George’s vestry.”
“I mean to contribute—by offering employment,” Helena replied. “I need a maid. Since the inmates of this place are looking for work, I imagine I can find one.”
“Oh, you’re bamming me!” Molly said, relief in her voice. “Baxtor said you was wanting a maid. Harrison will find you one from Mr. McClaren’s agency….”
As Helena shook her head gently, Molly’s words trailed off. “Oh, miss, you cannot be thinking to hire someone outta there! We could all be murdered in our beds!”
“Molly, the workhouse isn’t a prison for cutthroats, nor what I believe you call a ‘flash house,’ where young criminals gather. I had it from the lips of a clergyman serving on the Board of Directors of the Poor for St. Marylebone that in their workhouse the unfortunates of the parish are trained for useful employment. Father Roberts said St. Marylebone is a model institution.”
Helena omitted mentioning that she’d overheard this information in a conversation on the mail coach between the reverend and a passenger with views similar to Molly’s. “Is not offering one such deserving girl a chance to better herself more desirable than putting coins in the poor box?”
“No disrespect to Father Roberts, but the poor box be a heap safer,” Molly muttered.
“I shall be very careful,” Helena promised. “If no one seems suitable, I can send Harrison to the agency. But now that we are here, I will take a look.” And unless the reverend had perjured himself irredeemably, she would hire someone. Perhaps a girl as eager to escape her prison of poverty as Helena had been to leave Lambarth Castle.
“Had I known you was coming here, I’d not have agreed to bring you,” Molly retorted, reluctantly trudging after Helena. “Iff’n the master finds out I led you to such a place, he’ll turn me off for sure.”
Would Lord Darnell be concerned if he thought she’d been placed in danger? Helena wondered, distracted by recalling the intent gaze he’d fixed upon her in the lawyer’s office.
Then the stooped old man at the door asked them their business, took their cloaks and led them to the director’s office. That official questioned Helena closely about her purpose and background before summoning a child to guide them to Mrs. Smith, the inmate who supervised the instruction of the older girls.
After passing through a large room filled with emaciated, bedridden adults their young escort cheerfully informed them were “the bad sick who’ll likely die,” they entered the girls’ ward. Here, the floor was newly swept, the rows of beds neatly made and thankfully empty.
The child led them onto the porch. A thin woman of indeterminate age, a clean but ragged shawl wrapped about her, stood supervising the work of a number of girls bent over washtubs or hanging linen on drying racks.
Mrs. Smith looked up. “Ladies, may I help you? ’Tis laundry day, as you see. The girls earn a few pence while learning to wash and iron. Are you from the parish?”
“No, ma’am,” Helena replied. “I am Helena Lambarth and this is Molly. We reside with my aunt, Lady Darnell, in St. James Square. I’m newly arrived in London and wish to hire one of your girls as my personal maid.”
The thin woman’s smile brightened. “I imagine any one of them would jump at the chance of such employment.”
“I should like to watch them for a while, if I may.”
“Stroll with me. The girls will continue working, assuming as I did that you’re from the parish committee.”
While Molly waited on the porch, Helena walked around the courtyard with Mrs. Smith, observing how some of the girls lounged about, not returning to their tasks until Mrs. Smith drew near. Her attention was drawn to a tall girl who ignored the visitors and continued her scrubbing, a boy beside her handing her linens and soap as needed.
“Who is that girl?” she asked Mrs. Smith.
“Nell Hastings, with her brother Dickon,” the woman
“I mean to contribute—by offering employment,” Helena replied. “I need a maid. Since the inmates of this place are looking for work, I imagine I can find one.”
“Oh, you’re bamming me!” Molly said, relief in her voice. “Baxtor said you was wanting a maid. Harrison will find you one from Mr. McClaren’s agency….”
As Helena shook her head gently, Molly’s words trailed off. “Oh, miss, you cannot be thinking to hire someone outta there! We could all be murdered in our beds!”
“Molly, the workhouse isn’t a prison for cutthroats, nor what I believe you call a ‘flash house,’ where young criminals gather. I had it from the lips of a clergyman serving on the Board of Directors of the Poor for St. Marylebone that in their workhouse the unfortunates of the parish are trained for useful employment. Father Roberts said St. Marylebone is a model institution.”
Helena omitted mentioning that she’d overheard this information in a conversation on the mail coach between the reverend and a passenger with views similar to Molly’s. “Is not offering one such deserving girl a chance to better herself more desirable than putting coins in the poor box?”
“No disrespect to Father Roberts, but the poor box be a heap safer,” Molly muttered.
“I shall be very careful,” Helena promised. “If no one seems suitable, I can send Harrison to the agency. But now that we are here, I will take a look.” And unless the reverend had perjured himself irredeemably, she would hire someone. Perhaps a girl as eager to escape her prison of poverty as Helena had been to leave Lambarth Castle.
“Had I known you was coming here, I’d not have agreed to bring you,” Molly retorted, reluctantly trudging after Helena. “Iff’n the master finds out I led you to such a place, he’ll turn me off for sure.”
Would Lord Darnell be concerned if he thought she’d been placed in danger? Helena wondered, distracted by recalling the intent gaze he’d fixed upon her in the lawyer’s office.
Then the stooped old man at the door asked them their business, took their cloaks and led them to the director’s office. That official questioned Helena closely about her purpose and background before summoning a child to guide them to Mrs. Smith, the inmate who supervised the instruction of the older girls.
After passing through a large room filled with emaciated, bedridden adults their young escort cheerfully informed them were “the bad sick who’ll likely die,” they entered the girls’ ward. Here, the floor was newly swept, the rows of beds neatly made and thankfully empty.
The child led them onto the porch. A thin woman of indeterminate age, a clean but ragged shawl wrapped about her, stood supervising the work of a number of girls bent over washtubs or hanging linen on drying racks.
Mrs. Smith looked up. “Ladies, may I help you? ’Tis laundry day, as you see. The girls earn a few pence while learning to wash and iron. Are you from the parish?”
“No, ma’am,” Helena replied. “I am Helena Lambarth and this is Molly. We reside with my aunt, Lady Darnell, in St. James Square. I’m newly arrived in London and wish to hire one of your girls as my personal maid.”
The thin woman’s smile brightened. “I imagine any one of them would jump at the chance of such employment.”
“I should like to watch them for a while, if I may.”
“Stroll with me. The girls will continue working, assuming as I did that you’re from the parish committee.”
While Molly waited on the porch, Helena walked around the courtyard with Mrs. Smith, observing how some of the girls lounged about, not returning to their tasks until Mrs. Smith drew near. Her attention was drawn to a tall girl who ignored the visitors and continued her scrubbing, a boy beside her handing her linens and soap as needed.
“Who is that girl?” she asked Mrs. Smith.
“Nell Hastings, with her brother Dickon,” the woman
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