sulphur. Not much we can do but remove their teeth.”

“He’s missing an arm as well,” I said.

“Can’t find work that way, can he? We’re the only ones who’ll take in people like him.”

As I looked around, I saw that all of the workers—men and women, with a handful of children as well—had some sort of infirmity. Missing limbs, deformed facial features, club feet. The heat of the room pressed hard on me as I watched them work.

“How much do you pay them?” I asked.

“We take care of them, madam,” Mr. Majors said. “Like I was telling you, their families give us their benefit. It’s a service we’re providing, you see.”

“The government pays relief to families who keep their afflicted members at home,” Colin said. “It keeps them from the workhouse and is cheaper in the end, I suppose.”

“We give them medical care, too,” Mr. Majors said. “Come see.”

We followed him again, out of the main workroom, and I nearly retched when we crossed into what he called the infirmary. Rickety cots, their linens worn and dirty, were pushed so close together there was no space for a nurse to walk between them—not that there was a nurse anywhere to be seen. Every makeshift bed was full, and the stench in here were worse than that of the sulphur and phosphorus. This place smelled of death and decay, of blood and urine. Our presence was greeted with barely coherent moans as the patients struggled to sit up and reach for us. I didn’t need to understand their words to know they needed help.

“Back down, the lot of you,” Mr. Majors said, prodding the man nearest to him with his stick. “Leave your betters alone.”

“Don’t touch him,” Colin said, his voice sharp. “Take us to Dobson and Florence.”

Mr. Majors looked unimpressed. “As you will have it. But they won’t be of any use to you, any more than they’re of any use to me. I should throw them on the street after what they’ve done.”

“You know what they’ve done?” I asked.

“They had a little holiday, didn’t they? Sure enough got tangled up with Scotland Yard at the end, but it was a holiday, too. What makes you so interested? They take some of your fine jewels?”

“Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Colin said. “We’re here on Crown business. You’ll have enough trouble coming your way without standing in the way of my purpose.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Mr. Majors said. “I’m running a fine establishment here. You seen a workhouse lately?”

Colin didn’t reply, but glared at the man, who scurried along, leading us to a room directly above the one in which his employees made the matches. It was identical in size and shape, but instead of vats over fires and rows of dipping slabs, here were miserable little piles of bedding, laundry hanging from lines strung from wall to wall, and wobbly tables covered with the remains of what must have been a deeply unsatisfying luncheon.

“This is where they live?” I asked, searching the space for Dobson and Florence.

“They’re right there,” Mr. Majors said, motioning to two huddled figures in a corner. “Only useless toe rags not working.” He crossed over to them and poked Dobson with his stick. “Back to work.” His voice was loud although he knew the man couldn’t hear him. “Now!”

The pair stood up, shirked when they saw us, and scuttled to the stairs.

“I don’t like what you’re doing here,” Colin said. “You’re exploiting these people.”

“I keep saying—”

“I don’t want to hear about the workhouse,” Colin said, taking Mr. Majors firmly by the lapels. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

He pushed the round little man against the wall, took me firmly by the arm, and steered me back into the street.

“You’re never coming here again,” he said.

*   *   *

Agitation and despair had consumed me by the time we’d exited the building. We started to walk, both of us filled with rage at what Mr. Majors was doing. What had seemed an endless trek on the way there passed almost too quickly on our return. We’d reached the steps of St. Paul’s and I still hadn’t calmed down enough to speak. Though the day was warm, my teeth were chattering, so upset was I. How could anyone live in such conditions? How had I lived so long without being aware of how bad life could be? I pulled Colin into the church, needing an infusion of peace and beauty. We sat in silence close to the altar for three quarters of an hour, each of us mired in the darkness of what we’d seen. What could one do in such circumstances other than pray?

Take notes, apparently. Colin was scribbling furiously in his book.

“Ready to go home?” he asked, placing a tender hand on my arm. “I need to find out more about Mr. Majors’s factory.”

“Of course,” I said, but didn’t rise to my feet. “We have to do something, Colin. We can’t let those poor people stay there. It’s … it’s … I don’t care what it entails. I don’t care if we have to take them into our home. Now that I’ve seen them, I cannot go on as if my world is the same as it was yesterday.”

“I understand, Emily. But there’s only so much we can do. Countless people live in similar conditions.”

“How can you live, knowing that and doing nothing?” I asked.

He kept his eyes steady on mine. I remembered how, when we first met, this had unnerved me. Now I found it soothing. “I work to make the world more just. You’re doing that now, too.”

“But it’s not helping those people.”

“Change comes slowly,” he said. “Especially when it comes to social justice.”

“There must be more we can do,” I said. “We have so much money.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Can’t we fund a home for them? Something that delivers on the promises Mr. Majors made to those families?”

“We can,” he said. “But it will make a very small dent in the problem.”

“It’s better than no dent at all,” I said. “I want to do something concrete that will make an immediate difference in their lives.”

“I’ll help you arrange it,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I love you, Emily. And I love your compassion.”

15

Colin headed straight for Scotland Yard after dropping me home. I retired to the library, pulled down my copy of Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s The Venetians, and tried to settle in for a good read. Davis had opened the French doors in the back of the room, and the delicious breeze coming through them drew me to a chair with a beautiful view of our garden. It was a relief to have a break from the oppressive heat of the past weeks, but I couldn’t escape a pang of guilt for enjoying these pleasant surroundings when I knew how those in the East End were living. I rang for a cup of tea and, after a few false starts, lost myself in our heroine’s adventures.

So absorbed was I that I did not hear Davis enter the room. Nor, so he tells me, did I stir when he spoke. Nor when he stood two feet in front of me. It was only when he shook my shoulder that I looked up, still half in the dreamy world of reading, and saw him before me.

“Mr. Dalton has sent an urgent message for Mr. Hargreaves, madam. His man is waiting for your reply, which I told him is all he can have at the moment as the master is not at home.”

I tore open the linen envelope and read: Cordelia is gone. Please come at once.

I slammed shut the book and rushed to the Daltons’ waiting carriage. Their house was in an uproar. A parlor maid answered the door and moaned that she didn’t know where Mr. Dalton was. The valet who’d summoned me berated her for her lack of decorum. I left them to argue and began to look for the family in the first-floor drawing rooms. Eventually, the butler found me—or I found him—and directed me to his master’s study, where Cordelia’s parents had sequestered themselves.

Her mother, wearing black in deference to her daughter’s mourning, sat stick-straight on an overstuffed

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