Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Three days later, Ellen told an abbreviated version of her last fortnight to Mrs. Daugherty and Amelia.
Mrs. Daugherty snorted into her cup of tea. “If that boy had written ‘my condolences,’ I hope you would’ve swum all the way to Bermuda and cut his throat.”
Amelia and Ellen burst into laughter.
“I was a sight, apparently,” Ellen admitted. “Ranting about how purple is the devil’s color and stomping on the flowers.”
Amelia patted her back. “Good for you. I wish that hadn’t happened at all, but I’m glad you got angry. You deserve better.”
Ellen had visited Constance’s grave that morning, like every Thursday.
She’d considered inviting Mark, but shied away from it.
Somehow it felt uncomfortable, like this was her spot and he might not understand.
She’d spoken to her daughter about how Mark had made sure Constance would always be remembered by the two of them.
Then, over her morning tea before patients came pouring in, she’d caught her colleagues up on her life.
Amelia didn’t have much advice, but she let Ellen know if Mark hurt her again, she knew how to dismember a body and hide it in the Thames where it would never be found.
Mrs. Daugherty was more circumspect, but still advised caution.
“Love doesn’t come often, so when it does you have to grab it by both hands and hold fast.” She paused.
“But you also shouldn’t allow someone to run roughshod over you just because you love them. ”
Ellen sighed. “How do I find that balance?”
But Mrs. Daugherty gave one of her infuriating, enigmatic smiles. The kind happily-married, older people gave to younger people still in the torment of unsure love.
A problem for tomorrow, Ellen decided.
“Are you ready to meet Mrs. Chisom?” Amelia asked, returning to business.
Ellen snorted. “Are you?”
It would take about an hour’s walk to get from the dispensary to the Church of St. Barnabas. The two women briefly considered it, but then the thick, gray clouds covering the city opened and icy rain fell. They decided to take a hack.
Ellen watched the different neighborhoods of London pass by, all crammed against one another like a patchwork quilt.
From the edge of the St. Giles rookery, they traveled across the edge of SoHo, full of theaters, restaurants, and cheap housing for European immigrants.
Once past Piccadilly Circus, the hack maneuvered around private carriages in fashionable neighborhoods.
Rain poured down the side of the white stucco terrace homes of Belgravia, where some of the wealthiest people in the country lived.
When they finally arrived in respectable but not quite fashionable Pimlico, Amelia paid the driver and they hurried from the hack into the tall, gray stone church on the street corner.
The door silently opened, and Amelia and Ellen paused in the narthex, dripping water from their shoes and mackintoshes. Gaslight gave off a steady light, and Ellen peered around the entryway to find an office or wherever Mrs. Chisom was supposed to meet them.
Just as she spied a red door, it opened and the matron stepped forward with a welcoming smile.
“Ah, Mrs. Glenfall. And Miss Hart.” She looked Amelia up and down.
Though they had exchanged notes, this was the first time they’d met.
Ellen inwardly rolled her eyes at how Mrs. Chisom had addressed Amelia.
Another figure stepped into the narthex, and Ellen recognized Mrs. Finley carrying a smallish wooden box.
“Mrs. Chisom,” Amelia greeted. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“I, too, am glad you could come here to pick up the donations. It seemed a much safer place to meet than your dispensary.”
Amelia’s smile froze on her face. “We haven’t had any issues there.”
Mrs. Chisom smiled placidly and beckoned Mrs. Finley forward.
Mrs. Finley balanced the box in her arms, the slender woman flashing a quick, shy smile at Ellen and Amelia. “We knitted wee booties, blankets, and even a few socks for the tots.”
Ellen blinked, her arms halfway outstretched to take the burden. She cocked her head, trying to think through a polite response.
“I’m afraid there must be some misunderstanding.” Amelia frowned. “We can certainly use those items, but, Mrs. Chisom, I thought we would receive funds today to purchase a few medical supplies?”
Mrs. Chisom waved her hand in the air, brushing aside Amelia’s concern and confusion. “Ah, yes, well, we as a group changed our minds. We thought this would be more useful.”
Ellen glanced at Amelia, raising an eyebrow. How do you wish to proceed?
Amelia arranged her features into a tight smile and gave Ellen a slight nod.
Ellen reached for the box and took it from Mrs. Finley, her wool gloves rasping against the rough bottom of the box. It was rather light.
“I appreciate the gift,” Amelia said carefully. “However, in the future, it helps us most to receive what we’ve requested. Especially if it’s been agreed to already.”
Mrs. Finley darted a glance at Mrs. Chisom, hunching her shoulders and stepping backward.
“Pish posh.” Mrs. Chisom did that hand wave again, making Ellen grit her teeth.
“I believe,” Amelia said precisely, “if you do decide to grace us with more gifts, we will have to carefully consider whether we can accept them.”
Mrs. Chisom’s eyes sparked at that. “One might extend more gratitude to people who have gone out of their way to help. Particularly when the cause to driving out pauperism and sin needs all the help it can receive.” She was too polite to sneer, but her tone revealed exactly what she thought of the families who were receiving her aid.
“Yes,” Amelia agreed. “If it indeed does help. Otherwise…” She trailed off, shrugging.
Ellen bit her lip to hide a smile.
“Well.” Mrs. Chisom straightened to her full height, bristling like an unhappy hen. “There are countless organizations that provide charity to the deserving poor across London. Perhaps one of them would be more grateful for our patronage.”
Amelia bared her teeth in a smile. “Perhaps so.”
Mrs. Finley’s eyes were as wide as saucers, glancing back and forth with alarm.
Ellen cleared her throat. If they were burning bridges, then there was no point in holding her tongue.
“We reviewed all the gifts you donated last time, and unfortunately had to dispose of quite a few items. Particularly those baby bottles—it would be remiss of me not to mention how hazardous they are to babies’ health in case any of the mothers in your quilting group were unaware. ”
Mrs. Chisom turned her stony face to Ellen. Twin spots of red highlighted her cheeks, but beyond that her poise didn’t betray her emotion. “I beg your pardon?”
“The murder bottles.” Ellen’s tone was both cheerful and measured, as if educating a particularly slow pupil. “Because, of course, the women and children of St. Giles deserve just as high-quality care as anyone else, correct? After all, we’re all God’s children.”
Mrs. Chisom’s nostrils flared.
“It would be a shame if any of your group donated inferior items anywhere else. Items that belong in the rubbish heap. I’m sure the lovely women of St. Barnabas would hate for anyone to misconstrue their motives for gifts—either as an easy way to dispose of rubbish or because they feel that the children of St. Giles aren’t as valuable as the children of Pimlico, and therefore if a few die from the murder bottles, it’s not such a tragedy. ”
Mrs. Finley squeaked. “Oh, but that’s not—"
Ellen widened her smile. “But because you’re good, Christian women you understand that God loves all his children, and I know that once the confusion about the bottles is cleared up, your group will do the right thing.”
Mrs. Chisom pursed her lips. “Quite.”
“I think we’ll take our leave.” Amelia broke into the tense silence.
“Miss Hart,” Mrs. Chisom said, her chin nearly vibrating with suppressed anger. “I believe our methods of charity are not aligned. It would be best for both of us if we discontinue our association.”
“Very well,” Amelia agreed.
Mrs. Chisom blinked, as if she’d expected Amelia to beg for another chance.
Ellen lifted the box in her arms. “Thank you for the booties.”
Mrs. Finley gave a timid wave.
They left together, back out into the rain. Mrs. Chisom said something sharp after them, but Ellen couldn’t make it out over the sounds of traffic on the cobblestone street.
They didn’t speak until Amelia hailed a hack and they were ensconced inside. The seat and floor were already wet from previous passengers.
Ellen popped open the wooden lid and peered inside to check the donations. Baby booties, bold pink for boys and delicate blue for girls, lay interspersed with white knee-high socks. She fingered one, grudgingly impressed with the high quality of the work.
As much as Ellen disliked Mrs. Chisom, she knew that attitude—to varying degrees—was terribly common.
Even her own mother likely believed that poverty for some was essential to the smooth workings of society, and that those below even the laboring poor—the paupers who received relief—must be at fault for their own circumstances.
It was a sort of armor, Ellen realized. It wasn’t only the justification of Mrs. Chisom’s life: I deserve much because I am good, but also the inverse.
The paupers are in dire straits because they’re lazy, dishonest gin-drinkers.
An assurance that she’d earned her comfortable lifestyle by her morals and manners, so as long as she kept her morals and manners, nothing too terrible could happen to her.
“I suppose we’ll look elsewhere for a wheeled chair.” Amelia sighed as the hack rattled across uneven cobbles.
Ellen laughed. “I suppose so.”
The next morning began normally enough. But then the dispensary door swung open and a redheaded girl stumbled through. “We need the doctor.”
All three women straightened. “Why do you need a doctor, luv?” Mrs. Daugherty asked.
“Aoife O’Malley?” Ellen set her tea down. Her heart skipped a beat. “What’s wrong?”