London, 1873
Anne Kinelly stood on the raised platform next to the judge's podium—or was it a pulpit. No surely, it wasn't called that. Whispered noises sounded throughout the courtroom as she stood there, trying to keep herself strong. Maybe her surname wasn't Kinelly anymore. Her husband sat on the other side of the courtroom avoiding her eyes. His mouth was drawn and tight, his hair neatly combed.
All eyes were on her, judging her as inadequate and defective. Stanford was living with his mistress, but she was the one accused of adultery. Never had she committed adultery, but a man she barely knew was complicit with Stanford's accusations, declaring to the world how welcoming she had been of his advances.
Her ruination was complete.
She had taken lodgings in a boarding house, but her meager provisions were running out. Her husband had cut her off and she had no means to support herself in the future.
Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen were whispering amongst themselves, some of them amused by her devastation, others looking sorrowful. There was no coming back from this. She was as welcome in her society as a leper, feared in case the contagiousness of whatever deviousness, character fault or other unsuitability had forced her husband to take this drastic step.
In truth, he wanted to marry again, his mistress having grown tired of being hidden, not when his wealth and position could be enjoyed around London. Anne would be swept away with the dust of years past, to be forgotten and ignored. A solitary maid was her only company now, a surly girl who was less than happy at the reduced circumstances which extended to her as well.
Perhaps if she wasn't named Kinelly anymore, she could go back to her maiden name, Sands. At least her parents were not alive to be devastated by this fate. She could spare them that, at least.
The judge pounded the gavel, finalizing the divorce. It was done. The murmur grew louder and Anne could feel the disapproval emanating from the audience, burning her skin. People started leaving, but there were still questions unanswered. Stanford was the first to go, ignoring the question on her lips. He didn't care; he hadn't for many years, only viewed her as a nuisance that blighted his house. Harry, her son, had been the only thing they had in common, but his disapproval was as deep as his father's. She hadn't seen him for months, since he returned to Oxford for his education. Thinking of the tall, gangly young man sent a warm feeling through her frozen and battered heart. But her letters were now returning unopened, and that had probably hurt her more than anything else in this madness.
No one spoke to her as she slowly stepped down and walked toward the large doors in the back of the courtroom. She was no one now, a person of no consequence. Men weren't polite, one of them even bumping into her without apologizing. Rubbing her aching arm, she walked through the large, cavernous hall and out onto the streets, feeling stunned.
Unrelenting poverty loomed before her. Not even a small annuity had been provided for her. Tears stung her eyes as she watched the costermongers along the street shouting at passersby, pushing their goods. She needed to establish some means of supporting herself or she would end up in the workhouse. The world as she knew it had fallen apart, but the city around her went about their business without noticing.
Stanford had likely convinced himself she was guilty, because he wanted it to be true, alleviating himself from responsibility and guilt. He had never been a generous man, but she had tried her best to love him during the years, the latter of which he wanted very little from her but her absence.
Holding her reticule close, she walked down the streets that were getting increasingly rougher and darker. She hated living in this part of the city, but she could afford little else. Better to stretch the few pennies she had than to spend them at once in Mayfair. Distraught washed over her again, but Harry's desertion still hurt the most.
Divorcees tended to not live long and she understood why. A mountain of uncertainty faced her now and she had few skills to deal with this. She'd only ever been expected to be a wife, and she would never be that again. She had no useful skills, but could perhaps manage some sewing. It was dismally paying work and it probably wouldn't support her. Her disgrace kept her from any honorable profession, such as companion or governess. It all seemed impossible.
"You're looking lost there, love," a grimy man said, smiling, his rotten teeth black and the stench of him assaulted her. She was smart enough to know that help was not forthcoming in this city and this man was probably looking to steal the few coins she had left.
"I am not," she said as harshly as she could.
"You sure I can't assist you now?"
"Go away. There is a constable around the corner I just came from."
The man's eyes narrowed and for a moment he looked uncertain what to do, but the fear of the law finally won and he slunk away.
She would have to watch for him so he didn't follow and accost her in some dark alley, having picked her as a victim for his devious deeds. Perhaps she shouldn't be showing how despondent she felt, thereby attracting anyone willing to pick on the weak and lost. Straightening herself, she walked at a brisker pace, but it was still so very far to her horrid little rooms, which smelled of boiled cabbage.
Anne sat in the small parlor of her new lodgings, where Lisle slept at night, adjoining the one bedroom. There was no kitchen so all their provisions had to be purchased down on the street below. Each day, her small stash of coins shrunk and the day would come when she couldn't afford to pay for her lodgings.
What options did she have? She would have to send a letter to Stanford, or maybe even Harry, asking for assistance. Feeling the prickling of tears and distress in her nose, she pinched its bridge to stop herself from weeping yet again.
The door opened behind her, the hinges years since seeing any oil. "There is a letter for you, Miss." Even Lisle was complicit in pointing out her reduced stature. No doubt she would lose Lisle soon, preferring a grand house to live and work in, instead of here with the colicky baby upstairs and constant pounding as people walked up and down the stairs just outside their rooms.
But there was a letter, the first communication she'd had since the divorce. She noticed the seal of Mr. Charterham, her solicitor, a reproachful and disapproving man her husband had hired to represent her through the divorce. No doubt to Stanford's disappointment, a woman could not divorce without some form of representation.
Cracking the seal, she saw a request for her to come see him. It said nothing more. Traversing the city to the Charterham offices seemed such an onerous task, it almost seemed insurmountable, but she had nothing else to do, other than to spend another day staring at the damaged and faded wallpaper. Maybe this missive even came with some hope. Perhaps Stanford was on the deepest level admitting he orchestrated her demise and finally felt some guilt, enough to perhaps keep her out of the dreaded workhouse.
"I will need my coat," Anne stated.
"You're leaving the house today?" Lisle said in a manner too forward for a servant. Her regard had changed with the respectability of their address and now barely kept the derision out of her voice.
"It appears so," Anne said, more for the sake of talking than any real interest in discussing her affairs with Lisle.
Anne pinned her hat in the broken mirror by the door and accepted the coat Lisle assisted her with. She buttoned it and noticed the coat was larger on her frame than a few weeks ago. The uncertainty and distress had chased her appetite away, not helped by the tasteless and dubious food they purchased on the street.
As sad as it was, this missive from her solicitor was the only faint hope she had on her horizon. Surely he wouldn't call her to his office for no reason whatsoever. Perhaps Stanford had decided to forward some of her personal effects, which she could in turn sell. Anything was needed right now, if only to stop her from sinking into the dark abyss that threatened to engulf her unless she steeled herself.
The streets were a jumble of activity, carriages and hacks, carts and people. Costermongers were on every available space, touting their goods, while the black smoke of coal lingered.
Anne walked past a coffee house and the smell made her insides clench with craving, but she refused to divert any coins to such pleasures. Would she ever have a cup again? Were all small pleasures in life lost to her? At thirty four years of age, she would perhaps never taste the sweetness of pastries or the taste of good wine.
She walked down Fleet Street, barely being missed by a cart, which tore a rip in her coat. On the whole, she was lucky to be alive, but a rip didn't help. These clothes would likely have to last her a long time. Again, she felt like turning around and slinking back to her rooms to barricade herself inside, but hope was at the end of this journey and she needed that more than she needed to hide.
Mr. Charterham's offices were up a set of stairs, down a dark hall clad in heavy mahogany, until she reached a door with his name in gold lettering.
A clerk sat at the desk, scribbling in a large tome. "Ah, Mrs. Kinelly," he said with a humorless smile. "Please take a seat."
She did, not bothering to correct him on his address. What did it matter? Perhaps he did so on purpose so not to highlight her abject reduction in station. It was kind of him if it were so. Kindness was something she'd seen rarely, of late.
Another set of doors opened and Mr. Charterham appeared. "Miss Sands, please come in." Charterham took no such pains preserving her station. She smiled tightly and rose, hoping Mr. Charterham would not expect payment for this visit, as that would be as devastating on her as the divorce at this point. It was funny how smaller and smaller things represented devastation.
"Please take a seat," he said and returned to his chair. Documents were strewn over his desk. The chair creaked as he sat down and now blatantly considered her. She had never felt comfortable in his presence. "It is not a nice thing what has happened to you, and I have felt pity for your circumstances."
"Thank you," she said, unsure where this was going.
"So, I thought I would see what can be done for you," he said more brightly, picking up a set of spectacles and putting them on. He picked up a piece of paper. "And we have had some success."
Anne blinked, hope surging.
"In fact, we have found you a house."
"A house," Anne repeated breathily.
"A manor even, but don't get excited. It is old and unoccupied. I'm not sure it's fit for living."
"Where I am now is not far off," she conceded in a rare show of honesty about how poor her situation was.
Mr. Charterham smiled indulgently. "It has been placed in trust by one of your great aunts, but no one wanted it, so it's been sitting there since. The location is equally desolate, I'm afraid. Yorkshire. But it is something."
A house. She had a house, untouchable by Stanford, who had kept everything else. This was a stroke of luck she could scarcely believe.
Charterham reached for an envelope, which showed the signs of dust and stains. He opened it. "And here is the key, apparently; been sitting in wait for someone to come claim it." He pulled out a black, iron key. It was large and heavy, made in a bygone era. Anne clasped her hand around it and felt the coolness of the metal seep into her hand. Hope lay in her hand. A house, and she could grow vegetables, maybe even the odd livestock. She would not be starving and the specter of the workhouse faded away.
"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Charterham," she said, tears again prickling her nose, but of joy this time.
"I am simply glad this came about. I don't like seeing ladies in such reduced circumstances. It reflects poorly on us as a society, I think. So I am pleased. Best of luck for your future." Maybe Mr. Charterham was one of the few people she had met who didn't actually believe in the stigma divorce brought. She wasn't actually a different person from a week ago, but he had taken the time and effort to help her, and now she had a future thanks to this man.
Again, she thanked him profusely, walking out a much lighter person, the key still clasped in her hand. This house was hers and no one could take it away from her. Now she even had somewhere Harry could come visit if he chose to acknowledge her again, but being merely seventeen, other concerns occupied his mind.