Read Online A Broken Vessel by Kate Ross - Free Book Online

breakfast, I’ll inform you whether Mr. Harcourt has time to see you. He interviews all the women who come here, to determine whether they’re suitable candidates for reclamation.”
    She went out. Sally wondered what to do now. Being pent up in here was no way to find the writer of the letter. Why shouldn’t she venture out and have a look around? The worst they could do if they caught her was to chuck her out. And it was not as if she really wanted to stay.
    She opened the door a little way and looked out. There was no one in sight. All the activity in the place seemed to be in the basement below, where Sally could hear footsteps, the scraping of chairs, and the clanking of pots and pans.
    She tiptoed downstairs. The front room here was the kitchen; she peeked in, but saw no one there. All the noise was coming from the back room. Sally crept toward it and hid behind the open door, looking in through the narrow gap between it and the wall.
    This was the communal eating room. There were two long tables, each with about a dozen women seated at it. The women varied in age from perhaps fifteen to thirty. Some were fresh and pretty, others withered and losing what looks they ever had. They were all dressed alike, in stiff grey gowns with white collars, aprons, and caps. Sally scanned their ranks, wondering if one of them had written the letter. If so, how was she to single her out from the rest?
    Mrs. Fiske stood stiffly before one of the tables. Beside her was a young woman Sally felt sure must be Irish: no English girl had such porcelain skin, or such delicate features. Her hair was black, her figure straight and trim, her age perhaps five-and-twenty. She was dressed in the same grey and white uniform as the inmates. Perhaps she was to serve breakfast—she was standing by a large tureen, with a pile of wooden bowls and a ladle ready to hand.
    At the head of the room stood a man holding a venerable-looking book—a Bible, Sally supposed. He was dressed soberly, yet with a dash of elegance. His skin was very pale and smooth, more like wax than human flesh. He had straw-coloured hair, thin lips, and disdainfully flaring nostrils.
    Some of the inmates were talking among themselves. Mrs. Fiske clapped her hands, and at once there was a dead silence. “We are fortunate to have Mr. Harcourt here to lead us in prayer this morning,” she announced. “As you know, the trustees are coming today, and Mr. Harcourt was obliged to remain here all night, preparing to meet with them—”
    She broke off, staring across the room. Sally followed her gaze, and saw a small, forlorn table pushed into a corner. There was a chair before it, empty.
    “Where is Mary?” thundered Mrs. Fiske.
    The inmates exchanged glances and shifted about in their chairs.
    “Has anyone seen her this morning?” Mr. Harcourt’s voice was as smooth as velvet, and seemed to fill the room without his raising it.
    There was a tense silence. At last one of the inmates stood up hesitantly. She was in her early twenties, plump and pretty, with a few flaxen curls stealing out from under her cap. Her bosom and hips strained against the stiff, straight lines of her gown. “If you please, sir, I did look in on her, very quick, just before we come down to breakfast.”
    “And what was she doing?”
    “She was sleeping, sir. I said to her, ‘Sst! Mary! It’s almost seven o’clock!’ But she was sleeping so sound, she didn’t stir. Then Peg—Margaret, I mean”—she bobbed her head at the Irish girl standing beside Mrs. Fiske—“come looking for me, and I had to shirry along to breakfast.”
    “Lazing in bed at this hour!” exclaimed Mrs. Fiske.
    The Irish girl dropped a meek curtsey. “Shall I be after fetching her, ma’am?”
    “You ought to have done so, before. Mr. Harcourt’s put you in charge of making sure the inmates are prompt at meals and prayers.”
    “I think we needn’t blame Margaret overmuch,” Mr. Harcourt interposed. “I’m afraid this