Other than for the faint ticking of the brass mantle clock resting upon the console table to their left, the small parlor remained eerily quiet. No discussion passed between the room's sole occupants as one shifted through a collection of papers while the other nursed a cup of green tea in her hand. It was a touch weak, and its grassy flavor offered her little appeal, yet she had graciously accepted it nevertheless. It was only polite, and it was something other than the usual Bohea she managed to afford. In the very least, the man sitting in the button-back accent chair alongside her had brewed it himself as she had watched on, so she knew it wasn't drugged—though she dared not touch the bread and butter laid aside, instead blaming her lack of appetite on a late, mid-morning collation.
"And you said your name was… Miss Abigail Turner, was it?" questioned Fergus Cotter, master of the workhouse. His voice startled her from her inspection of the sparsely decorated chamber to bring her attention back on him.
"Correct." Nicole gave a gentle smile as the fib poured from her lips with disgraceful ease—setting the teacup upon its saucer and the table before her. No earthly force would ever have made her divulge her real name. As far as anyone else was concerned, Nicole Abott was visiting a friend whose husband had chosen to immigrate their family to the States: She had the falsified, self-written letter to prove it.
The hands that returned the papers to her own grasp were rough from years of hard work and marred by burn scars. The chestnut eyes that finally met hers were filled with more than a decade's worth of experience over her own brief time upon the earth. When he grinned it always seemed forced, as though he did so only for the sake of company though in truth he may have taken no real joy in anyone's presence. Middle-aged, unmarried, and with a large number of people to tend to, he was a man of few words beyond necessity—that much she could tell. Despite this, however, he had thus far made an effort to be pleasant. "I see you lack no sense in preparation. I'm certain that the children will be well managed in your hands."
Though she could've registered as a denizen of the workhouse, it had truly been a piece of good fortune that a job had recently opened as a schoolteacher. Though it paid less than a usual tutor might have made, it was a blessing she hadn't questioned when the opportunity arose. As such she would have more time for her investigation, along with more freedom than those given no choice but to stay and slave their hours there. While she otherwise might've been ruled by a curfew, no one would easily wonder over her late hours in assumption of her grading papers or preparing for the classroom's next lesson.
"Thank you, though I must admit I'm surprised by there even being such work available here. I don't suspect it common for a workhouse to offer a decent education for its occupants."
For a moment, a glimmer of pride appeared within his stare. "It is the responsibility of a workhouse to aid those unable to care for themselves and make those that potentially can be able. I find it disappointing to allow those young still whittle their years in places as these when they could be making fit contributions to society." His own cup of tea was raised to his lips, his eyes narrowing as his gaze focused upon the warm liquid.
How strange those words seemed, and yet they fit in place all the same. 'Blessed be the poor' stood as a common ideal amongst the majority of London's higher classes, or if not then the belief in simply minding one's spending as a cure for poverty was most favored. Others would say the poor never tried for an education and thereby a better living, but then society more often than not refused the means for them to obtain either. Large families forced to share a one or two room home with filthy water and other unsanitary conditions, long work hours dictated by a strict enforcement of labor and little pay, children falling asleep in their seats during what few opportunities they had to attend school: These were but the typical struggles of the lower class.
Workhouses, built though they were to aid the destitute, often gave the least of opportunities for a poor man, and that was what she found most surprising of Cotter's words. More than anything, it was akin to a prison for those who truly had no other manner of survival. Residents were divided amongst themselves by age and gender—a married couple may not see one another nor their children save for perhaps an hour a day at best—and those of able body earned their keep through hard labor. They earned no more than what would assure them a meal for the day and a bed for the night, thus they remained trapped in their misfortune.
Yet she was instructed to be ready to teach not merely one, but two large classes of children divided by the youngest and the eldest: One in the morning, the other in the afternoon, so both groups might attend to their lessons and their daily work. The charity and sensibility that had gone into such a plan of study by the master was astonishing…
"I find we're blessed to have found someone as yourself. Proper tutors are sorely lacking for our sort of institution," he continued, though his features returned to their usual bland expression and made it difficult to tell whether or not his comment was sincere. "Our previous schoolteacher… Well, you're bound to hear it—good chap as he was, I fear something ailed his mind. He left us suddenly, even abandoning some of his books in his haste. You're free to use them until he makes a call for their return, naturally."
That held her interest. Workhouse teachers often only stayed for a few months before moving on, but that was because of the conditions they endured. A teacher going mad… Most, if not all, workhouses contained a designated area specified for those with mental illnesses: Would it not have been more logical to have one of their own doctors to tend to him, or else have him sent to another establishment for similar care, rather than have allowed him to journey off on his own? "Poor dear… I do hope he receives the necessary help. What ailed him so?" she prodded, maintain a composer of worry as she all but moved to the edge of her seat in desire for the smallest piece of information.
"He grew paranoid. I'm not quite certain how, but he claimed to be hearing things outside of the classroom—yet I'm not sure what it might've been. It was once an infirmary, but besides that classroom, all that has otherwise occupied the building for some time now is the elderly. And all the other rooms are used for on the second floor besides that one is storage. Though we have, of course, set aside a room for you as well." Cotter rose to his feet—pausing a moment to retrieve an old pocket-watch from inside his waistcoat, read the time, and return it soon after. "We recently constructed a new infirmary block just west of us a few years ago: We haven't the materials or the funds to build a schoolhouse, thus we've made do with one of the spare rooms. If you'll follow me, please, I'll show you to the classroom post-haste."
He was already at the door by the time she had set her cup down and risen from her seat. Taking what small baggage she had brought with her, she followed him out into the long corridor that stretched from the workmen's quarters to the receiving ward. Afterward, it was a short walk outside to the building that would be her temporary workplace and temporary residence.
Near the front of it, a sort of shop had been fashioned for miscellaneous goods—whittled or stitched by hand. As Cotter took notice of her own observations, he explained, "Trinkets made by your new neighbors. Best have them apply themselves in some manner. Better than putting them to more grueling tasks or allowing them to waste away like prisoners."
"You've given them a creative outlet," she offered as he held the door open for her and motioned her inside.
"Exactly," he grinned, stepping in behind her. "Now, Miss Turner—and I pray you won't find this rude of me—but you should know that some of the other occupants may experience… outbursts, in the night. It's nothing for you to concern yourself with: I would implore you to leave all matters to their caretakers."
His words were thinly veiled, and she answered without bothering to conceal the meaning in hers. "You must pardon me if I speak with any vanity, but you'll find I'm a fair bit too doughty to be frightened away by strange noises."
"I like to hear that." He gave a single nod. "A person of a stalwart nature like that is always well received. Though some may frown upon it, Miss Turner, I am a resolute believer in Social Darwinism. Those that shall thrive in our society shall thrive from their own strengths. If you can pass on the sort of strength you carry to the children, I will proclaim you a scholar worth as great a mark as any man that walked through the gates of Cambridge."
Nicole returned the gesture, but soon after turned her head and said nothing. While she didn't agree with the concept, she did feel it was something that grew increasingly prevalent. With each day and night bearing the question of survival, her work as a vigilante—and as a resident in London's East End—made it impossible for her to deny it entirely. The strongest survived by crushing those beneath them while the weakest scrambled for rotten vegetables and spare coins in the alleys. I doubt such was what Charles Darwin had envisioned during his studies on evolution though, she thought to herself in silence.
No further discussion was made for the remainder of their brief journey, thus Nicole was left the cradle her own musings and the growing sense of unease that tickled along the slope of her back. At a glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary: Fair efforts for sanitation were evident just as in the main building, the rooms they passed possessed a calm atmosphere, and people grinned in a friendly manner as they walked by. All of this, however, was what unsettled her. Those smiles were as natural as could be, she felt certain of that much, but it felt all too likely that they were born of something too good to be true.
Then again, perhaps that nutter sent me on a wild-goose chase simply for his own amusement, she pondered as she fought off a scowl. It seemed just as likely so that the Undertaker would go to such lengths to tease her—even if it meant facing her outrage upon her return. There had been no evidence elsewhere warranting her own suspicion: Her lead relied solely on the mortician's word. She might have shown more hesitance toward this particular job of hers were it not for his earnest manner of speaking and the fact that he had, thus far, never lied to her.
Down the hall, up a creaking wooden stairwell, and a few steps later, she found herself peering into a room that was nearly three times in length what it was in width. The only source of lighting appeared to be from the six windows that lined it. Row after row of benches, chairs, and tables—various in their simple designs and worn from age—lined it from front to back. There was a line of four bookshelves that leveled to her shoulder, but sadly what books where there could barely fill one and many of the publications seemed tattered from lack of care. A fairly new chalkboard had been set into the wall at her left, and several slates covered the students' desks. In the nearest corner on the opposing wall of the door, a pinewood desk and chair had been placed aside for her own use. Beyond a collection of papers left behind by the previous schoolteacher, a vase of wildflowers also rested on its surface.
"Though they're hard at work for the day, the children wanted you to feel welcome," Cotter smiled, handing her a key and gesturing toward a door opposing the classroom. "You should have every necessity—there's a few spare blankets in a trunk by your bed should you need them. The communal washroom is downstairs. As I previously mentioned, breakfast is at half past seven and your first class begins at nine, so I will leave you for the remainder of the day so you may settle in and prepare. If you have any concerns, feel free to consult me." Then, with barely an adieu, he was gone.
For a moment, Nicole did nothing. She remained silently where she was and listened closely for any disturbance. Yet there was none—not even the bustle of activity that flourished mid-day. Elderly or not, they had been given their own tasks to complete and it was nearly time for dinner. With a raised brow, stepping with such a light tread so not a single board would moan beneath her, she moved into the classroom and paused nearby the schoolteacher's desk—sliding her baggage by her feet. Nothing. All remained quiet.
Perhaps the workhouse's previous educator truly had gone 'round the bend, but she gave nothing to such chances. Were he sane, whatever he heard would have to carry above the usual noise. She hadn't ventured to ask what sort of things he might have heard, but Cotter had given her a fair clue by remarking on the occasional 'outbursts' she was to ignore.
Beyond supper, she had the evening to herself. She could explore the grounds, or question the inmates and other employees. By eight o'clock, most would have retired, and she would have the workhouse as her own to roam.
She wanted to return to London as quickly as possible, but settled for taking her time. She was a new face in an isolated world: If she brought attention to herself too early, it would give room for suspicion. Thus, for the being, she would give the people here time to grow accustomed to her presence.
Just as her hand fell habitually over her blade, an uproarious course of laughter shattered through the stillness. She flinched, but continued to listen in silence until it had dwindled back to nothing. The sound had been natural, just as the smiles had been.
Something was wrong with the workhouse.