Where Love Shines (18 page)

When a woman like Florence Nightingale stepped outside those bounds, she did so at enormous cost. Miss Nightingale had refused two offers of marriage in order to pursue her calling. That was fine for one who had heard the voice of God directing her to her work. But Jennifer had heard no such voice.

She would submit to the obvious choice. And in submission she would find her happiness. She thought briefly of the overworked, uneducated, starving children she had determined to rescue. Would marriage to Arthur really help them? But it must be so. Everyone said that was how it was done. Still, she was in no hurry.

Today the morning post had brought “Household Words” with the newest installment of
Hard Times
, Mr. Dickens’s novel about the human cost of industrialism, and Jennifer was comfortably ensconced in the parlor before a warm fire when she heard the sound she had been dreading.
No, surely not dreading
, she argued with her own thoughts. What a terrible thing to think about the coming of the man who was to be her husband. And yet she could find no other word to describe her feelings.

She stood and smoothed her hair and fluffed the lace lining holding out the bell-shaped sleeves of her moss rose day dress as Hinson’s footsteps approached. “That is fine, Hinson, you may show him in.” She cut the butler’s introduction in the bud, and then hoped her efficiency wouldn’t be mistaken for unmaidenly enthusiasm. She stood very still and lowered her eyes at the approach of a firm male tread.

“Jennifer?”

She all but cried out in surprise and then rushed across the floor to take the hand held out to the room. “Richard! I had no idea. I mean, I thought you long gone to Newcastle.” She pulled him toward the sofa, turned off the gaslight, and sat next to him, all without letting go of his hand. Suddenly she realized the impropriety and withdrew hers.

“Mama and Livvy left on schedule. But I could not leave London until I was certain you were out of danger.”

“Oh.” She caught her breath. She had no idea he cared so much for her welfare. “Yes, I’m quite recovered now. But, Dick, that is very dear of you to be so thoughtful. I think of you often.”

No that would not do. Much too forward. She had just determined she would accept Arthur. She pulled away. She should ring for tea. Her mother was out. She should summon Betsy to sit quietly in the corner with her sewing. At the very least she should open the parlor door, which Hinson had closed. She should…

She could bring herself to do nothing to disturb their closeness. “It is so very good to see you.” That brought back the memory of his “seeing” her. Recalling the feel of his fingertips on her face made her throat tighten.

Blinking, she turned back and looked fully at him. And she realized that he was wearing glasses, not the solid eye patches but round, thick lenses of dark blue. They looked as if cut from the bottoms of bottles. She grabbed his arm. “Dick, are you better? Your glasses—”

“The glasses indeed are better. And the weather is worse—which for me is better.” He paused. “I cannot claim much improvement in my vision, however much I long for it. What I can see of the world is seen as through a dark glass running with heavy water.”

Jennifer smiled to warm her voice as she glanced out the rain-streaked window. “Well, today that is how we all view the world.” And suddenly she could think of nothing more to say. She could have gone on chattering about the weather, but she wanted to talk about something more important, whatever that might be.

Fortunately Richard was not so unprepared. “I have brought you a copy of Mr. Tennyson’s latest poem.” He pulled a folded paper from his inside breast pocket. “I think you will find it interesting.”

She took the paper and read the title, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’. Oh, Richard, that’s wonderful! England’s Poet Laureate has commemorated your courage and valor.” She skimmed a few lines.

Forward, the Light Brigade!…

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Commemorates the blundering of our leaders, more like.” Richard’s voice was tight. But Jenny hardly heard his interruption as the rhythm and force of the poem carried her on.

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley’d and thunder’d;

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

She put the paper down, blinking to keep back the tears. “Richard, it’s beautiful—and dreadful. I can’t bear to think of you in the midst of that—that inferno. But it’s important for people to understand what it was really like. Do you mind if I go on?”

He made no objection.

…While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them…

Noble six hundred!

The fury of the rain lashing the window was the only sound in the room, but Jennifer was hearing the boom of cannon, the scream of wounded horses and men. Then her inner vision shifted from the fire and fury of battle and reek of cannon smoke to the darkness and stench of the Barracks Hospital with the squeak and plop of rats. She closed her eyes and reached for Richard’s hand.

The noise of a coal shifting on the grate broke the silence and made it easier for Jenny to speak. “I’ve been thinking long on such things—the horrors of the war, the stupidity that caused so much suffering, all those deaths… and the horrors of our own slums right here in London, the suffering of the children… Are such things a metaphor for evil to warn us against hell, or are they evil itself?”

“It seemed like hell at the time.”

She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m sure no fury of the Devil could seem more horrible than charging those loaded cannon.”

Richard was silent for another moment. Then he seemed to come back to the present. “Looking back on it, I think perhaps it was the result of evil—if one can call vanity, carelessness, and stupidity evil.”

“I don’t know, but I know we must fight it, whatever name we put on it.” Suddenly she felt a new surge of energy. “Oh, thank you, Dick. Thank you for coming and for bringing that poem. I had become so discouraged, so overwhelmed with the hopelessness of it all. Just being with you seems to give me strength to carry on.” She paused. “Even though I’m not sure of my direction.”

He shook his head. “I’m glad if I’ve encouraged you. I’m afraid I’ve had little encouragement myself. Both Father and George have given short shrift to my letters urging reform in the pottery.”

“Oh, Richard, that’s wonderful! Not that they disregard you, of course—but that you’ve taken action.”

“Well, I’ve tried—to little avail.” He was quicker than Jenny to hear the step in the hall behind them and pulled his hand away.

Mrs. Neville entered the room. “Jennifer, why are you sitting in a dark room?” She stopped. “Oh, Lieutenant Greyston, how nice. I did not know you’d called. Why haven’t you sent for tea, Jennifer?” She tugged the bell pull.

Dick rose. “Please don’t bother. I must be going. I called with an invitation from my aunt for you and Miss Neville to join a party she is getting up to attend Mendelssohn’s
Elijah
at Exeter Hall this Friday. I believe the Earl of Shaftesbury is to be among the company. If the excursion wouldn’t be too tiring for Miss Neville.”

Jennifer didn’t wait for her mother’s reply. “I should like that very much.”

“Until Friday then.” Richard nodded to the women.

“I’ll see you to the door.” Jenny started to get up.

Richard turned her direction. “I can do it.” But Hinson’s appearance at the door mooted the question.

Mrs. Neville turned up the gas light when Dick and the butler were gone. “Jennifer, I am surprised at you. You really must be more careful about receiving callers unchaperoned. Whatever would Mr. Merriott say if he found you here alone with another man?”

Jenny smiled. “I am confident Mr. Merriott would make the most proper chaperone imaginable, Mama.”

B
y Thursday evening Jennifer was strong enough to return to her teaching, although Mrs. Neville insisted that Betsy go with her to assist. And when they arrived at the mission, Jenny was glad to have Betsy’s service to offer as well as her own. All was in a state of chaos.

Mrs. Watson met them at the door. “Miss Jennifer, I’m that happy to see you. We’re all at sixes and sevens here. Three of my helpers failed to turn up, and I did want to have a tasty soup and loaf to serve tonight, it being our last time.”

“Last time? What are you talking about?”

Edith Watson threw her hands in the air. “Oh, here’s me forgetting myself, and you’ve been gone so long. First, let me tell you how happy I am to see you recovered. I knew fresh air and my elixir would do the trick. But so much has happened while you were away, and—” She gave a sharp cry and ran for the stove where clouds of steam and sizzling sounds issued from a kettle boiling over.

“Help her, Betsy,” Jenny ordered and turned toward the room where several were gathering for the preaching service. She found Hiram Walker looking even more harried than Mrs. Watson. She got the story from him.

“It’s true, I’m afraid. For all I was sure this was the Lord’s work, it seems He must have other ideas. At least there’s some that have another use for this building.”

“You mean the mission is to lose the building?” Jennifer looked around at the converted warehouse. It was poorly furnished and as rundown as any property off Tothill Street, but it had been carefully cleaned and arranged at the cost of enormous effort. The work here was just beginning to flower. They had helped so many. The hungry who came here every night—where would they find food now? Those who sang so enthusiastically off-key and listened to Reverend Walker preach from the Word—where would they learn of God now? The children in the ragged school, many who were just beginning to learn to read—where would they be taught now? “But what has happened? Can nothing be done?”

Hiram Walker shook his head. “It’s the rent. The landlord’s doubled it. The agent came around yesterday. ‘This is a very valuable piece of property,’ says he. Seems the owner wants to put a more profitable business in here.”

Jennifer shook her head. What could be more profitable than seeing to people’s minds, bodies, and souls? But if this was to be her last session with her students, she would make it her best. If only she could give them something to take with them. Then she knew. Back in the kitchen Betsy and Mrs. Watson had set all to order. “Mrs. Watson, that large book you write your recipes and remedies in—could I have some of the blank pages from the back?”

The small slates each child worked on were Mr. Walker’s own, to be kept in hopes of the Lord opening a door to a new school, but Jennifer could send each student home tonight with a piece of paper on which each had written the alphabet and a Bible verse. She thought it over. John 3:16 would be too long for most of them to copy. She would have to settle for “The Lord is my shepherd” for the younger ones. And their names. Each child would have his or her own name in writing. That way at least the ambitious ones would have something to practice—if only with a stick in the mud. She was determined that no child should leave without the project completed, even those who had only been coming for a few weeks.

She was still at work long past the usual dismissal time when Arthur strode impatiently into the room. Joshua was the first to see him. He came smartly to his feet. “Miss, I finished me writin’. Please, may I black the gen’leman’s boots, seein’ as ’ow hit’s the last time?”

Jenny surveyed his paper. The page was smudged, the letters squiggly, but the lesson was complete. “Of course, Josh. You’ve done well. Now don’t forget to keep practicing. You’ve learned so much in such a short time.” She bit her lip. It was a tragedy that it all had to end.

Josh drew out his shoeblack kit, and Arthur was obliged to submit his foot. After all, he had paid for the service long ago.

“Oh, don’t worry, miss. I won’t quit until I can read like a gen’leman. That’s what I’m goin’ ta be—a gen’leman. ’e said so.”

“That’s fine, Josh. Who said so?”

“’im what give me a job. I’d be off ternight even if the school weren’t closin’. You know how you said to tend good to my reg’lar customers so’s I might get employed?”

“Josh! That’s wonderful! What are you going to do?”

He didn’t take his eyes off his work on Arthur’s gleaming boot. “Not sure, miss. Somethin’ to do wi’ horses—up north. My gen’leman lives in London now, but ’e has business interests up north, and I’m ta ’elp look out for ’em.”

“My, that sounds impressive. I certainly wish you the best, Josh.”

Joshua hadn’t put quite the last lick and polish to the boot before Arthur withdrew it and helped Jenny into her thick woollen pagoda-sleeved mantle for the ride home. Jennifer was glad for Betsy’s presence in the cab. Arthur could hardly renew his proposal of marriage in front of her maid. As usual, however, he required little encouragement to talk about his work. “I think even Shaftesbury has despaired of the Public Health Department. They are completely bogged down in red tape. We are returning to factory inspection. It seems that’s where the most good can be done now. Even owners who believe that poverty and unemployment are necessary to stimulate the economy can be persuaded to stay on the right side of the Ten Hours Act.”

“So you’ll be off again, will you?”

“Yes. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I am sorry to miss being among Lady Eccleson’s party to the concert. Should be a fine affair, but there is so much I must do before I leave in the morning. Birmingham—Sheffield. Horrid long train ride. Always get covered with soot. But part of the job. And I shall stop in Newcastle. Shall I carry greetings to Miss Greyston for you?”

“Oh, yes. Please do.” Such attention to civility was surprising from Arthur.