Marrying Winterborne

Whereas ordinary people rode in hansoms all the time, young women of Helen’s rank never did. The ride itself was terrifying but exhilarating. She could hardly believe it was happening. The hansom cab hurtled along at a breakneck pace, threading the mass of carriages, carts, omnibuses, and animals that crowded the thoroughfare, lurching and jolting, missing lampposts and parked vehicles and slow-footed pedestrians by inches.

“When it’s time to hop out,” Dr. Gibson said to Helen, “I’ll pay the driver through the hole in the roof, and he’ll open the door with the lever. Take care not to let the overhanging reins knock off your hat as you jump to the ground.”

The hansom jolted to a rough stop. Dr. Gibson handed up the payment and nudged Helen’s side with her elbow as the door opened. Galvanized into action, Helen clambered out and stepped on the footboard. She had to wrench her hips to pull her bustle free of the carriage. With more luck than skill, she leapt to the street without falling on her face or losing her hat. The bustle gave an extra bounce as she landed, causing her to totter forward. Immediately afterward, Dr. Gibson descended to the ground with athletic grace.

“You make it look so easy,” Helen said.

“Practice,” Dr. Gibson replied, adjusting the angle of her hat. “Also, no bustle. Now, remember the rules.” They began to walk.

Their surroundings were vastly different from any part of London Helen had seen before. Even the sky looked different, the color and texture of old kitchen rags. There were only a handful of shops, all of them with blackened windows and dilapidated signs. Rows of common lodging-houses, intended to provide shelter for the destitute, appeared unfit for habitation. People crowded the street, arguing, cursing, drinking, fighting. Others sat on steps or curbstones, or occupied doorways with ghostlike lassitude, their faces sunken-eyed and unnaturally pale.

As polluted as the main road was, layered with filth and wheel-flattened objects, it didn’t compare with the alleys that branched from it, where the ground glimmered with dark streams and standing pools of putrid liquid. Catching a glimpse of a dead animal carcass, and a doorless privy, Helen stiffened against a shudder that ran down her spine. People lived in this place. Ate, drank, work, slept here. How did they survive? She stayed close to Dr. Gibson, who appeared coolly unaffected by the squalor around them.

A remarkable stench hung everywhere, impossible to avoid. Every few yards the floating miasma, dark, organic, and rotting, reshaped into a new, even more revolting version of itself. As they passed a particularly foul alley, a pervasive reek seemed to go directly from her nose to her stomach. Her insides roiled.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Dr. Gibson said, quickening her stride. “It will pass.”

Thankfully the nausea retreated, although Helen’s head swam faintly as if she’d been poisoned, and her mouth tasted like pencil lead. They turned a corner and confronted a large brick building with tall iron gates and spiked fencing all around.

“That’s the orphanage,” Dr. Gibson said.

“It looks like a prison.”

“I’ve seen worse. At least the grounds are reasonably clean.”

They walked down the street to a set of tall iron gates that had been left ajar, and passed through to the entrance. Dr. Gibson reached up to tug firmly at a bell pull. They heard it ring from somewhere inside.

After a full minute had passed, Dr. Gibson began to reach for the pull again, when the door opened.

A broad, heavy rectangle of a woman faced them. She looked incredibly weary, as if she hadn’t slept in years, the skin of her face drooping in swags.

“Are you the matron?” Dr. Gibson asked.

“I am. Who might you be?”

“I am Dr. Gibson. My companion is Miss Smith.”

“Mrs. Leech,” the matron mumbled.

“We would like to ask a few questions of you, if we may.”

The matron’s face didn’t change, but it was clear the idea held little appeal. “What would I get out of it?”

“I’m willing to donate my medical services to the children in the infirmary.”

“We don’t need a doctor. The Sisters of Mercy come three times a week to minister and do nursing.” The door began to close.

“For your time,” Helen said, discreetly extending a coin to her.

The matron’s hand closed over it, her eyelids flicking briefly as she realized it was a half-crown. Standing back, she opened the door wider and let them inside.

They entered an L-shaped main room flanked by offices on one side and a nursery on the other. A squalling infant could be heard from the nursery. A woman walked back and forth past the doorway with the infant, trying to soothe it.

Straight ahead, through a pair of open double doors, Helen could see rows of children seated at long tables. A multitude of busy spoons scraped against bowls.

“They’ll eat for ten more minutes,” Mrs. Leech said, consulting a pocket watch. “That’s all the time I have.” A few curious children had hopped off their benches and had wandered to the doorway to stare at the visitors. The matron glared at them. “Go back to the table, if you know what’s good for you!” The children scuttled back into the dining hall. Turning back to Dr. Gibson, Mrs. Leech shook her head wearily. “Some of them insist their mothers will come back for them. Every bloody time there’s a visitor, they make a fuss.”

“How many children do you have at the orphanage?” Dr. Gibson asked.

“One hundred twenty boys, ninety-seven girls, and eighteen infants.”

Helen noticed that one girl had stayed half-hidden behind the door. Slowly the child looked around the jamb. Her hair, a very light shade of blonde, had been chopped into short, uneven locks that stuck out in all directions. It had matted down in some places, giving her the appearance of a half-molted chick. She stared fixedly at Helen.