Page 5 of The Marquess of Secrets

Besides, what were the chances John Huntsford was even looking for her? Yet, the loathsome man was vindictive enough to hunt her down. There was nothing else for it; she must keep moving.

Wiping her runny nose with her tattered sleeve, she headed toward Stepney High Street.

At last, the medieval tower of the centuries-old church came into view, and she nearly cried from relief. Next to it was an archway made of brick, covered by large wooden doors with a sign declaring “keep out.”

Did she come all this way for nothing?

Lydia’s heart sank until she observed people entering and exiting by moving aside, then replacing a few loose boards.

Tentatively, she did the same. Numerous torches in holders lit the way. Lydia ambled along the tunnel a short distance, and it opened up in what would have been the platform area. Beyond the platform is where they halted the work. There was no more brick, and the dirt walls were shored up by massive timbers. On the crudely-made wood platform were six brick columns. The nuns kept their workstations in and around the columns.

Pallets filled every bit of the ground, and two wood stoves were throwing a good deal of heat with two large cauldrons sitting on top of them. Here in the dimly-lit tunnel were the dregs of society: lost, lonely, impoverished people with no one in the world or no place to live.

The place was crowded. There were many castaways in whose number she could count herself. The sight saddened her.

Despite the workhouses and debtor prisons, many people wound up living on the streets when all else in life had failed them. Or in her particular case, when horrible life choices brought one as low as one could possibly sink.

Shivering, Lydia had no idea where to go.

One of the Anglican nuns saw her swaying on her feet and rushed forward to take her arm. “I’m Sister Monica. Come, warm yourself by the stove.”

Lydia wanted to cry but was so weak and weary she couldn’t even summon the tears.

“Along with me, four other nuns here trained under Florence Nightingale in the Crimea. So we know what we’re about,” Sister Monica continued.

The nun, who looked to be in her early sixties, had a kindly face, her voice firm and soft with empathy. “Take a seat on this bench.”

Still clasping her small bundle, Lydia moaned as waves of warmth rolled over her from the nearby stove, immediately chasing away the worst of the chill.

“I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. How long have you been living on the streets?” the nun asked.

“I-I ran out of money four days past. I’ve been sleeping in alleys.”

“You don’t look well at all. Are you what is considered an ‘unfortunate woman?’”

It took Lydia’s sluggish mind several moments to work out what the nun meant.

No, she had not taken money for sex thus far. Though it may become her last resort. It was no wonder so many poor women—and men—turned to prostitution. Lydia made a vow never to look down on anyone in such a circumstance ever again.

“Not as yet,” she whispered.

“I ask to determine if you’re suffering from maladies of the trade. I will fetch you a bowl of broth. First, I will explain the rules of this underground sanctuary. This terminus is temporary; you cannot stay here permanently. This is, literally, the end of the line. From here, the only option is the workhouse, or if deemed ill enough, one of the infirmaries. Or you can allow us to find you honest work for you to regain a footing into society.”

Regain a footing into society.

Not likely, not after what she’d done.

Lydia nodded. At this point, she would agree to anything in order to stay sitting by the fire with a bowl of watery broth.

“Good. Doctor Damian will be along directly to see you. He’ll decide how long you will remain here.”

Damian. She never caught on to the name. “The patron saint of physicians?”

“Oh, are you Catholic?” Sister Monica asked.

“If I am, does that mean I cannot stay?”

“Nonsense,” the nun huffed. “There are no denominations here. Only those in need.”