But this morning her attention was riveted on the personal letter placed on the counter before her. What was so different about this envelope, she asked herself? The paper quality was the same as was the franking, yet her heart was racing with apprehension.
It was the way Lucas had written her name and the address; a little too wild, loops entangling and punctuation erratic. As if the joy and excitement that always comprised Lucas’s letters lately had been exchanged for speed.
Ettie took the knife from the drawer and slipped its tip beneath the fold.
Just one sheet fell out. The address. The date. A paragraph. A scrawled signature.
‘Dearest Ettie, I cannot write more than a few words. I am here, seated in the shadow of the towering mountains on the chaise longue, but Clara is not here today. She has been taken to the hospital wing of the sanatoria. Since June she has been a little unwell. Dr Ruegg has called in the very best specialists. I felt confident in their judgements and was positive of mind until yesterday when Clara had a painful spasm. In the night, another pain took her. Early this morning, Dr Ruegg and the specialists attended. I write in order to ask for your prayers, to the God in whom you have such faith and who has answered you before. I am not a brave man. I am weak with fear. Pray for our dear Clara, Ettie, and for our little one. Your miserable friend, Lucas Benjamin.’
Ettie did not read the words again for they were too heart-wrenching. Instead she returned the letter to its envelope and for a few minutes more sat on the stool, her hands clasped together in prayer as Lucas had requested. But soon the first customer arrived, a young gentleman from a city office requiring swift attention.
When Terence called the next day with half a dozen freshly laid hen’s eggs still warm on the straw, for the first time Ettie showed little enthusiasm.
‘You’ve not been right since your visit to Poplar,’ he complained as she brewed the tea. ‘Are you still grieving?’
‘No, Terence. After all, what’s to grieve about? Buildings are nothing, really. It’s people that count.’
‘It was your home an’ all. Burned to cinders.’
‘I have a good home here.’ Ever since receiving Lucas’s letter, Ettie had not thought about the convent, or Sister Patrick and Sister Ukunda or even the crucifix that was now hanging on the wall above the baby’s crib. Her head had been full of Lucas, Clara and the baby and what was happening all those many miles away in Switzerland.
She showed the letter to Terence. He read it and looked up at her, a frown on his forehead. ‘So the mistress is ailing?’
Ettie nodded. ‘The thought that she might be ill again and with Lucas so miserable, well, it upsets me.’
‘Now, now, lass, chin up.’
‘Do you think the baby is suffering?’
‘Dear me, no. Mother and child are in the best of hands. Specialists an’ all. The tobacconist said so, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but Clara isn’t strong. And the baby …’
‘The best you can do for ‘em,’ Terence interrupted, ‘is say them prayers of yours. Over and over, say them. Just like you was asked.’
Ettie attempted to smile. ‘I’ll try, Terence.’
‘If I could say prayers, I’d join you. But me mind wanders like. Goes off at a tangent. Best thing I can do is ask my Gladys. She’s nearer to the Gov’nor than I am.’
They drank their tea together as usual, but this time Ettie found little to say and Terence even less.
That night Ettie said her prayers for the family as she knelt in the nursery under the crucifix. They were very intense, just as her prayers for the orphans had been. And the thought crossed her mind as she climbed into bed – a thought she felt guilty for even thinking – that despite all her praying, life had brought a catastrophe along one day and eased it briefly the next, only to repeat the cycle again.
Lucas’s next letter arrived only a week later and it sent her into a complete panic. Without putting on her bonnet, she ran down Silver Street, all the way to the butcher’s, where Terence was hanging out his rows of dead fowl. The late July sunshine was beginning to fry the cobbled streets, already stinking and fly-ridden.
‘Lord love us, what’s up?’ Terence asked when he saw her, an expression of alarm on his face.
‘Terence, I’ve had another letter from Mr Benjamin.’
‘It’s not his missus, is it?’ He pushed his grubby fingers over his dirty apron, then took a rag and wiped each one. ‘Or the baby?’
‘No, it’s not about my mistress or the baby,’ Ettie faltered. ‘Well, not directly, although it concerns the money …’
Terence held up his hand. ’Stop there a minute, lass. What money?’
Ettie felt her stomach drop. In order to ask for Terence’s help, which was the only way to carry out Lucas’s wishes, she would have to reveal her secret. But her mind still replayed the scenes of terrible mischief that had been done to her by Gwen and Lily. What if Terence had befriended her in order to wait until the day when he would learn something to his advantage?
‘Ah, don’t answer, my dear,’ said Terence before she could reply. ‘If it’s got to do with shekels or politics my advice is to keep schtum. Steer clear of two subjects that always get people’s heckles up.’
‘But Terence, I’m
