Chapter 19 #2
“Would he object if we went to Whitechapel?” she asked abruptly.
“Unequivocally,” Effie said. “What did you have in mind?”
Nell turned back to her. “This will be the fourth night that Flora Brent has been on her own, somewhere out there, at the mercy of heaven knows what or whom.”
“We’re exhausting every effort to find her. Mr. Royce has already sent two of his men to make inquiries. And you and Mr. Quincey haven’t been idle.”
“I want to do more,” Nell said. “I’ve been thinking about where she might have gone after she fled the brothel.
All she’s known is the workhouse. There are few places she would naturally trust. A church, perhaps?
Or possibly she tried to find her way back to the railway station?
Or what if…” A thought occurred to her. “Could she have sought out another workhouse? Whichever one there is in Whitechapel?”
“Not unless she’s possessed of no spirit at all,” Effie said. “What sort of girl longs to return to the workhouse?”
“A frightened one. One seeking sanctuary.”
“But Miss Brent is resourceful. If it were me, I’d be retracing my steps. Attempting to course correct.”
“So, back to the railway station?”
“She’d need fare first,” Effie said. “And there are few ways for a girl her age to earn it in a slum.”
Nell’s spirits sank at the implication. “She could be begging.”
“She could be,” Effie allowed, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“I can’t in good conscience depart for Hertfordshire without making another attempt to find her,” Nell said. “And something else. There’s a seamstress near Commercial Street. I spoke with her the day I arrived in town, but I left her no way to reach me. I’d like to see her again before I go.”
“What seamstress?” Effie asked.
Nell told her about Miss Jean. Effie listened with interest. It wasn’t often either of them encountered someone who had been able to withstand Miss Corvus’s maneuverings.
“You mean to say Miss Corvus tried to recruit this woman as a teacher?” Effie asked. “And she refused?” Her forehead creased. “I wonder what her special skill might be?”
“Sewing, I daresay.”
“In other words, she’s you.”
“If she is, she’s needed,” Nell said with ruthless pragmatism. “The girls can’t afford to be without a sewing instructor. And they will be until I’m able to return. None of the other teachers has a passion for stitchery.”
“Well, that’s that, then.” Lifting her black parasol, Effie rapped once with it on the ceiling. The carriage slowed to a halt. A young footman jumped down from the box and came to the window. “We’re going to Whitechapel,” she informed him. “Commercial Street.”
The footman’s eyes widened. “But Mrs. Royce, the master wouldn’t—”
A coachman behind them called over him: “Get a move on, guv!”
“You’re blocking the road!” another driver shouted.
“Quickly,” Effie said to her footman. “We haven’t got all day.”
Face set with resignation, the young servant returned to his perch. The carriage rolled on.
“Mr. Royce is ridiculously overprotective of me,” Effie explained to Nell. “As are the servants by extension. One would think I couldn’t take care of myself.”
“You’re fortunate to have someone who cares for you so deeply,” Nell said.
Effie’s expression softened. “Yes. I still sometimes can’t believe it. I do wonder if I deserve it.”
“You deserve to be happy.”
“So do you,” Effie said. “Even if it is with Mr. Quincey.”
Nell managed a faint smile. It didn’t last. She couldn’t think about Miles right now.
Not when she was on the verge of returning to the slum.
He would be furious with her when he found out.
And it wasn’t because he was overprotective of her, or because he was anything like being in love with her.
It was because he’d asked her to leave it to Mr. Royce and she’d agreed.
But really, Nell told herself, it hardly mattered. They’d be back before nightfall.
So long as they didn’t encounter any difficulties.
· · · · ·
Entering Whitechapel Road some forty minutes later, they were but two turnings away from their destination when the Royces’ carriage slowed to a crawl.
Makeshift stalls lined the street where yesterday there had been none, selling everything from meat, fish, and greens to crockery, carpets, and furniture.
Noisy crowds gathered round them—women bartering with salesmen and men loading carts with newly purchased items that were too cumbersome to carry.
“The Saturday market,” Effie said. “We shall have to get out and walk if you can manage it.”
Nell peered out the carriage window in dismay. “There are so many people.”
“Saturday is payday,” Effie explained. “People are anxious to make their earnings last the week. It benefits them to get their goods as cheaply as possible.”
“Hence the street market?”
“They pop up all over the city.” Effie rapped on the ceiling. The carriage stopped. This time, there was no one to object to them blocking traffic. It was already obstructed by the teeming crowds.
The footman opened the carriage door for her.
“We shall be stepping out here,” she told him. “You may pull along the roadway and wait for us.”
The footman was unhappy but obedient. “Yes, Mrs. Royce. Shall I accompany you?”
“No need.” Effie allowed him to assist her down.
Nell descended after her. Though her hip was aching, she left her cane behind. Effie was right. It was too recognizable, particularly here in Whitechapel.
Effie tucked her parasol under one arm. She offered Nell her other.
Nell took it gratefully. Together, they stepped into the road, Effie in her blue figured silk jacket and skirt and Nell in her simply cut gray carriage gown. They weren’t the only well-dressed ladies among the shoppers. Women of every sort were patronizing the stalls.
“Miss Jean’s lodgings are in a lane off of Commercial Street,” Nell said. “It shouldn’t be far from here.”
“Are you certain you’re able—”
“I can manage.” The walk would do Nell good. Her leg benefited from use. Too much stillness inevitably made the pain worse.
“You’ll have to direct me,” Effie said. “I’m not as familiar with Whitechapel as I am with the Rookery.”
Nell steered her friend through the raucous throng.
Their wide skirts brushed against the crush of people who were positioning themselves to obtain the best prices at the various stalls.
Determined customers shouted out to the butcher, the fishmonger, and the bootmaker.
Among them were rough-looking men and rouge-cheeked ladies in satin gowns.
Children, too, though not of the neat and orderly variety.
The dirty-faced youngsters ran through the crowds, fleet as ferrets.
Some of them pickpockets, Nell suspected.
“The people of the neighborhood are out in force,” she remarked to Effie. “What are the odds that Miss Brent is among them?”
Effie slowed her footsteps. “I hadn’t considered, but…you’re right. She could very well be here now.”
Nell scanned the faces of the women and girls they passed, looking for any who matched the description given in Flora Brent’s health records.
“What should we do?” Effie asked.
“We should shop,” Nell said decisively.
Effie smiled. “An excellent idea.”
They walked to a fruit stand with a large selection of shiny red apples and bright yellow lemons.
From there, to the vegetable stand (where a man was loudly proclaiming the quality of his cauliflowers), and on to the stalls of a flower seller and a butcher.
At each stop, as they perused the seller’s wares, Nell and Effie discreetly examined the faces of the other customers and those of the people lingering nearby.
Most appeared to be humble working folk—women with raw hands and men with perspiration-stained collars. They talked loudly among one another, uninhibited by the presence of strangers.
While Effie dutifully purchased apples, a head of cauliflower, a bunch of roses, and a cut of meat, Nell listened to whatever fragmented scraps of conversation floated her way.
“—new mangle would cut my washing work—”
“—enough to buy a nice roast for Sunday dinner—”
“—could grow them myself if I had a proper garden—”
“—drank his wages again, the useless sod—”
“—not fit for a dog, I told him, but what choice had I—”
It wasn’t until Nell and Effie ventured to a baker’s stall that their efforts finally paid off.
Two stout older women carrying baskets were conversing together as a gray-bearded man in an apron readied their order.
“She’s a good Christian soul, is Mrs. Davenant,” one of the women said to the other. “Taking a girl in off the street, what might cut her throat in her sleep.”
“The girl ain’t that sort,” the other replied. “I’ve seen her myself. She’s a highborn little lady.”
The first woman gave a scornful cackle. “A highborn little lady working as a scullery maid in Whitechapel Road?”
“Fallen on hard times, hasn’t she? A love affair gone wrong, so’s I heard. The girl’s parents cast her out.”
The first woman accepted three loaves of bread from the baker. “Haven’t we got enough of our own seeking work without paying wages to gentlemen’s daughters?”
“That’s old widow Davenant for you. Mark my words, she’ll train the girl up as a proper parlor maid. Lend her a bit of countenance, won’t it? Having a maid announce callers what sounds like the Princess Royal.”
The two ladies burst into laughter as they departed the stall.
Nell stared after them. Old widow Davenant in Whitechapel Road. Could it be possible? “A new scullery maid with accents like the Princess Royal,” she murmured just loud enough for Effie to hear. “Do you suppose…?”
“Do I suppose what?”
“That rather than hiding, Miss Brent has found herself a job?”
Effie looked back at Nell intently. “Resourceful, indeed,” she said. “It’s worth investigating.”
“How many loaves, ma’am?” the baker demanded impatiently.
“We’ll take one,” Effie replied. “Thank you.” She extracted a coin from her reticule to pay for the item. The baker took it, counting out her change.
“I beg your pardon,” Nell said. “Could you point us to Mrs. Davenant’s residence? It’s very near here, I believe.”
“Old lady Davenant?” The baker handed Effie the loaf of bread. “Her what lives in the big house on the corner?”
“Which corner would that be?” Effie asked as she tucked the bread into her bag along with her other purchases.
The baker’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “You acquainted with the lady?”
“Mrs. Davenant is expecting us,” Nell answered him with all the no-nonsense starch of her former position. “So, if you would be so good as to direct us, sir.”
The baker pursed his mouth for a moment before gesturing to the left. “That way,” he said. “The brick house with the white pediments on the windows.”
Nell thanked him for his trouble.
Effie casually gave her food-laden shopping bag to a beggar woman as she and Nell headed off down the road. “Mrs. Davenant is expecting us, is she?” she inquired of Nell with soft amusement.
Nell gave her friend a resolute look. “If she’s harboring an Academy girl, she certainly should be.”