red-feather bonnet.
Julian explained his plan to send Sally to the refuge. “She seemed very keen on the idea.”
“It’s a first-rate dodge, sir. Might keep her out of trouble for a bit, too.”
“Are you worried about her?
“’Course I am, sir. It ain’t no kind of life she’s got now.”
“You know, I could help her find work. One of my friends could give her a character.”
“That’s good of you, sir, but I don’t think she’d stick it. Why, sir, she can earn more blunt in a night, seeing company like she does, than she could in a month as a moll-slavey, or in one of them factories. And the work ain’t so hard, and she’s got more liberty, like. What’s being on the square got to offer, compared to that?”
“Self-respect,” suggested Julian doubtfully.
“Self-respect’s a fine thing, sir, but you can’t eat it, nor drink it, nor put a red feather on it and tie it under the chin.”
Julian had no answer to this. There’s a poser for you, Mr. Harcourt, he thought. Write us a pamphlet solving that, and we’ll hail you as the genius of this age.
Sally was up before dawn next morning. She could not sleep any later, with Mrs. Mabbitt bustling about the house, clattering saucepans and raking out grates. By half past six, she was on her way to Stark Street. She supposed they would be up and about at the refuge—she had an idea that reformers did not waste time lolling in bed when there was God’s work to be done.
She took a hackney coach to Stark Street, which made her feel very grand. She had never had a hackney to herself before. But she got out at the corner, thinking it would not fit the character of a penitent whore to arrive in a coach. The driver let down the steps, and she swept out with her nose in the air, pretending she was a lady, and this was her very own carriage. Then she spoilt it with a giggle. Tipping the driver, she sent him on his way.
She walked up to No. 9. It was just as Mr. Kestrel had described it: two houses joined together, with the formal entrance on the right-hand side. She went up to the door, put on what she hoped was a doleful, repentant face, and rang the bell.
The door opened a little way, and a woman looked out. Sally guessed at once that she was Mr. Kestrel’s dragon. “What’s your business?”
“If you please, ma’am, I’ve come to be showed the error of me ways, and save me soul.”
The dragon looked her scathingly up and down. “Very well, you may come in. But no one can see you now. We’re about to have morning prayers and breakfast. Mr. Harcourt may find time to speak with you afterward, or he may not. We’re very busy this morning. We’re expecting the trustees.”
She opened the door just wide enough for Sally to enter. Sally found herself in a sparely furnished hallway, with stairs leading down to the kitchen level, and up to the floors above. The walls were painted a sedate, leaden grey. An incongruous door was cut into the left-hand wall. Sally realized this must have been added when the two houses became one, to make a passage between them.
“What’s your name?” the dragon demanded.
“Sally Stokes, ma’am.”
“Sally isn’t a proper Christian name.”
If you’re a proper Christian, Sally thought, I’d as lief be in the other place. “It’s short for Sarah, ma’am.”
“If Sarah is the name you were christened with, then Sarah you must be called. I’m Mrs. Fiske, the matron on duty today. Come with me. Not there,” she added sharply, as Sally turned toward the elegantly furnished front parlour. “That room is reserved for trustees and patrons.”
She led Sally to a well-scrubbed back parlour. It had no furniture but a rectangular deal table and four bare, armless chairs. There was a view of the back garden: a couple of stunted trees, some pinched, precise flower-beds, and a gravel walk. Around the garden ran a high brick wall, with iron spikes along the top.
“Wait here,” said Mrs. Fiske. “After
Julian explained his plan to send Sally to the refuge. “She seemed very keen on the idea.”
“It’s a first-rate dodge, sir. Might keep her out of trouble for a bit, too.”
“Are you worried about her?
“’Course I am, sir. It ain’t no kind of life she’s got now.”
“You know, I could help her find work. One of my friends could give her a character.”
“That’s good of you, sir, but I don’t think she’d stick it. Why, sir, she can earn more blunt in a night, seeing company like she does, than she could in a month as a moll-slavey, or in one of them factories. And the work ain’t so hard, and she’s got more liberty, like. What’s being on the square got to offer, compared to that?”
“Self-respect,” suggested Julian doubtfully.
“Self-respect’s a fine thing, sir, but you can’t eat it, nor drink it, nor put a red feather on it and tie it under the chin.”
Julian had no answer to this. There’s a poser for you, Mr. Harcourt, he thought. Write us a pamphlet solving that, and we’ll hail you as the genius of this age.
Sally was up before dawn next morning. She could not sleep any later, with Mrs. Mabbitt bustling about the house, clattering saucepans and raking out grates. By half past six, she was on her way to Stark Street. She supposed they would be up and about at the refuge—she had an idea that reformers did not waste time lolling in bed when there was God’s work to be done.
She took a hackney coach to Stark Street, which made her feel very grand. She had never had a hackney to herself before. But she got out at the corner, thinking it would not fit the character of a penitent whore to arrive in a coach. The driver let down the steps, and she swept out with her nose in the air, pretending she was a lady, and this was her very own carriage. Then she spoilt it with a giggle. Tipping the driver, she sent him on his way.
She walked up to No. 9. It was just as Mr. Kestrel had described it: two houses joined together, with the formal entrance on the right-hand side. She went up to the door, put on what she hoped was a doleful, repentant face, and rang the bell.
The door opened a little way, and a woman looked out. Sally guessed at once that she was Mr. Kestrel’s dragon. “What’s your business?”
“If you please, ma’am, I’ve come to be showed the error of me ways, and save me soul.”
The dragon looked her scathingly up and down. “Very well, you may come in. But no one can see you now. We’re about to have morning prayers and breakfast. Mr. Harcourt may find time to speak with you afterward, or he may not. We’re very busy this morning. We’re expecting the trustees.”
She opened the door just wide enough for Sally to enter. Sally found herself in a sparely furnished hallway, with stairs leading down to the kitchen level, and up to the floors above. The walls were painted a sedate, leaden grey. An incongruous door was cut into the left-hand wall. Sally realized this must have been added when the two houses became one, to make a passage between them.
“What’s your name?” the dragon demanded.
“Sally Stokes, ma’am.”
“Sally isn’t a proper Christian name.”
If you’re a proper Christian, Sally thought, I’d as lief be in the other place. “It’s short for Sarah, ma’am.”
“If Sarah is the name you were christened with, then Sarah you must be called. I’m Mrs. Fiske, the matron on duty today. Come with me. Not there,” she added sharply, as Sally turned toward the elegantly furnished front parlour. “That room is reserved for trustees and patrons.”
She led Sally to a well-scrubbed back parlour. It had no furniture but a rectangular deal table and four bare, armless chairs. There was a view of the back garden: a couple of stunted trees, some pinched, precise flower-beds, and a gravel walk. Around the garden ran a high brick wall, with iron spikes along the top.
“Wait here,” said Mrs. Fiske. “After
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