The next day, Eliza returned to her same spot in the park; this time, her basket was overflowing with apples and sandwiches – none of which she was able to enjoy, as her roster increased from three children (Kenny, Rosie, and Judith) to six (William, Margaret, and Pete). Her riches increased that day, in return. She was now in possession of a comb with several missing teeth; a paper bag containing three jelly babies; a battered issue of The Dandy; a penny-sized piece of rose quartz; a paste gemstone; and the glass eye from a baby doll.
The day after, the weather was foul, so Eliza sought refuge in her bedroom in order to complete her studies; and in the evening, Henry and Colonel Pickering popped in for dinner. The Colonel was absolutely charmed to hear Eliza recount her lessons with the Battersea Park children over cake and coffee.
"You've become quite rich," Henry teased, as he held the doll's eye aloft and examined it as though it were a diamond.
"They claim they'll be bringing more friends the next fair day; soon I'll have enough money to take on a very fashionable flat."
Eliza expressed her anxieties about the upcoming winter months; how she feared the children would not have enough to eat, and how the coal stove at their school had still not been replaced.
"Find out the name of the school at once," Pickering ordered. "I'll be sure to give them an endowment."
Eliza beamed at this news, her eyes misting over slightly.
"Oh, you're a picture of goodness, Colonel."
"I shall make a donation as well," Mrs. Higgins announced, before giving her son a pointed look, as he obliviously slurped his coffee. When the signal was not received, she gave him a sharp kick under the table. Henry yelped and slammed his cup onto the saucer.
"Yes, damn it, I'll open up my pocketbook for Eliza's little Irregulars, if it will make her happy." His tone was cantankerous, but his eyes were soft as they met hers from across the table.
"It will," Eliza replied primly, with a satisfied little smile. If it will make her happy - goodness, now the man openly admitted that her happiness mattered – it was enough to make a girl feel quite smug indeed.
The rest of the evening continued pleasantly, despite the freezing rain that rattled the windows; and Eliza soon found herself on the parlor sofa, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mrs. Higgins as the woman opened the family photo album – Henry and Pickering had retreated to the billiards room, determined to wait out the rain before returning home.
"What a pretty baby," Eliza sighed, when Mrs. Higgins proudly revealed Henry's infant photograph. He had been a beautiful boy, all cherubic cheeks, dimpled arms, and curly hair.
"Fat and greedy," Mrs. Higgins murmured, her expression soft and dreamy, as though she were traveling back in time. "And here's my daughter, Lillian, named for my dear mother. She's the youngest by a bit; you'll see her at Christmas with her husband and her children."
Eliza was astonished, Henry had not mentioned having a sibling, and she had known him for the better part of a year. Another baby photograph pulled her attention – the child was clearly neither Henry or Lillian; this one had darker hair, straight where the others had a definite curl. The maternal glow in Mrs. Higgin's eyes died and grew cold. Eliza quickly understood.
"May I see your wedding photographs once more?" She pulled a handkerchief from her purse when she noticed the older woman's eyes sparkle with tears. "Oh, Mrs. Higgins, please let's not dwell if–"
"That's Reginald. Reggie. He was named for his father. He was five years older than Henry and… well, we lost him in the Somme." Mrs. Higgins took the handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes with a ladylike sniff.
"Did Henry serve in the War?" Eliza inquired.
Mrs. Higgins shook her head. "No, he missed the draft by one month; he was seventeen when the Armistice was signed – it was agony for his father and I, those months leading to December 15th – his birthday, you know – and then November came with the best news." Mrs. Higgins' sad smile had a tinge of relief to it.
"It must have been such a happy occasion; I was too young to remember the Armistice. I'm told my father had trouble remembering it too," Eliza added, cheekily.
"It was bittersweet to say the least." Mrs. Higgins went back a few pages to one of a young couple, the woman was light-haired, and resplendent in white lace. The man was dark, and stern-looking.
"We lost Old Reginald to influenza shortly after, unfortunately."
"Henry never talks of him."
Mrs. Higgins chuckled. "Henry wouldn't – the two of them didn't really get on." She said no more on the subject, and a silence fell over the pair until Eliza finally spoke:
"My mother died of influenza after the Armistice too." There were no photographs of her, though, Eliza thought with some bitterness. By the scant accounts her father had given, Eliza resembled her mother a great deal, in looks and temperament. The knowledge was little consolation, especially in the presence of Mrs. Higgins' thick, elegant book of expensive photographs.
"You poor thing," Mrs. Higgins cooed. "I hope, my dearest, you come to think of me as a mother-figure; I certainly am coming to regard you as another daughter."
"Oh," Eliza replied, quite taken aback.
"I don't just mean when my son comes to his senses and proposes – though I hope he does soon – I mean now, as you are. I think so highly of you Eliza; I am so very proud of you, and I shall always fight for what's best for you, with every last breath in my body."
Eliza obeyed the impulse that bade her to embrace the older woman, and soon found herself openly weeping against Mrs. Higgins' warm, lace-covered shoulder.
"Mother, what the devil have you done to Eliza to make her weep so?" Henry's puzzled inquiry quite broke the tenderness of the moment; Eliza pulled away and straightened her spine as she dabbed at her eyes.
"Oh, she was merely regaling me with tales of what a horrid little beastie you were as a child," Eliza teased as she swept a hand towards the photo album on the side table.
"Oh no, not the baby pictures," Henry groaned. He approached the table and ran a hand over the white leather cover of the book.
"I hope you at least shed light on the fact that I was much more beautiful than Lil."
"I did no such thing," Mrs. Higgins replied.
"You were a very precious baby, indeed," Eliza complimented, pleased to see that she could make Henry blush.
The rain eventually ceased, and the skies cleared. Henry and Pickering took their leave of Eliza and Mrs. Higgins. Eliza had quite a shock, when Henry kissed her cheek in full view of his mother and the Colonel; Mrs. Higgins scolded him for his boldness, but with a fond smile that betrayed her satisfaction at the turn of events. Pickering muttered an 'I say' that made Henry grumble, and Eliza suspected he may have regretted his decision.
"My dearest," Mrs. Higgins sighed, as the pair stood in the doorway, after the taxi containing Henry and Pickering had driven off, "he really must marry you; or we will have a scandal on our hands."
"Stuff," Eliza replied before heading off to bed, her heart as light as her steps.
In the end, Eliza quickly ascertained the location of the charity school her "Little Irregulars" attended; St. Ignatius School for the Unfortunate near Ladbroke Grove. Henry, though not one to spend much energy contemplating social issues – at least not before he met Eliza – had always despised the condescending way schools for poor children were named. He supposed it was a damn sight better than calling it a 'ragged school'.
St. Ignatius was a modest-sized campus; it contained a chapel, and three rectangular outer buildings that surrounded a bedraggled courtyard of cobblestone and weeds; the courtyard had several rows of desks situated in the middle, undoubtedly for open-air lessons. There was a small plot of dirt behind the southernmost building that bore evidence of a mediocre harvest. For all its crumbling stone, and riotous wilderness, it was charming – at least in Henry's estimation. After Pickering had called the main office, declaring his intentions to make a donation, he, the Higgenses, and Eliza had been cordially invited for a tour. Mrs. Higgins – fearful of crowding and disease – opted to stay home.
Eliza opted to dress simply for the visit; and yet, still managed to stand out in an emerald green peacoat, with matching gloves and beret; a green-and-orange tartan scarf was wrapped cozily about her neck. She appeared every bit a queen of late Autumn… Demeter in kid gloves. Henry almost let his traitorous inner-voice mock him for conjuring up such purple prose, but the demon was sharply banished when he felt her gloved fingers lace through his own, and squeeze as they made their way across the courtyard..
Leading the tour was the headmaster; a short, barrel-chested, ginger-haired man named Horrocks. In Henry's estimation, Headmaster Horrocks was far too young to hold such a position; but, he supposed, it likely wasn't easy to find someone seasoned and over forty, to take the role of keeping a crumbling city school afloat – for what the boy lacked in years, he made up for in straight-forwardness, and geniality.
"Colonel, I wasn't quite sure how a man of your stature might have heard of our little school," Horrocks began; his voice gravelly and measured in only the way a man from the North Country could speak. "But; I soon found out that some of our students had been quite taken by your ward, Miss Doolittle – they call her Miss Eliza, actually – and I am so glad – Miss Doolittle – so very glad that you decided to join us for the tour."
"Thank you, Headmaster Horrocks." Henry took note of the pinkness in Eliza's cheeks; the shy grin that whispered across her lips for a brief moment – she was immensely pleased with herself.
"I must say that many of our children have been improving in manners and elocution, since they've started taking their lunches with you in the park, Miss Doolittle. Manners and elocution, I daresay, are the two elements – added to a comprehensive education – that may aid in lifting them out of poverty."
Henry felt a surge of pride in Headmaster Horrocks' words; the man was crediting Eliza with making a difference in the lives of others. It was a curious feeling, experiencing joy at the praise someone else was receiving; but what was being said about Eliza, along with the palpable positive energy emanating from her as they walked side-by-side left an exhilarating, fluttering sensation in Henry's stomach.
"It has done so for me," Eliza stated, her smiling eyes fixed on Henry's as Headmaster Horrocks led them into the easternmost building, which held a single schoolroom. The room was occupied with about ten pupils seated in wooden desks; their bleary-eyed attention facing the front of the room, where a timid-looking man read aloud from a history text.
Headmaster Horrocks loudly cleared his throat, and all reading ceased as ten heads turned to face the intruder. The recognition on several of their faces was instantaneous; and before the headmaster could make any sort of formal announcement, Eliza was mobbed by more than half of the pupils. The other pupils whispered excitedly, while their instructor closed the text with a relieved sigh.
"Miss Eliza!-"
"-Wotcher, Miss E!-"
Henry and Pickering took a large step back in unison, to avoid the crush of tiny bodies. Neither of them had much experience – or present interest – in interacting with children; Eliza, however, brought herself down to their level in order to accept hugs and tokens. She even accepted a sylph of a garden snake; although, it was received with an almost imperceptible yelp.
"Children." Headmaster Horrocks gently scolded. Eliza's admirers snapped to attention at his voice; Eliza straightened with a fond smile – she exchanged smiling glances with the little dark-haired ruffian Henry remembered from the park; the one with the rude hand gesture.
"Children, Miss Eliza Doolittle is visiting with her friends Colonel Pickering and Professor Higgins, because they've taken an interest in our school, and would like to make a donation to repair our stove, and improve our facilities in general – I would like it very much if you all thanked them."
The room chorused their thanks in unison. Eliza bowed her head towards the children with a grin.
"Colonel Pickering tells me you've passed your exams, and are enrolling in the School of Economics," Headmaster Horrocks stated a bit later, when the group had finished the tour. The school was in the middle of outdoor play; Pickering was leading a group of children in a friendly scrimmage of football, while Henry stayed at Eliza's side – he had never been much of an athlete; a fact that he was certain disappointed his father to the man's very last breath.
"Yes, that is the plan," was Eliza's reply.
"A shame, though I suppose it would pay better in the end."
Henry's eyebrows raised, as he turned his attention from the game to the conversation at his side:
"Pays better than what?" Eliza inquired, her eyebrows similarly hoisted.
The headmaster smiled sadly and nodded towards the children.
"I've always been of a mind that children learn better from people they can aspire to become; most of them know your origins, and they've flourished under your informal tutelage – with the endowment from Colonel Pickering and your fiancé-"
"I…" Henry began and trailed off, sensing a job offer approaching. He and Eliza had been hand-in-hand for most of the tour; it would have been a natural assumption to say they were engaged. That they were not might jeopardize Eliza's future.
"Yes, sir? Are you anticipating having an objection to what I'm about to say?" Headmaster Horrocks inquired. Henry immediately shook his head.
"Objections? Not I - no, I was merely having a senior moment. Carry on."
The headmaster cleared his throat while throwing Henry a rather puzzled look.
"Well; with the endowment, Miss Doolittle, the school would be in a position to first take you on to deliver weekly elocution lessons, as well as pay for your teacher training – should you like."
Color rose to Eliza's cheeks as she silently regarded the offer. Henry had questions:
"How much would you be paying Eliza to give lessons?"
"Henry-"
"It's quite alright, Miss Doolittle; the answer is not much. It would be a bit of a labor of love at first."
Henry nodded. "A labor of love, Eliza. Now; what would it be once she finished her training?"
"A slightly better paying labor of love."