Several days passed, and Father remained confined to the bed. Fourteen hours without Mother and Thomas were interminable; they worked longer shifts now to compensate for Father’s incapacity. Abigail basked in Sarah’s company, asking for stories or funny sentences for her to transcribe until Sarah’s head hurt. Mother and Thomas’ arrival hardly released Sarah from Abigail’s clutches, for they were so exhausted that they often fell asleep without their dinner.
Sarah had just found enough freedom to open her trunk and begin to organize the jumble of items within when the door opened. She closed the trunk with a sigh and went into the sitting room to greet Thomas and Mother.
“How was work?” she asked.
Thomas yawned in response and sank onto the bench that remained at the table.
“Long,” said Mother, who stood in the doorway to Father’s room. Four days had passed with little improvement to Father’s leg. “Did Dr. Mortimer come today?” she asked, accepting the plate that Sarah offered her.
Father nodded with a sigh. “He says I’m not to be on my feet for a few more days, and the cane won’t be sufficient until a few months from now. He’s going to find me a crutch of some sort, but it’ll be a pound or two, a few days of Thomas’ wages.”
Mother pursed her lips in sympathy. “You may have to stay home from church this week, then.”
Sarah had noticed that the cupboard and the barrels were a bit less plentiful than they usually were, which wasn’t saying much, but it worried her. Her wages had barely made a dent in her family’s income, but Father’s had been a far bigger portion.
“We received a letter from Deborah,” said Father, perhaps to change the subject. A mail coach had delivered the letter from Sarah’s aunt that morning, and Sarah had paid the letter-carrier eight pence, the fee for its fifty-mile journey from Oxford.
“How is she?” Mother asked. Thomas had nodded off against his hand, his food untouched. Abigail was sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth, drawing with her pencil in her left hand, Sarah noticed with amusement. Not in the mood to correct her, Sarah turned her attention back to her parents’ conversation.
“She’s well,” Father said. “She was grieved to hear about the accident, of course. Her wedding anniversary is approaching as well, and that day is painful.”
Sarah had not spent ample time with her uncle Richard Hathaway before his death in the Battle of Waterloo in June of 1815, but on Christmas of that year Deborah had been in mourning in both clothing[1] and demeanor. The Lees hadn’t seen her since then, although Deborah and Father kept up a regular correspondence.
Abigail rose and examined the letter on the table. “She writes small,” she proclaimed. “And fancy.”
“She’s done it for far longer than you have,” Sarah called to her. “Besides, we would have paid twice the price if she had written a second page.”
Abigail frowned. “We pay for what she writes?”
“Aye. God knows why.”
Mother surveyed Father with an air of knowing exasperation. “I suppose she’s offering more money, and you are refusing it.”
Sarah cringed in anticipation. Every time a letter came from Deborah, her parents repeated the same argument.
Father heaved a sigh. “We do not need Deborah’s help,” he said. “I’ve said it before. I appreciate her offers, but I am not depending on my elder sister for money.”
Mother sat on the bench that was still at Father’s bedside. “This is no place for your stubbornness. She wishes to help us, and you’ve just lost your job. You ought to accept that…” She lowered her voice, but Sarah could discern the words poor and money.
“For Heaven’s sake, Mary, Deborah is mourning. We mustn’t beg her for Richard’s fortune.”
Sarah returned to her trunk, not in the mood to listen to the dispute she’d heard countless times. The trunk was divided into three sections, hers in the middle—the neatest section by far, she noted with triumph. In hers, she stored her blue church dress, her woolen shawl and stockings for the winter, and various papers, samplers, and weavings that she’d worked on in the evenings after work. Thomas’ portion looked like the aftermath of a violent storm: it was strewn with rumpled clothes from his time on the farm, folded papers with sketches of constellations and lines of poetry he’d transcribed from memory, and other trinkets that Sarah would have thrown away ages ago. She had never understood Thomas’ desire to keep this rubbish, these scraps of memories from the life they had left behind.
“Cleaning again?”
Sarah looked up at Thomas, who leaned against the door jamb, stretching one arm above his head so that his fingertips grazed the top of the doorway.
“I’m tired of their arguing,” she said.
He stifled a yawn. “I’m just tired,” he replied, his lips quirking. “He’s like this every time she writes.”
“I don’t understand why he doesn’t accept her money.”
“Pride, I reckon.”
Sarah scoffed. “I’d accept your money if it were you and I.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Otherwise, I’d have to ride fifty miles and force it into your hands myself.”
Sarah snorted, imagining Deborah riding sidesaddle across the English countryside, her black skirts billowing behind her.
“How are the days at home?” Thomas asked. Mother and Father had ceased their argument at last.
Sarah heaved a sigh. “I didn’t realize how much I would miss having a routine,” she said. “Abigail’s certainly enjoying it, perhaps at the expense of my sanity. At least her penmanship is improving now that she can shove her papers into my face for correction every five minutes.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
He smirked. “You’re a good teacher.”
A pleased flush crept up Sarah’s cheeks. “Thank you.” Despite her irritation at Abigail, she was proud of the little girl’s progress. Her obligations to her family were of the utmost importance, whatever inconveniences came with them: working, caring for Father, carrying water, and even enduring Abigail’s relentless chatter.
“I still wish we could go back to Norfolk,” she said quietly, and Thomas’ smile faded as his gaze turned to the debris inside the trunk. The Lees’ little farmhouse had been no larger than their flat in London, perhaps even smaller, but the open field outside their door had given the impression of an abundance of space. The scent of grass and pollen on the wind had been far superior to London’s signature stench of waste and smoke.
Thomas knelt beside her and sifted through his section of the trunk, picking up a crumpled paper and flattening it against his lap. It was a hand-drawn star chart, clusters of small asterisks that formed crude shapes. He had several similar drawings, and every month or so he tried to reproduce it.
Why do you keep doing that? Sarah had asked the most recent time.
He had looked up from the drawing, facing her, but seeming to see something else. To test my memory, he’d said. I want to remember the constellations when I can see the stars again.
Sarah wished she knew when that day would come. It was not the stars she missed, but the fields, golden and rippling like water in the breeze. The sunsets, free of the haze of smoke that polluted London’s sky. The seasons, melting from blooming spring to lush summer to fiery autumn. Whether it was London or the strange weather of the past year, Sarah’s only impression of the city had been a dismal, foggy gray.
Sarah took Thomas’ hand, and he seemed to return to Earth from wherever his mind had been. “You should rest,” she said. “Did you eat anything?”
“Enough,” he said, putting down the star chart.
Sarah raised an eyebrow, and he conceded, “I suppose I should eat a bit more.” He kissed her forehead and rose. A minute later, he returned to their bedroom and lounged on his bed. He was asleep almost instantly.
“Sarah, Dolly wants a new gown.”
Sarah gritted her teeth. “Abigail, it’s late.” The church clocks had already struck nine.
Abigail tugged at her sleeve, brandishing the paper doll Sarah had made in front of her. “She says she can’t sleep in this one, it’s too dirty.” The doll had been cut from newspaper and was adorned with a smiling face and braids. Nearly a year old, it was filthy and wearing around the edges, but Abigail cherished the few toys she owned.
Sarah sighed. “If you get into bed, I’ll make her a gown.”
Abigail hopped into the bed she shared with Sarah. Sarah opened the cupboard, finding a scrap of a paper bag that had been used to wrap the meat Mother had bought. She used Mother’s sewing scissors to cut the paper into the shape of a chemise like Abigail’s, then added a hole large enough for Dolly’s head. Sarah borrowed Abigail’s pencil and drew a lace collar and hem on the dress. If she and Abigail could not enjoy such indulgences, at least Abigail’s doll could.
Abigail tested the gown on Dolly and beamed. “Dolly says thank you,” she said, standing up again.
“Sarah says go to bed,” said Sarah. “Dolly’s tired.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Well, I am, and I’m going to bed. It’ll be terribly boring with nobody else awake.”
Abigail considered. “Goodnight, Sarah,” she said finally, climbing back into bed. Sarah extinguished the candles and lay down beside her sister.
###
“I’ve been searching for a job for Sarah,” said Mother at dinner the next evening. It was the first time in several days that they had sat down together for a meal, and they ate at Father’s bedside again. “I agree that the factory is too dangerous for someone her age, but most jobs require either boys or older girls. I looked everywhere—either they aren’t hiring or they won’t accept her.”
“I can stay home and care for Father,” said Sarah, hoping the offer sounded dutiful rather than grudging.
Mother grimaced. “I’ve no doubt you can, but I think I ought to be the one to tend to him if we can find you a job.” She was trained in simple first aid, and in Norfolk, farm workers had often come to her with injuries to treat. Sarah knew the barest minimum of her mother’s practices, but years of experience had whetted Mother’s skill.
“But where?” Thomas asked between bites of bread.
“I don’t know,” said Mother. “The only other business within walking distance that would take someone her age is the chimney sweeper lodging house in Covent Garden, but they don’t accept girls there.”
Father looked up at her. “How much are they paid?” he asked.
“A shilling a chimney, but did you hear what I said?”
“I heard what you said,” said Father, lost in thought, “and I have an idea.”
Thomas frowned, lifting his mug to his lips. “What could you possibly…?”
Father fingered his bearded chin. “Sarah could be a chimney sweeper. She could dress as a boy.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open, and Thomas nearly spat out the water he’d been drinking. He swallowed his water and spoke. “You’re joking.”
“I am not,” Father insisted.
Mother stared at him, her expression one of utter disbelief. “You want Sarah to masquerade as a boy… to become a sweeper?”
“That’s absurd!” Thomas raised the collar of his shirt to wipe his face, where several drops of water had dribbled down his chin.
Sarah was too astonished to speak. She tried to imagine herself clad in soot-stained clothing like that of the sweepers she’d seen in the square, climbing out of a cramped chimney with a bag of brushes. She could not.
“Think about it for a moment,” Father said. “If Thomas stayed at the factory and Sarah worked six days a week—a chimney a day, I reckon—then we could manage. It’s more than she earned at the factory, anyway.”
Thomas shook his head, incredulous. “She can’t possibly be a chimney sweeper. Haven’t you read Blake?”
Mother pressed a hand to her temple. “What does William Blake have to do with this?”
“Songs of Innocence,” Thomas said in exasperation. “‘The Chimney Sweeper[2]?’ All of them locked up in coffins of black—”
“Thomas, that poem is about a dream,” said Father.
Thomas wilted. “That’s beside the point. It’s dangerous.”
“Nowhere near as dangerous as the factory.”
Sarah listened in silence, possibilities whirling through her mind. Her first thought had been similar to Thomas’, shock and doubt. Could she pass as a boy well enough to fool the master and the other sweepers? Could she climb up a chimney and sweep the soot from its walls without falling? The idea was ludicrous. But deep beneath the surface, a thrill tugged at her, urging her to take this chance, to leave behind the monotonous days at home and seize the freedom it offered.
Mother was frowning at her bread. “It could work,” she said finally.
Thomas gaped at her. “I can’t be the only one who sees a problem with my sister climbing across rooftops with a bunch of dirty boys.”
“I’m willing to do it if it will help our family,” Sarah blurted.
Thomas turned his disbelieving look on her. “Sarah, you can’t just—”
“Thomas,” said Sarah, meeting his eyes. The pieces were falling into place: a supplement that could give them the treatment Father needed, a job that kept her out of the factory and away from Abigail’s demands, a relief from her debilitating boredom. “I understand. I’ll do it.”
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[1] Those who could afford to purchase the necessary clothing followed traditional mourning dress: simple, black or white attire with limited accessories. The mourner progressed through first, second, and third degrees of mourning, each with their own clothing restrictions, which also varied based on the mourner’s proximity to the deceased.
[2] William Blake wrote two poems titled “The Chimney Sweeper.” The quoted line comes from the poem beginning “When my mother died I was very young,” from Songs of Innocence. The other, “A little black thing among the snow,” comes from Songs of Experience. Songs of Innocence and of Experience, an illustrated poetry collection, was first published in 1789.