by Karen Hall
“Well, if Mr. Hollingsworth is coming to visit today, we should hurry and be sure the school is tidy and that all the children have clean faces and hands,” Clara said hastily, casting a glance in Tabitha’s direction. They were both far too familiar with Elizabeth’s tendency to “preach to the choir.”
“Yes, indeed,” Tabitha agreed. “We don’t want to give his constituents a reason to talk about the students or the school in a negative way. If we hurry, we should be able to find a cab to share, Clara. I have to write up those interviews I did yesterday before I come to the school. Mr. H. agreed to meet us at there at two o’clock. We’ll see you tonight, Elizabeth.”
And before her first-born could argue, Tabitha propelled her younger daughter in the direction of the hall and the front door.
That afternoon East End.
Daniel had the cab stop at the corner so he might walk the rest of the way to the Merriweather Street School. The frosty air chilled his face, and he considered, not for the first time, growing a beard. He recalled a legend that the late American president, Abraham Lincoln had grown a beard after receiving a letter from a young girl suggesting he do so.
But Letty had preferred him clean-shaven. She’d offered such good advice on everything when they were married, it only seemed fitting to continue to follow it even after she had passed away. The old hurt threatened to resurface, and for a moment he wondered if Nigel wasn’t right about him marrying again. Not for political gain as much as for the benefits of marriage. Daniel and Letty had enjoyed each other in all areas of married life. One does not easily replace such a companion.
He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. Nigel had insisted they still meet after Lady Cecily’s party. Between Tabitha Goforth’s publicly defeating him at chess, and Thomas McCracken dropping hints left and right about a possible run again for his district, Nigel seemed galvanized into action and insisted Daniel make an immediate decision about running for the House of Commons. They’d been up well past midnight, almost making him late for his appearance in court this morning. Nigel’s complaints about Tabitha Goforth winning the chess game took up a good part of their conversation.
“Nigel, it was just a chess game,” Daniel had protested when Davenport continued his harangue about the event. “Why are you so annoyed?”
“We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t write about it in her newspaper, touting the superiority of women,” Nigel fumed. “She’s just the kind of woman who’d do such a thing.”
“Because she’s ‘that woman’?”
“Exactly,” Nigel said testily. “Heaven help us if the petticoat brigade does get the vote! We’ll all have to become monks!”
Coughing back a laugh at the thought of Nigel in a monk’s robe and a tonsured head, Daniel turned the corner and stepped onto Merriweather Street. Not all parts of the East End were down-at-the heel or warrens of criminal activity. This street appeared neat and well-kept, with the sidewalks swept and without holes. The shops’ windows sparkled with a freshly washed brilliance and all the steps looked freshly blacked. Obviously Merriweather Street took pride in how it looked.
Checking the school’s address in his pocket notebook, Daniel continued his stroll until it took him to a neat two-story brick building. Matching evergreen wreaths wrapped in red ribbons hung from the double front doors and someone had pasted cut-outs of golden stars to the windows. A small, slender figure in a dark coat and flowered hat waited on the wide porch. Seeing him, she smiled and raised a gloved hand in greeting. The strangest feeling of anticipation crept over Daniel. He must be truly exhausted if he thought for even a moment Tabitha Goforth was glad to see him.
Or him to see her. And not because of that chess game. He had no doubt she would challenge or question any position he took in his campaign. She would be the proverbial pebble in his shoe, always there, annoying and troublesome. After all she was ‘that woman’ and the only woman in London who owned her own newspaper.
As much as he hated to admit it, Tabitha Goforth was an excellent journalist. She wrote almost as well as Phillip Caulfield. Daniel was quite sure speaking that comparison aloud would not be appreciated by either her or her daughters. Not if he wanted to live to hit the campaign trail again.
But there was nothing but welcome in Mrs. Goforth’s smile as she held out her gloved hand. “Hello, Mr. Hollingsworth,” she said. “I see no permanent harm was done to your feelings after your defeat last night.”
“My skin is a bit thicker than that,” he agreed, shaking her hand. “After all, it was just a game. Thank you for agreeing to act as my guide today.”
“You’re more than welcome,” she said. “We’re very proud of the work we do here. It keeps Clara so busy that she hardly has time for anything else, including getting more involved in suffragist politics. She’s not even been arrested.”
“You mean yet.” The words slipped out of Daniel before he could stop them. But before he could offer an apology, Mrs. Goforth laughed. It was a deep, happy sound, proving for once and all, Tabitha Goforth had a sense of humor, and certainly no shame in her suffragist work.
“Yes, indeed,” she gasped. “I think we’ll both be waiting a long time before that happens. Between teaching and finding funds for her school, Clara doesn’t have time to get arrested. Her afternoon classes for older children and adults keep her especially busy. Come, let me show you the school.”
The inner foyer was as neat and clean as the porch, and the wooden floors smelled faintly of fresh polish. Daniel followed her hasty walk, their tandem steps echoing down the corridor. The back of her was as nicely shaped as the front of her, and he wondered what crazed person had ever thought that the bustle could have improved upon the Creator’s original design of a woman’s backside in all its natural glory. From this vantage point it was clear that Mrs. Goforth’s shape needed no such embellishment.
Where the devil did that come from? Daniel shoved the thought into the farthest corner of his mind. He needed to spend an hour each with the fencing and boxing master at his athletic club if he were entertaining such thoughts. A hard, physical workout would exorcise them away completely.
“I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners, scurrying ahead like that. I’ve a bad habit of walking too quickly.” Mrs. Goforth turned and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is something wrong, Mr. Hollingsworth?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.” You look rather pale.”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “How many classes does the school have?”
“We have two each for each year of the primary level and three that would be the equivalent of the first three years of secondary school,” she said, starting her walk again. “And then in the afternoon and early evening there are basic education classes for adults to improve their literacy skills. Clara teaches those as well as the secondary level ones.”
From behind closed doors he heard children’s voices reciting the alphabet or the multiplication tables. At the end of the hall she stopped in front of a door that, like the others, had a small, single pane of glass in the center. After a quick look inside, she rapped on the door before opening it and beckoned him to follow her inside. Daniel removed his hat and stopped to hang it on the hall tree in the corner.
A young woman stood before the class, so alike in appearance to Mrs. Goforth, that she must be Clara Goforth. She nodded as they went to the back of the class and pointed at two side-by-side wooden chairs. When they were settled, Daniel gave the room a quick examination. Bookshelves lined one wall and an oversize map of the world hung from another. A silver star pasted on what looked to be England must indicate London’s location. A large, decorated Christmas tree stood in a corner, filling the air with its familiar scent. It was an incredibly comfortable room, warm and inviting.
To Daniel’s surprise, both boys and girls were in the room. All were well-groomed and neatly dressed in black and blue uniforms and looked to be between twelve and fifteen years old. Boys and girls of this age in the same classroom? If The Watchman and
other conservative newspapers knew about this, they would have a field day with such a novel idea. Why hadn’t they written about it? Daniel knew of more than one person whose sense of outrage at “mixed” education might close the school’s doors.
But perhaps because the school was buried in the East End, they didn’t know of its existence. Indeed, he’d only recently become aware of it himself. Stories of any kind about poor children were not exactly the stuff of the kind of headlines that drove sales.
Even more astonishing was the students’ complete concentration on copying the paragraphs on the chalkboard. Paragraphs in Latin. The only sound other than the near silent whisper of the wall clock’s second hand was the scratching of pencils over paper.
Daniel scanned the board and turned his rising laughter into a cough. The paragraph was the opening lines to Goldilocks and the Three Bears. A glance at Mrs. Goforth showed she was smiling. She certainly smiled a great deal. He caught the scent of lily-of-the-valley and he wondered why such a modern-thinking woman would wear an old-fashioned scent. For some ridiculous reason, it pleased him.
“Time,” Miss Goforth called. “Who cares to translate?”
Hands shot up, and Miss Goforth tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Hmmm. Hank. Let’s hear what you have.”
A tall, thin boy who looked to be among the younger students in age, stood and read his translation in a low-pitched, hesitant voice. When he finished, Miss Goforth beamed with pride. “Perfect, Hank! Well done!”
Blushing, Hank ducked his head and quickly sat while the other students applauded. Daniel found himself applauding along with them. Miss Goforth looked over her pupils’ heads and fixed her stare on him. Her smile was not nearly as bold as her mother’s but she squared her shoulders, and when the applause died away, she spoke.
“We’re glad to have a visitor today,” she said. “Young ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Daniel Hollingsworth, a well-known barrister. My mother, of course, all of you already know. “
Every student turned to stare at Daniel in open but not unfriendly curiosity. “As you can see, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Miss Goforth continued, “We are practicing our Latin. Hank Eustace is our star scholar today.”
“I’m impressed,” Daniel said honestly. “An interesting way to teach it.”
“Do you know Latin?” a girl with an enormous hair bow in the front row asked.
“Yes. It comes in handy in my work,” Daniel said. “What other subjects are in your curriculum, Miss Goforth?”
“Algebra, geography, composition, science and English literature,” Miss Goforth said. “Lately, we’ve been reading A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”
“That’s by William Shakespeare,” Hank pronounced solemnly.
“Of course,” Daniel agreed. “And a very fine play it is.”
A loud clanging sounded in the hallway and Miss Goforth said, “Time for our afternoon tea break. Please be back in a half-hour.”
She headed to the back of the room as papers were shoved into desks, followed by the pupils’ hurried departure. When her daughter had joined them, Daniel looked at Mrs. Goforth and asked, “Afternoon tea break?”
“Some of our students are often hungry,” she said. “A local baker keeps us supplied in buns and pasties at no cost because two of his sons attend school here. He’s keen on them receiving the education he never had.”
His curiosity piqued, Daniel asked, “Is learning Latin something these young people will ever need to use? Would not some sort of apprentice program be more suitable?”
“Since when is learning Latin unsuitable for anyone?” Miss Goforth challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. “Or perhaps you think these children should settle for being street-sweepers or dress-makers? That because they are poor, they should not try to lift themselves up by getting a greater education? That they should have no ambition and stay in their own economic class where they belong as ‘God intended’”?
Like mother, like daughter. “That’s not what I meant, Miss Goforth.” Irritation spiked up Daniel’s spine, but he kept his tone even. “You tar me with too thick a brush. I was surprised, that’s all. Education is of course, its own reward. Outside the theater, one seldom earns a living from knowing Shakespeare, but it is a rogue villain who can’t quote a line or two from him whom we English can proudly claim as our own and rightly call the greatest playwright of all time. And I don’t think God minds ambition, unless it’s to try to rule with Him in heaven. Lucifer learned that the hard way, didn’t’ he?” He paused and could not help adding, “That’s Milton, Miss Goforth. Paradise Lost.”
Instead of snapping back at his gentle jibe, she had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m rather sensitive when it comes to educating young people. But you’re right, Mr. Hollingsworth. Most of these students will eventually become apprentices or find employment that will not require the use of Latin or even Shakespeare. It was all we could do to convince some of the parents to let them learn to read and write at all, especially the girls. Can you believe there are still people who think girls don’t need an education?”
Daniel could almost feel the heat of her zeal coming off her. “Like mother, like daughter,” he said, speaking aloud his earlier thought.
“I don’t understand.” Miss Goforth’s expression tightened again.
“Your passion for social causes,” Daniel explained. “It’s not many young women who would take up such an endeavor. I imagine when all three Goforth women are together, you are a force of nature one ought not to take lightly.”
To his relief, the women laughed and Mrs. Goforth said, “As are many women. Perhaps that’s why men are reluctant to give us the vote.”
“And do you use the same curriculum for your adult classes as well?” Daniel asked, taking this relaxed moment to study the younger woman. Unlike her sister Elizabeth, Clara Goforth was petite with her mother’s chestnut hued hair. But the same enthusiasm glittered in her eyes and sounded in her voice. Passion obviously ran deep in all the Goforth women.
“Not exactly,” Miss Goforth said resignedly. “I try to improve their reading, writing and basic math skills as quickly as possible so we can help them find jobs or better paying employment. They don’t have time for Latin or Shakespeare. I only wish they did.”
“A pity indeed,” Daniel agreed. “Does your sister help them find work through her employment agency?”
Surprise widened her eyes. “You remember that Elizabeth has an employment agency?”
“Once one has met your sister, she is rather hard to forget,” Daniel said lightly. “A woman of strong conviction and stronger personality. But between her vouching for their work qualifications and you to vouch for their level of education as well as their character, an employer would have no fears with any candidate she sent them.”
She offered him a smile. “Was that a compliment, Mr. Hollingsworth?”
“Does that surprise you?” he asked. “Or does your sister’s opinion of me and my politics make you suspicious of my sincerity?”
“I—“
“Never mind,” Daniel said, and returned her smile. “Please believe me when I say I truly find your work and your dedication most impressive. I wish you good fortune in your endeavors.”
“Thank you, Clara,” Mrs. Goforth said. “I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of Mr. Hollingsworth’s time. I’ll see you at home.”
He shook Miss Goforth’s hand, thanked her for allowing him to visit, and after getting his hat, walked with her mother out of the school.
“It seems an excellent program,” he said. “Thank you for suggesting I visit.”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Goforth replied. “No doubt your decision to run will hurry Thomas McCracken’s decision as well.”
“Nigel—who seems to have his finger on London’s political pulse—tells me that there will be a special one-page edition of The Times coming out later this afternoon,” he told her. “McCracken plans to announce his bid to run again wil
l be in it.”
She chuckled at his news. “So McCracken is worried about a little competition, is he? Do let me know when you start your campaign so I can follow it.”
Recalling some of its stories from his last campaign, he asked, “Am I to expect fair and honest reporting from The Clarion?”
Her eyes darkened, piercing him with an unspoken accusation and he realized he had angered her. “Mrs. Goforth, I—”
“The Clarion’s motto is Semper Veritas, sir.” Her chilly tone rivaled the December wind picking up around them. “I presume you have enough Latin to know what that means?”
And before he could offer an apology, she was striding to the corner and a waiting cab.
Chapter Five
THE BLACK DOG PUB. Later that Night.
“Robbie!” George Edgeworth beckoned to his half-brother, and the tall, fair-haired man began jostling through the early evening crowd to George’s booth in the back of the room. The Black Dog was a popular watering-hole for reporters, just off Fleet Street, and certainly not the kind of place George would have chosen for an after-work pint. The cracked leather seats made for less than comfortable seating and the floor, sticky with spilled ale, left a residue hard to clean from the bottom of George’s shoes. And there was far too much cigar smoke. George’s eyes watered against the haze and it was all he could do to keep from taking out his handkerchief and covering his nose.
But the owner had strung tinsel and garland around the bar and windows, giving the Black Dog a shabbily festive air. Someone at a badly tuned piano in the far corner was pounding out Christmas carols and several voices sang along.
George was never completely at ease around his older half-brother. Their mutual father had ignored Robbie’s baiting of George when they were growing up, even though only eighteen months divided them. He claimed such teasing would make a man out of George, that it would “toughen him up” and get him out of the books. George had endured more than a few blows from Robbie, who claimed it was all in fun.
