Death on the Sapphire (5 page)

In the main room, Frances sat at a table for one and had brought a novel, as she always did when dining alone. Afterward, she took a little nap; it was going to be an active night.

The East End after dark was no place for a woman to walk alone, especially one who wasn’t raised to be aware of the grim
neighborhood’s many dangers. So she met her friend Eleanor, and they shared a hansom together to the mission.

The mission soup kitchen had been the first charity she had become involved with after returning from America. It was a typical choice for progressive-minded young women, and she had originally joined because her mother’s friend had been involved with the charity. But the first time she had gone, she barely finished the evening. The lines of sick, hungry people in their ragged clothes both frightened and disgusted her. She had been put right on table duty, and with a trembling arm, she served bowls of stew from a cauldron in the mission hall. The steam soaked her face and sweat poured down from her brow, stinging her eyes. After half an hour, the smell of the greasy food began to sicken her, and the lines never seemed to end.

But she had finished the evening before collapsing on a wooden bench, and Mrs. Ellwood, who ran the mission, put a comforting arm around her.

“You did well this evening,” she said.

“How can . . . I never knew . . .” Frances responded.

“It’s a hard question. And I stopped asking it long ago. It happens, and that’s all I need to know. All we can do is try to make it better.”

Mrs. Ellwood didn’t expect her to return again—and in fact, she almost didn’t. She sat in her room, thinking about that hall and the sounds and smells of desperation. All your lofty ideas, she thought bitterly, just that. Just ideas. Ring for the maid, put on a better dress, and let her brother find her a husband. And that’s really what had done it in the end. The only thing she wanted to do less than go back to that soup kitchen was to live with the idea that she couldn’t stomach the thought of the soup kitchen.

So she went back. And each time, it was a little easier. That was a lesson, she told herself with no small satisfaction. Everything gets easier the more frequently you do it.

The people were no longer an endless line of misery to her, and she was ashamed of herself for having seen them like that. An old charwoman with no family who was too infirm to work. A woman whose husband had died young, leaving her with three small children. A middle-aged man who had lost his job to a younger, fitter one. She could see the hunger and fear in all of them.

But some were so afraid that they found it hard to even get in the line, pacing in the shadows in the back, until they could bear it no longer. Frances wiped her forehead on her sleeve, as unladylike a gesture as she had ever made, and scanned the rear of the room for these most fearful. Sometimes, she could take a break and talk with them; she was getting better at that, guiding them to a hot meal with a gentle hand on an arm.

From time to time, they got old soldiers in worn-out remnants of their uniforms. Sometimes they carried obvious wounds, limps, or hands that couldn’t hold anything. Frances found others with wounds in their minds, injuries that were less obvious but worse than the physical ones.

The old man who was presently last in line was one of the latter, with deep-set eyes that seemed to look without seeing.

“Where did you serve?” asked Frances.

He smiled gently. “India. The Mutiny.” That would be 1857. The so-called Sepoy Mutiny, which had resulted in unparalleled savagery on both sides. Frances had heard about it, as she had heard about so many other things deemed “inappropriate” for young girls, by eavesdropping when her father was speaking to friends.

“I’m sorry I reminded you,” said Frances.

“That’s the thing, miss. I can’t forget. Our sergeant, our captain, our colonel. Every man, every minute burned into me forever.”

That was nearly fifty years ago, Frances realized. And he was still haunted.

“You may have served in India, but your accent is Manchester.”

He grinned. “Right you are. Born and raised, but things, well . . .” He shrugged. “I thought I’d try my luck here.”

Frances produced a card from a pocket in her dress. “Here’s a card for the Soldiers and Sailors Club. Perhaps they can help you find some work and a room.” Although, she sadly thought, not many would hire a man of his age.

“Thanks, miss. You have a good evening.” And he took his plate to a table.

Then another wave of the hungry came in, so Frances tucked a damp strand of copper hair behind her ear and started serving again.

By the time they packed up, Frances was exhausted. The day had started early, and the settee in Kat’s room had not been an ideal bed. But dear Mallow was waiting for her, sewing in their little sitting room. She helped Frances undress and get into her nightgown.

“Do you know any soldiers, Mallow?”

“Certainly not, my lady,” she replied, a little affronted. Soldiers were just out to take liberties with innocent serving girls, Mallow well knew.

“I don’t mean out walking with them, Mallow—maybe a servant who had been a soldier.”

“I see, my lady. Yes, I know a footman who was in the Royal Navy and a valet who was a soldier-servant in the Coldstream Guards. They don’t much like to talk about it.”

“But I imagine they don’t forget. It’s just that I met an old soldier at the soup kitchen tonight, and he said he remembered everything from half a century ago. I wish I could meet a soldier from Major Colcombe’s company. He might know something that can help us. Of course, I sent the old soldier to the Soldier and Sailors Club. We’ll put a notice up there.”

“Very good, my lady. Shall I hand you your book?” Mallow looked at the title:
Kim
by Rudyard Kipling. Mallow didn’t read
much, but she knew Kipling was very famous, and her mistress once had dinner with Mr. Kipling and his family. Lady Frances knew everyone.

“Yes, thank you.” But she said it absently, staring out the window, looking sad.

“Is anything wrong, my lady?”

“I miss him, Mallow. Danny Colcombe. He was so much fun. He was in school with my brother and from time to time would spend school holidays with us. He called me Ursula.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady? Ursula?”

Frances blushed. “It means ‘little she-bear.’ I was always chasing after the boys, demanding they let me play with them. Danny said I was like a little bear cub, small and fierce.”

Mallow laughed, imagining her mistress as an angry little girl.

“Yes, it was funny, I’m sure. But oh, when I made my debut, Danny led me out for my first dance. He was in his uniform—a lieutenant in the 17th Lancers. All the other girls were so jealous that I was partnered with a handsome cavalry officer, and he was such a marvelous dancer. He leaned down to me and said, ‘You’re the most beautiful girl here, little Ursula.’”

It was a side of Lady Frances that Mallow didn’t see often, dreamy and sentimental.

“We have a busy day tomorrow and should get some sleep. Good night, Mallow.”

“Good night, my lady.”

With the lights out, Frances forced herself to think of the future: she was a daughter of the House of Seaforth, and Seaforths didn’t wallow in sentiment. Not even the women.

Especially not the women.

F
rances and Mallow started the next morning with a typical argument. Mallow wanted to discuss clothing while Frances just wanted to throw something on and start the day.

“Whatever is ironed and ready, Mallow.”

“The pale pink?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“The blue brings out your eyes, my lady.”

“Also good. Either one.”

“Very good, my lady,” she said with just the barest hint of disapproval. Lady Frances’s mother, it was well-known, could spend a half hour or more discussing a dress, and that was just for the day—never mind a fancy evening party.

The question of dress settled, the two women started their day, and after a quick breakfast, Frances made her way to the Soldier and Sailors Club. The volunteer manageress, Mrs. Halsey, was an old friend and was pleased to let Frances post a handwritten sign next to the job notifications on the bulletin board in the lobby:

The South African campaign had only ended a few years ago. There was good chance at least one was living in London and would get the word.

And now it was off to the solicitor’s office.

The office of Caleb Wheaton and Associates, Solicitors, hadn’t changed since Mr. Caleb had died several years ago and his son, Mr. Henry, had taken it over. Indeed, reflected Frances, it probably hadn’t changed since Caleb had set up the offices half a century before. The office was busy but without the sense of bustle she had seen at Scotland Yard. The furnishings at Wheaton were old and fine—polished wood with brass fittings. The men wore old-fashioned frock coats, and although telephones had been installed as a necessary concession to modernity, the ringings were muted and no one ran to get them—a sedate walk only.

The seats in the outer office were certainly much more comfortable than at Scotland Yard—deep, well made, and padded. But she didn’t have to wait long. A deferential clerk showed her into the office of Mr. Henry Wheaton. Wheaton was dressed to go along with the furniture in a cut of jacket that reminded Frances of her late father. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Good morning, Lady Frances,” he said, smiling as he reached over the expanse of polished mahogany to greet her. “It’s a pleasure as always to see you. I have your papers right here.”

Papers. This was going to take longer than expected. Charles had offered to handle all this, but she knew that being an independent woman meant taking care of her own business affairs.

“Thank you, Mr. Wheaton,” she said, forcing a smile.

He leaned back and steepled his fingers, the way men do when delivering important information. Her father had done it, her brother continued to do it, and none of them realized that it made them look a trifle pompous.

Frances’s restless eyes darted around and saw an interesting document on his desk. Before Mr. Wheaton could launch into his usual discussion, Frances spoke.

“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Wheaton? I see a concert program on your desk.”

He seemed a little discomfited, and it brought out Frances’s mischievous side.

“Oh, yes, I was just, ah, referring to it.” He quickly picked it up and shoved it into a drawer.

“What was it?”

“Oh, an Edward Elgar concert.” He paused and removed his glasses. His eyes, she noticed, were a rather pale green. “I’m rather an admirer of his. It was a treat for my mother. My sister and her husband were visiting, and we made a little party of it.” He paused again and, a little hesitatingly, asked, “Do you appreciate Mr. Elgar, Lady Frances?”

“I am somewhat familiar with his music,” she said. “Recently, I’ve been interested in French music, Debussy and Ravel.”

“They’re rather unconventional,” said Mr. Wheaton with a little smile.

“So am I, Mr. Wheaton,” said Frances. Wheaton didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so he put on his glasses again and picked up some documents.

He proceeded to explain her financial situation, as he did every month they had this meeting. Lawyers always wanted to make sure you had all the facts, Frances concluded. Her father had left a substantial amount of money to her, out of which she received a generous allowance, but she could not touch the principal until she got married. Or turned thirty-five. At which point, he no doubt reasoned, no one would want to marry her, so she might as well have outright what would’ve been her dowry. Her father had been considered progressive, but there were limits.

“I’m sorry, Lady Frances, did you say something?”

“Nothing, thank you. Please continue.”

“Very well. The funds are invested in . . .” She forced herself to pay attention. Yes, it was tedious, but it occurred to her Mr. Wheaton was doing no less for her than he did for her brother—or any other male client. He had never suggested that she just let her brother handle her finances. When she went out on her own, he simply said, “Please arrange an appointment with my chief clerk, and I will explain your finances to you.” And that was something to be grateful for.

He turned around the paper and handed it to her. “So here is what you can continue to expect to receive every week. This shouldn’t be a surprise, as it has been almost exactly the same as we discussed when you . . . moved into Miss Plimsoll’s hotel.” He stumbled over that. Frances expected he had been shocked at the idea of her leaving the family home and protection of her brother.

Most of London Society knew about Miss Plimsoll. When the well-born but impoverished woman could no longer afford to keep up the city mansion she had lived in her entire life or pay servants who had been with her for years and even decades, she turned it into a residence hotel for ladies—expensive and exclusive but much more reasonable than keeping up a household. It looked like a private residence but had many of the trappings of a hotel. Miss Plimsoll rented only to ladies she knew or from whom she had impeccable references, and nevertheless, there was a waiting list to get in.

The final figure was, as Mr. Wheaton said, the same as always. It would nicely cover rent, Mallow’s wages, dresses, hansom cabs, and other miscellaneous expenses.

“Now, do you have any questions?”

But before she could speak, the oak door suddenly opened, and in walked an older woman in a dress that was as dated as Mr. Wheaton’s suit. Her cheeks and figure were round, and she was smiling. Over her shoulder, Frances could see an unhappy
clerk waving his arms and looking forlornly at Mr. Wheaton. Clearly, he had tried—and failed—to stop this woman.

Wheaton stood. “Mother, is anything wrong? I am meeting with a client.”

“I know, dear,” she said. She closed the door and made her way across the rich carpet. “You had mentioned you were seeing Lady Frances this morning, and it has been such a long time, I wanted to make sure I saw her.” She turned to her. “My dear, you look lovely.”

With her family’s extensive dealings with the Wheatons, father and son, Frances had met Mrs. Wheaton a number of times and always found her cheerful, outgoing manner a pleasant contrast to the more formal Wheaton men.

“Mrs. Wheaton, I am delighted to see you again. I hope you are well.” Mrs. Wheaton sat next to Frances while Mr. Wheaton looked a little exasperated. They caught up on family and gossiped for a few moments, until Mr. Wheaton delicately coughed.

“I don’t want to interrupt, but this is a business meeting, Mother.”

“You young women today, handling your own business,” she said to Frances, but admiringly, not critically. “How modern. But I do understand, and I must be off myself.” She turned to her son. “Don’t forget you promised to take me to the National Gallery tomorrow afternoon.”

“I haven’t, Mother. It’s in my calendar.”

Mrs. Wheaton turned brightly to Frances. “Perhaps you would like to join us?”

“Mother.” Now she was stepping over the line. “Lady Frances has a very busy schedule, and we don’t want to impose.” He paused. “Not that you wouldn’t be welcome, of course, but I understand you have extensive charitable and educational commitments.”

The National Gallery—she had not been there in a while, and although she had a morning meeting of the Belgravia Women’s
Social Improvement Club, there was nothing scheduled for the afternoon.

“If I am not interrupting a family event, I’d be delighted,” she said. She had studied art at college, and a visit to the National Gallery with Mrs. Wheaton would be fun. Perhaps even Mr. Wheaton would unbend a little, although she doubted it.

“Very good, then,” said Mrs. Wheaton. They made arrangements for meeting, and then Mrs. Wheaton left.

“I am sorry about the interruption,” said Mr. Wheaton. “It is very kind of you to agree to accompany us, however. Mother will appreciate it.”

“No apologies, Mr. Wheaton. I shall enjoy it.” She paused. “I gather Mrs. Wheaton misses her daughter?” The young woman had married a rising physician who had been given an excellent position—in Manchester.

“I’m afraid she misses her dreadfully, especially now that my sister and brother-in-law left after their brief visit to London. It’s just the two of us at home now,” he said, and again smiled shyly.

Frances thanked him and said she looked forward to their outing tomorrow.

Her legal and financial business settled, Frances made her way from the old-fashioned elegance of the solicitor’s office to a genteel shabby town house in a neighborhood that was perfectly safe and respectable—merely unfashionable.

An elderly butler admitted her, but the usual announcements were dispensed with. Frances saw herself into what had once been a gracious drawing room, but now almost all the furniture had been removed. It was filled with common chairs that looked like they had been taken from a servants’ hall, and they were arranged for a lecture. A podium stood at the head against a window covered with faded blue curtains.

Many women had already arrived, and more followed quickly behind. Frances spoke to several while other women gathered and talked in small knots. Some were dressed like Frances, in the latest fashionable clothes. Others wore the simpler, less-expensive dresses of the middle class.

After a few minutes, a tall woman walked quickly into the room. Her dress was good, if a little plain, and her purposeful stride and crown of white hair gave her a natural air of authority. As she entered, talk trailed off, and the women took their seats.

“Good afternoon,” she said in a ringing voice. “I see a few new faces here. For those who don’t know me—” There was light laughter; everyone knew who she was. “—my name is Winifred Elkhorn, and it is my privilege to be president of the League for Women’s Political Equality.”

Mrs. Elkhorn didn’t say anything new that day, but it didn’t matter. She got her audience fired up, and that was the purpose. Her late husband had been Andrew Elkhorn, the distinguished Liberal politician and a colleague of Frances’s father. There were many who felt that it was one thing for a political widow to host a salon and organize dinners, but to start a radical movement . . . And yet, she had friends and admirers, and not just women.

Frances sat at the edge of her seat and listened. As usual, she felt her spirits lifting as Mrs. Elkhorn spoke, describing in ringing words how the lack of political power meant the lack of economic power. Indeed, it was not that long ago that the passage of the Married Women’s Property Act had given women any financial power at all, for the first time establishing wives as people in their own right and not just their husbands’ properties. And women’s ability to earn their own living ranged from difficult to impossible. Women’s lives would never be their own until they had political equality. The only solution was the vote.

“And above all, my friends, remember this: it’s a new age, and this will be our century.”

Everyone applauded, and then the room was filled with the scraping of chairs as the women formed themselves into little groups. Mrs. Elkhorn came around to each of them to talk about their work—publishing, speaking, legal research. She came over to Frances, who was talking about speeches with several other women. They were planning another open-air meeting in the park.