Page 77 of The Marriage Method

“I can manage.” The walk would do Nell good. Her leg benefited from use. Too much stillness inevitably made the pain worse.

“You’ll have to direct me,” Effie said. “I’m not as familiar with Whitechapel as I am with the Rookery.”

Nell steered her friend through the raucous throng. Their wide skirts brushed against the crush of people who were positioning themselves to obtain the best prices at the various stalls. Determined customers shouted out to the butcher, the fishmonger, and the bootmaker. Among them were rough-looking men and rouge-cheeked ladies in satin gowns. Children, too, though not of the neat and orderly variety. The dirty-faced youngsters ran through the crowds, fleet as ferrets. Some of them pickpockets, Nell suspected.

“The people of the neighborhood are out in force,” she remarked to Effie. “What are the odds that Miss Brent is among them?”

Effie slowed her footsteps. “I hadn’t considered, but…you’re right. She could very well be here now.”

Nell scanned the faces of the women and girls they passed, looking for any who matched the description given in Flora Brent’s health records.

“What should we do?” Effie asked.

“We should shop,” Nell said decisively.

Effie smiled. “An excellent idea.”

They walked to a fruit stand with a large selection of shiny red apples and bright yellow lemons. From there, to the vegetable stand (where a man was loudly proclaiming the quality of his cauliflowers), and on to the stalls of a flower seller and a butcher. At each stop, as they perused the seller’s wares, Nell and Effie discreetly examined the faces of the other customers and those of the people lingering nearby.

Most appeared to be humble working folk—women with raw hands and men with perspiration-stained collars. They talked loudly among one another, uninhibited by the presence of strangers.

While Effie dutifully purchased apples, a head of cauliflower, a bunch of roses, and a cut of meat, Nell listened to whatever fragmented scraps of conversation floated her way.

“—new mangle would cut my washing work—”

“—enough to buy a nice roast for Sunday dinner—”

“—could grow them myself if I had a proper garden—”

“—drank his wages again, the useless sod—”

“—not fit for a dog, I told him, but what choice had I—”

It wasn’t until Nell and Effie ventured to a baker’s stall that their efforts finally paid off.

Two stout older women carrying baskets were conversing together as a gray-bearded man in an apron readied their order.

“She’s a good Christian soul, is Mrs. Davenant,” one of the women said to the other. “Taking a girl in off the street, what might cut her throat in her sleep.”

“The girl ain’t that sort,” the other replied. “I’ve seen her myself. She’s a highborn little lady.”

The first woman gave a scornful cackle. “A highborn little lady working as a scullery maid in Whitechapel Road?”

“Fallen on hard times, hasn’t she? A love affair gone wrong, so’s I heard. The girl’s parents cast her out.”

The first woman accepted three loaves of bread from the baker. “Haven’t we got enough of our own seeking work without paying wages to gentlemen’s daughters?”

“That’s old widow Davenant for you. Mark my words, she’ll train the girl up as a proper parlor maid. Lend her a bit of countenance, won’t it? Having a maid announce callers what sounds like the Princess Royal.”

The two ladies burst into laughter as they departed the stall.

Nell stared after them. Old widow Davenant in Whitechapel Road. Could it be possible? “A new scullery maid with accents like the Princess Royal,” she murmured just loud enough for Effie to hear. “Do you suppose…?”

“Do I suppose what?”

“That rather than hiding, Miss Brent has found herself a job?”

Effie looked back at Nell intently. “Resourceful, indeed,” she said. “It’s worth investigating.”