Stars Across the Ocean Page 5

  A long time passed. Long enough for her to think nobody was home, when a clunk near the post slot in the door caught her attention. A white hand had pulled the brass stopper up, and a voice emerged.

  ‘Are you here about the position?’ it said. A woman’s voice. She sounded uncertain.

  ‘No, I’m—’

  The stopper slapped back into place, the woman, her voice now muffled, said, ‘Good day.’ Then footsteps retreated.

  Agnes rang the doorbell again and waited. This time, nothing but a long silence. One more time she rang, but the woman didn’t return, nor did a butler or maid come.

  Are you here about the position?

  Agnes turned and descended the three stairs back to the street. It was too soon to do so now, but she would ring that bell again tomorrow. And tomorrow, she would give the right answer.

  CHAPTER 3

  Agnes missed lunch after all. She thought she knew her way back but didn’t and got lost and had to retrace her steps. By the time she made it back to Bethnal Green she was starving, exhausted, and her feet were swollen and sore. At least she missed the rain, which started shortly after she walked up the stairs and into Minnie’s home. Minnie offered her a grunt in greeting from the floor where she sat with a pile of mending as little children crawled on and off her, crying.

  ‘Can I help you with owt?’ Agnes said, sitting beside her. The floor was hard and cold. Rain battered the windows.

  ‘Can you make it stop raining?’ Minnie grumbled.

  ‘I can sew. Or I can entertain the wee ones.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ she said, shrugging off a little boy of about four.

  ‘Come on,’ Agnes said, grasping his hand and the hand of the smaller girl in Minnie’s lap. ‘I’ll tell you all a story.’

  Agnes lined them up in front of her, and two older girls and a boy joined them too. A few children were missing but Minnie didn’t seem concerned. As the rain deepened overhead, and a mournful dripping noise came from somewhere near the kitchen, Agnes told them all a story about two girls who escaped from an orphanage on a unicorn. The smallest child crawled into her lap. Agnes could feel through her skirt that she was hot with fever, and her face was tired and grey. Agnes stroked her hair gently. The four-year-old boy was clearly hungry. She could hear his stomach yowling and when she slid an arm around him to comfort him during a scary part of the story, she could feel his ribs through his back. His legs were twisted with rickets. They passed the afternoon like this, and even Minnie smiled and chuckled through Agnes’s story, which grew wilder and more elaborate the longer she went.

  ‘Right, now,’ Agnes said, when her throat was sore and the tiredness of the day caught up with her. ‘I need a rest. Away with you.’

  ‘You heard the lady; get off her,’ Minnie said, far more harshly. Then to Agnes she said, ‘Supper is half after five. You must be hungry.’

  ‘Famished.’

  ‘I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

  Agnes took to her bedroom, if that’s what it could be called. She lay down and looked up at the dirty, peeling ceiling. She could still smell the children on her clothes, and wondered if they’d ever had a bath. At Perdita Hall everyone had to be neat and tidy. Captain Forest had been fixated on making them ready for good honest work, on keeping them out of the poor house. Pride in your appearance is pride in yourself. For once, she felt lucky to have been a foundling at Perdita. These children at Minnie’s had a mother, but they had far less than Agnes had had in every other way.

  Minnie’s supper was bread and dripping, which was often served at the foundling hospital. The differences were acute. The bread was not freshly baked by the boys in the village, but hard and flowered with mould. The dripping was not golden and savoury, but tasted stale and greasy. The meal was served at the kitchen table with the children, all seven of them standing around it while Agnes and Minnie sat on the only two chairs. By this time, Agnes’s stomach was rumbling with hunger, and as the piece of bread landed in front of her, she glanced around to see that each of the children only had half a slice each. They ate as though they might never see another meal. Agnes, despite her hunger pains, could not bring the bread to her mouth.

  Minnie had already eaten and was shepherding the children out, when Agnes caught the little thin boy, the one with rickets, and handed him her bread. ‘Go on, you have it,’ she said. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  The boy’s eyes went round. Minnie gave Agnes an irritated look. ‘I’ll not reduce your rent for that,’ she said, but the bread was already gone and the boy had limped off.

  ‘I don’t expect you to,’ Agnes said. ‘The poor lad is starving.’

  ‘He does well enough,’ Minnie grumped. ‘Don’t be telling me how to be a mother, when you’ve no children of your own and know nothing.’

  Agnes didn’t answer. She returned, instead, to her bedroom and lay down, still dressed in her coffee-stained grey leaving dress. Hunger fought to keep her awake, but weariness claimed her. She slept deep and dreamless until morning.

  •

  Agnes woke the next day to the sound of children on the other side of the curtain, whining for Minnie to wake up and feed them. She heard Minnie groan as she woke, and Agnes felt a strong wave of pity for her. It was one thing to be poor and hard on luck, but another altogether to be those things with children to provide for.

  Agnes rose and went to the kitchen for a bowl of the thinnest porridge she had ever eaten. It ran off her spoon so rapidly that she was forced to lift the bowl to her lips and drink it. The boy with rickets watched her with ravenous eyes, so she left half for him and returned to her room to tidy herself. She pulled on her gloves, smoothed the shawl over her shoulders, and set out with purpose back to Belgrave Place.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still the colour of slate, and there were many puddles along her way. Once out of Bethnal Green, she stopped at a shop window and examined her reflection, making sure she had no dirt on her face. The coffee stain was hidden, but she had to be careful not to move too much lest the shawl slip aside and reveal it. She told herself that today could be the day: perhaps Genevieve would meet her and invite her in, and Agnes would remind her of their encounter all those years ago, and Genevieve would remember it too. Perhaps she would say, ‘I knew when I looked at that little girl that she was somebody who mattered in my world.’ These thoughts buoyed her on the long walk, even as her shoes grew damp from the wet ground and her head grew light from hunger.

  Finally, she was back at Belgrave Place. As she stepped under the portico, light rain began to spit down. Heart thundering, she clanged the bell, then waited for the little voice at the post slot.

  But this time, the door opened and a man stood there. He was in his early twenties, clean-shaven but for tidy sideburns, with thick, dark auburn hair, and warm brown eyes. He looked as though he had just arrived home, for his cravat was untied but still hung about his collar. He wore a soft white shirt and a dark grey waistcoat with a golden pocket watch chain visible. A scent of something woody or perhaps cinnamon or perhaps both enveloped her, and she reacted to it with a leap of excitement to her heart that she hadn’t experienced before.

  ‘May I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, I’ve come about the position,’ she said, boldly.

  The corner of his lip turned up in a smile. ‘You’re from the north. That’s a Yorkshire accent if ever I heard one. What’s your name, Miss?’

  ‘Agnes Forest, sir.’ She didn’t want to give away who she was, and a surname like Resolute drew far too many questions.

  ‘Come in, Miss Forest. I’ll have a quick word to you in the drawing room and I’ll explain to you about Marianna.’

  Marianna. Genevieve’s sister. Agnes wondered if it was she who had answered the door yesterday, or if it was Genevieve herself. Had she already spoken to her own mother? The thought thrilled her so much she barely noticed the rich interior of the house. The ornate plasterwork, the gleaming brass lamps, the floral damask wallpa
per, the dozens of framed paintings and miniatures, the ornaments and clocks and urns and carved side tables. It could not have been more different from Minnie’s place. The young man led Agnes into a light-filled room and asked her to sit on a long chaise, while he sat opposite on an upholstered chair.

  ‘Miss Forest,’ he said, ‘my name is Julius Halligan, and I am Marianna’s nephew.’

  Agnes’s mind whirled. If Marianna’s sister was Genevieve, did this mean she was looking at her own brother? Was that the reason she had had such a strong reaction to the first sight of him? ‘It is very good to meet you, sir,’ she managed.

  ‘From the advertisement in the newspaper, you will have gathered that the position requires you to keep Marianna company – and you must call her Marianna; she despises being called Madam.’ His eyes went to the doorway, as though making sure the lady in question wasn’t listening to him.

  So, the position was as a lady’s companion. Now Agnes felt on firmer footing, and knew what kind of truths she might have to bend.

  ‘You read well, I take it?’ he asked her. ‘Her eyes are mostly fine but reading gives her a headache.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. And I know when to talk and when to listen. I would make a fine companion for … Marianna.’ Her eyes roamed the room briefly, then came back to his face. She’d hoped for a portrait of Genevieve somewhere, but the paintings were all landscapes.

  He forced a smile. ‘It’s a little trickier than you might imagine. This is the first time I have advertised for such a role. I suppose I have been her companion until recently, but now I have finished my studies and am off to the hospital at odd hours, she gets lonely and … I worry about her.’

  ‘I am sure I could keep her spirits up.’

  ‘Sometimes, though, she wakes in the middle of the night. I should say … most nights. She doesn’t sleep easily and she looks for company then, too.’

  Agnes drew up short of saying, I would do anything to get inside this house. ‘I am perfectly willing to wake and read to her or chat with her or walk with her.’

  ‘Ah, that won’t be necessary. She doesn’t leave the house.’

  Agnes thought about the little voice at the post slot, the way its owner had refused to open the door.

  ‘You have references, I take it?’ Julius asked.

  ‘Sir, I can be nowt but honest with you. I arrived in London from York two days ago, and all I had was stolen from me. I had references, and they were good ones. My last job was as a lady’s companion too. In York.’ Agnes realised this wasn’t precisely as honest as she’d promised him. ‘But they went, along with my spare clothes.’

  He eyed her, and she knew he didn’t believe her. ‘And before that? What other positions have you held?’ He glanced at her hands, no doubt looking for signs of menial work. Her needlework had saved her once again: she had seen the permanently ruddy hands of girls who worked in the laundry.

  ‘I was a governess for a year to a little girl named … Gracie,’ she lied. ‘As I said, reading and talking and listening … all the skills I need for this position, Mister Halligan.’

  Julius did not look particularly convinced, but Agnes kept smiling, head high.

  ‘Are there any other tasks, sir?’ she asked. ‘Any other … people in the house who might require my companionship?’

  ‘No, it is just we two: Marianna and me. And the cook and maids hardly need company; they can come up with quite enough noisy nonsense between them.’

  Just we two. So, where was Genevieve? Agnes felt herself wilt, the strain of the last few days, the awful suspicion that she’d come all this way for nothing weighing down upon her.

  ‘Well, Miss Forest,’ he continued. ‘I do thank you for calling. If you can leave me an address where I might find you, should I wish to offer you the position?’

  She told him the address at Bethnal Green and he almost recoiled when he heard it. She knew then she wouldn’t get the position. He certainly hadn’t given her any indication that he thought her suitable. What now? What now?

  Through these urgent, panicked thoughts, she still managed to smile and say thank you and good day and accompany him to the door.

  The rain fell steadily now. Julius eyed the sky and said, ‘Oh, dear. Have you an umbrella?’

  She shook her head. ‘Stolen,’ she said. ‘Along with everything else.’

  As she stepped out under the portico he said, ‘Wait.’ He reached for the stand in the entranceway and retrieved for her an old, worn umbrella with a wooden handle. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘We have others.’

  She considered him a moment, felt a sense of loss that she might never see him again, might never know this family that could be hers. Then she took the umbrella and raised it. ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ she said, and stepped out into the rain.

  •

  Agnes didn’t immediately return to Bethnal Green. She was raw with panic now, having learned Genevieve was not where she’d hoped and having so little money. As she picked over wet cobbles, she cursed herself and cursed herself again. Why hadn’t she listened to Gracie? Why hadn’t she listened to that infernal Captain Forest, come to think of it? Find good honest work and don’t live beyond your means or aspire above your station. She had failed on every count.

  So today, she had to find a job. But she wouldn’t let go of trying to find Genevieve. Not because she had ideas above her station. She had no ambition to be welcomed in the family, to enjoy their wealth and influence. She simply wanted to belong to somebody.

  •

  Agnes’s feet were sore by the time she arrived at the third dressmaker, this time above a shop selling watches and clocks on Cheapside. The first two had dismissed her quickly, telling her there wasn’t enough work for a new seamstress. But here, as she stood by the door and waited for the young woman who had let her in to fetch the dressmaker, she could see many projects in progress; at least five dressmaker dummies half-clothed, a dozen bolts of cloth stacked across a long counter, a table covered in poorly organised paperwork. The room was quiet and softly lit by the daylight at the window, and smelled faintly musty. Agnes could imagine herself working here.

  From a back room, a harried-looking woman emerged, an embroidery ring in her hand and pins stored in her bodice in uneven lines. ‘Mary says you’re looking for work.’

  ‘Aye, ma’am. I worked in sewing, mending and embroidery at Perdita Hall, a foundling hospital, for nine years.’

  ‘You have samples? References?’

  Agnes’s hopes were already dashed. ‘No, my trunk was stolen but I—’

  ‘Come back when you have samples.’

  ‘If I could just—’

  ‘I’m very busy, dear. I’ll look at your work when you have some to show me.’

  ‘This dress,’ Agnes said, remembering suddenly, spreading her arms.

  The woman approached, peering, running her hands over seams. ‘Not bad. I’ll need to see some embroidery. Come back and see me next week.’

  ‘But I—’

  She turned and disappeared into the back room again. Mary, the younger girl, who had appeared at her shoulder, shrugged an apology.

  So, she couldn’t work without samples or references. Her references were irretrievable now. If she spent all her remaining money on material and thread for embroidery samples and still didn’t get a job, then she wouldn’t be able to pay Minnie her rent.

  Tired and discouraged, she walked back to the house at Bethnal Green, longing to remove her shoes, which the rain puddles had soaked through, and lie still for a little while.

  Minnie looked up from her basket weaving as Agnes entered the gloomy room. ‘You have a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’ Her heart beat faster. Julius had sent a note already. Was that a good sign?

  ‘I left it on your bed.’

  She hurried away to her bedroom and snatched up the letter. Hands trembling, she picked off the seal.

  Thank you for coming by today, but I regret to inform you …

&nbs
p; That was all she read. She flung the letter away from her and buried her face in her mattress so she wouldn’t cry.

  •

  Agnes was not foolish enough to return to Belgrave Place and cause a scene, declaring herself Genevieve’s long-lost daughter. She had seen the way Julius looked at her, and knew that she had to think of a better way to find out where Genevieve had gone. If she turned up again with no reason, exposing herself as a liar and a sneak, he would not listen to a word out of her mouth before he had her on the street. She had to be canny, and in the meantime she needed ongoing work and so she went out the next morning to buy a shilling’s worth of cloth and thread and a selection of embroidery needles. In the gloomy little bedroom in Bethnal Green she worked, starting with embroidering a rose over the coffee stain on her grey dress. The days seemed to go on forever and she was so hungry. She always gave at least some of her food to the little boy with rickets – Freddy was his name – and she daren’t spend another penny on food from the street vendors back in the good part of town. So, she starved, working in low light until her hands ached, making samples she could show the seamstress. Sometimes, all the children assembled on the bed with her and she told them stories while she sewed. Days passed and it was time to pay Minnie another two shillings. Now she had two left. She worked faster, made mistakes, had to unpick and start again. It sometimes felt as though she were sewing her own destiny: panicked, careless, trying to make it work but having to turn back again and again and try to get it right. At night she dreamed about thread navigating through seas of cloth.

  One afternoon, nearly a week after she had arrived in London, she was sewing on her bed when she heard the sound of voices raised in argument from the street.