Chapter 21
Blackthorn woke in his bedchamber in his London townhouse to the sound of a muffled voice downstairs. Having gone to bed at four in the morning, he cursed at the ruckus downstairs.
Bright light spilled through the crack between the dark curtains. He ran his hands over his face and pulled off the counterpane.
Another shout punctuated the hall, this time sharp, as if someone were hurt. He quickly grabbed a robe, pushed his arms through the sleeves, and left his room to find out what the bloody hell was going on so early in the morning. As he stepped down the stairs, what he saw angered him.
Clark, his butler, had a girl by the arm and was subjecting her to the humiliation of being treated no better than a gutter rat.
“Release her.”
The young woman jerked away from the butler when he released her and looked up at Blackthorn. She had on a tattered dress in a dull, light gray color with an apron still tied tightly around her waist as if she had been preparing a meal. Her hair looked as though it hadn't been washed in weeks, and she looked as if she hadn't slept in days.
Blackthorn walked up to Clark. "Take the girl to the parlor and get her something to eat while I get dressed." Clark had the audacity to give him an infuriated look before he escorted the girl. Damn butler. Blackthorn quickly noted that he needed to speak with his staff about how one treats another human being, despite their station. Granted, he'd been gone most of the years he had owned the townhouse, spying for former Home Secretary Tomkin, but he didn't think he'd need to remind the staff who the boss was in his own house.
He quickly changed with the help of his valet and walked into the parlor. The girl was sitting on the edge of the couch nibbling on a scone, looking very distraught and out of place.
When the girl saw him, she stood and bowed to him quite awkwardly, as if she wasn't certain what she was supposed to do in his presence.
“Who are you and why have you sought me out?”
She approached him slowly and handed him a calling card. “Ye gave this to my mum, sir. She said ye will know what to do.”
He took the card from her and recalled that night. It was the same card he'd given to the woman and six girls his brother had been providing for. It had been folded numerous times. “What is your name?”
“Beatrice Bell, sir,” she said, distraught. “Mum spoke of you. She says you were kind to her.”
"Is everything all right?"
"No, sir," she said, choking with emotion. "Mum has been sick for days with fever. I didn't know where to turn, sir." Tears fell down her cheeks, and she wiped them with her hand.
Why hadn't they called a physician to see to her needs? He'd given her enough funds to live comfortably for several months.
"Will you help us, sir?"
"Wait here," Blackthorn said. He quickly gave his orders to Clark to have the driver ready the carriage. Once that was accomplished, he had the footman deliver a message to his family doctor to meet him at the address he had provided.
As he escorted Beatrice to her home, the girl kept sobbing. She could not be more than fifteen, yet there was a sense of melancholy about her, a sense of hardship on her face, one that a fifteen-year-old girl should never have to endure. But the reality was quite different. Sympathy pulled in his chest. What possible future could there be for a girl like her? Yet he told himself again and again that it wasn’t his duty. He was simply assisting a woman who was ill so that she may continue to care for her girls.
“She will be all right,” he assured Beatrice. He knew very well he could not promise her such things, but he felt it needed to be said.
Her smile was faint, forced. “Thank you,” she said, then looked away.
The carriage drove on, gaining speed. He looked out the window. They passed Piccadilly toward Covent Garden and Piazza where women often roamed the streets and hooked their prey. But he was no better to judge anyone. More often than not, these young women had nowhere else to turn, the victims of cruel reality.
He looked back at the young woman again, the dichotomy of their realities slapping him in the face. Would she succumb to such depravity? He didn’t like the answer his mind whispered to him.
There was a long stretch of silence as they passed Newgate Prison. He noticed the shift in the neighborhood, dilapidated and in much need of repairs. Within several turns, soot and dirt was visible on the buildings, along with debris scattered about on the streets. He turned his attention to the young woman sitting across from him. She was looking out the window too, obviously anxious to get home and attend to her mother.
But he said nothing and allowed her the silence that seemed necessary.
Blackthorn turned his attention to the familiar old bakery. A whore stood against the wall. Her clothes had been made of fine muslin, he observed. The hem was dirt ridden and there were stains on the skirt. Several strands were loose about the neck and ample bosom. When she caught sight of his carriage, she pulled away from the wall and donned a smile.
Beatrice looked at the familiar tattered building. “We're here, sir.” She quickly opened the door, stepped out, and briskly walked straight to the door.
The sunlight illuminated a cruel reality before him. Several children in rags ran past the whore, shouting to one another as they chased a tiny puppy across the street. On the steps of the bakery sat an old woman holding something on her lap. Her hair was pulled back in a thick knot. Her gaze was cast downward as she rested her head on the old stone wall, as if too tired to move. But what he saw as he neared gripped him with melancholy that he wasn’t accustomed to.
In her lap was a sleeping infant wrapped in a dirty blanket. He halted, his foot bolted to the floor as if it willed him to stop and take notice. He looked down at the baby, who very much needed bathing, and back at the old woman, who seemed to have exhausted herself too much to even care what was transpiring before her. The sight before him shattered the wall he’d built up and knocked him to his knees. Then it hit him. He’d been too busy immersed in his own thoughts to even notice the old woman was dead.
Holding a baby.
He’d seen much of the world, its darkness and cruelty; still one could never get used to this. The baby shifted and started to wail. First softly, but when no comfort came, its wail became louder and desperate. Blackthorn lowered himself and gingerly removed the woman’s arm. Her body was beginning to stiffen, but being careful nonetheless, he gently picked up the baby in his arms. Lord, this wasn’t a place for any child. Looking at the old woman one last time, he entered the house the girl had walked into with the infant in his arm.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Beatrice looked at him curiously, then faced her mother who was lying on the makeshift bed. All the children surrounded her as if waiting for her to open her eyes.
The youngest of the six, Francis, came running to him. “Are you here to help my mum?”
He knelt on one knee and tried his best to smile. “Yes.”
The girl touched the baby’s cheeks and smiled. “Her mother died a week ago. My mum told me her grandmamma is going to take care of her now.”
No, my little one. Her grandmother is dead. “Did she?”
He didn’t have the heart to say anything to the little girl. He walked over and handed the baby to Beatrice. She took the baby without hesitation. Blackthorn leaned in to their mother and touched her forehead, then felt the pulse on her neck. It was very faint, and she was still hot to the touch.
Just then the doctor walked into the house, then looked around as if he could not believe what he saw. But without further ado, he touched the woman’s forehead. “How long has she had the fever?”
Beatrice answered, “For two days, sir.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Will she be all right?” Blackthorn asked.
“At this point, all we can do is wait,” he whispered to Blackthorn.
There was a long silence. All the children stood there looking around the room, fear brewing in their eyes. Francis was right by his side, as if he’d suddenly become her guardian, and a source of reassurance that he wasn’t prepared to give to anyone.
But how could he not when there was so little hope for these children? “There is an older woman outside, sitting near the bakery. I will need you to take care of her,” Blackthorn said to the doctor, who quickly got the meaning and nodded in reply. “Do what is necessary to give her the respectful burial she deserves.” He turned to Beatrice. “The doctor will stay until your mother is better, I assure you that. Will you be all right in charge of the baby?”
She looked at him with fear in her eyes, but she nodded nonetheless.
“I won’t be gone long.”
When she heard these words, she smiled.
Blackthorn took no time in arranging for the orphaned baby and the children. In the two hours he was gone, he was able to secure a wet nurse for the baby, enough food for several days, and some new beddings for the mother. In addition, he would send word to his housekeeper to send one of the maids to assist the girls until their mother recovered from fever.
When he finally returned, the doctor had no good news for him. Blackthorn asked the doctor to stay the night with the girls and told him to call on him as soon as there was news. With that, he departed to Mayfair, but as the carriage rolled away, he felt a sense of guilt.
What was this bloody guilt that seemed to eat away at him these days?
He knew the answer to that, didn’t he?
Yes, he did.