Where Love Shines Page 8

  And so it was that only a few hours later, Jenny sat in a corner of the mission schoolroom. With six barefoot, half-naked urchins around her, she began unlocking for them the mysteries of the strange markings and sounds that made up the English language. Each child had copied a wobbly large B and small b onto a slate and was happily experimenting with the plosive sound of the letter. Suddenly the proceedings were interrupted by the entrance of a tall, thin man with a mass of jet-black curly hair.

  A small, ragged scrap of humanity followed behind the man in the well-pressed black suit, but it was the gentle smile on the man’s rather large mouth and the kindness in his light blue deep-set eyes that took Jennifer’s attention. Strangely, the children did not cower before so dignified a figure, but were instinctively drawn to him.

  Mr. Walker, who had just concluded a service in the meeting room, bustled in. “My Lord, what an unexpected honor. I have so little to offer you—perhaps a cup of coffee?”

  The newcomer smiled, making his prominent nose appear even sharper. “On the contrary, Walker, you have everything to offer me. No coffee, thank you. It is more than nourishment to me to see your fine work here. And your dedicated workers.”

  Walker took the hint and presented Jennifer to the Earl of Shaftesbury, the man who had done more than any other in England to promote the work of ragged schools. Jennifer was immediately warmed by his kind face, intelligent eyes, and rather wistful smile. Then the earl propelled the small lad from behind his leg. “I have brought a new student for you, Miss Neville. Although perhaps we might postpone his lessons for tonight in favor of his being given a bath.”

  The child’s skin tones seemed to be of two colors: red and black. His hands, feet, elbows, and knees were such a bright blood red as to appear to be entirely without skin. Indeed, Jennifer gasped when she looked at his knees, thinking the kneecaps completely gone. The rest of his body, as most of it was exposed beneath his rags, was the deep black of ground-in soot. Tears sprang to Jennifer’s eyes. Even from the battlefields of the Crimea, she had not seen a sorrier sight. She bent down to his level. “Welcome to our school. And what’s your name?”

  “Joshua, ma’am.” The voice came out in a whisper.

  “Mrs. Watson!” The mission director summoned from the kitchen a sturdy, capable-looking woman with her hair tucked under a close-fitting cap.

  Jennifer gasped and then flew to the woman in greeting. “Mrs. Watson—my dear Edith! When did you return from Scutari?” It was obvious that small talk would have to wait, but Jennifer could think of no more comforting a personage to take charge of the pitiful scrap of humanity that was Joshua than Edith Watson.

  Joshua apparently thought so, too, because he placed his hand in hers to be led off to strong soap and warm water. “Calamine lotion. I have a fresh jug of it in here—just the thing for those knees and elbows.” Joshua gave a little hopping skip to keep up with her vigorous walk.

  The earl urged the class to continue with the lessons he had interrupted. He would hear them recite. None of the students could have been as nervous as Jennifer, but her small charges made appropriate “A-A-A” and “B-B-B” sounds for the man who for ten years had led the Ragged School Union. In that time hundreds, even thousands, of vagabond boys and girls had been rescued from the stinking slums squatting behind London’s fine thoroughfares.

  Arthur returned for Jennifer before classes were dismissed, and so made up part of the group gathered around the Earl of Shaftesbury to hear Joshua’s story. “Day before yesterday I happened to rise earlier than usual. Standing by the window at the back of my house in Upper Brook Street, I saw this small boy, his limbs twisted and his back bent beneath the bundle of rods and brushes he was obliged to carry for his employer, who cuffed him as they walked back from work. But I knew from the soot and blood covering him that this lad did more than carry brushes. He had been sent naked up the chimneys to dislodge the soot.”

  Jennifer leaned forward and listened with fascinated horror. She had been only a child herself when the man before her had led the fight in Parliament to pass the Climbing Boys Bill, but she remembered vaguely the uproar it had caused among the housewives who gathered in her mother’s parlor. Clean chimneys were essential to their very lives. More than one London house burned every winter, and often the neighboring buildings as well, from soot in the chimney catching fire. It was a pity if children were made uncomfortable in the effort—but what were they to do? Surely Parliament didn’t mean to let London burn.

  Jennifer came back from those long-ago memories to the earl’s voice continuing. “And I knew from looking into the matter when our bill was before Parliament that the child was prepared for his work by being rubbed all over with salt water in front of a hot fire to toughen his skin. Skin that broke and bled would be rubbed with brine again and again until it was hard.”

  He paused, and Arthur urged him on. “Tell them about setting the fires, my Lord.”

  Shaftesbury nodded. “Climbing boys often stick in the chimneys, whether from the narrowness of the passage or their own terror. The sweep will light a fire of straw under him to cause him to struggle violently enough to free himself. Of course, if he doesn’t come unstuck, the child suffocates.” There was great sadness in the earl’s voice, as if he felt personal responsibility for all the children he had been unable to rescue.

  “The trouble is, this work is done while all decent Londoners are asleep in their beds. And the sweeps keep their boys locked up on Sundays so no one will see them.”

  “But is there no alternative?” Jennifer was still puzzling over those conversations recalled from her childhood. “We must have clean chimneys. Is there some way to achieve that without so terrible a cost?”

  The earl nodded, his jutting black brows shading his eyes. “New methods are being invented, better brushes developed, new chimneys built with fewer twists and turns that collect soot.

  “We shall see the day a Climbing Boys Bill will pass Parliament and be enforced, but I fear that even with our best efforts, it is far off. In the meantime I have rescued this boy. It is so little to do when I would do so much.” He paused. “I offered to buy his apprenticeship from his master, but he’d not hear of it. So we tracked down the lad’s father. When he heard I was offering free education for his son, the man was most cooperative.” Again Shaftesbury paused. “But there are so many who go unrescued. Sometimes I hear them crying out to me in my sleep.”

  “But, My Lord, you’ve achieved so much.” Arthur’s sandy muttonchops bristled with enthusiasm. “You’ve ended child labor in the coal mines, and our inspection team found matters much improved in the textile mills. I do not think it an overstatement, sir, to say, as I did only this afternoon, that you have saved English society from the revolutions that shook the continent. The work of your committees has given hope to the poor, and the work of missionaries keeps them peaceful.”

  Arthur’s words seemed only to make the earl more morose. “My friend, you sound much like the Frenchman who remarked to me that ‘the religion alone of your country has saved you from revolution.’ But that is the very thing that saddens me. Is it all mere ‘religion’ we are practicing? Or is it vital personal faith? Is it for the good of English commerce or for the good of our eternal souls? Do we love cleanliness and order, or do we love God?

  “I was brought up in the ‘high-and-dry’ religion that saw the Church of England primarily as a prop of the government and regarded dissenters and Methodists as wicked. I fear there is still much of this at every level of society. Without a strong moral basis and personal faith among our people, no reforms can truly help the nation. No matter how much our compassionate societies achieve, what is done only for the sake of society or a popular cause will do little good in the end.”

  With that the Earl of Shaftesbury pulled himself to his full height and shook the hand of each worker, offering words of gratitude for their efforts. He put on his tall black hat, which made him seem more towering yet, and nodded to all be
fore turning to the door.

  Long after his departure Jennifer still felt the warm clasp of the earl’s hand. She was strangely moved by his fervency. She had never heard anyone speak so deeply from the heart. Certainly, Florence Nightingale had come close, in her efforts to carry out her vision for nursing and good medical care. But the scope of this man’s accomplishments and his determination to press forward to right all the wrongs he saw was simply breathtaking. She had heard that he had little personal fortune, and yet he invested much of his own money in the work. All this while being an exemplary father to his own large family.

  But it was more than his energy and dedication that gripped her. If fervency for social change had been all, Arthur could be said to be a young Shaftesbury. But there was a vital difference. The key must be in the earl’s last words—in the matter of personal faith. And yet how did one sort that out? The Scripture said faith without works was dead, and it seemed that all of polite society was caught up in good works. Did as little of it spring from true faith as the earl indicated?

  If so, what hope was there?

  Eight

  Jennifer stood in the middle of her room a few days later running the dark green satin ribbons of her new bonnet through her fingers. Still she made no motion to put the hat on, even though she knew the carriage had been summoned.

  The truth was, she felt guilty. She had held no intention of abandoning Richard or her new friend Livvy, and she had thought of them much during the past days. The business of restructuring her life in London, however, was proving far more trying than she had imagined. The changes in her values and view of life were taking time to sort out. And some days she seemed further than ever from determining what direction the rest of her life was to take.

  Stating her objective was simple. She desired to serve God and society, as was expected of all young ladies of her class. But once that was said, what did one then do?

  She had always understood God as one of the pillars of society. One served on His committees as one did those of Lady Eccleson. It was a comforting concept. She meant no disrespect by it. But now she suspected that such a childlike picture would not do to build her life on.

  “Jennifer, we shall be late.” Amelia Neville’s voice cut through her daughter’s reverie.

  Jenny gave one last look at the soft swirls of her rich brown hair in the looking glass before tying her bonnet securely under her chin. She hurried to meet her mother. Attending Lady Eccleson’s drawing room might not be synonymous with service to God, but Jennifer would not care to be the person to tell her ladyship so.

  The trees along Queen Anne Street shone a bright red and gold, and fallen leaves crunched beneath the carriage wheels. Jennifer smiled and breathed deeply. This was her favorite time of the year. Then the bright beauty of the scene brought a crimp to her heart. If only Richard could see it. He could look at the trees at night and discern their shapes, but he could not bear the pain of seeing them in their beauty. Help him Lord, and help me to help him. With that quick, informal sentence, she realized she had not prayed instinctively like that since leaving Scutari. Was that what the earl had meant by a personal relationship with God? Rather than relying on the prayers in the prayer book and those led by her father, could she develop a closeness with the Almighty that allowed her to speak to Him as if He were in the same room at all times?

  At Lady Eccleson’s they were greeted, not by the pale, silent Branman, but by an effusive Livvy. “Jenny, where have you been keeping yourself? I’ve been longing to talk to you. Oh, isn’t it the most divine day! You can have no notion how this makes me long to be in my beloved Newcastle—the Brampton is a blaze of color right now. And children build leaf forts, and the squirrels scurry everywhere, and—” Her headlong rush had carried them to the parlor. She paused, took a deep breath, and entered with suitable decorum. “Aunt Charlotte, Mrs. and Miss Neville have arrived.”

  The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the plans of the Committee for Bettering the Condition of the Deserving Poor in All Souls Parish, but since this was an informal discussion rather than an official meeting, tea was served first. “Aunt Charlotte’s cook makes the world’s most divine tea cakes.” Livvy licked the melted butter off her fingers. She had chosen seats in the farthest corner of the room so she could continue her narrative to Jenny somewhat unchecked. “I’ve been so anxious to tell you. Last week I sent one of the footmen around to Horse Guards to inquire about Legend.”

  If Jennifer’s hands hadn’t been filled with her cup and saucer, she would have clapped them. “Oh, tell me.”

  “Well, unfortunately I didn’t really learn anything, but the officer on duty said that I might call in person at my convenience for further inquiry. I thought we might go today. Mama is quite complaisant about my going out in Aunt Charlotte’s carriage.”

  Jennifer was more than willing to go with Livvy rather than Arthur. “If only Richard could go with us. The air is so invigorating. And I’m certain he could obtain more information than we could.”

  Livvy sighed. “If only he would. He’s been like a caged animal these past days. He goes for long rambles at night and then attempts to sleep much of the day. But the plan doesn’t seem to be working well. He won’t allow anyone to accompany him, but he returns with his clothes torn and dirty so that we know he has been bumping into things. Last Saturday he had a dreadful bruise on his forehead, and just yesterday his cheek was gashed and bleeding. Yet he is quite determined.”

  “But is there no way he can go out in the light?”

  “He went to a new doctor two days ago. Dr. Halston gave him a pair of dark glasses. He thought they would help.”

  “And have they?”

  “I’m not certain Dick has tried them out. I’m—” She paused as if choosing her words carefully, which was unusual for Livvy. “I’m not certain it’s just his eyes.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think it may be the scarring. I suppose it might be quite alarming to one unprepared, although I never think of it. But Dick may dread facing the reaction of others as much as he dreads the pain of the light.”

  Jennifer set her teacup down with a clink. “Then we must see what may be done.” She was no longer in an elegant drawing room, but back in the Barracks Hospital, ready to meet the emergency of a new case. Upon Jennifer’s request to be excused, Lady Eccleson dismissed the young ladies with a nod.

  Livvy led up the stairs and down a corridor to Richard’s room. She hesitated before knocking. “He might not be prepared to receive visitors.”

  “It would not be my first time to see him in bed.” Jennifer straightened her back as she often had at Scutari before marching into a ward.

  Livvy’s knock was answered by a short bald man with a ruddy complexion. “Please tell my brother he has visitors, Kirkham.” It was clear that Livvy would have swept on in, but the sturdy Kirkham would have none of it.

  “I shall enquire whether hit’s convenient for Lieutenant Greyston, ma’am,” he replied in a stiff nasal voice and left the door open only an inch.

  Livvy grinned. “You haven’t met Kirkham, have you? He was Dick’s batman in the Crimea. Showed up on the doorstep almost weeping a few days ago. He had thought Dick dead. Says he can never forgive himself for not attending him in hospital. Now he seems quite determined to make up for lost time. Guards Dick like a bulldog. How Dick manages to escape him on his evening rambles I can’t imagine—except that as a well-trained military servant, Kirkham will take orders.”

  The stalwart Kirkham was back in a moment. “Hit’s not convenient, ma’am.” He bowed and started to close the door.

  But Kirkham had reckoned without one of Florence Nightingale’s angels. Through the narrow opening Jennifer had seen Richard in the next room, his back to the doorway, standing in statue-like stiffness. She put her calfskin-shod foot in the doorway and pushed gently but firmly with a gloved hand. “That is regrettable. It is not convenient for me to be turned away.”

  Richard
did not turn toward her voice. But he did not walk away. His stillness was like one not breathing.

  Jennifer swept across the sitting room and into the bedroom where Richard stood. She turned to face him so abruptly that the crinolined skirt of her dark green afternoon dress swung like a bell. Richard started to turn toward the wall, but she grasped his hand, as much from long habit as from any calculated plan.

  The light in the room was moderate, considerably more revealing than that in the library had been on her first visit. Richard looked her direction through nearly closed eyes. Livvy had not overstated. Jagged, puckered lines ravaged his once-handsome face. But the burn scars covering the upper part of his face did not hurt her nearly so much as the pain and bitterness she saw on his tightly-clamped fine mouth.

  “Well, sir, I am most gratified to see that your wounds have healed satisfactorily. And your vanity should be pleased that your hair has returned with vigor.” She suppressed an unladylike urge to touch the springy golden curls, not because the gesture would be unladylike, but because she dared not let loose of his hand for fear he would move away from her.

  “I am pleased to give satisfaction. I rather fear, however, that someone without your medical interest might be less gratified.”

  Jennifer ignored that. “Livvy and I have come to seek your escort. We are going to Horse Guards on an errand of interest to you.”

  “I am told the sun is very bright today.”

  “Indeed, it is an exceedingly lovely day—one of autumn gold, a poet might say. Therefore it is most fortunate that your physician has supplied you with shaded glasses.”

  “Kirkham will provide you escort. It is not convenient for me—”

  “It is not convenient for me to be escorted by Kirkham.” She thought she saw the slightest hint of a smile cross his lips.

  The detached, ramrod stiffness held for several seconds and then crumbled with his brittle laugh. “Oh, dash it. Why weren’t you at Balaclava to order Cardigan around? You might have spared us the trouble of charging those blasted guns.” He raised his voice. “Kirkham, fetch my hat and bring the carriage around. It seems we are going out.” He turned back to Jennifer. “Will it be ‘convenient’ for you to be driven by Kirkham?”