In the Shadow of the Lamp (2 page)

I turned toward home because I had nowhere else to go, and I wanted my mum to tell me I was good and everything would be all right, that Mavis would get her punishment for lying and I’d be able to get another job. My feet took steps without me even thinking about it.

I don’t know exactly what made me stop and listen to the criers, waving their broadsheets about and selling them to City gents. Perhaps I was tired by the time I reached that part of town, but I stood there like a pillar, people around me busily going to offices or delivering packages. I nearly got run over by a carriage that came fast around a corner, but I jumped away just in time, splashing right in a puddle. My shoes were ruined. I didn’t know where I’d get another pair.

“Scandal at war! Our brave soldiers land with no medical supplies! Doctors amputate in the field!”

I’d heard some of this belowstairs at Cadogan Square. Mr. Collins sometimes read us articles in the
Times
at tea. It sounded horrible. There was a fierce battle about a month ago. Young men far away, fighting for our queen and getting horribly wounded, and not even a bed to lie in or someone to say a kind word to them. I paused and listened, just in case there was anything new to hear.

“Party of nurses to go with Miss Nightingale!
Times
raises a thousand guineas for the cause!”

That was news. How I wished I could read and find out more. I had a penny, but with no prospects of earning so much as a farthing anytime soon, I wouldn’t have spent it no matter how desperate I was to know the whole story. Besides, I’d have to get someone else to read it to me anyway. Instead I walked along slowly, hoping I might hear something more.

And I did. An old gentleman with his coat unbuttoned and a stained waistcoat showing leaned against a lampost, a copy of the paper open in front of him. A group of curious folks gathered round. I stayed at the back like I wasn’t interested, but I listened anyway.

“Mr. Sidney Herbert has asked the capable Miss Florence Nightingale to assemble a team of a hundred nurses to set things right in the Crimea, where our brave soldiers who have fallen at Bulganak and at Alma have not adequate supplies and medical care to treat their wounds, slight and serious. Applications to accompany Miss Nightingale should be addressed to Mrs. Stanley of Belgrave Square. Qualified nurses only need apply. Wages and expenses will be paid.”

That started everyone murmuring and talking. Some said, “I wouldn’t go halfway across the world to nurse—there’s enough that need it here.” Others said, “Shame I’m not younger, or I’d go myself.”

Me? I was thinking, hard.

The paper said that wages and expenses would be paid. And these nurses would be going away, far away. Would a body need references? But I was no qualified nurse. I’d helped my mum with the little ones, sure, and was by the midwife when my youngest sister was birthed. And there was the time I had to dress Jimmy’s broken arm because we couldn’t afford a surgeon to do it. And what happened with Janet. But no one would think of me, a parlormaid who’d been let go without a character, as a qualified nurse. Unless …

I don’t quite know what got into me, but I knew then that I would do whatever it took to be one of those nurses, or even a charwoman along to do the laundry and clean the grates. At least I’d be out of London.

And besides, the closer I got to home, the less I felt I could face my mum. She was so proud when I went off to service at such a grand house. Dad could only work a little because of his bad hand that was crushed on the docks, and his wages weren’t enough to take care of all eight of us. I could hear Mum’s voice saying, “You saved us from the poorhouse, you ’ave, my Molly. I knew you for a good girl.” Ted had started going with Dad to work on the docks, but he only earned a penny now and then because he was so young and not strong enough to lift the heavy crates. And now? What would she say now?

I stopped again. I felt like someone wrapped a band round my chest and squeezed, and my eyes stung. I told myself it was the wind that blew off the river, cold and damp and unhealthy, stinking of dead fish and tar. But I knew different, deep inside. It was shame. I had to do something to make it better. No one would believe what I said, so I had to do something to prove it. I knew I was a good girl, that I worked hard and was willing and honest. I would show all of them at Cadogan Square. And Mum would be proud of me—even prouder than before.

C
hapter 3

I was nearly home, but I turned right back toward the West End, this time walking like I meant it. Instead of being in a fog, I was in a hurry. It was late afternoon, and that time of year night fell early—hardly seemed like there was any day. By the time I got to Belgrave Square—not so far as Cadogan Square, so that and my fast pace made the walk much quicker—the lamplighters had already finished their business, and the mist was that sickly yellow color that makes me think of piss. I never liked being out at dusk.

The grand houses in Belgrave Square looked identical, and there were no tradesmen about to ask which one was Mrs. Stanley’s. I walked all around the square once, peering at each door to see if I could tell anything, hoping a bobby didn’t see me and think I was a thief—once in a lifetime was more than enough for me. There wasn’t anything at all to tell me where Mrs. Stanley lived, though I don’t know what I expected. Hardly likely they’d hang a sign or set a servant out on the street to show the way. I finally worked up enough courage to ask. I could see a light in the stairwell that led down to the kitchen floor of one house, and thought I might as well knock.

It was teatime. The irritation in the parlormaid’s voice when she answered the door told me that clear enough.

“ ’Scuse me, miss, but could you direct me to Mrs. Stanley’s house?” I asked.

“It’s number fifty-four,” she said, closing the door without even a by your leave.

I soon found it, only a few houses up. I started down the steps to the kitchen and the servants’ hall, then stopped. Why would I go there? I wasn’t applying for service. If I was to persuade anyone I was a nurse, I’d better act like one for sure and all. That is, if I had any idea what a nurse acted like, which I didn’t, but most likely not like a parlormaid.

While I stood there thinking, a woman carrying an umbrella and a black bag and wearing a close bonnet on her head come toward me from the other direction. She marched right along as if she were going to fight in the lines with the men, not nurse them. She turned her steps and climbed up to the front door of number fifty-four and pulled the bell. I could hear it tinkling down in the servants’ hall, and knew pretty well how long it would take for someone to interrupt their tea and answer.

I slipped in behind the woman with the brolly so I wouldn’t have a chance to back out of my crazy scheme. She turned and looked down her nose at me like she would at a dog sniffing at her skirts. I sent her my frostiest stare and lifted my chin. Lucky I’m tall for my age. I would have to pass for at least eighteen—maybe twenty, I figured.

She didn’t have time to say anything to me before the butler opened the door.

“I’m here about the expedition to Turkey,” she said, thrusting a sheet of paper at the bloke. Obviously she’d never been in a fine house before. Butlers are for announcing visitors, not taking papers from people who came for jobs. When he noticed me, I put on my best airs and graces, like the fine ladies use at the Abington-Smythes, and looked down at the man. It helped that he was a little shorter than I was. Didn’t I get a surprise when he let us both in!

“Mrs. Stanley will be with you in a moment.” I wondered if all butlers talked alike. He could’ve been Mr. Collins, with his posh accent.

The two of us stood in the vestibule, not talking and not looking at each other.
These Stanleys must be very wealthy,
I thought. It was a finer house than the one in Cadogan Square. The stairs were swept perfect, and not a speck of dust on anything. The windows were so clear they looked like they weren’t there, and a large mirror doubled all that clean and made it huge. I was still admiring the servants’ work when an old lady opened the door to the parlor—or it might’ve been a morning room—and asked the lady I’d followed in to step inside.

To me, she said, “Please take a seat if you wish,” and swept her hand toward a silk-covered bench that ran along one wall of the vestibule.

I perched on the edge of it once the door closed, but when I heard footsteps coming up from the kitchens I stood up quick. It felt wrong to be on such a fine bit of furniture, and besides, if I stood nearby I could hear muffled voices behind the closed door. I strained to catch what they were saying, but only a few words made it through. “Qualifications,” was one, and it sent my heart sinking into my boots. Another word I heard was “mature.” Didn’t do me a bit of good if that was what they wanted. One voice was sharper and harder than the others. While I waited, I tried to imagine what the lady who belonged to that voice would look like, and conjured up an image of an old crone with a long, curved beak of a nose, her hair all gray and wiry, with a high-necked gown fastened with a hair brooch.
This Miss Nightingale must be an old spinster
, I thought.

After a bit the door opened and the lady with the paper came out. Her face was in a scowl. She yanked the front door open without waiting for anyone to do it for her, slamming it behind her.

“Please come in, dear,” the old lady with the kind face said to me.

Three people sat at a table that’d obviously been moved into the room for the purpose, since it wasn’t what you’d normally find in a morning room. They each had papers in front of them, and untidy stacks of even more paper were on the floor too. The chairs and sofas had all been moved to the side, and a single straight-back chair sat in front of them. I thought sitting there might be what it was like to be up before a magistrate, and I started to sweat a little. The memory of Mr. Collins’s threat was too fresh in my ears. I was relieved not to see the witch I imagined among them, though.

“This is Mrs. Stanley,” the old lady said, pointing to the younger lady who sat at the table next to an old man. “And this is my husband, Mr. Bracebridge.” She must have seen the question in my eyes, because she added, “Miss Nightingale has asked for our help in finding nurses for her expedition. She has much to do. Mr. Bracebridge and I will accompany her to Turkey.”

She motioned me to sit in the chair.

“Have you brought your references? What are your qualifications?” Mrs. Stanley began questioning me without even asking my name, with the same loud, sharp voice I’d heard on the other side of the door—only now I could feel it right inside my ears.

“I … I’m afraid I haven’t brought any with me. You see, I just heard when I was in the City, and I wanted to come right away.” By comparison my voice came out small and whiny. They’d see right through me, I was sure, but I couldn’t think what else to say.

“Perhaps you could begin by telling us about your nursing experience?” That was Mr. Bracebridge. He had a kind face, like his wife, with wrinkles that came from smiling.

“Mostly … I’ve nursed in domestic circumstances.” At least I wasn’t lying outright.

“Never in a hospital?” Mrs. Stanley said. “I’m afraid that won’t do at all. Miss Nightingale was very insistent that only experienced hospital nurses were to be taken. Besides, you look too young.”

She sat back in her chair and nodded to Mrs. Bracebridge. My interview was over.

“I’m sorry, dear. There are so many applicants, and all of them very qualified.”

“But you don’t understand! I’m a very good nurse. I’m meant to be one, I’m certain, and those poor boys, wounded out in the field. Please, please take me! I think I could’ve cured Janet of her diphtheria, if only they had let me tend to her more.” I don’t know what made me beg. I wouldn’t ever have begged for a parlormaid’s position. But something about this adventure, the whole idea of going off and doing something different—it suddenly seemed as if I would die if I couldn’t go.

“Truly, I am sorry.” Mrs. Bracebridge took hold of my arm, gentle but firm, and I stood up. Mrs. Stanley rifled through papers and Mr. Bracebridge just looked down at the table, tapping his pen. I saw there was nothing else I could do.

I held out my hand to Mrs. Bracebridge to say good-bye and I had an idea all of a sudden. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bracebridge,” I said. “My heart will be with the party that goes. When is it?”

“We leave Folkestone for Boulogne on October twenty-first.”

“I shall be thinking of you. God go with you.”

God and me
, I thought. If I couldn’t get there honestly, I’d find another way. And I thought I might know someone who could help me—if he would.

Before I lost courage, I continued west toward Cadogan Square. Will had whispered just as I left that I was to come to him if there was something I needed. And I needed somewhere to stay for a week or so and a way to get to Folkestone after that. There was another thing, too, that I realized I would have to face: I’d have to have my letters. I’d learned the ABCs when I was just a wee thing, but my dad didn’t see that it was fit for me to spend time learning to read and write proper once I was big enough to help with the chores and cooking. Not with all the young ones at home needing caring for. I always meant to learn anyway. Now I’d have to.