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Authors: Nancy; Springer
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sleep would tidy my yarn-basket mind.
Thus, without admitting that I was afraid, I excused myself from venturing forth in habit and black cowl that night. Instead, I went to bed.
Awakening what seemed like a moment afterward, I found that it was morning.
Somehow, while I had slept so soundly – unusual for me – the muddle in my mind had indeed sorted itself out a bit, so that a thread of reasoning presented itself to me, thus:
I had come to London; I had seen London’s poor; I had felt impelled to help them.
Lady Cecily, by the evidence of her charcoal drawings, also had seen. I did not yet know how this highly irregular encounter had come to pass, nor did I know whether it had happened before or after her questioning journal entries, but somehow (and I must find out how) the young lady had walked amongst London’s poor.
Had she also felt impelled to help them?
Had she perhaps left home of her own free will?
Settling into my office to “work” as Ivy Meshle, I read the morning newspapers. Finding no communication from Mum, I tossed the news of the day into the fire, then rang for tea.
Meanwhile, in a contemplative frame of mind, I got out Lady Cecily’s photographic portrait and a sheaf of foolscap paper. Referring to the portrait, I pencilled a quick likeness of the lady. Then, putting the photograph away, I drew her head in profile, recalling other photographs I had seen of her, combining those memories with my observations of her mother and brothers and sisters, all of whom so strongly resembled one another. Over and over again I sketched Lady Cecily, with no aristocratic finery, just her face, from various angles until I began to feel that I had met her in person.
Deep in my work, I had not noticed Joddy entering the office with my tea. Unaware of the boy’s presence, I jumped when his piping voice spoke from behind my shoulder: “I didn’t know you could draw like that!”
It was not his place to comment, but luckily it took me a startled moment to catch my breath before I told him so. And in that moment he spoke again. “I know ’er,” he declared, setting down the tea-tray, then pointing at my portraits of Lady Cecily with his stubby white-gloved forefinger.
Ridiculous. He could not possibly –
Wait a minute.
“Indeed?” I tried not to show how interested I was, for like any servant he would draw himself into a shell if I questioned him too sharply. I kept my tone carefully neutral. “What is her name?”
“I don’t know ’er like that . I’ve seen her someplace, is all.”
“Where, pray tell?”
“I don’t remember.”
I swivelled to observe him. There he stood with a faraway gaze, as if trying to recall a dream.
“Was she in a carriage?”
He shook his head slowly, looking puzzled, before he remembered his manners. “No, my – no, Miss Meshle. She were standing on a corner, like.”
“Where? Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square, Seven Dials?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well then, doing what? Shopping?”
“No, I don’t think so . . .” Uncertain.
My patience beginning to wear thin, I grumbled, “Selling matches?” A ridiculous notion, for only beggars sold matches.
But, looking mildly startled, Joddy murmured, “Matches. Strike.”
Bean-headed boy, of course one struck a match in order to light it. Restraining myself from rolling my eyes, and trying to keep my impatience out of my tone, I tried another question. “What was she wearing?”
Of course he did not answer what I had asked. “She ’ad somethin’ in a basket,” he said.
As did half the populace of London, I thought, and the other half had something in a barrow. Common folk lived penny-in-hand to pastry-in-mouth, most of them, lacking icebox to keep food or stove to prepare dinner, eating sooty messes they bought from street vendors, the poor living off the poor. “Something in a basket? What?” I asked, utterly surprised and a bit sarcastic, for surely the flea-brained boy had to be mistaken.
Thus, without admitting that I was afraid, I excused myself from venturing forth in habit and black cowl that night. Instead, I went to bed.
Awakening what seemed like a moment afterward, I found that it was morning.
Somehow, while I had slept so soundly – unusual for me – the muddle in my mind had indeed sorted itself out a bit, so that a thread of reasoning presented itself to me, thus:
I had come to London; I had seen London’s poor; I had felt impelled to help them.
Lady Cecily, by the evidence of her charcoal drawings, also had seen. I did not yet know how this highly irregular encounter had come to pass, nor did I know whether it had happened before or after her questioning journal entries, but somehow (and I must find out how) the young lady had walked amongst London’s poor.
Had she also felt impelled to help them?
Had she perhaps left home of her own free will?
Settling into my office to “work” as Ivy Meshle, I read the morning newspapers. Finding no communication from Mum, I tossed the news of the day into the fire, then rang for tea.
Meanwhile, in a contemplative frame of mind, I got out Lady Cecily’s photographic portrait and a sheaf of foolscap paper. Referring to the portrait, I pencilled a quick likeness of the lady. Then, putting the photograph away, I drew her head in profile, recalling other photographs I had seen of her, combining those memories with my observations of her mother and brothers and sisters, all of whom so strongly resembled one another. Over and over again I sketched Lady Cecily, with no aristocratic finery, just her face, from various angles until I began to feel that I had met her in person.
Deep in my work, I had not noticed Joddy entering the office with my tea. Unaware of the boy’s presence, I jumped when his piping voice spoke from behind my shoulder: “I didn’t know you could draw like that!”
It was not his place to comment, but luckily it took me a startled moment to catch my breath before I told him so. And in that moment he spoke again. “I know ’er,” he declared, setting down the tea-tray, then pointing at my portraits of Lady Cecily with his stubby white-gloved forefinger.
Ridiculous. He could not possibly –
Wait a minute.
“Indeed?” I tried not to show how interested I was, for like any servant he would draw himself into a shell if I questioned him too sharply. I kept my tone carefully neutral. “What is her name?”
“I don’t know ’er like that . I’ve seen her someplace, is all.”
“Where, pray tell?”
“I don’t remember.”
I swivelled to observe him. There he stood with a faraway gaze, as if trying to recall a dream.
“Was she in a carriage?”
He shook his head slowly, looking puzzled, before he remembered his manners. “No, my – no, Miss Meshle. She were standing on a corner, like.”
“Where? Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square, Seven Dials?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well then, doing what? Shopping?”
“No, I don’t think so . . .” Uncertain.
My patience beginning to wear thin, I grumbled, “Selling matches?” A ridiculous notion, for only beggars sold matches.
But, looking mildly startled, Joddy murmured, “Matches. Strike.”
Bean-headed boy, of course one struck a match in order to light it. Restraining myself from rolling my eyes, and trying to keep my impatience out of my tone, I tried another question. “What was she wearing?”
Of course he did not answer what I had asked. “She ’ad somethin’ in a basket,” he said.
As did half the populace of London, I thought, and the other half had something in a barrow. Common folk lived penny-in-hand to pastry-in-mouth, most of them, lacking icebox to keep food or stove to prepare dinner, eating sooty messes they bought from street vendors, the poor living off the poor. “Something in a basket? What?” I asked, utterly surprised and a bit sarcastic, for surely the flea-brained boy had to be mistaken.
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