Page 23 of An Unwitting Alliance
The porter stood guard, a stout man with grizzled cheeks and a congenial appearance, and nodded his greeting.
Tom dipped his head. “I am signore Rossi, here to see the leader of dis esteemed organization.”
“You must be ’ere to ’ire out some ’elp.” Tom did not have the opportunity to refute the porter before he added, “Come in, and I’ll find the governor for ye.”The gate was unlocked, and they made their way inside.
A housekeeper of sorts took his made-up name without blinking and dismissed the porter. “Follow me and I shall take you to see Mr. Longbottom.” Straight down a corridor, they stopped at another door, and the woman rapped against the wood a few times.
A man in his forties with slicked-back hair, a dark coat and breeches, and a crooked nose answered.
“Mr. Longbottom, a signore Rossi is here to see you.”
Remembering his Italian accent, Tom added, “But to you English,Mr.Rossi is also acceptable.”
“What business do you have? I’m a busy man, so be quick with it,” Longbottom grumbled.
Tom wasn’t used to being spoken to so casually, but he didn’t let his irritation show. “I ’ave come because I want to build a workhouse just like dis one.”
Mr. Longbottom’s brow drew together. “This town can’t support two workhouses.”
“Not ’ere.” Tom gave a hearty chuckle. “In my ’ometown in... ’arveyton.” The town did not exist, but Mr. Longbottom did not seem like a man of geography. “I do not want to intrude on your valuable time, but I have ’eard so many praise the name of Longbottom and ’is ability to direct t’ings ’ere in Airewell; I ’ad to come.”
“You have heard my name?” His tone of pride was followed by a pleased half smile.
Tom nodded. “If I could only get a quick tour and get a bit of advice from you, I would be most appreciative.”
Mr. Longbottom pulled out a scratched timepiece. “I could spare a few minutes. But you must walk fast. We’ve got a problem with our cesspool, and someone has to monitor the workers to make sure it’s cleaned properly.”
The gruesome thought made Tom a bit slow in his response. “Sì, I can walk quickly.”
Longbottom gave a nod and set a brisk pace out of the office and down the corridor. He spoke as he walked. “It’s a small town we’ve built into these walls. We’ve everything, including a laundry, kitchens to rival a bakery, an infirmary, a nursery, workrooms, gardens, and a dead room.”
A dead room? That was one room on the tour Tom hoped he could avoid.
They started with the oversize dining room with rows of narrow tables and peeling psalms painted on the walls. Longbottom pointed inside. “Two meals a day and that’s generous.”
“What do you serve?” He barely remembered to use his accent and cleared his throat to cover for it.
“Porridge for breakfast and either broth and bread or rice milk and bread for supper. Beer on Sundays, and the children get pudding. For holidays we are generous and serve beef.”
Tom was appalled at the meager diet. Was that all this parish could afford?
Longbottom took him up the stairs to see the communal bedchambers, separated for men and women. The beds were not coffin beds, as he’d heard rumored, but straw mattresses in rows on the floor. A few hammocks hung in the back of the room.
Besides the shocking menu, nothing so far would haunt his dreams. The infirmary was next, and his ignorance faded. The beds were full, and he could not tell whether those wandering about were nurses or other workers.
“’Ow often does a doctor come?”
“They mostly look after themselves.” Longbottom covered his crooked nose with a handkerchief. He exited the room, as if some disease would jump off a sick person and pounce upon him. Tom, however, soaked in the view. He could never stand to see a person sick. They all reminded him of Charley. He couldn’t help everyone in the world, but he would do all he could to return and help these people.
The workrooms were next. The women toiled over looms, and the men ground corn into meal. Others worked in the gardens or the kitchens. The last room of the tour was crowded with children. Many were terribly young. They carded wool, an endless supply of bags to go through. Some sat on the hard stone floor while others piled onto benches.
Longbottom led him inside. “The tenants rise at six and work from seven to seven. They sup and are in bed by eight. Sundays only the necessary work is seen to.”
Long workdays. Far too long. “And Sunday services?”
Longbottom shrugged. “Not a priority.”
“What about school?” Tom sensed the answer, but he hoped to hear otherwise.
