letters. When I went to Tunbridge Wells you had left.’
Mary’s soft brown eyes closed for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was the ague at first. Before I knew it, I could scarcely crawl out of my bed.’
Sylvia pressed her palm to Mary’s forehead. Hot and clammy to the touch, it told the story of her friend’s suffering. Sadness filled her heart. ‘Tell me what I must do to help you.’
Mary shook her head.
‘It’s a canker in her lungs,’ her brother said from behind. ‘Ain’t nothing can be done, what we ain’t already done.’
For all their poverty, the room seemed clean, the sheets smelling of soap, the floor swept. She glanced at Mary’s sister-in-law. ‘There must be something?’
‘Mary’s got a bit of money put by and we’ve been using that for the doctor and the medicines.’ Mrs Jensen bit her lip. ‘When that’s gone, I’m not sure what we’ll do.’ With a glance at the woman on the bed, she lowered her voice. ‘It may not be much longer, though.’
It seemed so unfair that someone as vital as Mary Jensen should be brought to such an end. Sorrow filled Sylvia’s heart and tears choked her throat. She picked up the skeletal white hand and stroked it. ‘You must get well,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘I’m relying on your skill with a needle. I have many new designs sketched out.’
‘John Evernden is dead, then?’ Mary whispered.
Sylvia nodded. ‘A few days ago.’
‘He left you well settled?’
If there was anything surer, Mary Jensen didn’t need to hear about Sylvia’s troubles. She smiled and indicated the door. ‘His nephew.’
Mary frowned. ‘Lord Stanford? I’ve heard bad things about that young man.’
A rush of tenderness filled her for a person who cared enough to worry about her at such a time. There had been few enough of those in her life. ‘The younger brother. He’s a good man.’ He was, she realised. For all her annoyance at his interference, he had been kind and honourable.
A cough racked her friend’s fragile form and Sylvia pickedup a glass of water from the small night table. She lifted Mary’s head and helped her to drink.
Mary gave her a wan smile of thanks. ‘I’m glad you’re settled, then,’ she said so softly Sylvia had to bend her head close. ‘You don’t belong here, Sylvia. There’s too much sickness and squalor. Don’t worry about me. Bill is a good man and takes care of me.’
‘As good as I can,’ Bill spoke gently.
Sylvia’s heart gladdened at the thought that Mary had relatives to care for her. A family’s love made all the difference at a time like this. But she and Mary had been such close friends; she did so hate to lose her.
Mary’s eyes slid closed.
‘Best leave her, miss,’ Bill said. ‘She tires easy. She’ll talk about this visit for days, she will. In between the opium, like.’
The steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the covers seemed peaceful. Sylvia stood up and smiled at Mr Jensen. ‘If you ever need anything, please let me know.’ How? How could he let her know? She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Evernden will know my whereabouts should you need to reach me.’
As soon as she settled her own affairs, she would see what she could do for Mary. She wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand.
‘This way, miss,’ Bill Jensen said.
Out in the ugly street, she stared back at the gaunt building. Poor Mary. And just when life had seemed so full of promise. How unkind the fates could be. In laying Mary low, they had twisted Sylvia’s path until she could no longer see her way.
Up and down the grimy street full of shadows and dirt, her gaze sought answers. With nowhere to go, no plan, no future, confusion washed over her. She knew nothing of London. She would have to find somewhere to live, some means of earning a living.
She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and straightenedher shoulders. She did not believe in fate. One made one’s own destiny. And who knew,
Mary’s soft brown eyes closed for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was the ague at first. Before I knew it, I could scarcely crawl out of my bed.’
Sylvia pressed her palm to Mary’s forehead. Hot and clammy to the touch, it told the story of her friend’s suffering. Sadness filled her heart. ‘Tell me what I must do to help you.’
Mary shook her head.
‘It’s a canker in her lungs,’ her brother said from behind. ‘Ain’t nothing can be done, what we ain’t already done.’
For all their poverty, the room seemed clean, the sheets smelling of soap, the floor swept. She glanced at Mary’s sister-in-law. ‘There must be something?’
‘Mary’s got a bit of money put by and we’ve been using that for the doctor and the medicines.’ Mrs Jensen bit her lip. ‘When that’s gone, I’m not sure what we’ll do.’ With a glance at the woman on the bed, she lowered her voice. ‘It may not be much longer, though.’
It seemed so unfair that someone as vital as Mary Jensen should be brought to such an end. Sorrow filled Sylvia’s heart and tears choked her throat. She picked up the skeletal white hand and stroked it. ‘You must get well,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘I’m relying on your skill with a needle. I have many new designs sketched out.’
‘John Evernden is dead, then?’ Mary whispered.
Sylvia nodded. ‘A few days ago.’
‘He left you well settled?’
If there was anything surer, Mary Jensen didn’t need to hear about Sylvia’s troubles. She smiled and indicated the door. ‘His nephew.’
Mary frowned. ‘Lord Stanford? I’ve heard bad things about that young man.’
A rush of tenderness filled her for a person who cared enough to worry about her at such a time. There had been few enough of those in her life. ‘The younger brother. He’s a good man.’ He was, she realised. For all her annoyance at his interference, he had been kind and honourable.
A cough racked her friend’s fragile form and Sylvia pickedup a glass of water from the small night table. She lifted Mary’s head and helped her to drink.
Mary gave her a wan smile of thanks. ‘I’m glad you’re settled, then,’ she said so softly Sylvia had to bend her head close. ‘You don’t belong here, Sylvia. There’s too much sickness and squalor. Don’t worry about me. Bill is a good man and takes care of me.’
‘As good as I can,’ Bill spoke gently.
Sylvia’s heart gladdened at the thought that Mary had relatives to care for her. A family’s love made all the difference at a time like this. But she and Mary had been such close friends; she did so hate to lose her.
Mary’s eyes slid closed.
‘Best leave her, miss,’ Bill said. ‘She tires easy. She’ll talk about this visit for days, she will. In between the opium, like.’
The steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the covers seemed peaceful. Sylvia stood up and smiled at Mr Jensen. ‘If you ever need anything, please let me know.’ How? How could he let her know? She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Evernden will know my whereabouts should you need to reach me.’
As soon as she settled her own affairs, she would see what she could do for Mary. She wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand.
‘This way, miss,’ Bill Jensen said.
Out in the ugly street, she stared back at the gaunt building. Poor Mary. And just when life had seemed so full of promise. How unkind the fates could be. In laying Mary low, they had twisted Sylvia’s path until she could no longer see her way.
Up and down the grimy street full of shadows and dirt, her gaze sought answers. With nowhere to go, no plan, no future, confusion washed over her. She knew nothing of London. She would have to find somewhere to live, some means of earning a living.
She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and straightenedher shoulders. She did not believe in fate. One made one’s own destiny. And who knew,
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