Chapter Ten

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT RETURNING to the Daughters of Salvation that restored Nancy’s sense of equilibrium, her certainty about her purpose in life. As she stepped out of the taxicab and vanished into the alley off Whitechapel Road, she felt her heart soaring. It wasn’t that all the excitement about the wedding wasn’t real; it was only that, sometimes – just sometimes – the chatter in the chambermaids’ kitchenette, or the way the girls wanted to look at her engagement ring, or to talk about what dress she might want to wear, got too much, and she needed reminding – as, she told herself, everyone does – that there are scales in the world: that one person’s day of joy was somebody else’s black night of despair.

There was a time when she’d come here three times a week, snatching what little sleep she could between her late night returns to the Buckingham and the pre-dawn breakfasts in the housekeeping lounge. Now that George Peel’s investment had afforded Miss Edgerton the means to employ a host of other helpers and attendants, Nancy frequented the Daughters of Salvation less often, arriving only at the end of each month to balance the ledger books, or perhaps on an off-day – when Raymond had not planned some wonderful excursion for them, cruising along the river into Kingston, or to visit the Royal Observatory in Greenwich – to muck in with the rest. She stopped to look up at the frontage of the building. The gutters had been replaced since she’d last come here, and the window frames, which had been rotting, were new as well. Artie Cohen stood there, as he always did, at the top of the steps – and even the clothes he was wearing looked new. There was no other word for it: clean-shaven and with his hair shorn short, Artie Cohen looked smart.

‘There she is!’ Artie declared, and rampaged down the steps to meet her. ‘My very own sister!’

‘Oh, do stop it, Artie!’ Nancy laughed. ‘I’ve had quite enough of that at the hotel.’

‘You’re the gossip of the hour, are you?’

‘The day, the week, the month .?.?.’

Artie rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll bet Ray’s lapping it up.’

It would have been a lie to say that the excitement wasn’t constantly bubbling up in Nancy as well. Sometimes, when she awoke, she caught herself thinking: this time next year, I’ll be Mrs Nancy de Guise – and the idea still had the power to perplex her. On the mornings when their schedules aligned and she was able to spend the night with Raymond, she would wake and realise: this is going to be my life.

‘Raymond’s got me dancing again,’ Nancy said. She could still feel the persistent niggle in her leg, but when she was in his hold it didn’t seem to matter. He had her soaring. ‘You’ll have to learn a few steps too, Artie, if you’re to be .?.?.’ Her words faltered.

Artie shrugged. ‘He hasn’t asked me to be his best man,’ he said awkwardly, shuffling from side to side. ‘I s’pose he’s just biding his time. Either that or he’s already got his old man de la Motte signed up.’

Nancy touched him on the forearm. ‘I’m sorry, Artie.’

‘Well, he ought to know which side his bread’s buttered on, oughtn’t he? A man like Georges de la Motte won’t give Ray the kind of send-off he really deserves. It’d be canapés and champagne and dinner at the Academy, I should think. As for me, I’d throw him a night like the Cohen boys used to have .?.?.’ He spluttered to a stop. ‘All in good taste, o’ course, Nancy. I wouldn’t want to damage the groom before the wedding, would I?’

Although Nancy didn’t think he had already asked his old mentor to be his best man, something in the pit of her stomach told her it was a decision Raymond was deliberately not making.

‘Come on, Nance, there’s lots of work in there to keep you busy tonight. I’ll show you through.’

Artie put one hand in the small of her back, as if he might propel her through the chapel doors, and with the other he pushed them open, revealing the half-moon hall at the head of the Daughters of Salvation.

In a horseshoe around the edge of the hall, all the volunteers and attendants of the charity were gathered. The moment they saw her, a great cheer rose up, echoing in the rafters high above.

Nancy staggered.

‘Fooled you, Miss Nettleton!’ Artie crowed. ‘I’m pleased as punch with how that went. Give them a tap on the window, make sure they get themselves in position, keep you nattering until it’s time to go through.’

‘Congratulations, Nancy!’

There were two dozen volunteers and paid attendants gathered in the reception hall, and out of the heart of them strode Vivienne Edgerton. Tonight she looked positively dowdy – and this, Nancy knew, was deliberate, for she had long ago sold all the ball gowns and nearly all the day dresses she used to buy with her stepfather’s allowance. In a brown Mother Hubbard dress, with a high neck and loose-fitting sleeves, she looked almost Victorian. Her hair, still the colour of vibrant flame, was tied up in a bun and netted as well; evidently, Vivienne had been working in the kitchens tonight.

‘Nancy,’ she said, as she presented her with a bouquet of pink peonies, crowned with a card. ‘From all of us, with love.’

Nancy could not deny the beauty of the bouquet. A gift like this from the staff at the Daughters of Salvation meant everything to her. She opened the card, saw the dozens of signatures written there and realised that this gift was not only from the staff but from the various patients and other derelicts who relied on the Daughters for so much of their daily sustenance. This made her heart soar even higher – to think that so many people who had come and gone through these doors remembered her. She pressed it to her breast.

‘Thank you,’ she announced.

She was about to walk through, when Vivienne put a hand on her arm and held her back.

‘Not so fast, Miss Nettleton.’ She smiled and, unfurling a leaf of paper, she began to read aloud. ‘The Daughters of Salvation, our beloved home and the cause to which each of us here are devoting our lives, predates the appearance of myself and our dear Miss Nettleton, standing here at my side.’ She looked sidelong at Nancy, her eyes twinkling. ‘Our beloved Mary Burdett is the one who gave birth to our proud organisation, and deserves all the thanks in the world for originating something so special, so splendid, here in Whitechapel’s heart. But I want to talk a little, tonight, about my own introduction to the Daughters of Salvation – and how this would never have happened without the woman standing at my side, Miss Nancy Nettleton, soon to become Mrs Nancy de Guise.’

Across the hall, the cheers went up again.

‘You see, there was a time, not so very long ago, when I myself was enslaved to the scourge of opiates. I lived from day to day, spending my stepfather’s money, caring only for myself, in a spiral of self-destruction so steep and sheer that there was no hope that I would ever come out of it.’ She paused. ‘Then along came Nancy Nettleton. It was Nancy who picked me up and set me back on my feet. It was Nancy who, when I declared my intention to support the Daughters of Salvation with what income I could provide, accompanied me here on so many lonely nights. Put simply, the Daughters of Salvation as we know it would not exist without the estimable lady at my side – and, I remain quite certain, neither would I.’ Vivienne’s voice had dropped to a reverential tone, but in her next words she exploded with pride and excitement once more. ‘If ever a soul should deserve good fortune, good health and love in this life, it is this one. Nancy,’ she said, turning directly to her, ‘we, all of us here – but especially me – wish you and Raymond all the love in the world. Ladies and gentlemen, Nancy Nettleton!’

The cheering erupted for a final time. In the chaos, Nancy saw Warren Peel lifting his hands up high to applaud. She saw Mary Burdett and her young crowd, aprons on and sleeves rolled up, grinning from ear to ear. She saw Artie putting his fingers to his lips to let out a shrill whistle. She let it crash over her and thought: well, maybe it’s all right to be the centre of attention, just for once.

‘Nancy,’ Vivienne said, when the cheering had started to fade, ‘there’ll be no champagne corks being popped tonight. Our work goes on, as it must. But there are pots of tea, and there are cakes galore. And there’s fresh cream and strawberries – and all the good wishes in the world!’

The Daughters of Salvation was busy long into the night. Wedding festivities or not, the good work went on. Nancy, who spent the first hour in the back office with Vivienne, listened to the hum of activity through the walls and felt the thrill of it, just like she had in the organisation’s first tentative months. Now, volunteers flitted in and out, voices called out in celebration, and Warren made two appearances, seeking Vivienne’s advice about the renovation they were making to the back storeroom.

‘But of course,’ Vivienne said, when Warren had taken his instructions and hurried on, ‘in the longer term, it’s bigger premises we’ll need. Do you remember the Rowton House we visited, on the Camden Road?’ Nancy did; it had been one of their first ports of call when Vivienne had decided she would invest in a charitable concern. ‘We might not be nearly as big as that sprawling place, but imagine if we had its resources. All the good we could do.’

Nancy said, ‘Warren’s making a place for himself here.’ She remembered when he’d been found, lying bootless and blue in the cold, robbed by the same men who plied him with the opiates he craved. ‘Is he working every week?’

‘Every night,’ said Vivienne – and Nancy believed she could even see a smile playing in the corners of Miss Edgerton’s lips.

‘Every night?’

Vivienne shrugged. ‘I can only presume he enjoys the company.’

After the month’s books were balanced, Nancy drifted on, taking in first the bedrooms behind the partitions in the main hall, then the kitchens, where a team of young women were hard at work, chopping onions, peeling potatoes, and rendering down the bacon fat donated by the local butcher. Finally, she passed out of the back of the old chapel into the courtyard garden at its rear. It was here that Mary Burdett presided over the wood-burning range, with two other girls attending her, and one of Artie’s friends standing sentry – an old ne’er-do-well from his Pentonville days, who went by the improbable name of Fletcher Crook. The back courtyard wall was open to the alley behind it, and through the old oaken doors tramped a motley collection of the hungry and destitute.

As the line moved on, Mary left her girls at the range and joined Nancy on the steps overlooking the yard.

‘So how do you like your party, Nancy?’

There was bunting strung up around the courtyard. Mary and the others had stitched it themselves. TO OUR ONE AND ONLY NANCY NETTLETON it read, the letters surrounded by embroidered flowers and stars. Underneath, the line of derelicts and down-and-outs snaked around the yard. Little groups had gathered around its edges, partaking of strawberries and cake as if they were gifts from Heaven itself.

‘It’s exactly my kind of party.’ She smiled. ‘May I?’

She gestured to the range, as if she was eager to take her place among the other girls – and Mary, who had never been known to say ‘no’ to Nancy Nettleton, sent the others back to the kitchens for more supplies, so that she and Nancy could work together.

‘It feels like we’ve been here an age,’ said Nancy, ‘though it’s scarcely been a year. Vivienne’s looking for new premises. You and she must have talked about that.’

‘We have,’ said Mary. ‘Too many times to count. She’s right, of course. But I’m old, and I get sentimental about this place. If it has to move on – well, that’s what happens in life. But it doesn’t mean you can’t feel a little heartache over it.’ She paused, filling another bowl with carrot and potato soup and passing it to one of the eager guests. ‘What about you, Nancy? Is it .?.?. time to move on for you as well?’

Nancy, who was busy carving up loaves of yesterday’s bread, paused.

‘Mary, I don’t intend to go anywhere.’

‘Things will change, you know.’

The next vagrant in the queue opened his lips in a toothless smile when he saw Nancy, and blathered out congratulations of his own.

‘Thank you, Hamish,’ she said, ladling an extra carrot into his bowl. ‘And God bless you, sir.’ Then she turned back to Mary. ‘People keep saying that to me. I’m in love, Mary. I’m getting married. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop being me.’

‘You’d be a fool to think things won’t change, though. That’s just a fact of life. I never had that problem, of course, on account of never meeting the right gentleman. But, Nancy, it wouldn’t be right to think things can just carry on as they’ve been. You’ll have a different kind of life. Different needs. A young mother can’t be on the streets of Whitechapel after dark like this. A young mother ought to be at home, looking after her dearest, making them a fine home, filling them with love – so they don’t end up like young Warren in there, neglected and looking for love in some opium den.’

Nancy said nothing, only continued to serve the soup.

‘Nancy,’ Mary whispered, her voice laced with regret. ‘I can tell I’ve upset you. Nancy?’

‘Let’s not speak about this.’

‘I know how much you love this place, my girl. I can feel it in your every breath. But we’ve got to be realistic. You’ll have other priorities. Looking after your young ones. The Daughters will need to make other arrangements, my dear, if—’

The ladle clattered out of Nancy’s hands, ringing as it struck the stones at her feet.

‘Whoever said I was going to have a baby straight away?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not a prude, Mary.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Raymond and I are careful. There are ways .?.?.’

‘You’ll make such a good mother,’ one of the girls chipped in, arriving from the kitchen with a tureen full of fresh soup.

‘Isn’t anyone listening to me?’ Nancy gasped, as the girl trotted back into the chapel. ‘Anyone would think I was being sent to the country to recuperate from ill health. I’m getting married. It’s a joyous thing. It doesn’t mean I’m becoming Raymond’s personal chambermaid, does it? It doesn’t mean I have to give up everything I’ve been working for, everything I’ve dreamed about, to make him dinner and have his babies as soon as the ring’s on my finger.’ Realising she was speaking too loudly, Nancy composed herself, served another visitor, and whispered, ‘I see all that in my future, Mary. I see me and Raymond with our own little dance troupe, two boys and two girls, and a house in the country, but .?.?. not yet.’

For a time, they simply served soup together – until, at last, Mary said, ‘Nancy, my dear – are you sure you’re ready to be married at all?’

‘I am!’ Nancy proclaimed. ‘But it’s because I love him, Mary, and because he loves me. Not because he wants to lock me up and throw away the key. Not because he wants to be a father by next summer, and a father twice over by the summer after that. Not because he wants to stop me coming here, or working at the Buckingham, or – why, doing all the things that make me me. It’s me he fell in love with, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to change all that, now, does he?’

But long into the night, as she served the last guests at the Daughters of Salvation, as she shared a taxicab back to the Buckingham with Vivienne, as she crept up the service stairs and slipped into her quarters behind the chambermaids’ kitchenette, that simple question replayed itself in her mind. Because, if that was what married life had to be like, if there really was no other way, then perhaps Nancy really wasn’t ready for marriage at all .?.?.