stepney Way. “ … eight years ago,” she continued after a thoughtful pause. “He was considerable older than her but treated her good. They both had to work hard to keep the business goin’, so when Elaine had the baby, her mother—my aunt May—moved into their flat with them over the shop.”

  What did you expect? Seth asked himself, while a hard knot centered itself in his chest. Her to spend twenty years scrubbing chamber pots in the hopes that you’d come back for her one day?

  It was time to catch a train, any train, and the sooner the better. But before he could apologize for his intrusion and get to his feet, Elaine’s elderly aunt mumbled while staring at something visible only in her distant memory. “The shop burned like dry leaves, they told us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll tell him, Mother.” Lucille’s chest rose and fell. “Seven years ago last June. It was the wee hours of the mornin’, and the shop burned with the flat above it. The driver of a milk wagon saw Jack at a window. ‘Catch the baby!’ Elaine’s husband called out, and the driver ran under the window and caught him. When he called for Jack to jump, too, he said he had to get his wife and mother-in-law. He never came back.”

  The two women became blurs in Seth’s eyes. “Elaine is dead?”

  “All dead, except the boy,” the old woman said, rocking her body back and forth.

  There was nothing left to say. The agony he’d felt over losing her to an unjust prison sentence was nothing compared to the mental picture evoked upon hearing how she died. As he got to his feet he pushed a fist into his chest, as if he could somehow make the knot go away. My poor Elaine.

  It was only when Elaine’s cousin had opened the door for him that Seth thought to ask about the child. The woman didn’t answer but looked away for a second.

  “You said the driver caught him,” Seth said. “That means he lived, didn’t he?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Who has him now?”

  Now she looked straight into his eyes, daring him to judge her. “I had eight of my own to raise at the time, sir, and a husband breakin’ his back at the cotton mill to keep ’em from starvin’. And Mother hadn’t the means nor the strength. We handed him over to the Whitechapel home.”

  “An orphanage, you mean?”

  Her lips tightened. “Better than leavin’ a basket on the church steps. And now if you please, I’ve Mother’s things to pack. I’m takin’ her with me to Enfield.” The door closed with a final snap, ending Seth’s last tenuous link with Elaine.

  Chapter 9

  He’s not my child, Seth reminded himself in the seat of the hansom carrying him to Paddington Station. This has nothing to do with me. At Queensway and Bishop’s Bridge Roads, a crossing sweeper who couldn’t have been more than ten years old grinned up at him with gaping teeth. Seth tossed him a shilling. At least Elaine’s son isn’t having to fend for himself on the streets. He’s fed and sheltered.

  “Just like you were at Newgate,” he muttered. An image came to his mind, a face so beloved that it brought tears to his eyes. How Elaine would have grieved if she could have known what would happen to her child!

  “Sir?”

  It was the driver, waiting now at the side of his carriage as the remaining daylight was ebbing away. I could just go have a look at him, reassure myself that he’s well tended. He owed Elaine that much. And since he would never return to London, this would be his only opportunity. But spend another night in the city he loathed?

  “Sir?” Again the driver, this time looking impatient.

  Seth gave a sigh. If only he hadn’t stopped at Mrs. Woodruff’s cottage! “Do you know of a reasonable place where I could lodge tonight?”

  “Place on Chilworth has cheap lodging. Lumpy mattresses but clean sheets, bland food but plenty of it.”

  The driver could have described Buckingham Palace, and Seth could not have been less enthused. It was still London. He was deposited two blocks away at a narrow two-story building set between a butcher’s shop and the apothecary. The mutton stew he was served for supper was the tastiest meal he’d had in ten years, and the bed was like a cloud—a lumpy cloud, perhaps, but infinitely more comfortable than a prison cot.

  Thursday morning when habit woke him at six o’clock, the temptation to lie abed for a little while lasted only a couple of seconds. In just a matter of hours, London would be at his back—and the sooner he started, the more distance he would reach before nightfall. Just as soon as he took care of the one little errand that had compelled him to spend the night.

  “Whitechapel,” he told the driver of the first hackney he flagged down. “There’s a children’s home there. Do you know of it?”

  The man touched the handle of his whip to his forehead. “Aye. On Cable Street.”

  Soon Seth was seated in the moving hackney cab. He watched the towering monument fade away into gray mist, for the morning was as overcast as the day before. To his right the Tower of London’s gray stones rose above the press of wagons and carriages, and the masts of the shipping in London Dock cut sharp edges against the sky. As he alighted in front of a three-story building of sooty red brick, The Whitechapel Foundling Home, the first thing he noticed was a sharp unpleasant odor. It was far more irritating to the nostrils than the heavy stench of the Thames, which was but a short walk south. “What do I smell?” he asked as he paid the driver.

  The man jerked a thumb toward the north. “Ammonia factory.”

  A woman in a gray uniform gown and apron answered his ring and left him in the vestibule. Minutes later an older woman appeared. “I’m Mrs. Briggs, the headmis
tress,” she told him when he’d introduced himself. “Please follow me.”

  Her shoes thumped a dull staccato on the quarried tiles as she led Seth up a long corridor. From all appearances Mrs. Briggs seemed to be a woman who hurried through life. Her graying hair was pinned into a careless knot, her olive-colored linen dress serviceable and free of ornament. Even in her tiny office she sat perched on the edge of her chair as if begrudging having to surrender her body to it.

  As she stared expectantly at him, Seth realized he had no idea of the boy’s first name. He mentioned the circumstances that had orphaned him, that he should be seven years of age, and the father’s last name. Mrs. Briggs nodded.

  “Thomas Norton,” she said. “Why do you ask about him?”

  “I was once acquainted with his mother.”

  “Are you his father, Mr. Langford?” she asked, her gray eyes appraising.

  Seth bristled at the innuendo but answered with a civil, “I am not.”

  “Then I must ask why you’re inquiring about him.”

  He would have liked to have known that himself. After a fractional hesitation he replied, “Out of respect for his late mother. I’m leaving the city this morning and just wanted to reassure myself that he’s being well cared for.”

  “Does that mean you wish to see him?”

  The idea hadn’t entered his mind, but now that she had mentioned it, he supposed he should. Better to take care of everything, since he was already here, than to have regrets later. “May I see him from a distance? He doesn’t know me, so there is no point to our meeting.”

  “As you wish.” Again her rapid footsteps proceeded him farther up the corridor. “The children are at breakfast,” she said, reaching for a doorknob at the end. She ushered him through to the other side. A familiar institutional silence was what struck him first. Boys filled chairs surrounding at least two dozen tables, yet the only sounds were the muffled clicks of spoons against tin porridge bowls and an occasional cough. Some waifish eyes strayed curiously in his direction, but for the most part the children ate mechanically. They would feel right at home in Newgate, he thought.

  “There he is,” Mrs. Briggs whispered beside him. He looked in the direction in which she was pointing. All the young boys looked alike to Seth, especially with their identical brown shirts. But then his eyes locked with those of a lad of about seven. Something in the tilt of his oval face, the way he held his lips together when not spooning porridge through them, made him certain that this was Elaine’s child. Seth could tell even from that distance that he was small for his seven years. There was a surprising air of loneliness about him. It was memories of life on the outside that preyed upon those in prison and even drove some to madness. He would have imagined that a child with no memories beyond institution walls would feel at home.

  “Is that him?” Seth whispered. As certain as he was, he thought he should ask anyway.

  “It is,” the headmistress replied. “Would you care to speak with him?”

  He looked at her. “Why, no.”

  “Then I have duties.” She turned to reach for the doorknob. “If you please.”

  They walked in silence back down the corridor, her shoes making the only sounds. When they reached the vestibule, he asked, “Is he happy here?”

  “Happy?” Mrs. Briggs folded her arms across her bosom. “I find it curious that you should ask that question, Mr. Langford. Are you happy?”

  “I only wondered about the boy—”

  “Most never had happiness to begin with, so they make do with what they have. There are three hundred children here to my fourteen workers, counting kitchen and scullery. We’re doing all we can to keep them fed and clothed and schooled. It’s not uncommon to hear weeping at night.”

  “But they are treated kindly.” It was a question, though he did not phrase it as such.

  “They are. If our rules seem severe, it is because without order, we cannot hope to tend to their needs.” Her gray eyes took on a melancholy expression. “It’s family they weep for, Mr. Langford, even those who’ve never known such a thing. My years here have convinced me that God puts a longing for family in our hearts.”

  The longing in Seth’s heart was to be rid of this place. “Thank you for your time,” he told her and made for the door. Out in the feeble sunlight again, he felt suddenly drained of strength. So many emotions had raged through him in the past twenty-four hours! He almost longed for the bland sameness of the treadmill again. He leaned his back against the soot-begrimed bricks of the building and closed his eyes.

  I was foolish to come here, he thought, dropping his satchel to the ground beside him. God, why did you allow this to happen? He’ll never know how wonderful his mother was. Even his father—he saved his life. Why did his family have to be snatched away like that?

  He half expected a bolt of lightning to put an end to his ungratefulness. Here he was, released from prison just yesterday, and already questioning the ways of the Almighty. But instead of censure, he felt a question rise from somewhere within him. Why don’t you be his family?

  Seth opened his eyes, reached down, and snatched up his canvas bag. This was ridiculous! The child didn’t know him from Prince Edward and had lived without the pleasure of his company for seven years now. I don’t even know where I’m going.

  A sudden idea brought relief. Money. Surely the boy had material needs. That had to be why God had led him here. He turned to the door again.

  Mrs. Briggs looked at him curiously from her office doorway. “Mr. Langford?”

  “What happens to the boys when they leave here?” he blurted. The question had not even occurred to him until that very minute.

  “We attempt to find apprenticeships for them at age twelve. It teaches them a trade.”

  I started working when I was younger than that. It didn’t hurt me. “I see.” Then he recalled how small the child had looked for his age. “What happens if you can’t find apprenticeships for all of them?”

  She looked away for a second, just as Elaine’s cousin had done. “Some are able to find positions at factories and such.”

  “By ‘such’ do you mean workhouses?”

  Her face hardened, clearly from resignation and not cruelty. “These are hard times, Mr. Langford. Our beds are never empty. If we keep a child a day longer than his twelfth birthday, we sentence a younger one to stay a day longer in the streets.”

  “I see.” An image came to his mind of the destitute children who scavenged for salable bits of coal and iron in the mud of the Thames at low tide. Mudlarks, they were contemptuously called by Londoners.

  Clearly growing impatient with Seth’s silence, Mrs. Briggs said, “And now, Mr. Langford, I must return to my—”

  “Would it be possible for him to come with me?”

  Her eyebrows raised. “You wish to adopt him?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “You didn’t mention a wife.”

  “His mother was to be my wife. But something happened to prevent it. It’s for her that I would like to take care of the boy.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Are you a Christian man, Mr. Langford?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you produce someone to testify as to your character?”

  “Reverend Mercer. He’s a Wesleyan minister. I’ve known him for years.”

  “Yes? And where is his congregation located?”

  Seth’s shoulders sagged. “Newgate, among others.”

  “The prison, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Briggs’ hand went back to the doorknob. “You had best step inside my office, Mr. Langford.”

  When they had seated themselves again, he told his story, leaving out the Hamiltons’ name. It sounded incredible to his own ears, so he did not take offense when she said, “Can Reverend Mercer verify this?”

  “I believe so.” If the minister approached Major Spencer, surely the warden would at least confirm that he had been found innocent without givi
ng the details. A chill snaked down his spine, raising cold sweat on the back of his neck. “He visits Newgate in the afternoons. I’ll have to go back there and wait for him.”

  Seth didn’t allow himself to think about what he had committed to as he bought Scotch eggs and an orange from street vendors for his lunch and then hailed another hackney cab to take him back to Newgate. Too much thinking was dangerous, for he knew he was but a hairsbreadth away from abandoning the whole idea.

  He had been standing on the walkway of busy Newgate Street—as far as possible from the prison but close enough to watch the entrance door—when he felt a hand upon his back. Already unnerved by being so close to the dreadful place, he jumped.

  “Seth Langford?” It was Reverend Mercer standing there, grinning like a boy who’d just found a shilling. Before Seth could collect himself, he was caught up in a bear hug by the young minister. “Praise God! It is true!”

  When he was released and could draw a breath again, Seth smiled back. “How did you know?”

  The minister slanted him a knowing look. “Apparently Mr. Baker eavesdropped on your meeting yesterday. No doubt half the prison knows why you were set loose.”

  That was disturbing to hear. “But I agreed to keep it to myself.”

  “It wasn’t your doing, Mr. Langford.”

  But it was all the more reason he needed to put London behind him. What if the Hamilton family decided he had broken his word? He realized then that Reverend Mercer had been speaking. “ … anything you need?”