“Yes, please,” Seth replied. “There is.”
Five minutes later they were seated in a hansom headed toward East London. “Mr. Langford is of sound moral character,” the minister expressed at the orphanage to Mrs. Briggs and a Mr. Healy, who had been summoned in his capacity as head of the board of trustees. “He taught himself to read while in Newgate, so it’s clear he suffers from no lack of industry. He has a document signed by the warden and a legal representative of the family involved, withdrawing all charges. I can testify to the validity of the facts he gave you, although you must understand that we haven’t the liberty to give the name of his former employer.”
Three identical documents were produced, one for the files of The Whitechapel Foundling Home, one for the magistrate’s office, and one for Seth to keep, testifying that Thomas Norton shall henceforth be recognized as Thomas Langford. On each Mr. Healy penned his official signature, Mrs. Briggs and Reverend Mercer signed as witnesses, and lastly, Seth, with trembling hand, altered the fate of a young boy he had yet to meet.
But that would soon happen, for after Mr. Healy left and Reverend Mercer wrapped Seth in another bear hug before making his departure, Seth was alone again with Mrs. Briggs. “So soon,” he said in a voice as unsteady as his hand.
“Having regrets already, Mr. Langford?”
I don’t know, he thought but said evasively, “I’ll take good care of him.”
And so it was that Seth’s hansom seat was shared by a small wide-eyed boy who looked about him in mute wonder on their way to Paddington Station. That was fine with Seth, for he really didn’t know what he was expected to say. Mrs. Briggs had done all the talking when the boy was brought into her office. Thomas was then ushered away to collect his belongings—a change of clothing bundled with string that fit easily into Seth’s canvas bag, and a small tin horse that had no doubt been a Christmas gift last year. Seth could easily imagine the overworked headmistress already making plans to find a replacement for the boy’s bed and porridge bowl by nightfall.
Seth knew next to nothing about children. He had been the youngest in a family that scattered after his mother’s death because his father lost interest in everything but gin. The little contact he had had with children on the Hamilton estate had resulted in disastrous consequences. From the corner of his eye he studied the boy. His close-cropped hair must have come from his father’s side, for Elaine’s had been reddish blond. The boy’s hair looked almost gray in the sunlight, like ashes—an unusual color for a child. It was a bit disconcerting to see Elaine’s blue eyes set in such a waifish face.
Does she know he’s with me now? Seth wondered. Were those same blue eyes looking down on them from heaven right now? He hoped so. He had surely hurt her with his lie about ceasing to love her. True, she had married just two years later, but women married for more than one reason, and he suspected that security had been Elaine’s. He couldn’t fault her for that.
The platform at Paddington Station was an anthill of activity. Seth carried his bag with one hand and, after some hesitation, took Thomas’s small hand in his. It wouldn’t do to have the child get separated from him in the crowd and end up falling on the tracks. A black locomotive with London-Birmingham Railway on the door belched steam and sent out a shrill whistle.
“It’s loading now,” he said to the boy, leading him toward a ticket window. “We have to hurry.” They were the first words Seth had spoken to him. Blue eyes wide, the boy nodded back and hurried along. At the window Seth waited anxiously as the three people ahead of him made their purchases. “Two tickets, please,” he said when his turn came.
“Where to?”
“The end of the line.” As far from London as possible.
The clerk gave him a brief appraising glance. “Second-class?”
Ten years of being treated like the dregs of society caught up with Seth. He clenched his teeth and entertained the notion of reaching through the window and taking the man by the collar. But it wasn’t worth going back to Newgate over, so he relaxed his fist and stifled the urge. He considered the money in his pocket. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to raise his chin haughtily and demand first-class tickets?
And so you’d allow one uncivil boor to influence how you spend your money? he chided himself. That money was to provide for his future, and now the boy’s as well. “Yes,” Seth replied as he handed over a pound note and then pocketed his change. Thankfully their second-class compartment wasn’t crowded—the only other passengers being an older married couple and a young man who looked like a bank clerk. Seth allowed the boy the place by the window so that they could both look out—he over Thomas’s head. They traveled on in silence until the train pulled into Coventry Station at half-past seven, and Seth thought to ask if he would like anything to eat.
The boy turned to him with his large eyes. “Yes, sir, if you please, sir,” he answered apologetically. Seth took his hand again outside the train, for though the platform was less crowded than in London, it seemed so large and the boy so small. He bought roast beef sandwiches in the depot, but the boarding whistle blew soon afterward and they had to eat them on the train. They arrived in Birmingham at half-past eight and found an inn within walking distance, The Christopher Columbus. An innkeeper led them upstairs, telling Seth they were fortunate because there was a trading fair going on and he had but one room left.
“Do you know how to ready yourself for bed?” Seth asked Thomas when the innkeeper left them. Surely boys of seven knew how to clean their teeth and bathe themselves, but he thought he should ask just to be sure.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied and took his belongings out of Seth’s canvas bag. It astonished Seth to see the boy’s nightshirt, worn thin and patched in several places. As he pointed out the water closet at the end of the corridor and, as an afterthought, waited outside the door lest the boy forget his way back and become frightened, Seth reckoned he would need to purchase some clothing for him. Some shoes as well, he thought, for they were almost as thin as the nightshirt.
He waited until the boy had settled himself on the pillow to snuff out the candle. “Good night,” Seth said.
“Good night, sir.” The small voice seemed to have grown even smaller in the surrounding darkness. It was Seth’s second night since his release to sleep in a real bed, and his limbs sank greedily into the soft mattress. Sleep had already begun to muddle his thoughts when he heard a noise and opened his eyes.
It was Thomas weeping behind him. Guilt struck Seth like a mallet. No one asked whether he wanted to leave the orphanage. And now here he is in a strange bed, likely wondering what’s to become of him. Seth didn’t know what to say but knew he had to say something. Turning on his pillow, he could see the boy’s faint outline in the darkness. “Thomas?”
A sniff, and then, “Yes, sir?”
“Why are you crying?”
There was another sniff before the boy answered, “I don’t know.”
How was he to offer reassurance to that? Feeling more than a little awkward, he said lamely, “You’ve had a long day. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
After a second or two of silence, the small voice said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The boy did seem in brighter spirits in the morning, as much as Seth was able to tell. But Seth’s spirits took a downward turn upon walking out into the light of day. Congested and busy, the odors of factories and mills affronted his nostrils. “It looks just like London,” he mumbled to himself.
“Sir?” asked the boy beside him.
Seth looked at him and sighed. “Let’s go get our things.”
Again there was a train preparing to leave at the station. Severn Valley Railway was stenciled in silver on the door of the locomotive. “Shrewsbury is the end of the line,” the ticket agent informed them.
Chapter 10
Mercy accepted a ride home with Janet and Elliott Friday afternoon after the funeral and burial in the little churchyard behind the Wesleyan Chapel. Before letting herself down from the
wagon, which Mrs. Brent had left to the couple along with the horses, she embraced Janet.
“You was so good to her,” Janet sniffed against Mercy’s ear.
“And so were you.” On the ground, Mercy nodded up at Elliott, sitting there with reins in hand. “Both of you.”
“And now it’s time to go on with our lives.” The maid blew her nose into her handkerchief. “Like she wanted us to.”
“Yes, time to go on,” Mercy agreed, but as she turned and approached her family’s cottage, she had the thought, Go on to what? There were no signs of activity outside, and when she walked through the doorway, the reason became obvious. Four disgruntled faces looked up at her from the table, and three more from chairs in the corner that served as a parlor of sorts.
“You been gone for hours,” her father said with an injured tone.
Harold, who had apparently nodded off in his chair until hearing his father’s voice, blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What took you so long?”
She stood just inside the doorway, eyes traveling from one sullen face to another. “If any of you would have cared to come with me, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Fernie grumbled something about being famished, but his father, who had apparently decided to be magnanimous because his herd had become richer by six cows—seven counting the one Mrs. Kingston had traded to him—threw him a glare.
“You heard her, boy! Have some consideration. Takes time to bury a body.” He gave Mercy a long-suffering frown as if to say, You just can’t teach manners to some people! “We didn’t mind waitin’ at all, did we, fellows?”
“But you said you’ve a mind to use the strap—” Oram began but withered at his father’s silencing look.
The full meaning of her father’s last sentence dawned upon Mercy. She passed the table to the stove, where an iron pot still sat on a back burner. “You didn’t heat up the stew?”
“What?” Dale said, exchanging puzzled looks with the others. “We have stew?”
“Surely one of you thought to raise the lid and look?”
They stared back at her as if she’d suggested they should have done the ironing in her absence. “But you didn’t tell us. …” Harold declared defensively.
“That’s because you were all in the milking barn when I left.” She’d also left bread from yesterday’s baking in the cupboard with a large wedge of cheese. Just those would have provided something to stave off the starvation pangs that were apparently tormenting them now. But she knew without even checking that no one had bothered to open the cupboard door.
Sighing to herself, Mercy crossed the room and reached for the tin of matches she’d left in plain sight. Yes, it was time to go on with her life, as Janet had said. I want to have faith in your promise, Mrs. Brent, she thought. But a dismal picture would not budge from her mind—herself twenty years from now, still cooking pots of stew for a group of men who became helpless once they crossed the cottage threshold and had yet to express anything resembling gratitude.
Some twelve miles south of Gresham, Shrewsbury sat within a horseshoe loop of the River Severn. The steep-hilled town had thrived from its very beginnings as a defensive stronghold against the Welsh threat and had become a well-situated center of trade. There was a diversity of dwellings and shops—Queen Anne, Georgian, and Victorian structures were mingled with medieval and sixth-century half-timbered buildings, and winding cobbled lanes were overhung in places by Elizabethan storeys. It was bustling and busy and as different from the sedate atmosphere of Gresham as night from day. Not a place Julia would care to live, even after having spent most of her life in the far more metropolitan London, but certainly an exciting place to spend a Saturday.
Julia and Fiona, along with Elizabeth and the younger girls, had left Gresham before the sun rose in order to squeeze as much activity out of the day as possible. Since Karl Herrick would need to stay in the town to drive them back in the landau, Julia had insisted that Audrey come along so she could spend the day with her husband. It took some doing to coax the cook to surrender her kitchen to the care of Mildred, Gertie, and Mrs. Beemish. But as the couple waved farewell after depositing Julia and her group in the market square, Julia could see a flush of pleasure on the small woman’s face.
Shopping was the first order of the day, and they spent more time looking than purchasing. Elizabeth found a shawl of fine India cashmere, and Fiona purchased the novel Lorna Doone. Laurel and Aleda bought identical watercolor cases, and Grace chose a small framed picture of a cocker spaniel suffering through a bath administered by a curly-haired child who looked strikingly similar to herself. Not aware of anything that she needed at the moment, Julia was content to admire the purchases of the others until Fiona insisted that they just “look” at the items in a jeweler’s display.
The rows of stones and settings and pearls brought a tiny ache to her heart that she thought had long been extinguished. She’d been forced to surrender her jewelry when the Bank of England foreclosed on her house—even her wedding ring and some treasured heirlooms from her mother. In the busy uncertain days of establishing the Larkspur as a lodging house and learning to operate a business, her loss had seldom crossed her mind. She felt blessed just to keep the children clothed and fed. But being a woman she did enjoy pretty things, and some of the displayed pieces of jewelry were lovely indeed.
“I know you don’t want to appear high and mighty for the vicar’s sake,” Fiona was saying from beside her. “But I can’t imagine anyone begrudging you those amethyst earrings, can you?”
From her other side, Aleda coaxed, “Mother, you can wear them with your lavender dress.”
“Or even gray.” This came from Elizabeth, who had looked up from admiring a string of pearls.
“Yes,” Julia said simply. This drew surprised looks from the others, who had obviously expected a battle. She smiled at the little group. “But I’ll save them for my wedding day.”
Upon Laurel’s request they walked through the gardens of Saint Julien’s Academy for Young Ladies next. She had toured the school with her father and Elizabeth three months ago, but she now expressed a desire to show at least the outside to everyone else. It was an impressive Georgian building of red brick, situated across the English bridge and within sight of the spire of Saint Alkmund’s Church.
Soon after that they decided upon lunch—as much for the sake of their feet as their stomachs. The castle would be their last visit, where the Herricks had agreed to meet them at three o’clock for the return trip to Gresham. A hansom driver informed them that the Lion Hotel on Wyle Cop was famous city wide for its fidget pie—a combination of bacon, onions, and apples, rounded off by pastry.
The dining room of the Tudor-style building was packed with patrons, adding weight to the driver’s recommendation. Perhaps the efficiency of the innkeeper had something to do with its popularity as well, Julia thought, for he greeted them almost immediately and led them to a table in the center of the room.
“Whew,” Elizabeth breathed after an apron-clad server took their orders. “I’d forgotten how exhausting large towns could be.”
“I’m not tired at all,” Laurel declared, sitting up erect as if to prove it. “I could do this every day.”
Her older sister smirked slightly. “Well, so could I when I was your age.”
This caused an exchange of smiles across the table between Julia and Fiona. “You’re hardly ready for the rocking chair,” Julia told Elizabeth.
“Mrs. Rhodes has a green rocking chair in her sitting room,” Grace put in so sweetly that no one cared to point out the irrelevance of her statement.
Fiona smiled. “But you’re right about cities being exhausting, Elizabeth. I daresay it’ll take me weeks to adjust to London’s pace again.”
Julia had detected no trace of sadness in her friend’s voice, but just in case, she asked, “You don’t mind living there, do you, Fiona?”
“Mind? Why, no, Julia. It’s so good for my husband to be performing again. But
if I could scoop up the Prince of Wales Theatre and bring it to Gresham, I would do so.”
“And after the first performance the theatre would close,” said Elizabeth with a wry little smile. “There would be no one left to buy tickets for any other nights—unless cows were allowed.”
“Aye, there’s the truth.” Fiona smiled back. “But that’s the charm of the place, isn’t it? No crowds pushing this way and that. Everything so green and peaceful.”
Julia smiled in agreement, then noticed the dark-haired man seated at the table behind Fiona. His manly and rugged face was pale—as if he had been ill. Yet judging from the shoulders his stature seemed hardy enough. A small boy sat with him—his son, no doubt, but the two could have been strangers for all the eye contact they made. In fact, the man’s attention was centered upon Fiona, or rather her words, for his posture was set in a listening pose. There seemed a wistful expression about him until he moved his head a little and, in doing so, made eye contact with Julia. He immediately shifted his attention to the meal in front of him. Chagrined at being caught staring, Julia was careful not to look at him again.
“I wonder why sandwiches taste so much better out of doors?” Ambrose Clay said, stretched out on the grass and resting his head upon one crooked arm. With the other hand, he wiped his mouth with one of the linen napkins Mrs. Paget had packed in an oversized picnic hamper.
“I would imagine almost anything tastes better out of doors,” the vicar replied dreamily. He still had half of a ham sandwich in one hand and a glass of lemonade from the crock in another. “It’s just that sandwiches are the only foods we ever pack in picnic baskets. Right, Philip?”
Philip looked around from the hook he was baiting at water’s edge. “Yes, sir.” He had led the two men to a shady spot on the riverbank in Gipsy Woods so they could see if the fish were biting any better here than they had been below the bridge. Ben and Jeremiah had joined them for a while, but then had to leave to do their Saturday chores.
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