Where Love Shines

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  He had apologized at the shoeblacks’ home, and she hadn’t answered him. What would she say when they were alone in the carriage?

  In a few minutes they left Edith Watson at the mission, Jenny promising to return in the morning to help her with the nursing.

  Then the carriage door closed again, leaving them in their small, swaying, fog-wrapped cocoon.

  “Richard.”

  “Jennifer.”

  They spoke at the same time and then turned to each other, laughing.

  “Jenny.”

  “Dick.”

  They did it again. And laughed again.

  “You first,” he said.

  “I only wanted to say I’m sorry. You were right.” Her words sounded inadequate in the velvet darkness.

  “Jenny.” His hand moved uncertainly on the seat. As of old habit, she took it in hers and felt him hold tightly. “Jenny, through all those months of horror, you were my only light. I heard Florence Nightingale referred to as the Lady of the Lamp, but you were my lamp, a small flame in all the darkness. Then I came home to continuing days of endless darkness, and I had no lamp—until you reinvaded my life.”

  Jenny gave a small chuckle. “Only I wasn’t a lamp. I was more like a raging bonfire. I see that now.”

  In the dim light she could just see his smile. “Where you wanted to charge ahead, I wanted to think. I had seen disaster enough from charging ahead without thinking.”

  “Yes.” Jenny could think of nothing else to say.

  “Jenny, ever since that first night in the hospital, I’ve longed to see you. May I?”

  Slowly she took off her bonnet and leaned forward, directing his hands to her face. His touch was so light on her hair. He stroked it with just two fingers of each hand, following the natural swirls from her center part down to the curls over each ear and up again to the simple bun in the back. “It’s brown,” she said. “Darker than a walnut and lighter…” She sought for just the right metaphor. “Lighter than the garden soil after a rain.”

  He moved on to the hairline that dipped to a little heart-shaped peak over her high forehead, then the heavy eyebrows arching over her wide-set eyes. “Eyebrows dark—almost black, eyes brown,” she narrated. His fingertips found the little hollows in her cheeks and then moved on to her wide mouth. He must have felt her tense because he pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” she said. “But I’ve always hated having such a large mouth.”

  He shook his head. “You’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  Wordlessly they pulled apart. The experience had been far more intimate than he had intended. It left him shaken. In the past weeks he had been coming to terms with the darkness. He had made up his mind that in time he would get used to the physical groping. He had to, and one could do whatever one had to do.

  But the spiritual groping—the sense of groping for his life had been driving him crazy. Until the afternoon he had spent in the Earl of Shaftesbury’s company. Since then Kirkham had read countless white papers and the longer blue books to him. The visions brought to life by the earl were beginning to take shape as ideas and goals.

  He did not need this new complication that Miss Jennifer Neville presented. If he were sighted and unscarred, he might determine to give the insufferable Mr. Arthur Nigel Merriott a run for his money. But as matters stood, the notion was ridiculous.

  The carriage stopped before Number 7 Portland Place. The silence grew uncomfortable. Richard could not walk Jenny to the door without a word. He cleared his throat and spoke as if giving report to one of his aunt’s committee meetings. “I want you to know that partly at the urging of your Mr. Merriott, who has been calling regularly at Aunt Charlotte’s, I have undertaken to pursue the matter of reform at Greyston Pottery. It is not mine, of course, nor will it ever be, but I shall exert what small moral influence I have on my family. I have written to both George and Father urging them to look into the matter of schooling and work hours for the children we employ and the housing conditions of our workers.”

  “Richard, that’s wonderful! Oh, I can’t wait to tell Arthur. He will be so pleased!”

  He felt the reference to Arthur more deeply than he would admit. “I had hoped you would also be pleased.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “As soon as Mother is well enough to travel, we will be returning to Newcastle. She has already stayed in London far longer than she intended. Now that the cholera season is upon us, she is most anxious to be off. A new doctor is coming tomorrow. Perhaps he can do something for her.”

  Since Jennifer had nothing more to say, he took her to the door in silence. Her voice had sounded genuinely delighted, so why did he feel deflated?

  The next morning Richard was just finishing his platter of kedgeree and creamed kidneys on toast to the sound of rain beating against the window when Livvy flew into the room. “Oh, Dick, I’m longing to be back in Newcastle. I’m sick of being cooped up in London. Just think how golden the trees will be there, and we can go out into the country and ride for miles over the fields.” She stopped suddenly. “Oh, Dick, I’m sorry. I forgot. How dreadful for you. I—”

  “No. Please don’t apologize.” He held up his hand. “I quite agree it will be excellent to be away from London. Has the new doctor come yet?”

  “Dr. Pannier? He’s in with Mama now.” Livvy sighed. “I don’t suppose he can do anything the others haven’t, though. We must convince her to go home anyway. I’m sure the air there would do her more good than any new doctor.”

  Dick pushed his plate back. “You may be right. I think I’ll just have a word with him and see what he thinks about her condition for traveling.”

  Dick refused Kirkham’s offer to go with him. He knew his way around the house very well, as long as no one left a footstool or basket out of place.

  When Richard entered his mother’s room, the doctor was just concluding his instructions to Violet, Caroline Greyston’s tall, thin maid. “…that’s dried dandelion root, your best ginger, and Columba root—all well bruised and boiled together in three pints of water—do you have that, my girl? A glassful every four hours. Do not be slack about it.” He turned back to Caroline on the couch. “That should do very well for the liver complaint. Now as to the palpitations, I shall speak to you very directly. Such conditions are most often caused by luxurious living, indolence, and tight-lacing. This you must conquer with the application of sturdy resolution.”

  In the dim light of the invalid’s room, Dick could see the exaggerated gestures that so suited the doctor’s august bearing. Dick had an impression of soft, white skin and macassared hair beneath a high, balding forehead. But it was the voice that brought Dick to a full halt just inside his mother’s room. As the deep, gravelly tones droned on, giving self-important orders, Dick became more certain. This was the voice that had sounded familiar to him at Tattersall’s. And, he now knew, it was the voice of a doctor in the Barracks Hospital. So the speaker was a perfectly respectable professional man who also engaged in a respectable sport. Why should the voice irritate him so?

  Dick stood in front of the door, requiring that the doctor stop mid-sweep in an otherwise imposing exit. “Ah, Doctor—” Dick paused pointedly.

  “Pannier. William Pannier, surgeon.”

  “Yes. I believe we met in Scutari. You were at the Barracks Hospital?”

  Pannier cringed. “I was.” Then he looked severely at Richard.

  Dick had the strongest sensation of wanting to pull back.

  The doctor leaned closer, however, peering at Richard. Then he drew himself up. “Bread and water poultices on those scars, young man. Applied thickly twice a day.” And he continued his exit as if followed by a train of courtiers.

  Dick crossed the room. “Mother, how are—”

  “Whatever can you be thinking of, Caroline? I will not have that man in my house, much less attending my niece,” Lady Eccleson demanded as she entered the room.

  “Why do you
say that, Charlotte? I confess I was not much pleased with his advice, but that is not unusual.”

  “I am surprised at you, Caroline, especially as Pannier is a Staffordshire man. I should think you would have heard of him in Newcastle.”

  “Alas, there is never any news in Newcastle. One must come to London to hear of one’s hometown.”

  “Humph. From my memory of Greyston Pitchers, there was little to do there but gossip. If it has changed materially since I left, I should be amazed.”

  “Aunt Charlotte, if you know something of Dr. Pannier that would disqualify him from attending Mama, pray tell us.” Livvy, who had been standing by the door for several moments, crossed the room and kissed her mother. Then she tossed her blonde curls. “And whatever you know, tell us. It sounds like delicious scandal.”

  Lady Eccleson sniffed. “Scandal indeed. I do not repeat scandal, young lady. But I do not care to have my house visited by a man who is reputed to have fathered fourteen illegitimate children; whose mother-in-law, from whom he inherited property, died within a fortnight of moving in with him; whose wife died after a single premium had been paid on a large insurance policy; and whose brother was called to heaven less than a year later also with a large policy in favor of Pannier.”

  “But surely—” Caroline Greyston began.

  “Aunt Charlotte, how do you know these things?” Richard frowned. He had not cared for the man, but such accusations went beyond mere gossip.

  “Lord Selbourne is well acquainted with the matter through some business interests of his in the city. He was telling Colonel Biggar much of it at a recent committee meeting. Pannier’s name came up as a member of the Public Health Department, and Selbourne’s opinion was requested.”

  Dick considered. “To be fair, that sounds like a most suitable appointment. Service in the Barracks Hospital should teach one all there is to know of the need for sanitation.”

  “What a tragedy for the poor man to lose so many of his family members.” Livvy bit her lip. “It is shocking that people should spread such gossip about a man who served England and her army so valiantly.”

  Richard turned to the matter he had come to discuss. “Be that as it may, Mama, if you are not pleased with his advice, there can be little reason to remain in London for more of it. Livvy is longing to return home. Do you think you would be strong enough to make the journey—say in a fortnight?”

  Caroline sank deep into her pillows. “I should like that very much. But what of Dr. Halston, Richard? Surely you would not want to be without his care.”

  Richard snorted. “Halston knows two sentences: ‘Wait,’ and ‘Live in the dark.’ I can do both as easily in Newcastle. And apply Dr. Pannier’s bread-and-water poultices as well—should I run mad enough to choose to do so.”

  “Oh, that’s famous!” Livinia flung her arms first around her mother and then her brother. “Oh, I’ve been longing to return for ever such a time! Richard, you are the best of brothers!”

  Richard had accomplished what he intended, and he had made his sister excessively happy. He could not understand why the prospect of leaving London did not make him happier.

  Twelve

  Each morning of the following week, Jennifer found herself growing increasingly impatient with her father’s droning Bible reading at morning prayers. She longed to be about her work. So far only one of the shoeblacks had died of the cholera—testimony to the efficacy of Edith Watson’s remedies and insistence on open windows and clean floors. The Times had reported nearly a thousand deaths already in the poorer parts of the city. The newspapers were calling for the newly formed Public Health Department to do something before the epidemic spread to the better quarters.

  “O Lord, from whom all good things do come, grant to us Thy humble servants, that by Thy holy inspiration we may think those things that be good, and by Thy merciful guiding may perform the same…” Jenny agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment of her father’s prayer, but she was thankful when at long last it came to an end and she could do those good things.

  Which today meant, as it had every day for almost two weeks now, taking a hansom cab to the Westminster Mission and helping Edith Watson nurse the cholera-stricken. Although Mrs. Neville didn’t approve of such unfashionable clothing, Jennifer had taken to wearing again the gray tweed skirt and jacket Florence Nightingale had prescribed for her nurses in the Crimea. To Jenny their comfort and convenience far outweighed the risk of being identified as a member of the disreputable nursing profession. With determination she tucked her hair inside her white cap and drew her short gray cape around her shoulders.

  At least it was raining this morning. The cooler air would bring welcome relief to her fever-ridden patients—and to those who worked in stuffy, fetid rooms to bring them comfort.

  And this morning she was well-rewarded for her efforts. Josh was sitting up in his cot practicing his alphabet with one of the older boys. Jenny gave him a hug as she handed him his cup of quince seed tea. He grinned. “I’ll be back ta school next week, Miss Neville.”

  “And ready to go on to the next group, it seems. You’ll be reading before the year is out, Josh. There is a fine story in the Bible about a man named Joshua. You must learn to read it.”

  The blue-brown eyes shone.

  Jenny moved on down the row, noting three beds emptied by boys who had recovered and returned to the streets with their shoeblack kits.

  But most of the city could not report such success rates. A doctor who had served with Shaftesbury on the now-defunct Board of Health was asking in newspaper articles and public speeches that all sewers be flushed regularly. Public opinion was divided between those who supported this sanitary practice and those who opposed it on the grounds that it fouled the Thames—the city’s main water supply. Some rash young doctor had even gone so far as to assert that cholera could be spread through infected water as well as infected air. But few were ready to accept such radical thinking.

  Mrs. Watson brushed strands of gray-brown hair out of her face as she approached Jennifer. “I ’aven’t the right to ask this of a gently bred young lady such as yourself, but I’d be right thankful for your help at another call.”

  Jenny put her cape on and picked up her basket. “Of course, Edith. What is it?”

  “It’s, as you might say, a ’ouse for fallen women.” Her eyes did not meet Jenny’s as she spoke the words.

  Jenny laughed as she started down the narrow, twisting stairs from the boys’ dormitory. “Edith, do you think I don’t know of such things? Why, even my mother contributes to the Society for Rescuing Fallen Women, Especially those Descended from Respectable Families. Are you afraid some of these in need of our help mightn’t be descended from respectable families?”

  Edith sucked her lower lip before she replied. “It isn’t so much that, miss. It’s more like these ’aven’t been rescued yet.”

  They were now on the rain-washed street. “Mrs. Watson, do you mean we are to nurse women who are still, er, practicing their—that is, their trade?”

  “That’s it. I knew I shouldn’t ’ave asked you. You just take a cab on back to the mission and direct those as are there to start the soup pots.”

  “Don’t be silly, Edith. I don’t know anything about making soup. But I’m a good nurse. I’ll come with you.”

  Edith Watson looked relieved. “If you’re sure.” She stepped across a puddle and passed a cripple selling matches. The rain, which should have been cleansing, made the gray stone buildings and garbage-choked street look all the dirtier as it streaked the soot-blackened walls. Children played in the gutter, splashing sticks in puddles and sailing paper boats. A rag and bone cart trundled by, spraying them with muddy water while its owner called out his wares. The lane, lined with pawnbrokers, sweatshops, and tenement buildings, curved higgledy-piggledy down the hill. Jenny was astounded that Edith could find her way in such a maze. “We’re almost there, Miss Jenny. I wouldn’t a asked you to walk, but there weren’t no cabs in sig
ht.”

  “It’s all right, Edith. I’m warm enough.” And physically she was, but Jenny’s mind was chilled. This was worse than anything she had seen yet. It was unthinkable that anyone could live in these rotting tenements. The buildings were warped with damp, the walls patched and repatched, looking ready to fall down at any moment. Even with the rain, and now a chill wind had picked up as well, the doorways and sidewalks were crammed with people huddled together. Here and there someone was lying on the stone sidewalks. She wasn’t even certain some of them were still alive. And through it all was the smell of human waste and the squeak of rats. Jenny lowered her eyes and hurried on.

  Two more twists of the street brought them to the brothel. Inside, the gaudy hangings of soiled red velvet and cheap lace seemed even more obscene to Jennifer than the filth on the street. A fat woman with brightly rouged cheeks and orange hair directed Mrs. Watson toward an upstairs room. Jennifer had just started up the stairs behind her when a door on the landing opened, and a man in a dark suit erupted with such speed he almost bowled Jennifer over. “What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Wimple? I was not informed—” The gravelly voice stopped sharply at the sight of Jennifer in the uniform of a Crimean nurse.

  Jennifer looked again at the man. “Dr. Pannier. We were told they were in need of nursing here, but if they have a doctor—”

  Mrs. Watson turned, halfway up the next flight of stairs. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’ll just go ahead with my special elixir—same one as we used in Scutari, so I’m sure you’ll approve.”

  Dr. Pannier didn’t even reply. He just nodded and motioned for her to continue before he pulled his tall black hat well down over his head and pushed out the door.