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Ivy
Ivy
Ivy
Ebook376 pages5 hours

Ivy

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

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Ivy is used to being overlooked. The youngest in a family of thieves, scoundrels, and roustabouts, the girl with the flame-colored hair and odd-colored eyes is declared useless by her father from the day she is born. But that's only if you look at her but don't see. For Ivy has a quality that makes people take notice. It's more than beauty -- and it draws people toward her.

Which makes her the perfect subject for an aspiring painter named Oscar Aretino Frosdick, a member of the pre-Raphaelite school of artists. Oscar is determined to make his mark on the art world, with Ivy as his model and muse. But behind Ivy's angelic looks lurk dark secrets and a troubled past -- a past that has given her an unfortunate taste for laudanum. And when treachery and jealousy surface in the Eden that is the artist's garden, Ivy must learn to be more than a pretty face if she is to survive.

Julie Hearn, author of The Minister's Daughter and The Sign of the Raven, has created a memorable tale of nineteenth-century England with a character destined to take her place alongside Dickens's Pip and Oliver Twist.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 17, 2008
ISBN9781416964728
Ivy
Author

Julie Hearn

Julie Hearn was born in Abingdon, England, near Oxford, and has been writing all her life. After studying to be a journalist, she worked in Australia and lived in Spain, before returning to England, where she worked as a features editor and columnist. She is now a full-time writer. Her first book published in the United States was The Minister's Daughter.

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Reviews for Ivy

Rating: 3.5461537753846155 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

65 ratings8 reviews

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Great story! You can broaden your audience by publishing your story on Novel Star Mobile App
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    An unusual book, for sure. Somewhat Dickensian, but it feels more modern.The writing was fast-paced, witty and clever. A very enjoyable read.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was a good book. Was an interesting read, however it was very confusing. The character development made it easy to understand most of the character's and their personalities. The one character that I never understood, however, was the main character Ivy. She did have a past that was never fully understood or explained, and she would make decisions and take courses of action that I never thought that she would. This confusion made the book much less appealing. Also, the ending of the book was very sudden and no one knew exactly what she had decided to do. She got from one place at the end of the book, to another in the epilogue and it was not explained how she got there. I felt as if her character development was still in process at the end and the manner in which she got from the one position in life to the other would have helped to fully develop her. Still a decent read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    PLUS - * An interesting though not perfect historical novel set in Victorian London. Split into two parts we follow Ivy as a child, when she finds herself taken up by a band of thieves, and then later as an older girl when she becomes a model for an aspiring Pre-Raphaelite painter. * I enjoyed the descriptions of Victorian London, and the book was more humourous than I expected. Watch out for the episode where the lady do-gooders venture into the slums on the look out for children to help, and the painter oblivious to the discomfort of his models. MINUS - * I didn't find Ivy a particularly likeable character, and as a result didn't feel all that bothered about what happened to her. * Several of the characters (Ivy's family, the painter and his mother) felt a little like charicatures which made me feel as if the historical aspects of the book didn't quite ring true. OVERALL - * I wanted to enjoy this, as I had liked Rowan the Strange but it just didn't quite do it for me.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Sometimes a girl just needs a really good work of historical fiction to ease her hectic life. Ivy by Julie Hearn was exactly what the doctor prescribed. First, there is the gorgeous cover, which actually kind of threw me. I went into the book expecting some sort of romance, just because there was a woman on the cover. Silly me. What I got in return was something much better.A quick summary before I begin to cover this book in laurels, Ivy is basically about a girl named Ivy who has been shafted by life. She was an orphan, then she went to live with some evil relatives, becomes a street criminal, picks up an addiction, and later becomes an artists model. Oh and did I mention it is set in Industrial-Era England. Oh fuck yes.I am a glutton for characters. The characters in this book are quite intriguing, there is Carroty Kate, who is sort of like Fagin in Oliver Twist, and by Oliver Twist, I actually mean the Disney film Oliver And Company. Ivy is interesting too, she's not at all what I thought she would have been. Not one bit.When it comes to prose, yes I can put up with crappy writing if it means action (I did actually like Twilight at first, after all). Hearn's writing, however, is not crappy. Actually I was quite engaged by her prose. I definitely used time I should have spent planning lessons reading this book instead. Yes, yes priorities, what are they? Despite the lack of a heartthrob (heartthrobs make me tear up when they do adorable things), I still got all weepy at the end, because I truly am a glass case of emotion.What, pray tell, did I learn from this book? Well, laudanum is a drug that makes you tired. Life as an Orphan in Industrial Era England sucks, you will fall into a crowd of seedy people, because damn it that is how it works in books. Books that are somewhat reminiscent of Charles Dickens minus hundred year old wedding cakes and singing orphans make me feel full of joy.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Set in London in the 1800 or 1900s, we find our main character as an orphan taken in by her Aunt's family. I simply could not put this book down. I simply fell in love with the character, the setting and the plot. What could have been turned into a budding romance tale, turned into a tale about a young woman who wants to find her place in society and to simply be happy. I love the way the author wrote the story, with accents obvious and I could literally see players in a play or a movie reeling throughout the whole book. It was a marvelous book and I hope to read more by her.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Ivy lives in one of the poorest section of London in the mid-to- late 1800's , she runs away from her aunt and uncle and end up with thieves, when she escapes years later an aspiring artist sees her and decides she will be his muse. Ivy's character is well developed through the first part of the book, her bright red hair, shy personality and dependence on laudanum all contribute to the role she plays within the story. Many of the chapters end with a cliff hanger that keeps readers engaged and the reader is not quite sure what is going to happen next throughout the book. The setting is easily imaginable from the poorest sections of London to the manor houses in the countryside Ivy's journey to finding out how to live her life is ideal. This book would be great for a teen section in a public library for high school students.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Into a life of poverty and orphanage Ivy was born and this is a story of her adventures until, and after, she became an Artist's model for some pre-raphelite painters.Interesting, particularly when it came to her perception of things going on around her.

Book preview

Ivy - Julie Hearn

• CHAPTER • ONE •

In Whi Ivy Is Treated Rather Badly by in Ridiculous Dresses

MRS. HORTENSE MERRYFIELD AND MRS. Christiana Larrington of the Ragged Children’s Welfare Association (South London branch) chose a bitterly cold spring morning upon which to patronize the deserving poor of Lambeth.

Picking their way along filthy streets, the hems of their crinolines blotting up slush and the beads on their bonnets tinkling like ice, they were so obviously out of their element that by the time they reached the corner of New Cut, a sizable crowd of ragged children was on their tail, hopping and flapping and begging for coppers.

Jus’ a ha’penny, missus. Jus’ enough for a hot tater.

It’s for me bruvver, missus. Me little bruvver wot’s sick.

Shoo! cried Mrs. Merryfield. Scram! And she waved her umbrella and stood her ground until all but one of the little imps had given up the clamor and scattered. Mrs. Larrington, who was younger than her companion, drew a mohair shawl tighter ’round her shoulders and tried not to seem afraid. This was her first time out among the deserving poor and she was beginning to wish she had stayed in Nor-wood, among snowdrops and servants and the undeserving rich. Where had they come from, all those ragamuffins? So pale, so dirty, and so clearly half-frozen that they might have sprung fully formed from the slush. Yet they’d had the strength, all of them, to run like bunnikins from the point of Mrs. Merryfield’s umbrella. Even the girls had scarpered.

It was the sight of those scarpering girls, Mrs. Larrington realized, that had disturbed her the most. For she herself had never run anywhere. Not even as a child. It wasn’t ladylike; it wasn’t natural for the female of the species to move so fast.

She was about to say as much to dear Mrs. Merryfield when she felt a tugging at her sleeve. Ugh! She shuddered, shrinking away. "Don’t touch me, you…you insolent creature."

I live ’ere, if you please, piped a voice at her elbow. Only, your dress is blockin’ the way.

Looking down over the slope of her crinoline, Mrs. Larrington found her gaze being met by a little scrap of indeterminate age. This, readers, was Ivy, the heroine of our story, but all Mrs. Larrington saw was a small girl with huge hazel eyes and a veritable halo of tangled hair. It was a cross between a nest and a cloud, that hair, and such an extraordinary color that Mrs. Larrington’s gloved hand moved instinctively to stroke it.

Stop! My dear Mrs. Larrington. What can you be thinking of? There will be more lice on this child than you’ll find crumbs in a biscuit barrel. First rule of home visits—keep your distance.

And with a prod and a twist, the redoubtable Mrs. Merryfield hooked the crook of her umbrella under the ragged girl’s collar and yanked her up and away.

Oh my, declared Mrs. Larrington as the child rose into the air, flailing like a raggedy fish. Oh my goodness me.

But the child said not a word, only struggled and gulped while her face turned very pink beneath several layers of dirt and her extraordinary hair whipped around her head in a flurry of tangles and tendrils.

Now, had Mrs. Merryfield’s umbrella been a dainty contraption of ruched silk and spindled ivory, it would have snapped for sure. But this umbrella was like its owner—sturdy. Its point had seen off pickpockets, bull terriers, and many a drunken sailor. And its hard wooden handle, carved to resemble a bird with its beak open, was more than equal to bearing—temporarily, anyway—the weight of a skinny, underfed little girl.

Oh my, Mrs. Larrington repeated as her companion swung the child expertly across the cobbles and landed her with a barely audible thwunk into a puddle of muck and melting snow. Oh my goodness me.

There! Mrs. Merryfield unhooked the umbrella. That’s more like it. And from somewhere about her person she whipped a rag, one of the many squares of calico she carried for the specific purpose of wiping whichever bit of her umbrella had been used to prod, poke, or occasionally lift the undeserving poor to a distance where neither their lice nor their thieving fingers could threaten her own person.

The little girl seemed too stunned to move. Her bottom would have been turning as wet and cold as a polar bear’s, yet she remained in the muddy puddle, staring up in hurt astonishment at the one who had dumped her there.

Mrs. Larrington dithered.

Mrs. Merryfield carried on wiping. All around the handle she went, pressing the rag into every dip and dent of the carved bird and taking particular care with the open beak in case it contained a microscopic helping of lice.

Oi! What’s goin’ on? Git up offer them wet cobbles. And oo said you could wear me jacket? Me snazziest jacket wot I bartered me ticker an’ chain for down Petticoat Lane and ain’t worn meself no more than once, an’ that only to check the fit of it.

Mrs. Larrington gave such a start that she almost snapped something in her corset. Mrs. Merryfield (who never bothered with corsets, preferring ease of movement, particularly in Lambeth) turned and raised her umbrella.

Young man, she scolded, I must ask you to mind your manners. Such bellowing and agitation is exceedingly rude and quite—

Git up, I said. And if me jacket’s spoiled, you’ll get an ’iding you won’t forget in a month of Sundays, strike me if you won’t.

And before Mrs. Larrington could unflutter her nerves or Mrs. Merryfield do any more bashing, prodding, or hooking, a ragged boy darted across the cobbles, grabbed the child in the puddle, and whisked her back onto her feet.

Give it ’ere.

The jacket in question was a soiled but still gaudy blue with brass buttons the size of jam lids down the front. On the child it looked more like an oversized coat. Miserably she shrugged it off and handed it over. Underneath she wore a cotton dress with a pattern of roses faded to smudges. It was tissue-thin, that dress, and she shivered silently in it and swayed a little, her feet still planted in the puddle.

The boy was holding the jacket aloft, inspecting it carefully. He himself wore dark cord trousers, goodish boots, and a plush velvet cap. His waistcoat had two mother-of-pearl buttons left on it, and he had arranged a scarlet neckerchief to cover the place where the topmost buttons were missing. Skinny and grubby though he was, he was clearly a bit of a dandy.

A rip! he hollered. A big rip under me collar! Right—now you’re for it.

Mrs. Larrington and Mrs. Merryfield exchanged quick glances. A rip, big or small, was not something they were going to be blamed for, or taken to task over, by a grubby little urchin.

Lifting one hand Jared made a lunge for the child. Quick as a cat she ran all the way ’round Mrs. Larrington’s crinoline and disappeared down an alleyway.

The boy tried to follow.

Thwack!

Not so fast, young man.

Mrs. Merryfield’s right arm and the length of her furled umbrella blocked the entrance to the alleyway as effectively as any three-barred gate.

What’s your name? she demanded.

The boy gaped at the umbrella and then up at Mrs. Merryfield as if he couldn’t quite believe they were in his way. Mrs. Merryfield regarded him ferociously until he backed down and averted his own scowl. A charity monger. That’s what she was. Uglier than a butcher’s dog and with a snarl to match, but a do-gooder nonetheless.

He had no time for do-gooders. No time at all. But they could be soft touches, if you played your cards right—he knew that much.

Your name!? Mrs. Merryfield demanded again.

The boy appeared to hesitate.

Then: Jared, he replied, doffing his cap and flashing her a sudden grin. Jared Roderick Montague Jackson at your service, ma’am.

Mrs. Merryfield’s expression remained flinty.

Ma’am, he repeated, swiveling to bow to the other lady, who, he noticed at once, looked like a much softer touch.

Mrs. Larrington risked a nervous smile. What a long name, she thought, for a pauper.

Well then, Jared Roderick Montague Jackson, said Mrs. Merryfield, lowering her umbrella. And you are what—nine, ten years of age?

The boy puffed out his chest in its partially buttoned waistcoat.

I turned twelve on Christmas Day, ma’am, he said. Not that there was much rejoicin’ of it. No, nor of our dear Savior’s birth, neither. Not with my dear mama an invalid and my papa so sorely reduced in circumstances that there ain’t a moment goes by when we ain’t all workin’ and contrivin’ as best we can to pay the rent an’ put bread on the table.

Mrs. Larrington’s mouth twitched. The boy had pronounced the word "in-val-id as in completely without merit when he had surely meant in-vuh-lid as in a person suffering from chronic ill health." How on earth, she wondered, had he arrived at such an error?

Jared didn’t notice, or chose to ignore, her amusement. Not that we ’as a table no more, ma’am, he continued. For it went for firewood a fortnight since when it were freezin’ so bad the little uns turned blue an’ we ’ad no money for coal.

Then he gave a huge sigh and held his jacket to his cheek.

An’ now me jacket’s torn, he moaned. Me best jacket wot I’d intended on sellin’ to pay for a bit o’ fuel. Me brand-new jacket wot I’d sooner barter to keep the little ’uns warm than wear on me back for so much as a minute. All torn under the collar it is now, an’ good for nothin’ but the ragman.

With a sorrowful shake of the head he folded the jacket beneath his armpit and patted it once, twice, three times as if it had hurt feelings or a pain in its sleeves. Then he scowled toward the alleyway and shook his fist. An’ there’s one oo’s still to cop a good thrashin’ for rippin’ it. So excuse me, ladies….

Oh dear, said Mrs. Larrington. I rather think…there might have been…

Halt! Mrs. Merryfield slapped her umbrella back across the entrance to the alleyway. Her other hand she held up at Mrs. Larrington for silence.

…some mistake, Mrs. Larrington finished weakly.

Jared paused obediently.

Young man, said Mrs. Merryfield, it sounds to me as if your family might—and I stress the word ‘might’—benefit from an assessment of its current situation.

It would benny-fit from the price of a sheep’s ’ead or a bit o’ bacon for the pot, the boy declared solemnly. And from summat a bit warmer than tater sacks to wrap the babby in.

Well then, said Mrs. Merryfield, her smile only a little sweeter than vinegar, perhaps Mrs. Larrington and I should acquaint ourselves with your entire clan. I suggest you lead the way.

• CHAPTER • TWO •

In Whi Mrs. Larrington Suffers a Terrible Ordeal in an Extremely Confined Space

THE NAME PARADISE ROW DID NOT EXACTLY suit the collection of houses that lined the alley the way rotten molars fill a smelly mouth. Hell’s Hovel would have been better. Or Purgatory Place at the very least.

Not far, ladies, Jared promised. Mind yer skirts now.

Mrs. Larrington had trouble immediately. I’m stuck, she whimpered. My dear Mrs. Merryfield, I fear I am stuck quite fast.

And so she was, for alleyways and crinolines are about as compatible as tea parties and elephants, and anyone daft enough to wear a hoop the size of a giantess’s wedding ring to go visiting the poor fully deserved to get wedged between two damp and sooty walls.

Lift it up, woman! snapped Mrs. Merryfield. "Like me.

And in the future wear a smaller one. Tenth rule of home visits—dress sensibly."

At this, Mrs. Larrington felt quite faint. Had she heard correctly? Had dear Mrs. Merryfield seriously suggested that she rearrange her clothing in a manner that would surely reveal her ankles? And not just her ankles, either, but…but…

Evidently, Mrs. Merryfield had suggested precisely that, for she herself was trotting along quite briskly with the hoop of her rather more sensible crinoline flipped all the way up on one side. And what, in doing so, had she revealed to the world? Nothing more startling, actually, than a long flannel petticoat as thick, dark, and modest as any winter skirt.

Oh dear…. Oh mercy me….

Mrs. Larrington was also wearing a petticoat, and a very pretty one, too, with hand-embroidered violets on it and white lace ’round the hem. Only, her petticoat wasn’t underneath her crinoline. No, indeed. It was, as fashion dictated, being worn over the top, to soften the line of her skirt. Which meant that should her own hoop rise up, accidentally or otherwise…

Oh deary me. Oh dreadful prospect….

At a complete scarlet-faced loss as to how to proceed, Mrs. Larrington glanced anxiously all around. She could hear babies wailing and a man shouting. But they—the man and the babies—were indoors, thank goodness, not out. Above her head broken windows were shuttered or blocked with planks to keep out the biting cold. Ahead of her, only Mrs. Merryfield and the ragged boy with the unsuitably long name appeared aware of her predicament.

Come along, Mrs. Larrington, do! Mrs. Merryfield ordered. We’re here now. So saying, she prodded Jared Roderick Montague Jackson in through an open doorway, so that his cheeky grin would not deter her companion from doing what was clearly necessary if she wasn’t to remain wedged in Paradise Row until her ringlets turned to twirly icicles and her blood froze in her veins.

Somewhere close by, a dog began to bark. A nasty, guttural sound it was, the kind of noise a very large dog might make should it find itself hungry enough to bite the knuckles off its owner—or the toes off a silly woman sandwiched obligingly between two walls.

Mrs. Larrington turned deathly pale.

Mrs. Merryfield, losing patience, raised her voice to a most unladylike pitch.

NOW! she bellowed. Mobilize yourself immediately, my dear Mrs. Larrington, or there may well be consequences.

There was nothing else for it. Terrified of being set upon by a rabid hound, Mrs. Larrington grasped the left side of her crinoline and tugged.

Nothing happened.

With trembling fingers she tugged again, this time pushing down equally hard on the other side. Still nothing. Again and again she tugged and pushed, wrestling and heaving her two handfuls of material, until finally—WHUMP—up shot the left side of her skirt, petticoat, hoop, and all.

Goodness me! exclaimed Mrs. Merryfield. What extraordinary undergarments…

And Cor, what an eyeful!Gawd blimey, there’s a sight!Giddyap, love! cried the tenants of Paradise Row, who, alerted by Mrs. Merryfield’s strident tones, had materialized at doorways and windows to see what all the fuss was about.

As consequences go, this gale of merriment was nowhere near as painful for Mrs. Larrington as being savaged by a starving dog would have been. It was, however, the most agonizing humiliation.

Move faster, my dear, Mrs. Merryfield encouraged her, above whoops and snorts of laughter. If you possibly can.

But Mrs. Larrington, accustomed only to walking, gliding, and tiptoeing, couldn’t possibly move any faster. She could only hobble stiffly along, holding her head even higher than her crinoline and doing her utmost to pretend that the guffaws and pointing fingers were all part of a ghastly dream.

At last, at long last, she reached Mrs. Merryfield, who, grabbing her by the elbow, muttered a most unsympathetic quickly now and bundled her into a dark hallway that was only slightly wider than the accursed alley.

Smelling salts, thought Mrs. Larrington, breathing rapidly through her nose. I fear I may require smelling salts. Her crinoline was still tipped to one side, like a pretty falling saucer. In the dark and half swooning from her ordeal thus far, she found herself past caring.

Can you manage the stairs, ladies? asked Jared, his voice solemn but his mouth twitching. Wivout attractin’ another crowd, I mean?

It’s like your impertinence to say so! declared Mrs. Merryfield, crossly. And yes, young man, we can most certainly manage the stairs. Mrs. Larrington, walk behind me, if you please, to save yourself further shame.

Mrs. Larrington fell shakily into step. Dimly, she noticed that the banister beneath her right hand was sticky with dust and filth. Her glove was going to get badly soiled, and a soiled glove, as everyone knew, was quite inadmissible when you were paying a call.

Letting go of the banister, though, was not an option. Not with the stairs so rickety and her left hand still controlling the tilt of her hoop. Her glove, she reassured herself, would be thoroughly cleaned by a maid that very evening. Washed in tepid rainwater, with plenty of castile soap, it would doubtless be rendered as good as new.

Her husband’s woolen drawers, however—saggy, moth-eaten, and the grim color of old rice pudding—would go straight out for the ragman. For, warm as they were when the north wind blew, she had no intention of borrowing them, or of even setting eyes on them, ever again.

• CHAPTER • THREE •

In Whi the Third Rule of Home Visits Gets Well and Truly Broken

THE ELDER MEMBERS OF THE JACKSON FAMILY, oblivious to the approach of charity mongers, were arguing at the very tops of their voices:

Throw ’im in the pot, I say. ’E’ll add a bit o’ flavor to the stew.

Ha-ha! Good idea, Father—let’s cook ’im!

"No! Mother, don’t listen to ’em. Poor Jimminy. It’s too cruel."

Oh my thumping heart and pounding temples! My dears, please…

But there ain’t more’n two mouthfuls of meat on ’is bones, all of you, so why bother?

Two mouthfuls is two mouthfuls, is wot I say.

But…but I LOVED ’IM!

It was so cold in the room that each shout came out of each mouth in visible puffs of breath. In the grate, a small fire was barely licking the sides of a cooking pot or warming the hands of the boy and girl huddled side by side, their backs turned to the argument.

Ivy, said the boy, tugging the girl’s sleeve, if Jimminy gets put in the stew, will you eat any?

Ivy shook her head vehemently. She had barely said a word since running in ten minutes earlier, minus the blue jacket, and her wet bottom and evident distress had gone entirely unremarked.

What, not even if you fished bits of ’im out, so it was just the turnips left?

No, said a second shake of the head. Never in a month of Sundays. Never, never, never.

Behind their backs a man, woman, and three big girls leaned closer over the object of their disagreement. The man kept his face straight and licked his lips as if he could wait no longer for his dinner. He was pulling the legs of this lot, but they were all too dim to see the joke. Women! he thought. As thick as fog, the lot of ’em…

Poor Jimminy, wailed the middle girl. "’Ow could anyone think of eatin’ ’im? It would be…it would be…"

Savage, declared the woman, raising one hand weakly to her brow. "Savage is the word you are rummaging for, Mad my dear. And I do declare, Mr. Jackson, I never thought—"

But no one got to hear what it was she never thought, for into the room burst Jared, followed, at a more sedate pace, by Mrs. Merryfield and Mrs. Larrington.

Now then, me nearest an’ dearest! Jared called, clapping his hands for silence. "We’ve got important visitors, so look sharp an’ let’s be showin’ ’em wot little ’ospitality we can, given our sadly reduced circumstances.

Orlando! he added. Ivy! Git away from the fire so these ladies can warm theirselves. An’ if there’s any of our table left, even so much as a splinter, throw it in the grate so’s they get the benny-fit. An’ Horatia, see if there ain’t a few tea leaves still stuck to the sides of the old caddy, an’ two cups wot ain’t cracked to pour tea in.

Wait! Mrs. Merryfield held up her umbrella for silence. There is no need for anyone to move or to provide refreshments. Mrs. Larrington and I are perfectly comfortable as, and where, we are. Quickly she checked to see if Mrs. Larrington had managed to lower her crinoline. Mercifully, she had. Now, she continued, may I address myself to the head of this household?

Obediently, the three big girls shuffled away, leaving their father, their mother, and a very dead canary all by themselves in the middle of the room.

The father cleared his throat. Elmer Nicholas Montague Jackson at your service, ladies, he said. An’ you’ll forgive us, I ’ope, for bein’ all out of sorts, but little Jimminy ’ere was a fine singin’ bird an’ much doted on by me daughter Madeleine. An’ now ’e’s froze to death—jus’ like we all will be, if me circumstances don’t improve before the weather does.

Mrs. Merryfield grunted in what sounded like sympathy but could just as easily have been boredom. Or disbelief. Mrs. Larrington, however, had barely acknowledged either the man’s speech or the presence of the small feathery corpse on the floor. She was distracted—mesmerized, almost—by the third member of the group.

Mrs. Pamela Letitia Montague Jackson was making no effort whatsoever to be civil. Indeed, she had not even risen to her feet but was reclining, like a raggedy duchess, on what looked like—what was— a dilapidated, but still serviceable, chaise longue.

And what a peculiar spectacle she made in her best brocade gown that had been patched so many times in not-quite-the-same materials that the original pattern could have been anything from dots to daisies.

Her frilly cap, too, was ludicrously outdated and, like the disintegrating gown, really not the kind of thing one would expect to see on a pauper. ’Round her shoulders she wore a fur—a big tatty swath of the stuff, in several shades of gray. It certainly wasn’t ermine, that fur. Or chinchilla. Or mink. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Larrington, it was cobbled-together rabbit. Or—oh dear— cat.

Haughtily, Mrs. Jackson returned Mrs. Larrington’s gaze.

Is this a visit of condolence, m’dear? she inquired. For our sweet departed canary bird? Or is it a social call? For whichever it is, I ain’t in no mood to receive yer. I’m an invalid woman, as you can surely see, an’ I don’t take kindly to folk jus’ droppin’ in without an invy-tation or so much as a by-your-leave.

There it was again. The word invalid incorrectly pronounced. This time Mrs. Larrington just about managed to turn her titter into a cough.

Now then, Mama! Jared was at his mother’s side in a trice. These ladies ’ave come to assess our wants an’ needs. So let’s just give ’em an honest account of ourselves, shall we? So they’ll know that every penny they sees fit to give us is sorely needed and truly deserved.

Mrs. Larrington looked at Mrs. Merryfield, and Mrs. Merryfield frowned back. Third rule of home visits, said the frown. Do not be tricked into parting with money.

Young man, rapped Mrs. Merryfield, I think you misunderstand the nature of our association’s—

AHA! Quick as a wink, Jared whirled away from the chaise longue and pointed across the room. Don’t think yer can creep away unnoticed, Ivy me girl. An’ don’t think I’ve forgotten what yer did, neither. It’s a wallopin’ you’re about to get, for rippin’ the collar of me brand-new jacket. So COME ’ERE!

Ivy jumped. She hadn’t been creeping anywhere. She hadn’t moved so much as a snail’s slither from the hearth.

Come ’ere, I said! I’ll learn yer t’be so careless with the only warm piece o’ clothin’ we possess between the lot of us!

Agonized, Ivy gazed beseechingly at the charity monger who had hooked her. Ivy didn’t deserve a walloping. It was Mrs. Merryfield’s fault the jacket had got torn, not hers.

Mrs. Larrington and Mrs. Merryfield exchanged another glance. Oh dear, said that glance. It could be we have a moral obligation, just this once, to break the third rule.

"Did

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