Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Christmas Day was supposed to be a time of devout reflection and thanks for the birth of the Saviour, however Jenny had never understood why it couldn’t also be a time for merriment. Mrs Walters had taken the empty bottle home with her, and Jenny sorely wished she had kept a dose for herself.
She and Uncle Conrad attended church and ate a good meal but with barely any conversation, then the day carried on as any other.
New Year’s Eve passed with slightly more cheer as Uncle Conrad insisted on Evans carrying out the first footing tradition.
The entire household gathered in the hallway while the valet exited then crossed back over the threshold to present his gifts of coal and bread to Uncle Conrad.
‘Here’s to a prosperous and healthy new year,’ Jenny said as she passed out small glasses of sherry to the servants; their reward for staying up so late.
They all murmured agreement, though Uncle Conrad looked solemn. ‘It won’t be hopes that increase my profits, only hard work.’
‘I’m sure a bit of luck will help,’ Jenny said brightly, hiding her frustration that he could not find it in him to be cheerful.
She had her own reason, of course. When Mrs Casper had greeted her as they left Evensong, she had whispered thanks and expressed the hope that the bottle wasn’t completely empty.
This was the second satisfied customer. Jenny sent a silent toast to Mrs Walters, planning in the next day or two to visit her and arrange a date for their first salon.
By the third night, Jenny felt trapped in the house in a way she hadn’t before, so when Uncle Conrad commented that the branches of holly would make a good subject for a painting, she encouraged him.
‘I don’t think I can paint if you are sitting there sewing or reading,’ he said petulantly.
‘My head is aching a little. I’ll retire to bed early. You won’t even know that I’m in the house,’ she told him, hiding the smile that wanted to spring to her lips. ‘Let me fetch what you need.’
There were no lectures or places of interest that she could attend, but Jenny was too restless to spend another night in her bedroom, so as soon as she was sure he would not miss her, she put on her suit and heavy coat and ventured outside, intending to walk for half an hour then turn back.
The weather was bitterly cold and the fog felt as if it might freeze in the air where it hung.
Jenny pulled the muffler almost to her eyes, stuck her hands deep in her pockets and walked with her head down.
Between the warm woollen scarf and the hat, there was barely any part of her face visible, and she was sufficiently warm.
She let her feet guide her, walking south.
Upper Street was as busy as ever, with lively fiddle music cutting through the voices coming out of pubs.
The clay underfoot was frozen hard, but the roads and pavements were filthy.
She continued exploring, finding herself walking towards the tunnel where the Regent’s Canal emerged in the area of the City Road Basin.
This was unfamiliar territory, previously only driven past on the omnibus, and she felt a flicker of trepidation.
At the corner of the basin stood a public house, the sign proclaiming it The Three Bells.
Jenny was tempted to go in and attempt to buy a hot toddy but as she approached the doorway, a group of men leaving pushed her to one side, barely noticing her as they ambled off arguing in high spirits.
She jumped back before she was knocked sideways, putting her foot in a puddle.
As cold water squelched over her boot, she let out a yell of annoyance.
Mrs Walters had said the lower classes were not to be trusted with their products, and from the look of them as they spilled out of the public house, she was right.
An amused laugh came from close by. Jenny straightened her hat and glared after the men.
‘Nearly took a tumble, didn’t you, sir! Come talk to me, where it’s safer,’ called a female voice.
It took Jenny a moment to realise she was the intended recipient of the offer and turned to the voice.
A young woman was standing by the corner of the road.
She was dressed quite respectably in a blue skirt that peeked out from a heavy black coat and a velvet, pork-pie hat.
Most of the prostitutes who plied their trade endured the cold to display their figures, but this one had her coat buttoned to the top, where a scarf peeped out.
‘Fancy spending a bit of time with me? Buy me a drink or two?’ the woman asked, confirming her profession in Jenny’s mind.
It was only when Jenny grew closer that she recognised the woman as the same one who had collided with her outside the lecture theatre. Her heart swelled, constricted in her ribcage with unfathomable and unendurable longing. Her step faltered as she tried to remember the woman’s name and failed.
‘Are you ill, sir?’ The woman stepped forward anxiously. ‘Did you really get hurt?’
Jenny muttered wordlessly and shook her head. How could she possibly answer such a question? She would never be well again now that this door inside her had opened. Love might not be instantaneous, but infatuation was.
Something in the woman’s face changed. A spark of recognition in her eyes.
‘Have we met before?’ she murmured.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Jenny said, and then clamped her mouth shut as she realised she had forgotten to deepen her voice.
She spun on her heel and began to hurry away.
‘Wait,’ the woman called. ‘Wait, Miss.’
Jenny froze. She sucked in a deep breath, frigid air hurting her lungs. Hesitantly, she turned back to face the woman.
‘How do you know?’
‘I consider myself an artist and I am used to studying faces and bodies closely.’
‘An artist! I’ve never heard it called that before,’ Jenny blurted out.
This produced a loud laugh from the woman.
‘Saucy, aren’t you!’ She sauntered towards Jenny, smiling coquettishly. ‘We have met before, haven’t we? Some time ago. I bashed into you.’
‘Yes, but then you asked if I was all right,’ Jenny answered. A blush began to creep up her neck as she remembered what she had almost accused the woman of.
‘Well, the offer still stands.’
‘Offer?’
Jenny’s throat was dry. The word came with difficulty. Was the woman suggesting what it seemed? Apparently so, because her smile widened and her eyes glinted.
‘You were going into The Three Bells, so I assume you want a drink or something to eat. The pies aren’t bad. Buy me one and I’ll keep you company.’
‘I don’t need company,’ Jenny answered. It was a lie. Company was something she craved, but the sort of company this woman meant was something entirely unfamiliar. Enticing, true, but terrifying and impossible.
‘I do.’ The woman smiled. ‘Are you sure you don’t? It’s bitterly cold and January is always depressing. There’s somewhere nicer than The Three Bells on the next street. I promise, I don’t bite.’
She twirled the fringe of the silk scarf she wore about her neck.
It was blood-red and Jenny couldn’t take her eyes from it.
Her hesitation lasted barely a heartbeat.
She did want company and, astoundingly it appeared, she had met someone who wasn’t scandalised at how she was dressed.
And she was hungry. And she’d never dared to set foot inside a pub. This might be her only opportunity.
She swallowed then nodded. The woman held out an arm and Jenny slipped hers through it, which resulted in a blush running across the back of her neck. They walked side by side to a double-fronted public house with a sign proclaiming it The Dun Cow and went inside.
The warmth hit Jenny like a furnace, the haze of cigar and cigarette smoke making her eyes sting.
Clinking glasses and the low murmuring of conversations competed with a popular music-hall song being played on a piano that stood in the furthest corner beside the bar.
Jenny’s companion led her through the maze of tables, some large and square, others small and round, but all crammed in to fit as many as the room would allow.
She waved cheerfully to a few groups who waved back.
Jenny tried not to stare in delight at the scene.
‘Now then, this is much nicer than being outside,’ the woman said when they were both seated at a vacant small table set against the wall. ‘Two pints of Barclay’s porter, when you’re ready, Hendrik!’
Jenny realised that this last, confusing comment was directed to the very blond man standing behind the bar. He raised a thumb in response. He had a long moustache and looked exactly how Jenny would picture a Viking.
‘I wasn’t sure if I was right when I saw you before, but I’m glad that I was.’
‘You know what I am but you’re not shocked,’ Jenny asked shyly.
‘Not much shocks me.’ The woman unbuttoned her coat and fanned herself with the end of the scarf.
She wore a crisp white blouse and a blue brocade waistcoat that didn’t look like the sort of thing a streetwalker would wear in Jenny’s mind.
If anything, she looked more like a governess, or an assistant in a smart draper’s shop.
Hendrik brought over two dimpled glass tankards of dark, foam-topped porter and placed them on the table.
‘Here you go, Mim. The last until you settle your tab, if you would be so kind,’ he said, in an odd accent that wasn’t exactly German.
The woman – Mim, though Jenny could not believe that really was her name – delved a hand into her pocket and handed over some coins. ‘You’re in luck, Hendrik. I sold a sketch of a poodle just this morning. There should be enough there for pie and liquor, too. Eel, not mutton.’
Hendrik counted them, nodded and walked off.
‘I’m Miriam. Miriam Sandler. I’m one of those troublesome people who don’t eat the flesh of animals, though I do permit myself fish,’ she explained to Jenny, though of all the pieces of information to digest, this seemed the least significant.
‘A sketch of a poodle? So, you’re not…’