Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [54]
“A man called Carlisle took me to see a workhouse yesterday, somewhere in Seven Dials. There were fifty or sixty people in one room, all unpicking clothes to remake them. Even children. It was foul!”
She remembered the anger she had felt when Pitt had first told her about the slums and tenements when she lived in Cater Street and thought herself terribly knowledgeable because she looked at the newspapers. She had been shocked, angry that she had not known before, and angry most of all with Pitt because he had know all the time and had chosen to disturb her world with ugliness and other people’s pain.
There was nothing comforting to say. She went on ironing the shirt. “It is,” she agreed. “But why did he take you—this Mr. Carlisle?”
The reason was at once the best and the worst side to it.
“Because he wants me to speak to a friend of mine in the House of Lords and see if I can influence him to be there when St. Jermyn’s bill is put up.”
She remembered what Aunt Vespasia had said, and it was immediately understandable. “And are you going to?”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte!” he said exasperatedly. “How on earth do you go up to a fellow you only know because of racing horses and things, and say to him, ‘By the way, I’d like you to take your seat in the House when they put up St. Jermyn’s bill because the workhouses really are awful, and the children need educating, you know! There ought to be a law to support and educate pauper children in London, so be a good chap and get all your friends to vote for it!’ It’s impossible! I can’t do it!”
“That’s a pity.” She did not look up from her ironing. She was sorry for him; she knew how nearly impossible it was to engage people in thoughts they do not like, especially those that make them uncomfortable and threaten their pleasures by questioning the order of things. But she was not going to tell him he had no obligation, or that it was up to someone else. Not that he was likely to have accepted it if she had. He had seen and smelled the streets of Seven Dials, and no words would wipe out that memory.
“A pity!” he said furiously. “A pity! Is that all you can say? Has Thomas ever told you what those places are like? It’s indescribable—you can taste the filth and despair.”
“I know,” she said calmly. “And there are worse places than workhouses, places inside the rookeries that even Thomas won’t describe.”
“He’s told you?”
“Something, not all.”
He screwed his face up and stared down at the white wood of the table. “It’s awful!”
“Would you like some luncheon?” She folded the shirt and put it away, then folded the ironing board also. “I’m going to have some. It’s just bread and soup, but you are welcome, if you wish.”
Suddenly the gulf opened, and he realized he had been speaking to her as if they were both still in Cater Street, with the same material possessions. He had forgotten his world was as different now from hers as hers was from Seven Dials. He was momentarily embarrassed for his clumsiness. He watched her as she took two clean plates out of the cupboard and set them on the table, then the bread out of the bin, a board and a knife. There was no butter.
“Yes, please,” he answered. “Yes, I would.”
She took the lid off the stockpot on the stove and ladled out enough to fill the two plates.
“What about Jemima?” he asked.
She sat down. “She’s had hers. What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle?”
He ignored the question. He knew what the answer would be, but he did not want to admit it yet.
“I tried to tell Alicia about it.” He took a mouthful of the soup. It was surprisingly good, and the bread was fresh and crusty. He had not known Charlotte could make bread. Still—she must have had to learn.
“That was unfair.” She looked at him steadily. “You can’t tell people in words and expect them to understand, or feel the way you do.”
“No—she didn’t. She brushed it aside as so much conversation. She seemed like a stranger, and I thought I knew her so well.”
“That’s not fair either,” she said. “It’s you who have changed. What do you suppose Mr. Carlisle