Where Love Shines

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  Jennifer and Mrs. Watson administered their doses in record time to the six women suffering from cholera. Edith gave explicit instructions for their continuing care to the orange-haired woman in charge, and Jennifer all but ran down the stairs to the street. Sooty and garbage-choked as it was, she preferred the street to the heavy, over-perfumed atmosphere of the brothel. A cab was just setting down a flashily dressed young man when they came out, so they were able to ride back to the mission. “Imagine that fine Doctor Pannier coming to care for those poor women,” Mrs. Watson said once she was comfortably settled in the cab. “He never struck me as the sort to be abounding with charitable works. Just goes to show you can’t tell a dog by its spots.”

  Jennifer nodded, but she was feeling too dispirited to talk. By the time they got back to the mission, she was considering going home. How lovely it would be to sit in a quiet, well-appointed room and read the latest installment of Mr. Dickens’s new novel in “Household Words” while Betsy built up the fire on the grate and Hinson brought in a tray of tea and sandwiches. Yes. She would just look in on the mission work and then go home. Surely she had done her share for the day.

  But inside there were three new volunteers to be trained, and Reverend Walker was busy leading the midday service before the soup was served. Mrs. Watson would take care of the two kitchen workers—would Jennifer be so kind as to guide the young lady who had come to see the ragged school?

  Jennifer smiled at Miss Susannah Thompson and led her into the schoolroom. In a few minutes Jenny felt the beginnings of a warm regard for the lovely blonde girl dressed in a subdued blue afternoon walking dress. After showing her the schoolroom and explaining Mr. Walker’s unorthodox but effective teaching methods, Jenny suggested they sit on one of the forms to continue their visit. She was too warm in her tweed uniform and felt a little light-headed, but she did want to get to know Susannah better. “And what has turned your mind to ragged school teaching, Miss Thompson?”

  Susannah laughed. “Do I still look so frivolous? I daresay a few months ago such an idea would never have entered my mind. But that was before our new preacher came to Park Street Chapel.”

  “Oh?” Jenny knew little of nonconformist preachers or chapels.

  “Yes, he came to us from Cambridge where—”

  “From Cambridge? A nonconformist?”

  Susannah nodded, and her curls bounced. “You are right—that would be most unusual. The Reverend Charles Spurgeon is from the town of Cambridge, not the university. You have heard of the famous Robert Hall? Mr. Spurgeon preached in Hall’s church in Cambridge—St. Andrews Street Baptist. That was where one of our church board members heard him and recommended that he be invited to fill our pulpit. Already we have added five hundred new souls to our congregation. Charles is the best preacher and the finest man—oh!” Miss Thompson flung a small white hand over her mouth. “Oh, that is, I mean…”

  It was more her blushing confusion than the fact that she had called the minister by his first name that made Jenny understand the true state of Miss Susannah Thompson’s feelings. “I see. You mean that as your minister urges you to good works, you wouldn’t wish to be found wanting.”

  Susannah’s round blue eyes shone. “Oh, it’s more than that. He doesn’t really say much about good works. It’s just that he preaches so forcefully about having the love of God in our hearts, and then he goes out and ministers to the less fortunate himself. So how could we do less?”

  Jenny nodded. Susannah seemed to have found a key to questions she had been asking herself. And the accord Susannah Thompson and her Charles Spurgeon seemed to share over such matters made Jenny think of Arthur’s long absences from her presence—and from her mind—and of her strained parting with Richard. It seemed that all society was agreed on the necessity of performing works of mercy, and yet something seemed to be missing in all the flurry of good works—something that apparently Susannah had found.

  Jennifer’s old goals had been set by the standards of society and the position of her family in that society. But recently she was realizing that there was a power more potent than society. Of course, she had always acknowledged the existence and authority of God. Indeed, all of society was built on that foundational understanding. And she had gone to church regularly, participated in all the Christian observances, and most mornings attended carefully to her father’s Bible reading at family prayers. But now she wondered if there could be something more.

  Susannah was still talking in her soft, musical voice, but Jenny’s mind continued to wander in a somewhat different direction. It had been almost two weeks since she and Richard had parted. She had seen nothing of him or of Livinia since then. They must have returned to Newcastle. But would Richard have gone without bidding her farewell?

  “…and you can’t imagine what an impact that had on the entire congregation.” Jennifer brought her mind back to grasp the thread of Susannah’s conversation. “Last year when the cholera was so dreadful, Mr. Spurgeon had been with us for only a few months—and he was already so popular—especially among the poor—that he was sent for by the sick and poor without intermission day and night…”

  Jenny felt the room closing in on her. Her vision blurred, and Susannah’s voice seemed to fade in and out. Jenny was interested in what the girl had to say. Why couldn’t she concentrate? It must be the heat.

  “…When he was so exhausted he feared falling victim to the disease himself, he saw a scrap of paper wafered to a shop window. It said, ‘Thou shall not be afraid for the pestilence that walketh in darkness,’ and so he kept right on—Miss Neville! Oh, are you ill?”

  Jenny started to lean on the bench and then realized the forms had no backs. She felt herself slipping. Just before she hit the bottom of her long slide, a strong arm circled her shoulders and lifted her up. She blinked and looked into a broad face framed by light brown hair. The golden-brown eyes looked at her with concern.

  “Oh, Charles, you’re just in time,” Susannah cried. “Miss Neville, this is the Reverend Mr. Spurgeon I’ve been telling you about.”

  Jenny tried to reply, but the room was spinning. It could have been hours later, but probably no more than a few minutes that she was dimly aware of Arthur marching in, complaining vociferously about the pig-headedness of someone at some meeting he had been attending. “Are you ready to go, Jennifer?” He looked at her and stopped suddenly. “Jenny, what’s the matter with you?”

  Mrs. Watson thrust a basket containing bottles of fever elixir and quince seed tea at Arthur. “Get her home. Open the windows. Call a doctor. When remedies are taken early, the cholera need not be fatal.”

  “Cholera?” Arthur drew back. “Jennifer?”

  “You’re right to be surprised, sir. It don’t often take the upper classes. But like I said, it needn’t be fatal. Now take this.” She put the basket in Arthur’s hands. “And do as I say.”

  Even through her blurred vision Jennifer could see Arthur’s face pale, making his reddish sideburns stand out in sharp contrast.

  “Er—” Arthur backed up another step, and his voice was tight. “It can take the upper orders all right. Shaftesbury’s brother-in-law was a vigorous young officer—stationed at the Tower of London. One day last year during the height of the pestilence, he fell ill and was dead of cholera within hours.” Arthur tugged at his collar as if it would choke him.

  “I can see you are pressed to return to your meeting, sir. If you would be so good as to give me Miss Neville’s address, Miss Thompson and I will be happy to see her home.” It wasn’t until Charles Spurgeon spoke that Jenny realized he was still holding her up. Apparently Arthur required little persuading to leave her in the care of her new friends. She was dimly aware of the cab ride and being put to bed, but the all-consuming facts of her consciousness were raging thirst and the nausea that wouldn’t let her keep down the liquid she craved. And the unspeakable diarrhea.

  At moments she tried to pray, but she didn’t know whether to pray to live or to di
e. It seemed that any escape would be blessed, and yet when she was lucid enough to think, she realized that she did not want to leave life before she had found her reason for living. Her family, Arthur, her friends—perhaps even Richard—would miss her. Her absence would be felt at the ragged school and her other charities, but someone else would take her place. She had accomplished so little anyway. Was this all life was about? Making one’s family and friends happy, doing what little one could to serve God and society, and then dying? Was that all?

  She was dimly aware of her mother placing a fresh vinegar-water cloth on her forehead. She tried to acknowledge how refreshing it felt. Everyone was so kind. And yet to what end? She had tried to live by the rules of God and society, and she had undoubtedly done more than most young women of her class, and yet how awful to think that was all there was. Of course, young women were told that they would find their fulfillment in their husbands and children. She had not experienced that, so she could not know. But the idea of marrying Arthur and bearing children did not seem enough to carry on for. And then another bout of nausea made even breathing unbearable, let alone thinking.

  Five days later Jenny was at last able to keep down a few spoonsful of calves-foot jelly and half a cup of beef tea. That evening her doctor gave her a gratified grunt, and she supposed that meant she would live. But for what purpose, she was unsure. Perhaps it was just the result of her weakness, but the thought of returning to round after round of charity work—where for every child rescued, hundreds died, where for every child educated, thousands lived on in their hopelessness—seemed more than she could bear. Her brief look at only one rookery—and she knew there were hundreds more just like it in London alone—taught her that she could not go on in blind complaisance, believing in her own ability to end such horrors with energy and application.

  Even the work of the Earl of Shaftesbury—with all his years in Parliament, his numerous committees, and the reform laws he had led to passage—was as a few boulders of goodness standing before an avalanche of evil. Her eyes filled with scalding tears that ran to her pillow. She was overwhelmed with hopelessness.

  The next morning Jenny sat up in bed and fed herself from the tray Betsy carried in. “Small portions carefully prepared and nicely presented—Miss Nightingale’s precise prescription for the feeding of an invalid. Thank you, Betsy, I am much better.”

  She had just finished and leaned back to rest when her mother came in and kissed her. “What a joy to see you looking so much better, my dear. We almost despaired for you.”

  “I do feel better. Thank you, Mama.”

  “Enough better that Arthur could call this afternoon? He has been very assiduous in inquiring after your health and is anxious to see you when you’re well.”

  Jenny nodded, remembering that Arthur had been none too happy to see her when she was unwell. But then there was much to be done in the endless work of gathering facts and writing papers so that Parliament could be urged onward to passing laws to protect those in need. Arthur’s work was important. “I shall be glad to see him this afternoon, Mama.”

  It was a great event that afternoon when Jennifer, robed in her best blue dressing gown and supported by her mother and Betsy, made her way to the rose velvet couch in the parlor to receive her caller. Arthur greeted her and her mother most properly, asked after everyone’s health, and commented on the weather, but it was clear his mind was on other matters. “And how is your work progressing, Arthur?”

  He leaned forward in his chair, eyes intense as if glaring at an opponent. “You can have no notion of the perversity of some of our highest government officials. And the Public Health Department is beyond all. We had hoped that they could be induced to carry out Shaftesbury’s plans to buy land for spacious cemeteries outside the built-up areas of London. The dead cannot be allowed to foul the atmosphere of the living. But the bureaucrats have turned down a most sensible plan to buy plots of ground in Brompton, Highgate, and Kensal Green for the purpose of building new cemeteries.”

  Amelia Neville smoothed the wide skirt of her plum taffeta afternoon dress and murmured a conventional condolence, but Arthur hardly noticed. “And if I have to hear the newest Health Department member say one more time that the great unwashed do not wish to be scrubbed behind the ears in a perpetual Saturday night, I really don’t think I shall be responsible for how I might respond. Even The Times has taken up the cry that ‘Master John Bull does not want to be scrubbed and rubbed and small-tooth-combed until the tears run into his eyes and his teeth chatter.’ Have you ever heard worse nonsense? And yet Pannier will quote it.”

  Jennifer sat up straighter on the couch. “Dr. Pannier? Is he the one blocking progress in the department?”

  “He’s one of them, the ringleader, I’d say. But with even The Times fighting reform, it’s hard to choose a villain.”

  Jenny frowned. “But Pannier was a doctor at Scutari—he saw the effect of the Sanitary Commission there. And he was even making calls in the tenements the day we were there.” She blinked as she tried to recall the circumstances. “Or maybe he wasn’t there to doctor; he didn’t seem to have any medicine with him. Maybe he was investigating for the Health Department. But if so, how could he not have seen…” She lay back on the cushions with a sigh. Her head was beginning to ache again.

  “Oh, my dear, we are wearying you. I will just go see if that new tonic is brewed.” Mrs. Neville left the room with a rustle of her skirts and closed the door carefully behind her.

  Arthur slipped to one knee before her sofa with such alacrity that Jennifer’s first thought was that he had fallen. She almost laughed when he grasped her hand. It seemed so abrupt after the conversation they had been having. But she forced herself to composure. She knew how steadfast Arthur was and how good his intentions were. Indeed, she was well aware of all Arthur’s admirable qualities. She would even go so far as to say that good intentions and admirable qualities were the only sort that Arthur possessed.

  “My dear Miss Neville—Jennifer—I have waited through all these worrying days of your illness to speak to you. Jennifer, now you are strong enough, I must speak to you on a matter near my heart. A matter that touches both of us.”

  “Arthur, I—”

  “Jennifer, you know how long I have admired you. You know how highly Mama and my sisters all regard you.”

  “Indeed, Arthur, I am most gratified by your good opinion. And you know my family thinks equally highly of you.”

  “Yes! That is exactly what I’m saying. And you must not think I do not still consider you with excellent regard.”

  “No, Arthur, you have been most attentive.” She couldn’t resist adding, “As you have been to all your duties.”

  “I should hope one could never say less of me, as of any Christian. But, Jennifer, you have been more than a duty to me. You have been my exemplar. The ideal of your beauty, your goodness, your purity has been a great inspiration.”

  Jennifer searched her mind frantically for a reply. How could she serve as inspiration and ideal for another person when she did not understand her own simplest motivations? Then the door swung open, rescuing her.

  “A visitor for Miss Neville.” Hinson’s eyebrows rose at the sight of Arthur Nigel Merriott on his knees before Jennifer. “A Miss Susannah Thompson.” He presented the small white card to Jenny as Arthur struggled to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Please show her in, Hinson. You will like Miss Thompson immensely, Arthur. I do.”

  Susannah almost skipped into the drawing room in a green dress and matching bonnet with a tippet of buff silk trimmed with rows of black braid, which set off perfectly her pale skin and blonde hair. Arthur made a stiff bow, offered an even stiffer excuse, and departed. Susannah drew off her gloves and handed them to Hinson with her parasol before turning back to Jennifer. “Oh, dear. Have I come at an awkward time?”

  Jennifer held her hand out to her visitor. “Quite the contrary. You have come at the most opp
ortune time imaginable. Please bring us some tea, Hinson.” Suddenly she realized Susannah was exactly the person she needed to talk to. It was so easy to express to this young woman the questions that had plagued her for months. “Draw your chair closer, Susannah. I do so need to talk to you.”

  “Jennifer, are you still unwell? I was told you were ready to receive visitors.”

  “Oh, yes, I shall be quite myself soon. That is the problem. I’m not sure I want to go back to my old self. I thought I had all the answers, and I worked so hard. And all around me I see people who think they have all the answers, and they are working so hard. And yet the flood of filth and evil and disease seems to rise higher every day. It is such a losing battle. I cannot fight on, yet we will be overwhelmed if we don’t. And still we fight and lose.” She put her hand to her head. “Oh, I’m going in circles. Do I make sense?”

  “Yes, unfortunately you do. I know we are called to be servants and to fight the good fight. But, yes, one does get so very weary.”

  “Reverend Baring says Satan is a defeated enemy. So why does he always seem to be winning? Oh, I know it’s most unladylike of me even to be thinking about such things. Perhaps it is because I am a woman that I cannot understand. Am I wrong to be asking about matters of good and evil? Am I wrong to equate filth and disease with evil?”

  Susannah blinked her wide blue eyes. “Miss Neville, I am quite in awe of you. I have not known anyone to ask such questions. Perhaps Charles—er, Reverend Spurgeon—could help you. I wish I could, but I have never thought on such things. I just do what I can to relieve suffering where I find it. But, of course, the greatest work I can do will be in supporting my husband someday. That is our first duty—to be wives and mothers—is it not? But as you say, there is much to be done.”

  The somber silence in the room was broken by Hinson bringing in the tea tray. As Jenny was feeling very tired, she asked Susannah to pour. So was that the answer? Must Jennifer accept that it was not within the scope of things for her to understand the nature of the fight against evil? She had decided that simply making a good marriage—that is, to someone with a substantial income—and doing a good job of managing his household would not be enough for her. Yet she knew that devoting her life to a career of charity work was equally insufficient. So the dictates of society must be right. It was her role to be a helpmeet to a husband who would be a mighty warrior. And certainly there was no warrior more valiant than Arthur. The next time he attempted to speak, she would accept him.