Tired and chilled to the bone, she moved to the cupboard and began to prepare the supper vegetables and meat. She wished there was not laundry to do. It had been such a long and difficult day.
Then a thought came that lifted her spirits somewhat. With the marriage—and the move to the country—she would no longer need to tramp the dull back streets of London each day, calling out her wares. For that much she could be thankful.
She added coal to the kitchen stove. With the warmth of the fire cooking the evening meal and bending over heated scrub water, she was sure to feel warm again before long. She almost welcomed the thought of plunging her hands into the hot suds. She hastened to get the meat on to cook.
“I know that Mama said you didn’t know Mr. Withers because you are never home when he calls,” said Bridget after they had retired that night.
Kathleen nodded silently into the darkness.
“But do you know what I think?” went on the younger girl. “I think Mama doesn’t want you to know him.”
Kathleen stirred restlessly.
“Or—that Mama didn’t want him to know you—I’m not sure which,” went on the young girl candidly.
“What do you mean?” asked Kathleen.
“Well, either Mama was afraid that he’d think you pretty or—”
Kathleen couldn’t believe the girl’s ridiculous statement, but young Bridget hurried on. “Mama has always been jealous of you, you know. Papa often said that you looked like—like your mama, and—well, my mama didn’t like it. She feared he preferred—”
“That’s ridiculous!” Kathleen cut in quickly.
“You might say so—but it’s true,” Bridget insisted. And then she added, quite unknowing of how deeply her words hurt her older sister, “But of course she is also ashamed of your limp. She has always been afraid that someone will think you are her child, and she doesn’t want a—a—cripple. She seems to fear that a man will think there is something wrong with her. That she might—might mother another child in—in even worse condition. I think that’s the real reason she made sure that Mr. Withers has never had the opportunity to meet you. She keeps saying to him—oh, I’ve heard her myself, ‘There are four of us. I have three children.’ And she presents us just as though that’s all there are.”
There was silence.
“Kathleen? Have you fallen asleep while I’m talking?” Bridget asked into the darkness.
“No,” came the soft reply.
“Why don’t you answer?” prompted her half sister.
“What should I say?” responded Kathleen. Indeed, it seemed that the plans for the future had been made with no thought given to her.
“When we move—” began Bridget, but Kathleen interrupted.
“When you move,” she corrected. “Sure now, can’t you see, Bridget? There are no plans for me to move with you.”
Bridget stirred beside her in the darkness. Kathleen heard the sharp intake of breath and was sure the younger girl had not fully understood the situation before.
“I won’t go without you,” Bridget declared, her hand reaching out to grasp the arm of Kathleen’s nightgown. “I won’t.” Her voice rose sharply, and Kathleen feared that her outburst would awaken the woman who slept just beyond the thin wall.
“Sh-h-h,” she cautioned.
“Well, I won’t.”
“Sh-h-h,” Kathleen said again, and her own hand went out to rest on the younger girl’s flanneled shoulder.
“What will you do?” Bridget finally asked, a sob in her voice.
“I have my job,” said Kathleen with more assurance than she felt.
“But where would you live?”
It was a question Kathleen could not answer, but she tried to keep her voice controlled as she responded with seemingly little concern. “There are places. Lots of places.” But even as she said the words, she knew she could afford none of them on a hawker’s pennies.
“When is the wedding—?” she began.
“Mama’s? The end of the month. We will stay here until then. I heard Mr. Withers and Mama making their plans. He will send a carriage for our things and on the day of the wedding—”
But Kathleen wished to hear no more.
“We must get some sleep,” she told the younger girl. “I was late for work this morning—and I don’t want to be late again. I will need to be up early to get breakfast on.”
The younger girl did not respond. Kathleen patted her arm in the darkness to let her know that she was not upset with her, then rolled over onto her side to try to get some much-needed sleep.
The minutes ticked slowly by.
In the darkness Bridget stirred.
“Kathleen,” came a whisper at last. “I really meant it. I don’t want to go without you.”
“You may have no choice,” Kathleen responded without turning over. “Madam gives the orders.”
As Kathleen lay beneath the blankets, the even breathing of Bridget telling her that the younger girl was asleep, her troubled thoughts would not allow her the luxury. “What will I do? What will I do?” her brain kept repeating. The posting she had seen that morning suddenly intruded on her thinking.
“If I only had two good legs I wouldn’t hesitate for a minute,” she dared to think. “Surely my situation in the Americas couldn’t become any worse than it is here.”
But even as she entertained the thoughts, she wasn’t sure of her bold statements. Maybe there were worse situations. At least she had Bridget and Charles and the spoiled young Edmund. At least she had a roof over her head and a warm bed at night. At last sleep claimed her in spite of her troubled thoughts.
Morning came all too soon, and Kathleen was reluctant to climb from the warm bed and stoke up the fire in order to make the breakfast porridge.
She was busy in the kitchen when the door opened and Madam herself appeared. She was enveloped in a warm, new-looking robe, her cheeks void of their usual rouge and her hair wrapped in bits of rag curlers.
“I know you must be wondering about your circumstance,” the older woman began without preamble. “You have two choices. I don’t wish to dictate your fate. After all, you are not my child.” Nor my responsibility hung unspoken but unmistakable in the air between them. She hesitated ever so slightly.
“If you wish to come with us to the countryside,” she continued, “I’m sure we will be able to find some position for you as household staff. You are quite useful in the kitchen. Mr. Withers would be willing, I am quite sure, to accommodate a—a family serving girl.”
The words stung Kathleen but she held her tongue.
“Or—if you wish to remain in London—you have your job. No doubt the baker will allow you to continue to work for him.”
Kathleen still said nothing—just stirred the porridge round and round with the heavy wooden ladle.
The woman muffled a yawn. “There,” she said, as if she had discharged all obligations. “It will be up to you.” Then she turned and started from the room.
“I feel particularly weary this morning,” she said as she left. “I won’t be up for breakfast. Have Charles bring my tea and porridge to my room.”
Kathleen continued to stir—looking deep into the porridge pot as though searching for an answer to her problem.
Her feet slowed as she walked by the posting, but she did not intend to stop. She knew the words by heart anyway. “Ladies! The opportunity of a lifetime.”
Her eyes glanced at the words as she moved to pass by. Then she hesitated. Had it indicated anything about when one must decide? She stopped just long enough to glance over the words one more time to try to catch a date. She saw none.