Saturday, 17 March 1866 (Five Weeks Later)
AND FROM THAT DAY FORWARD, Jenny had jam sandwiches for breakfast every morning.” Margaret finished her story and smiled at the cluster of children sitting in a semicircle on the floor. There were eighteen today, three more again than on her last visit. “Now, since you have all been so very well-behaved, there are jam sandwiches for you, too, and milk, over on the table in the corner.”
Scrabbling awkwardly to her feet, she made her way across the hall to join Susannah and the children’s mothers, but before she could sit down, Sally Jardine thrust a squirming, wet, and very, very smelly bundle into her hands.
“Miss Scott, would you mind changing Alfie’s napkin, there’s a dear. Only I’m just about to have my tea.”
Before she could stop herself, Margaret screwed up her nose. “Pooh.”
“Yes, sorry about that. He’s teething, got a bit of an upset tummy.” Sally didn’t look in the least bit sorry. “Course if you’re too posh to get your hands dirty, I’ll do it myself.”
Sally knew Margaret had a sensitive nose, because Sally had taken great delight, the first time they met, in ridiculing Margaret for carrying the lavender sachet that Susannah had given her. Margaret had very nearly succumbed to tears, and Sally had noticed, of course.
Margaret knew better than to show weakness now. “Come along then, Alfie,” she said, deliberately snuggling him close and smiling over at Sally. “Let’s see if we can make your bottom half match up to that sweet little face of yours.”
Swallowing hard to prevent herself gagging, aware of the damp residue seeping into her gown, Margaret carried the baby over to the small table where Susannah kept a supply of fresh napkins and cleaning cloths. Her first attempt to change a napkin, on her first day here, had been a disaster, ending with both the child and herself in tears. Through the jeers and laughter Verity had come to her aid, gently talking her through her second attempt, earning herself a few cheers and a smattering of applause. Persistence had paid off. She was rather proficient now, and most of the women had warmed to her. Alfie, however, and his mother, were determined in their own way to challenge her. She could sense everyone watching as she gingerly removed the pins.
“Come on, Alfie, let her know who’s boss,” Sally called.
Desperate not to be found wanting, Margaret gritted her teeth, took shallow breaths, and proceeded to clean up the revolting mess. To her profound relief Alfie was too delighted to be pristine and dry to do anything other than coo. Handing a fresh, smiling baby back to his mother ten minutes later, she made an extravagant curtsy. A cup of strong tea was thrust into her hands, and a chair patted for her to sit on.
“I suppose you’ve earned that,” Sally conceded, setting Alfie at her feet. “My Robert says he’s never smelt the like, and he’s a tosher.”
Baffled, Margaret looked to Susannah for clarification. “He goes down the sewers with a fishing net looking for coins or nails to sell on,” she explained.
“You know what they say,” Sally chipped in irrepressibly. “Where there’s muck, there’s brass!”
Shuddering, Margaret took a sip of the stewed tea, bracing herself for its fierce, tarry taste. On the other side of the room, the children had finished their jam sandwiches and milk, and were playing one of their complicated ball games. Most of the mothers were either knitting or stitching as they drank their tea, their eyes on each other rather than their work. Stockings, shirts, and chemises were created at speed. Rips were repaired, holes darned, and new cuffs and collars attached. How many times, sitting through a tea with Mama’s friends, had she heard the oohs and aahs of admiration for an entirely useless sampler!
“Verity couldn’t make it today?”
“Her ankles have swollen up so much she can’t hardly walk.” Agnes tutted. “I brought her two littlest ones along, told her to put her feet up, though whether she will or not . . .”
“I have some Epsom salts,” Susannah said. “Tell her to mix them with cold water and rest her feet in the solution for fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll tell her, but you know Verity,” Agnes said. “Can’t sit still for a second. I remember when she had her first, must be fifteen years ago now . . .”
“No more than thirteen, for her eldest isn’t twelve yet.”
“And this will be what—baby number nine?”
“Ten. Fingers crossed. She’s not kept well since the last one. You must remember, she had a terrible time of it.”
Margaret listened with her customary fascinated horror as the women embarked on a graphic description of the experience of giving birth. It was a popular topic, second only to the demands placed upon them by their husbands. Unlike pregnancy, which was universally abhorred, husbands split the group. Some of the women claimed discharging their marital duties was an endurance test, but a majority, to Margaret’s astonishment, seemed to enjoy it.
“I make sure Robert has a good wash first, mind.” Sally cackled. “You never know where he’s been!”
“The problem is, we do!” Agnes retorted, and the group of women erupted with raucous laughter.
The bawdy jokes, the innuendos that mostly went straight over Margaret’s head, were a revelation. She had never heard anyone talk so candidly. There were no veiled hints, no euphemisms, nor any pretence. It was liberating, for even when the women teased her ignorance, they did so mostly without malice. In the early days here, which seemed like a lifetime and not merely a month ago, her cheeks had burned constantly with embarrassment. These days, she occasionally felt bold enough to add a ribald comment of her own. It gave her a warm glow to make these tough, resilient women laugh.
“I’m afraid that we’ve run out of time again, ladies. Agnes, if you wait behind I’ll fetch the Epsom salts.”
Chairs were scraped back; mending, sewing, and knitting put away in deep pockets; and children rounded up. “I see Alfie has left his seal of approval,” Sally said, pointing at the brown stain on Margaret’s bodice. Leaning closer, she wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. Good luck getting that out.”
Cursing under her breath, wondering if even ever-resourceful Molly would find Alfie’s legacy a challenge too far, Margaret ignored the mother, smiling at the baby instead, gratified by the beaming smile she received in return. “Poor lamb, you have enough to fret about getting those teeth through. You let me worry about my dress.”
“Milk will remove the smell,” Agnes said, shooting Sally a dark look. “You see if it don’t.”
“Would you mind tidying up?” Susannah returned with her hat and basket. “I have a house call to make.”
“Of course not. Is something wrong?” Margaret asked, for her friend was looking worried.
“You remember the girl I told you about the first day you were here, Mary Webb’s daughter?”
“The thirteen-year-old who was expecting a baby? Oh no, Susannah, has she . . .”
“The baby was born yesterday. A boy. Early, but he seemed healthy enough. Unfortunately, he died this morning, poor little mite.”
“Oh, Susannah.” Tears started in Margaret’s eyes. “As if that girl—she’s no more than a child herself—hadn’t suffered enough already.”
Susannah blew her nose. “Right now, what we need to do is concentrate on the living. It was not an easy birth. I am going to see what I can do to persuade them to allow a doctor to call discreetly and examine her. If I don’t see you later, I’ll see you next week?”
Margaret gave her a quick hug. “Definitely.”
SEBASTIAN WAS LATE, AS USUAL. Margaret stared out of the study window, which faced onto the street, her heart lifting when she saw his familiar figure hurrying towards her. Just before he turned into the rectory, a thick-set man dressed in an ill-fitting tweed suit jumped out in front of him, bringing him to an abrupt halt. The man had his back to her, but she could see from Sebastian’s set expression that they were not exchanging pleasantries. The dispute lasted several minutes before the stranger extravagantly and deliberately spat at Sebastian’s feet, pushed past him, and strode off.
“Sebastian!” she said when he entered the study. “What on earth was that all about? I saw that man—”
“Jake Briggs. He’s a local debt collector. He reckons I’m bad for business.”
“Because you prevent him getting his claws into decent people,” Margaret exclaimed indignantly. “I thought he was going to punch you.”
Sebastian grinned. “You needn’t worry; he’s not daft enough to do me actual harm. Doesn’t want the peelers sniffing about. He feels obliged to threaten me every now and then, but I’m not going to let some thug or anyone else drive me away from here.” Taking her hands between his, he smiled warmly at her. “Tell me, how were the coven today?”
“Oh, they had their moments. Sally Jardine’s little boy, Alfie, has a tummy upset. So naturally she asked me to change his napkin.”
“Don’t judge Sally too harshly; she has not had her troubles to seek. Anyway, I’m sure you handled her admirably.” Sebastian lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
The touch of his lips made her breath catch. Their eyes met, and she sensed that he, too, felt the almost irresistible urge to close the distance between them. In her other life, the world across the Thames, handshakes were fleeting, hand clasping unheard of. Sebastian’s world was full of casual touches, arm brushing, helping hands, but only his touch made her skin tingle like this, made her feel like her corset was laced too tight, making it difficult to breathe.
Time and again over the last weeks, lying wide awake in the dark, replaying his every glance and word, Margaret tried to convince herself that he was simply being kind, friendly, that her growing affection for him was not returned. One could not come to care so deeply for a person in such a short time, she told herself. But it had been there from the moment their eyes had first met in the market, that tug of awareness, that breathless excitement. And it grew stronger every day. When they were apart, she could convince herself that it was one-sided, a result of her overheated imagination. But when she looked into his eyes, when their hands were tightly clasped like this, she knew beyond doubt the attraction was mutual.
And wrong. No matter how right it actually felt. Gently disentangling herself, she made her way to the desk, pulling up her own chair. “Susannah said you had a sheaf of letters for me to write.”
Sebastian shrugged out of his coat and flung it over the back of his chair, leaving him in the waistcoat and shirt-sleeves he preferred to work in. His hair was ruffled—he had a habit of running his hand through it when he was thinking. “I even have a bit of good news to share, too, for once,” he said, taking his seat.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense—good news is always welcome around here.” Margaret sat down, leaning her elbows on the desk because Mama wasn’t there to reprimand her for doing so.
“The workhouse board have finally agreed to permit Sunday visits to the infirmary.”
“That’s marvellous news.”
“That last appeal you wrote on the matron’s behalf was masterly. I reckon that was what swung the decision in our favour.”
“I only highlighted the case she described to me regarding one of her patients. That poor old woman knew her time had come. To deny her daughter the chance to say goodbye because of an arcane rule is barbarous.”
“Tell that to those pompous fools on the Board of Guardians. Or my bishop, for that matter.” Sebastian slammed his hand down on a stack of letters. “They don’t realise that people would rather suffer than ask for help, especially if they are then subjected to an interrogation or a bloody sermon. I’m sorry. My language. I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Don’t be.” Margaret reached across the desk to touch his hand. His fingers curled around hers. There were shadows under his eyes. “The injustice of it all must be difficult to bear,” she said gently.
“Many of my parishioners are no angels, but even fallen angels are still angels.”
“I’ve never heard that expression before.”
“It means there’s some good in everybody.”
“Why is it that we talk of the deserving poor, but no-one ever suggests there might be undeserving rich?”
“A very good question. I’ve a mind to pose it in my next sermon. Have I told you lately how very much Susannah and I appreciate all the help you’ve given us? I used to dread coming here to face the mountain of paperwork, but now I look forward to it. On the days you are here, at least.”
“You work too hard.”
“Unfortunately there aren’t enough hours in the day, but it doesn’t feel like work when you are here with me.”
The warmth of his smile made her feel as if she was being heated from the inside. It made her heart flutter. It made her feel giddy. “I’m simply happy to be of service,” Margaret said. Did he feel the same? She couldn’t be imagining it, could she, the intensity of his gaze?
This time, it was he who broke the spell, dropping his gaze, sitting back in his chair. “Susannah’s coterie of mothers have grown very fond of you, she tells me. I know they tease you. . . .”
“Teasing is a sign that they accept me. It matters a great deal to me, to feel part of things here.”
“We’re lucky to have you. I know Sue considers you her friend, and I—I don’t know what I’d do without you, to be honest. Even Esther and Molly have grown very close. Now,” Sebastian continued brusquely, picking up a stack of papers, “to work. I’ve had another of my parishioners complaining about the children’s hospital, I’m afraid. His little boy was in a dreadful accident, but there was no bed available, so they patched him up and sent him home. Don’t worry—it looks as if he’ll survive—but it shouldn’t come down to a question of blind luck. The hospital is simply too small to cope with the demand and it will get worse, for we have new families moving into the area all the time. All that can be done in this case is see what help we can offer the poor lad once he’s up and about again.”
FOR THE NEXT TWO HOURS Margaret methodically worked with Sebastian through the stack of correspondence, answering queries, making cases, setting those aside which required home visits. The door-bell clanged regularly, but Esther dealt with the calls, leaving them undisturbed.
“That’s the last of them for today, thank goodness.” Sebastian set down his pen, rolling his shoulders. “Although I do have one personal letter to write, to my sister Selina.”
“I didn’t know you had another sister.”
“She is married to another man of the cloth, as it happens. One rather higher up in the church hierarchy than I. It was through her husband that I obtained my living near Cheltenham.”
“Your well-heeled parish. Don’t you ever wish you’d remained there?”
“And married the fair Emily and had a brood of my own? Not ever.”
“The fair Emily? Were you betrothed?”
“No, no, nothing was ever formalised,” Sebastian said hastily. “She was Selina’s niece by marriage. She didn’t care for my choice of new parish, so that was the end of it. I couldn’t marry a woman who didn’t share my calling. I need someone at my side who is willing to muck in and help me improve the lives of my parishioners.”
“Which is precisely what you have in Susannah.”
“Indeed I do. Poor Sue. When Frederick died, he left her in somewhat straitened circumstances, and she was forced to return to live with our parents. It suited them, but not her. She was bored rigid.”
“So when you were posted here, she must have been delighted.”
“It’s an arrangement that suits us both. She’s a practical woman with absolutely no sense of smell.” He winked. “I couldn’t ask for more.”
The bell clanged again, and Margaret checked her watch, giving a little exclamation of dismay. “I must go. I have a dinner to attend and then a soirée. Very boring,” she added, embarrassed to have mentioned either engagement, “but I will have to change my clothes.”
“Yes? You look perfectly fine to me,” Sebastian said.
Her gown was one of her oldest and decidedly past its best. What was more, with its long sleeves and high collar, it was clearly not an evening gown. Sebastian never commented on her clothes. He rarely paid her any sort of compliment about her appearance and that was one of the things she liked about him.
“I’m not going to a pie shop, Sebastian, I’m going to dinner with one of my mother’s oldest friends. If I turned up in an outdated day dress smelling vaguely of Alfie’s napkin, she would be extremely offended.”
“In that case we’d better get rid of the ink on your face, too.”
He came round to her side of the desk, dabbing the tip of her nose with his handkerchief. “It tickles,” Margaret said, wrinkling her nose.
“Hold still—there’s another spot just here.”
Sebastian leaned in to dab at her cheek. She could smell the ink on his fingers, the sandalwood of his soap, the slightly musty wool of his waistcoat. His fingers fluttered down over the side of her face, down her throat to rest on her shoulder.
“Margaret.”
His voice sounded odd. Daring to meet his eyes, she knew with utter certainty that her doubts about his feelings were misplaced. “Sebastian.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She had no idea what to do. If she moved she would break the spell.
For a long moment they stood together, gazes locked. Time seemed to stop, along with her breath, until he gave a soft sigh, and she lifted her face and surrendered her lips to his. She could feel his breath on her cheek, fast and shallow, sense his nerves were stretched as taut as hers. The taste of him, the softness of his mouth, the roughness of the cheek she lifted her hand to caress, the terrified delight of being so intimate with him, shocked her. Then tentatively, he moved his mouth on hers and she followed his lead, and her shock gave way to pleasure.
The clang of the front door-bell made them leap apart. Dazed, they stared at each other. “Good God,” Sebastian said, his cheeks colouring. “I’m sorry! That was very wrong of me.”
“Please don’t apologise. I was just as culpable,” Margaret said, freeing her hands.
“It won’t happen again, I swear. The last thing I wish is to scare you off. You are doing so much good here, I would hate to jeopardise that.”
Ought she to have been frightened? Should she now be having a fit of the vapours? What she certainly, definitely should not be doing was wishing that he would kiss her again. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen,” Margaret said, knowing that was what she ought to say, even if it was likely to prove impossible.
But Sebastian cast her a grateful look. “Thank you. You are an angel.”
A soft tap at the door precluded her refuting this claim. “Begging your pardon, Father,” Esther said, “but Mrs. Powers is desperate for a word. Says it’s a matter of life or death.”