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Chapter Eight
Following her literal and figurative nocturnal awakening, Clara rose earlier than usual. The sun climbed over London, working to penetrate the persistent smog.
Upon wakening, she remembered instantly. It was the first day of her quest!
On Friday, she met with friends to ride or take a constitutional. Usually, she enjoyed quiet parks. On the infrequent occasions she craved a social setting, she tolerated the crowds at Hyde Park, riding through the ionic columned gate at the entrance.
This week, she had no arrangements in place.Like a giddy child, Clara kicked her legs under the blankets.She slid from the bed and tugged on the cord of the tasseled bell pull to summon Molly.
Her maid’s eyes were enormous when she entered the chamber. “My lady, are you well?”
“Yes. I arose early this morning, that’s all. I’m keen to start the day.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid pulled the servant bell three times, then moved over to the carved wardrobe. “The fern walking suit?”
“Not today. I’ve decided to visit the library.”
“Today is Friday, my lady.”
“So it is.”
Clara couldn’t fault Molly for pausing, confused, on her way to the wardrobe. Her life was highly regimented, with little reason to deviate.
“I’ll wear the scarlet and charcoal pinstripe. And the red cloak.” She added the last, remembering her need of a hood for privacy.
Clara pretended to read while Molly assembled her unmentionables. A lower maid knocked before entering. Molly murmured to her to make sure that breakfast was being readied.
While Molly hummed and combed out her hair from its loose night plaits, Clara sat impatiently at the mirror, fighting not to toy with the pearl drop earrings on the table. It was usually a soothing and enjoyable part of her toilette, but today she was eager to finish. Molly replaited her hair and twisted it into a coil.
Her breakfast was ready when she entered the dining room. Cook prepared a plate for her, rather than serving on the sideboard, as would be done for a family.
“Good morning, my lady,” intoned Loudon.
Clara saw his serious face in double; the gleaming silver pot reflected his image as he poured steaming chocolate into her cup.
Having barely supped the evening before, she consumed her eggs, bacon, bread, and fish with enthusiasm. It was dreadfully early, barely nine o’clock. Were she visiting anyone else, she’d wait hours before it was decent to call. The Violet House caretakers, the Pyles, would find her visit no more or less strange at this hour than later.
Unable to wait, Clara signaled to Loudon to have the carriage readied. She smiled all the way to Burgess’ Select Library on New Oxford Street.
“You may return for me in three hours’ time,” she informed the footman after he assisted her down.
When Burgess’s had moved to its new, larger location near the British Museum, it offered the perfect cover for her visits to Violet House. She maintained a subscription there to feed her voracious reading habit, but she didn’t spend the hours socializing and browsing that she portrayed to her servants.
As always, she entered and waited for her carriage to leave. Once clear, she stepped back out, and hailed a hansom cab to spirit her to Soho. The journey, less than a mile, was fast in the light vehicle. It could accommodate only two passengers—or one lady in a bell-shaped skirt.
She paid the driver his eightpence fare, handing it up through the trap door behind her. He pushed the lever to open the doors and she stepped down gingerly—by herself! However many times she’d done it now, the independence was thrilling.
Clara rapped at the door of Violet House. Mr. Pyle answered, his caterpillar eyebrows rising toward his balding head, but he stepped back to admit her.
She and Stella were fortunate to employ Wallace and Doris Pyle. Mr. Pyle spent many years in the Royal Navy serving as a loblolly boy, the ship surgeon’s assistant. Mrs. Pyle had worked for a midwife.
Combined, their extensive experience in caring for patients and managing stocks of medicinals was a treasure trove for Violet House. The Pyles handled the day-to-day care of the residents, along with the staff.
Clara lowered the hood of her cloak after the front door closed. “Is Mrs. Pyle at liberty to speak with me for a moment?”
Mr. Pyle grunted.
“Please tell her I await her in the sewing room,” she requested with a small smile.
