You arrive at Seven Dials in London, near the notorious slums of St. Giles Rookery. All around you are thieves, murderers, murderous thieves, and at least eight different people exclaiming “Lawks!” You steel yourself, for you need all the courage and fortitude you possess to embark on this, your next chapter in life…
…and perhaps love? Your mind wanders to the handsome Scot you met at Lady Evangeline’s ball, Captain Angus MacTaggart. You wonder if you’ve beaten the letter you sent him, telling him of your arrival and interest in taking up the position he mentioned off-handedly at the ball. You know it was impulsive to come without working out the details, but the opportunity unleashed in you a new lease on life that cannot be ignored. Especially not when needy children stand to benefit.
As you pick your way through a street piled high with refuse and ladies of the night, you recall Mac’s manner that evening. How he operated as a guest in the high-society world of the ton, commanded respect, charmed all, but also seemed to burn with a silent desire to move on. Then there was the kindness and humor flashing in those hazel eyes, the knowing looks and hearty laughter, the rolling, harsh softness of his brogue, the way the candlelight brought out the fire in his auburn mane, the way his tight breeches clung to his—
“Looking for work, my dear?” says a strangely accented voice. You turn and see an elegant lady, incongruous for such a rough part of town, standing in her silk dress like a lotus blossom in a swamp. “A girl as pretty as yourself could be the gem of my establishment. Sweet. Innocent. And yet with an underlying wisdom and sadness. Yes, you would do very well indeed.”
“Leave the lass alone, Madam Crosby,” a rugged Scottish brogue interrupts. “She’s here to see me about teaching, not to become one of your doxies.” The woman doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest and merely shrugs. Mac leans proudly and ruggedly against the down-at-heel doorway of his fledgling Home for Orphans of the War. Many of said orphans peer down at you from the structure’s grimy windows.
“More’s the pity. Though the offer still stands. As you can see, my girls are the best paid and the best treated in London.” Madam Crosby waves an expensively gloved hand and walks into a fine building that stands out like a diamond ring in the mud. Several lovely and elegantly dressed women follow after her.
You turn to the source of the rugged Scottish brogue and find your breath momentarily taken away. Captain Angus MacTaggart is even more handsome than you remembered, the strong angles of his face now lit up by the midday sun. He strikes you the same way statues of heroes of war do, or Greek gods. Something about him seems mythic, larger than life. And very, very muscular. Judging by the giggles coming from the women you pass, you are not the only one to notice.
“Getting in trouble already, I see,” Captain MacTaggart says and then grins at you. Before you can think of a suitably witty comeback, you are interrupted by a golden wolf running out of the home and pouncing on you, followed by a small boy hollering at him and a pair of children hollering for the hell of it.
“Oi! Dodger, no!” cries the boy. The wolf reveals himself to be a cheerful yellow dog with adorably active, expressive ears on an endless quest to knock things over.
“Your stupid dog almost killed our teacher, you twat!” A rough-and-tumble little girl spits at the young dogmaster.
“Good. Can’t stand teachers. They fink they’re all fancy and better’n us. I ain’t got time for no teachers.” The third youngster, a gloomy, grim child with a black eye, scowls in your general direction.
“ ‘Cos they is fancy, you knobhead. Don’t make me punch sense into you again,” the little girl says and spits once more.
“What lovely children you are,” you deadpan, eyebrows arched. The children scowl at you in turn. “What are your names?”
“Timmy,” the forlorn little dog owner manages.
“Sallie,” spits the girl.
“None of your bloody business!” shouts the teacher-hater.
“All right, all right, quiet yerselves down now!” Mac says with a hearty laugh. “I’ve got about twenty more o’ these little delights up in the home now, raising a ruckus. But they’ll be singing quite a different tune once we get your schoolroom set up.”
“Sometime in the next decade, I presume.” Another, even heartier Scottish brogue booms down from an open window.
“Aye!” Mac hollers up to a jolly, avuncular fellow Scotsman, who looks more than old enough to be his father. He turns back to you. “That’ll be Abercrombie—”
“Colonel Abercrombie,” the man corrects.
“Aye. And he’s the general pest of the home.” Mac laughs again, harder than before.
“Aide-de-camp of the home, I prefer,” Abercrombie puts in.
“Aye. My former commander. And this heap”—Mac slaps the doorway—“is my most recently won donation. My charms sometimes gain favors that help out the bairns, but it is a hustle and a task to keep the gifts coming. The wee lads and lassies are nae fond o’ teachers, mostly because they have a tendency to turn tail and run back to their soft beds once the going gets tough.”
Mac’s eyes twinkle but display a hardness that speak volumes to his past experience with young ladies struck by a desire to “help.” He looks you over with these hard, twinkling eyes, and you can’t help but sense, despite his outwardly jocular behavior, that he is quite concerned about your arrival—or, perhaps, the length of your stay.
“If ye decide to follow suit,” he continues, “please wait till morning so I can get ye home safely. I’ll not have ye getting snatched up by Madam Crosby or other villains on my account, ye hear?”
“That shan’t be necessary,” you respond and hear several of the children giggle and/or curse at your posh tones. “Where can I settle in?”
“Eh, I will show ye to your quarters,” Mac says, distracted perhaps by the sheer amount of work to be done. “Ye can have a lie-down until we’re done doing the heavy lifting. The kiddies have waited this long for a teacher, they can surely wait another day.”
“Decade!” Abercrombie shouts down. “C’mon up, lass, I will nae bite ye.”
“Trust not a word he says,” Mac says. He laughs, claps you on the back, hoists your valise over his head, and disappears into your new home.
Your new quarters are grimmer than the tiny room the Dowager Dragon allowed you to have and feature a considerable company of bugs and rats. You wish to scream, but the dubious and expectant look on Mac’s handsome face makes you straighten your spine and don your best do-gooding smile.
“How can I get started?” you ask with forced brightness.
Mac gestures across the hall, to a room with the door thrown open, revealing a beautiful chalkboard…and a tangled heap of filth, school supplies, and furniture desperately shoved inside to be dealt with later.
“That’ll be the schoolroom,” he says, and the strong features of his face color with fret. “Look, lass.” He speaks with a softness he must reserve for only the most tearful orphan or haughtiest donor. “I know ye came all this way to have a look at the rough side, get a tale to tell your bosom friends at the next ball about how ye helped this one and did this deed. Are ye sure someone jest as…fine and delicate as ye are wants to muck about in this? No shame at all in going home, I can escort ye myself after I take care of a few things and get the children watched over.”
Your body burns with embarrassment. “I believe you informed me of a position regarding watching over the children. I came here for a job, not for a holiday in the slums.”
“Aye, lass, but all this”—he gestures at the decrepit building around you—“it isnae a story for high tea. It’s quite a piece of work.”
You seethe. “I am certain you will find, Captain Angus MacTaggart, that so. Am. I. Now, please, I beg your pardon, but I must get to work.”
“Of course, lass,” Mac says. “My apologies.” He knows he’s stepped in it but can’t quite figure how to step out. You raise your eyebrows ever slightly higher in response. “I will find ye for dinner.”
You hold your head high, determined not to cry or show any sign of what Mac may construe as weakness, and when he leaves you to the rats and cockroaches, you silently scream in frustrated anguish.
It makes you feel marvelous and fuels you with the double-headed desire to do good things and make Mac sorry he ever doubted you. The self-righteous Scottish prig! You are about to let off one last silent primal scream when you are interrupted by the orphans, who crowd around the door to your room.
“Whatcha gonna teach us, then?” asks Sallie, clearly the leader of the pack. The other kids peer at you with a mix of interest, scorn, and disappointment.
“No one can teach us nuffink,” None-of-Your-Business chimes in. “ ‘Member what the last teacher said? We’re a hopeless case.” He scowls and kicks another child in the shin.
“Hopeless cases are like bogeymen,” you say with savage primness. The children look at you quizzically. “They don’t exist.”
You roll up your sleeves. It is time to take matters into your own hands. But how?
By teaching the children out in the streets? You see no reason why the world they live in can’t be their classroom! Turn to .
Or by getting the little brutes to use their strength to take ownership of their fates and help you clear out their schoolroom? Turn to .