Page 61 of Murder in Matrimony
Devotedly,
Rookery Woes
Dear Rookery Woes,
I always have space for this topic. I do not always have advice for it, however. Perhaps its inclusion is its own sort of advice. If the topic takes up more space in our papers, it might take up more space in our hearts. We must, every one of us, do more to assist those in need.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
Bethnal Green had perhaps been green at one time. Indeed, it had housed large houses and gardens in the previous century. But now those were gone, and what was left was a tumble of ramshackle buildings that accommodated several more people than comfort allowed. The mulberry trees were still beautiful, however. Amelia noted a singular beauty as they approached the neighborhood, where the streets were so narrow Simon’s carriage could not pass. They left it at the corner with the footman, walking to the tiny apartment where Mrs. Hines lived.
In a way, Mrs. Hines was fortunate. At least she did not have to share her small space. As they drew nearer, Amelia noted a door with six people tumbling out of it. From thedoorway, a woman with sallow, sunken eyes despondently watched her five children leave with their father. Amelia did not follow her eyes. Part of her did not want to know where they were going. Part of her wanted to ignore what she saw.
But another part—perhaps the part Mr. Cross saw in her—forced herself to acknowledge their suffering. They were standing here, just as she was. They were different but the same in the most basic way. What she could do to help her fellow man she must consider. It could no longer be about only Mr. Cross. She must involve herself on the most personal level.
Simon must have sensed her thoughts or apprehension, for he placed an arm around her shoulders. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
She nodded. “I must. It isn’t only about Mr. Cross anymore. Do you understand?”
Simon’s eyes flicked from the street to the door to her eyes. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Amelia took a steadying breath and knocked. Mrs. Hines didn’t immediately answer, and for a moment, Amelia thought she was not home. When she finally came to the door, Amelia understood how difficult movement was for her. Mrs. Hines was a stout woman who wore a brace on one leg and used a cane to support herself. Not just any cane but the one Mrs. Rothschild described. It was so out of place in the apartment—the walls damp with moisture, the threadbare chair worn beyond comfort, and the kettle dented without repair—that it was the first thing one noticed.
The second was Mrs. Hines’s eyes. They were the color of two obsidian rocks, blue to the point of blackness. She was not a happy woman, and it showed. If eyes were the windows to the soul, her soul was as dark as the night of her barroom attack.
“Mrs. Hines, excuse the intrusion.” Amelia went about putting her mind at ease. “We are friends of Mrs. Rothschild. She gave me your address. I wondered if I might talk to you about her daughter Rose.”
Mrs. Hines looked from her to Simon, and he bowed respectfully. She moved to the side, allowing them entrance.
Amelia thanked her, and she shut the door. She didn’t ask them to sit, perhaps because there was nowhere to do so. A straw bed took up much of the room. Mrs. Hines stood next to the only window, affording them as much space as possible, and Amelia noticed a deep scar that ran along her jawline. The cut had been badly stitched and left a bigger mark than necessary.
“What charity are you with?” asked Mrs. Hines.
“None,” Amelia explained.
“The church?” she tried again.
“No, but I am—was—a friend of Mr. Cross. He, like you, had been treated to a gift by Miss Rothschild before her accident.”
“Rose was a good girl. A smart girl.” Mrs. Hines lifted her chin in challenge, and the light from the window revealed the deep lines on her face. Despite being the same age as Mrs. Rothschild, she looked many years older, probably because of her poor living conditions and invalid state, which kept her indoors. “I would have sworn you were one of those do-gooders from the church. Mrs. Rothschild is always sending someone by with a basket.”
“That’s very kind of her,” murmured Simon.
“Is it?” She snorted. “I suppose you would think so, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. She’s only trying to ease a guilty conscience.”
“For the accident, you mean?” Amelia pressed.
“She told you about it. Of course she did.” Standing for long periods was not an option for Mrs. Hines, and she stumped over to the chair with her cane. Amelia went to assist her, but she shook her head, her jowls moving in protest. “You might not believe this, but I was a nice-looking sort with a decent figure and fine hair. I had all the good fortune in the world until I went to work for the Rothschilds. I should have found employment elsewhere. My sister told me so, but I wouldn’t listen.” She looked toward the window as if she wished she was outside right now. “Young women of a certain age don’t take advice, and my husband didn’t care either way as long as I was bringing in money.”
“What about Miss Rothschild?” asked Simon. “Did she take advice?”
“Rose was set on leaving the pub after my attack. She was the one who heard me holler from the alleyway. She found me.” Mrs. Hines’s eyes, hollow and bottomless, turned away from the window. “I wish she hadn’t. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been set on finding work at the factory. She thought it could solve all the problems.” She shook her head. “Youth is enthusiastic if nothing else.”
“What problems?” Amelia couldn’t presume to know the answer. Around every East End corner was a surprise, an education. Here was another lesson, and she awaited it, the hesitant learner.
Mrs. Hines turned quick and hard. “What problems? Stick around, and you’ll see. You’ll see what we see every day: crime, filth, decay. You can’t blame Rose for wanting to leave.”
