《Sweepings of the Street [excerpt]》 Chapter 1: The Factory Part One: Autumn September 1816 Chapter One: The Factory Sarah let go of the lever, ran a blistered hand through her matted blonde hair, and wished for the thousandth time that the power loom had never been invented. The machine was one of many grotesque assortments of gears, ratchets, and rollers that lined the factory floor. Sarah snuck a glance over her shoulder to ensure that the overseer was not watching her, then neglected her tasks to flex her sore fingers and let her mind wander. Her mother loved to weave, and she had passed many a day that way, sitting at her own loom and passing the shuttle back and forth with a gentle scraping noise. Her father and Thomas had returned from the fields of Norfolk every evening with ample energy to eat dinner as a family. Sarah had spent her days teaching Abigail to read and winding bobbins for Mother, and her nights listening to Thomas read poetry and watching the starry sky. If not for the power loom, these would be Sarah¡¯s reality rather than her memories. Instead, she found herself in the midst of a twelve-hour work day, moving levers and rollers until her arms ached in a cramped London factory. ¡°Star,¡± said a familiar voice. A smile spread across Sarah¡¯s face at the sound of her childhood nickname, and she turned to face her brother. At fifteen, three years Sarah¡¯s elder, Thomas Lee was tall and lean, and his muscular build had long since given way to the thin look of malnourishment. His round face was pale and studded with pimples. Sweat plastered his blond bangs against his forehead, and he staggered under the weight of the three boxes of heavy tools in his arms. Thomas hoisted the boxes higher and flashed Sarah a lopsided grin. ¡°How do you do?¡± he asked, raising his voice above the whirring of the machines and the clamor of the workers. Some, like Sarah and her mother across the room, worked on the looms, while others carried boxes or stood on tall ladders against the walls. ¡°Sore as always,¡± said Sarah, picking at a blister on her palm. ¡°But I¡¯ll be fine. You?¡± He shrugged, shifting one of the boxes. ¡°All right. Happy to be off the looms for the day. Where are Father and Mother?¡± ¡°Mother¡¯s on a loom across the floor, and Father¡¯s working the ladders, I reckon.¡± A man passed behind Thomas, and Sarah glanced between them, trying to give Thomas a silent warning. The overseer made rounds on the factory floor every few minutes, and he hated idleness. ¡°We were just getting back to work, sir,¡± she said, returning to her work and keeping her gaze from lingering on the cane in the overseer¡¯s hand. ¡°Of course,¡± the man sneered. ¡°See that you don¡¯t leave it next time.¡± Sarah watched the loom and braced herself for the inevitable tap of the cane against her calves. Behind her, Thomas stumbled and clutched the boxes in his arms as the cane struck his knees. The pain was fleeting as always, and after the overseer had gone, Thomas nodded at her to confirm that he was unhurt. Sarah nodded back, and they returned to their labors. Six months at the factory had ingrained the motions into Sarah¡¯s memory until she hardly needed to think, and in minutes, Sarah sank into a mindless pattern. The room¡¯s sweltering heat and the noise from the loom faded until her only sensation was the cold metal against her hands. Panicked shouts shattered her lethargy, and through the chaos, Sarah was able to make out the word ladder. She turned towards the back wall just in time to see one of the ladders against the wall sway and begin to tilt. The worker standing near the top turned and leapt from the falling ladder as his companions scattered. He hit the ground hard and collapsed, clutching his right leg. His groan ricocheted through Sarah¡¯s rib cage and sent a chill of recognition down her spine. ¡°Father!¡± she cried. As if her call had awakened the same realization in her brother, Thomas let his boxes clatter to the floor and dashed to Father¡¯s side. Sarah left her post and slid to her knees beside Thomas. Father¡¯s right leg had crumpled underneath him, and it was twisted at a sickening angle. He was gasping from the pain, gripping the fabric of his trouser leg until his knuckles turned white. ¡°Sarah, move.¡± Sarah¡¯s mother joined them, taking in the damage as she often had while treating injured workers on the farm. ¡°Merciful Heavens, William,¡± she said. ¡°I think it must be broken after that fall. Let me¡­.¡± She began to roll up the leg of his trousers, and he inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Mother rolled it halfway to his knee, then hissed and pulled it back down. ¡°This¡­¡± She swallowed, meeting Thomas¡¯ eyes. ¡°This is beyond my expertise. We¡¯ll have to call a doctor.¡± Horror seized Sarah¡¯s chest, constricting her throat. Whatever Mother had seen, it was enough to incapacitate Father for weeks, perhaps even months. ¡°Pardon me, ma¡¯am,¡± said a voice from behind Sarah. It belonged to a girl about Thomas¡¯ age, with brown hair beneath a bonnet and a musical quality to her voice as though it had been made for song. ¡°My father is a physician, and while I haven¡¯t much practice myself, I¡¯ve seen him treat injuries like this. I think I might be of some help to you.¡± ¡°Thank you, miss,¡± said Mother, moving to let the girl kneel beside her. The girl rolled up Father¡¯s trouser leg and nodded grimly. ¡°We¡¯ll have to set it before you can rise, sir,¡± she said. ¡°So we¡¯ll need bandages and some sort of straight rod.¡± ¡°Thomas, Sarah, check the boxes,¡± said Mother. ¡°Sarah, did you hear me?¡± Sarah tried to budge her frozen muscles. She wanted to rise and help Thomas search, but some invisible force had rooted her to the spot, trapping her in front of her injured father. ¡°I¡¯ll go,¡± offered the physician¡¯s daughter, and she and Thomas crossed the factory floor to search the boxes that Thomas had discarded. Sarah relaxed her fists, which she¡¯d unconsciously clenched against her apron. Thomas and the girl returned with a rod and strips of fabric. Regaining mobility at last, Sarah lurched to her feet. Mother took the supplies and set to work under the girl¡¯s instruction as Thomas brought Sarah aside. ¡°Breathe, Star,¡± he whispered as she leaned against him, her chest hitching painfully. ¡°He can¡¯t walk, Thomas.¡± Sarah¡¯s panic leaked into her voice. ¡°How would we afford a physician? How are we even going to get him home?¡± Thomas swallowed, his Adam¡¯s apple bobbing in his throat. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said, ¡°but we¡¯ll find a way. We always do.¡± Mother rose behind them. ¡°This ought to hold until we get home,¡± she said. ¡°Who is going home?¡± Sarah gritted her teeth as the overseer stalked over to them, surveying the chaos: Mother and the girl at Father¡¯s side, his leg wrapped in bandages, the boxes rooted through, the ladder on the floor. ¡°One of the ladders fell,¡± Father managed. ¡°My leg¡­¡± ¡°He¡¯ll have to be taken home and treated further, sir,¡± said the physician¡¯s daughter. The overseer turned to her. ¡°These four are family,¡± he said, ¡°but you are the fifth to waste my precious time. Go back to your post.¡± He rewarded her kindness with a tap to the legs with his cane. Sarah let out a breath, fuming. Thomas tensed beside her. The overseer turned his gaze on Mother. ¡°How many must be spared?¡± ¡°Two,¡± said Mother. ¡°And one of them ought to stay home with him.¡± He looked over Thomas and Sarah. ¡°The girl may go,¡± he said finally, and Sarah bristled. ¡°The boy has a man¡¯s strength.¡± Thomas knelt and slung Father¡¯s arm over his shoulder to help him rise. They looked at Sarah, who shook her head, struck with an idea. ¡°I can¡¯t lift him, sir,¡± she said. ¡°Someone else with a man¡¯s strength would do better.¡± The man huffed in annoyance and thrust the cane from him, where it clattered to a stop behind the nearest loom, then helped Thomas lift Father to his good leg. Father¡¯s face contorted in pain. Sarah tiptoed to where the cane had fallen and tucked it into the folds of her skirt, then edged towards the side door to the street and slipped outside. She planned to be far away by the time he noticed it was gone. It was a chilly, overcast September afternoon. Smoke curled upwards from the factories and dissipated into the gray sky. The bleak weather and the failed crops from earlier that year had dealt a severe blow to London¡¯s economy and left many citizens deep in poverty. The Lees lived and worked in the Parish of Saint Clement Danes. On the outskirts of the main city, Drury Lane was just wide enough for two horse-drawn carts to pass between the tight rows of buildings. The edges of the street slanted downwards and collected a contemptible mix of mud, rubbish, and manure. Sarah skirted around the factory and met Thomas and Father outside, where they were making slow, painful progress away from the door. Thomas met her eyes in confusion. ¡°Where were¡­?¡± His words transformed into an incredulous laugh as she withdrew the cane. ¡°Why, you little thief!¡± he whispered, and Sarah was relieved to see him grin. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°We can give it back,¡± she said with a shrug, handing the cane to Father. Father gripped the handle of the cane and tried to take a step, but gasped and stumbled into Thomas. ¡°That blasted ladder,¡± he said between labored breaths. Muscles in his face twitched in his effort to suppress a wince. ¡°One minute¡­ I was working, and the next¡ª¡± ¡°No matter,¡± Thomas murmured. ¡°Just concentrate on getting home. If you use it on your left side and hold onto me¡­ That¡¯s it.¡± As they turned onto Stanhope Street[1], Sarah caught sight of someone sitting on a bench in the shadow of a tall building. It was a child, a small boy who looked to be about eight years old, his face framed by brown curls. His dark-eyed gaze darted from her to his bare feet as though he didn¡¯t want to be seen. Sarah hung back, letting Thomas and Father pass her as she turned to watch the boy. Money was short, and Father would have scorned the thought of Sarah giving their hard-earned wages to strangers. But Father was limping ahead of her, and this boy looked as though he hadn¡¯t eaten a full meal in weeks. Sarah slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and handed the boy tuppence[2] of the money she had earned the day before. His eyes grew round as the coin itself. He didn¡¯t speak, but met her eyes for a split second and cupped the coin in his dirty hands. ¡°God bless you,¡± Sarah said to him. It wasn¡¯t until after the boy had darted away with his prize that she turned back to her family and realized that Thomas was watching her. He¡¯d craned his neck backwards to meet her eyes, still supporting Father. His brows rose in a silent question. Sarah held his gaze. ¡°Keep my secret,¡± she whispered, beginning the exchange she and Thomas often used as a promise. Thomas let out a quiet sigh and finished the phrase under his breath: ¡°To the grave.¡± Sarah¡¯s family lived on the second floor of a brick building, the lower story of which was uninhabited, and until that moment, the stairs to their flat had hardly disturbed them. Father and Thomas began the long journey while Sarah ducked past them to ready Father¡¯s bed. The Lees¡¯ flat spanned three rooms: a sitting room, a bedroom for Sarah¡¯s parents, and a bedroom that Sarah and her siblings shared. An ash-filled fireplace lay at the opposite end of the room from the landing of the stairs, and a window protruded from the adjacent wall. The room¡¯s furniture was sparse: a table in the center with benches on either side, a cupboard where they stored most of their possessions, a barrel that contained food and old clothing, and a water basin with a metal spout. Sarah had scarcely had time to look over the sitting room before Abigail ran to the door to greet her. ¡°You¡¯re home early!¡± exclaimed Abigail, throwing her arms around Sarah. Abigail was six years old and bursting with the energy that was characteristic of a young girl who remained alone at home for hours at a time. Clad in a dirty white chemise[3], Abigail stood just above Sarah¡¯s waist, with pink cheeks and fair hair that desperately wanted washing. Sarah extricated herself from Abigail¡¯s embrace. ¡°I know, Abigail. Listen. Father¡¯s hurt from work, and I need you to stay out of the way when he comes.¡± Abigail¡¯s face became solemn. Sarah propped the door to Father and Mother¡¯s room open with a stone and pulled back the sheets of the bed as Thomas and Father lumbered in. Father eased himself onto the bed he shared with Mother. Thomas offered Sarah a wet scrap of cloth. ¡°Mother says to elevate it and try to keep the swelling down,¡± he said. Sarah lay Father¡¯s leg across a pillow, apologizing as he winced at the motion, then pressed the cloth against his bandages. ¡°I ought to go back,¡± said Thomas, pulling Sarah into a hug as she left Father¡¯s bedside. ¡°Thank you.¡± Sarah smiled at him and wiped her wet hands on the skirt of her brown dress. Thomas pulled on his jacket and left for the factory. ¡°Father, are you well?¡± Abigail asked the moment he¡¯d gone, trying to clamber onto the bed beside him. ¡°Abigail, no¡ªplease.¡± Father guided her back onto the floor. ¡°I hurt my leg at the factory.¡± Abigail gestured to the cane. ¡°Where did you get the stick?¡± ¡°No more questions,¡± Sarah said hastily, leaving Father¡¯s room and kneeling by the hearth to kindle a fire. ¡°Will you show me your writing?¡± Abigail scrambled into her bedroom and opened the trunk that she, Sarah, and Thomas shared to retrieve her stack of paper, where she had been practicing her letters. Sarah¡¯s parents had taught her and Thomas to read and write, and now Abigail learned from Sarah, Thomas, and their parents by turns. Although there was far less time to teach Abigail now that the rest of the family worked, Sarah tried her best to keep up the little girl¡¯s studies. Abigail displayed her untidy handwriting page. She¡¯d written her name, Abigail Lee, over and over, followed by the alphabet and numbers. The letters were still nearly illegible, but Sarah could usually decipher approximately what they read. ¡°Be sure that your R¡¯s aren¡¯t backwards,¡± she said, indicating the mistake. ¡°But the rest of your letters are correct.¡± It was definite progress from earlier that year, when Abigail had been writing entire words in reverse. Abigail picked up the pencil. It stuck up from her right fist, and Sarah took it and showed her the correct way to hold it. Abigail wrote a new sentence, her tongue poking between her lips as she focused on forming each letter. ¡°I love my sister Sarah and my brother Thomas,¡± she read. ¡°You¡¯re getting good at spelling,¡± said Sarah. ¡°You ought to show your writing to Father while I¡¯m making dinner.¡± She struck a flint against a steel hook to light the fire, then took the water basin outside and carried it down the street to fill it from the pump. The basin was so heavy when full that Sarah had to hold it around the middle with both arms. She set a pot of water over the fire to boil and added tea leaves. When the tea had brewed, she poured it with difficulty into five separate mugs, then filled the pot with five slices of dried meat and set it stewing. Mother and Thomas returned home at about twilight, hands filthy and cheeks flushed. Mother washed her face in the water basin, exchanged her bonnet for a plain white mob cap, and knelt at Father¡¯s bed. ¡°How are you?¡± she murmured. Father tilted his head from side to side. ¡°A bit better,¡± he replied. ¡°Thank you.¡± The swelling in his leg had lessened, but pain was still evident in his eyes. Mother kissed his forehead. ¡°I¡¯ll bring you dinner.¡± ¡°Thomas, where have I seen the physician¡¯s daughter before?¡± Sarah asked. She didn¡¯t know her by name, but she was certain that they¡¯d met before. ¡°Miss Catherine Mortimer,¡± said Thomas, turning away to hang up his jacket. ¡°The dratted overseer was keeping a close watch on both of us after I came back, or else I would have thanked her. I shall tomorrow.¡± The name clicked into place. ¡°She and her father go to our church, don¡¯t they?¡± ¡°Aye. I remember him, Dr. Mortimer. We had better see if he can have a look at Father¡¯s leg.¡± Sarah hesitated. ¡°Do you think it was wrong to take the cane?¡± she asked. Resentment clouded Thomas¡¯ face. ¡°Oh, I doubt he minded. He had another in the afternoon, and he used it liberally. Besides, we need it more than he does, particularly if they¡¯re canceling Father¡¯s wages this week.¡± Sarah¡¯s jaw dropped in indignation. ¡°What?¡± Thomas nodded grimly. ¡°We can¡¯t keep records of your hours if you leave in the middle of the day. Damned fools.¡± ¡°Thomas,¡± Mother scolded. ¡°Sorry.¡± Thomas drifted towards the bedroom he shared with Sarah and Abigail, catching the door jamb as he passed and swinging into the room. ¡°He isn¡¯t wrong, Mary,¡± said Father. Mother crossed the room to lean against the doorway to his room. ¡°Wrong or no, I don¡¯t want to hear that sort of language from the mouth of a child of mine. Besides, Heaven forbid Abigail use it¡ªyou know how she takes after him. Sarah, have you started dinner?¡± Sarah nodded. ¡°I started the meat when we got home. It¡¯s probably done. Abigail, will you set out the plates for dinner? Leave them on the bench beside Father¡¯s bed.¡± Abigail obliged as Mother knelt in front of the fire to take out the meat. Sarah entered her room and walked over to the window, where Thomas rested his arms against the sill, lost in bleak rumination. Cool air wafted through the open window, kissing her skin. ¡°Are you all right?¡± she asked her brother. Thomas started. ¡°Star! I didn¡¯t see you. Yes, I¡­ suppose I¡¯m all right.¡± ¡°You¡¯re angry about the money?¡± Thomas was silent for a moment. ¡°I wish we could go back to the way things were.¡± ¡°So do I,¡± Sarah sighed, watching her brother gaze at the darkening city. The flickering light of candles and streetlamps were the only illumination of Great Wild Street. Smokestacks and chimneys were shadowy silhouettes against the indigo sky, which was still lit with a halo of pale blue from below the horizon. Thomas blew a puff of air that fanned his bangs upwards. ¡°All this blasted smoke,¡± he murmured, still facing the window. ¡°I miss seeing the stars.¡± ¡°I know.¡± Back at the family¡¯s farmhouse in Norfolk, East Anglia, Thomas would venture outside at night and watch the stars forming patterns in the sky. Sarah would sit with him and beg him to tell her stories about the figures depicted in the constellations, and he¡¯d oblige her with enthusiasm. In London the stars were blocked by factory smoke, and Sarah knew that her brother longed to see them again. Thomas turned to Sarah, his wistful expression morphing into a grin. ¡°No matter. The most important Star is right here.¡± He ruffled Sarah¡¯s hair, and Sarah laughed as she smoothed it again. ¡°You¡¯re far too dramatic for factory work,¡± she said. ¡°Perhaps a job at the theatre would suit you better.¡± Thomas rolled his eyes, but the conversation had raised Sarah¡¯s spirits despite her teasing. She was closer to Thomas than to either of her parents: their two-year difference in age hadn¡¯t prevented an inseparable bond from forming between them. He could soothe her with a glance and bring a laugh to her lips no matter the circumstances. They exchanged silent conversations at work and trusted each other with the deepest of secrets. ¡°Thomas, Sarah, come and help move the benches,¡± Mother called. ¡°We¡¯ll eat in the bedroom today.¡± Sarah and Thomas left the window, and Thomas heaved one of the benches into Father¡¯s room. Abigail managed to lift the second bench and nearly lost her balance, but Sarah caught one end before Abigail could swing it into the wall. They shuffled into the bedroom, carrying the bench between them. Father sat up, wincing as the movement jostled his leg, and Mother handed him a tin plate and a mug of tea. She distributed the rest of the dishes, then said a quick prayer, and they began to eat. After a minute of silence, Mother said, ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s safe for Sarah to return to the factory.¡± ¡°Me?¡± Sarah said in surprise. The four of them had worked there for nearly five months, and while it was far from enjoyable, at least it was routine. ¡°You¡¯re the most likely to be hurt. You¡¯re a child.¡± ¡°I¡¯m twelve.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± ¡°We need all the money we can get,¡± said Father. Mother shot him a look. ¡°What difference will two fewer shillings make?¡± she asked, and Sarah bristled. ¡°Money is beside the point. You of all people know what that place can do to someone¡ªit could kill her.¡± ¡°She can hear you,¡± Sarah muttered under her breath. ¡°Abigail, use a fork, for Heaven¡¯s sake,¡± said Mother. Abigail dangled the beef over her plate, holding it between her finger and thumb. ¡°I can¡¯t. It¡¯s too big.¡± ¡°Give it here,¡± Sarah told her. ¡°Thomas, pass the knife, please.¡± He did so, and Sarah cut the meat in her lap. Father nodded, still lost in thought. ¡°Very well. We can¡¯t risk another of us getting hurt.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± said Thomas, taking a bite of beef. Mother turned to him. ¡°You also, Thomas.¡± He shook his head and swallowed. ¡°Mother, no. I earn more than you do now. I ought to keep working.¡± Mother gave a slight huff. Sarah had often wondered why the factory paid a boy of fifteen nearly twice the wage of a grown woman, but Mother had told her that only a few decades earlier, it was nearly unheard-of for a woman to work at all. ¡°So be it,¡± said Mother. ¡°Sarah, you¡¯ll stay home and care for your father. It will do Abigail some good to have company, anyway.¡± Sarah nodded and sipped tea from her mug. Her objection to staying home lay only in guilt that she would not earn any money, not in fondness for the factory itself. She rubbed her blistered hand against the warm metal of her mug and smiled, feeling a secret satisfaction in finally being rid of the horrible place.
[1] not the Stanhope Street that currently exists in London, but a street parallel to Drury Lane, at the approximate location of the modern Kean Street [2] In the British LSD (pre-decimal) system, twelve pence (singular penny) were one shilling, and twenty shillings were one pound. Words such as ¡°tuppence¡± or ¡°twopence,¡± ¡°threepence,¡± and ¡°sixpence¡± were used. Other denominations included farthings (a quarter of a penny), crowns (five shillings), and guineas (twenty-one shillings). [3] a loose, white cotton dress, either an under- or outer garment Chapter 2: The Decision 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¡ªthe 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.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. 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¡ªeither 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¡ªa chimney a day, I reckon¡ªthen 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¡ª¡± ¡°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¡ª¡± ¡°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.¡±
[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. Chapter 3: Disguise ¡°Thomas, do you have those trousers from the farm, or do I?¡± Mother called from her room. She knelt by her trunk, while Sarah and Thomas rooted through their own. It had been three days since Father had introduced his scheme, and Sarah would begin work as an apprenticed chimney sweeper the next day. ¡°I don¡¯t think I do,¡± Thomas replied. Sarah nudged him. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder you find anything in that mess.¡± He rolled his eyes. ¡°Why don¡¯t you organize my section, then, if you care so much?¡± ¡°Perhaps I shall.¡± ¡°Here they are,¡± said Mother, coming into their room and handing Sarah the trousers. ¡°They may be a bit large on you, but we¡¯ll manage.¡± ¡°I have the rest.¡± Thomas handed Sarah a bundle of clothing. ¡°What name are you to use?¡± ¡°Sam,¡± said Sarah. She¡¯d decided on an alias that was common, easy to say, and not too different from her given name. ¡°Sam Lee.¡± She spread out the clothes on her bed: a white button-up shirt, brown trousers, and a tan waistcoat, all well-worn. Sarah tried on the outfit. The shirt sleeves were just long enough that a single fold brought the cuffs even with Sarah¡¯s wrists. The trousers fit well about the waist, but Sarah had to hoist them up to avoid treading on the hems. ¡°No matter,¡± said Mother. ¡°I can raise the hems a few inches[1] if needed.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll need a hat to hide my hair,¡± said Sarah. Thomas scrutinized her with furrowed brows. ¡°I reckon you would do better to cut it.¡± Sarah flinched from him, clutching her hair. ¡°No!¡± Disguising herself was one thing, but cutting her hair would make the change too permanent for her liking. At Thomas¡¯ look of surprise, she fumbled for justification. ¡°The neighbors from church know I¡¯m female,¡± she explained. ¡°If my disguise is to be believed, I ought to be seen as a girl at church and as a boy at work.¡± Thomas nodded, frowning in thought. ¡°That makes sense. Then you must be careful to secure whatever hat you use.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± said Sarah, relieved. Mother folded the hems of Sarah¡¯s trousers so that they ended properly at the ankles. ¡°Thomas, do you still have that flat cap you used on the farm? It should do to hide her hair.¡± ¡°Here it is,¡± said Thomas, fishing out the cap from his section of their trunk and handing it to Sarah. Weeks without washing had left her hair greasy and snarled, and Sarah untangled it with difficulty before braiding it. Then she curled the braid around her head and pressed the cap over it. It was large enough to conceal the bulge of the hidden braid. She turned to Thomas and lowered the pitch of her voice as she said, ¡°Well, how do I look?¡± ¡°Like a strapping young lad,¡± said Thomas, a faint grin playing upon his face. ¡°No, truly. You look and sound like a boy.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡ª¡± Sarah stopped and cleared her throat. ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear it, I suppose.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re still using Thomas¡¯ old shoes, are you not?¡± said Mother. ¡°So we needn¡¯t worry about that.¡± ¡°Aye, I am.¡± Sarah stood up and smoothed her wrinkled shirt, glad for the first time that at twelve years old her chest was still perfectly flat. ¡°I reckon I¡¯ll be far cleaner than the other sweepers,¡± she said with a throaty laugh. Thomas grinned again. ¡°I ought to start addressing you as my brother.¡± Then he lowered his voice, his expression turning grave. ¡°You know, you don¡¯t have to do this.¡± ¡°I know,¡± Sarah said. ¡°But I¡¯m ready. I can¡¯t explain it, but a part of me wants this, Thomas.¡± He pursed his lips. ¡°I just don¡¯t want to see you hurt.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t,¡± she told him, flashing a reassuring smile. ¡°I promise.¡± ### The morning sky was just light enough for Sarah to rummage through the trunk where she¡¯d stowed the boys¡¯ clothing. She withdrew the outfit and donned the boy¡¯s clothes, then braided her hair and folded the braid into her cap. Thomas and Mother were in the sitting room already. Mother knelt at the hearth, where she was boiling water for tea, and Thomas sat at one of the benches. ¡°How is it?¡± Sarah asked. ¡°A bit of your hair shows on the sides,¡± said Thomas, removing the cap and sweeping the smaller strands into her braid. He replaced the cap, this time lower on her head, and checked the back. ¡°That¡¯s better.¡± ¡°Goodness, Sarah,¡± Mother said, glancing up, ¡°you do look like a boy. Why, you look a bit like Thomas when he was your age!¡± Thomas studied Sarah with interest. ¡°Did I truly look like that?¡± ¡°You were certainly taller,¡± Mother admitted. Sarah huffed. She stood only a bit above Thomas¡¯ shoulder, and it was a sore subject for her. ¡°You needn¡¯t hold my height against me¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªor lack thereof,¡± Thomas muttered. Sarah swatted him playfully. ¡°Sarah, have some bread, and then we must be off,¡± said Mother. ¡°Thomas, hasten your eating, won¡¯t you? It¡¯s past seven.¡± Thomas retrieved his coat, snatched another slice of bread, and departed. ¡°How many chimney sweepers are there?¡± Sarah asked. Mother thought. ¡°Oh, twenty or thirty.¡± Sarah considered the number through a mouthful of bread. ¡°And they work every day? I didn¡¯t know there were so many chimneys in London.¡± ¡°There are, and this isn¡¯t the only sweeper lodging house. London has over a million residents, so I imagine there are always chimneys to be swept. From what I know, each sweeper is apprenticed to a master sweeper who trains and pays him. There are some who live at the lodging house and some who come there every day to work, as you will.¡± Sarah finished her slice of bread, then followed her mother outside, across Drury Lane, down Russell Street, and into Covent Garden Market. It was a wide, open-air marketplace, far larger than Clare Market at the southern end of Drury Lane, and even at a quarter past seven it was a whirlwind of motion and noise. Costermongers[2] pulling carts of fruit, porters toting baskets, horses and donkeys laden with parcels, boys hawking newspapers, and girls selling flowers flocked into the square from the narrow streets that led to the rest of the city. At the far end, a church with four stone pillars rose above the market stalls. After struggling for several minutes to cross the packed square, Mother and Sarah finally approached the lodging house, a small, derelict brick building with steps leading up to a double door. The sweepers had already dispersed across the square and into the surrounding streets, so the space around the lodging house was deserted. Mother pushed one door open and entered. A young man of about twenty-five stood at a wooden desk, staring down at them. He wore a shabby gray town coat[3] and a top hat. ¡°How can I help you, ma¡¯am?¡± he inquired. ¡°I¡¯m here to apprentice my son to a master chimney sweeper,¡± said Mother. The words meant nothing to Sarah, but Mother had evidently investigated further into the job. ¡°What¡¯s the name of your boy?¡± the man asked. Mother didn¡¯t reply. Realizing that the question was hers to answer, Sarah cleared her throat. ¡°Sam Lee, sir.¡± ¡°And how old are you?¡± ¡°Twelve, sir.¡± The man made a note on a paper on his desk. ¡°Can you read?¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°Mr. Stanton can take you. He¡¯ll be lodgin¡¯ here?¡± Mother shook her head. ¡°He¡¯ll stay at home for the nights.¡± It was peculiar for Sarah to hear the pronoun he on her mother¡¯s tongue and know that it referred to her. The man scribbled on his paper again. ¡°Stanton will be here shortly,¡± he told them. ¡°In the meantime, ma¡¯am, would you¡­?¡± He handed Mother several documents, which she filled out and returned to the desk. Sarah guessed that much of the information Mother had written on the documents had been false. The door behind Sarah and Mother swung open, and another man ambled in. He was about forty, short and thin, wearing a frayed black town coat and trousers covered with soot. He had a kindly face with an overgrown black beard, and a brown bag filled with brushes of various shapes and sizes was slung over his shoulder. ¡°Mornin¡¯, ma¡¯am,¡± he said, nodding to Mother. He spoke with a thick Cockney accent. ¡°Thanks, Mr. Dacre. I¡¯ll take it from here.¡± Mr. Dacre handed his papers to the newcomer and left through a door at the side of the room. The newcomer took his place. ¡°New lad, eh?¡± he said, reading the papers. ¡°I¡¯m Mr. Stanton. Sam Lee, innit?¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Sarah replied. ¡°Twelve years old?¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°You¡¯re startin¡¯ a bit late,¡± Stanton mused, ¡°but we¡¯ll make do. Right this way, please, and I¡¯ll give you your supplies.¡± A bit late? Mother bade Sarah farewell and left the lodging house. When Stanton had turned away, Sarah ensured that her hair was still hidden. He led her down a hallway and into a room full of sacks, bags, brushes, and what looked like bedsheets, all coated in a layer of soot. Mr. Stanton handed Sarah a wool town coat resembling his own and a pair of worn brown gloves. Sarah slipped on the clothes, grateful that the gloves would conceal her unfortunately feminine hands. Stanton then gave her a bag of tools and a dirty gray sack. ¡°This,¡± he said, gesturing to the sack, ¡°is for holdin¡¯ the ashes. You brush the corners with this¡±¡ªhe indicated each tool as he spoke¡ª¡°and use this to scoop the soot into the sack. The sack¡¯s contents can be deposited back at the lodgin¡¯ house, where we¡¯ll make use of ¡®em. You see?¡± Sarah nodded. ¡°As it¡¯s your first day,¡± continued Mr. Stanton, ¡°I¡¯ll take you with me on the job and show you how it¡¯s done.¡± ¡°Yes, sir!¡± said Sarah. The thrill rose up inside her again, threatening to bubble out of her in a giddy laugh. She pressed her lips together. ¡°Follow me, then.¡± Stanton picked up his own sweeping bag and left the building, Sarah close behind. The crowd had dissipated slightly, but there were still far too many people in the market for Sarah¡¯s taste. Stanton turned left at the western end of the market, where the four-pillared church stood. ¡°What¡¯s the name of that church, sir?¡± Sarah asked, indicating it. Mr. Stanton barely spared it a glance. ¡°That¡¯s Saint Paul¡¯s,¡± he said. Sarah frowned. ¡°That can¡¯t be,¡± she said. ¡°I thought Saint Paul¡¯s was the tallest building in London.¡± Stanton laughed. ¡°That¡¯s the cathedral, son, ¡®bout a mile down the Strand. This is Saint Paul¡¯s Church.¡± That certainly made things harder for her. Sarah had enough difficulty navigating without adding duplicate names to the mix. ¡°My assignment¡¯s a house off the Strand,¡± Mr. Stanton told Sarah as they walked down Southampton Street. He navigated the streets with ease, checking each address. Stanton found the house he was looking for and pointed out the number to Sarah. ¡°At the start of each day, you¡¯ll report to the lodgin¡¯ house ¡®round seven in the mornin¡¯. I¡¯ll give you an address, and you¡¯ll find the buildin¡¯ and sweep its chimney. If there¡¯s more than one what needs cleanin¡¯, I¡¯ll pair you with another sweeper.¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°The customer pays two shillin¡¯s a chimney. You¡¯ll get one o¡¯ those for each chimney you clean.¡± Mr. Stanton slipped through the back door of the house. ¡°These folks specified they wanted me to come in the back,¡± he explained. Sarah marveled at the spacious rooms as Stanton led the way until they reached a sitting room with a fireplace. Stanton withdrew a common bedsheet so stained with ash and soot that one could hardly tell it had been white. He spread it across the floor in front of the hearth, explaining to Sarah that it prevented him from brushing ash across the carpet in the sitting room. Then he ducked into the fireplace and began to climb up the chimney. Sarah stared after him. ¡°Watch the way I use my knees,¡± said Stanton. ¡°I can move my knees up the wall this way and support myself with my back.¡± He climbed farther up. Sarah poked her head into the fireplace and squinted to watch Stanton¡¯s motions. She could hardly distinguish his silhouette in the darkness. ¡°I¡¯m comin¡¯ down,¡± Stanton called. Sarah retreated hurriedly as Stanton dropped to the ground. He held up several of his brushes and explained what each one was used for and in which order to use them. ¡°I scoop the soot and ashes into the sack,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ll climb the chimney, sweepin¡¯ as you go. Your job¡¯s finished when your head pokes out the top. Then you climb down again.¡± ¡°Will we have more than one assignment each day?¡± Sarah asked. ¡°Not often,¡± Stanton replied. ¡°You¡¯ll return to the lodgin¡¯ house if you¡¯re finished early, and we may give you another assignment. Here, you try climbin¡¯ up.¡± Sarah cast him an apprehensive glance and stepped into the fireplace. The chimney was a dark, narrow prism that stretched upwards as far as she could see. Stanton helped her position herself in the chimney, her back against one side wall and her knees on the other, and she began to climb. It was slow work, and difficult even without holding any brushes. She made it to the first turn in the flue, then stopped to rest. Mr. Stanton called up from the bottom, ¡°How are you farin¡¯, Mr. Lee?¡± Sarah broke into a false cough to stifle her laugh. It was a title meant for her father, or perhaps Thomas. ¡°All right,¡± she said. ¡°Just resting a moment.¡± ¡°Climb all the way to the top,¡± directed Stanton, ¡°then pull yourself out and wait for me on the roof.¡± It was the strangest set of instructions Sarah had ever received, but she did as she was told. It did not take long for fatigue to set into her untrained limbs. The space was uncomfortably small, and her knees and back pressed painfully against the hard bricks. Filth covered every inch of the walls. Sarah pressed her lips together to avoid inhaling soot, but the particles still tickled the inside of her nose as she breathed. She inched towards the square of light above her head. Finally, the top was close enough for her to latch onto the rim of the chimney and pull herself up. She climbed out and stretched her sore legs with a sigh. Then, clutching the brick chimney top for support, she turned to gaze upon the city from above. She had never seen London from such a perspective. There were indeed many chimneys: dozens, even hundreds, sending curling smoke into the clouds. White steeples and black smokestacks pierced the gray sky. To the east, the stone dome of Saint Paul¡¯s Cathedral rose from the street, and to the south, Blackfriars Bridge spanned the curving River Thames. Mr. Stanton joined her soon after, his face and clothes streaked with ash. Sarah was shocked that he had fit in so small a space. ¡°There¡¯s a good lad,¡± he said. Sarah suppressed another laugh. ¡°Now, when you¡¯re alone, remember which stack you come from. Some houses have got many chimney stacks, and it can be easy to lose your way.¡± Sarah gulped, recalling Thomas¡¯ worries about her safety. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± The tickling in her nose became unbearable, and she sneezed into her elbow. ¡°God bless you,¡± said Stanton, raising his eyebrows. Sarah glanced at her sleeve and saw a black stain. She looked away in disgust. Stanton climbed back into the chimney stack. ¡°The way down¡¯s faster than the way up,¡± he said, his voice muffled from inside the chimney, ¡°but mind you don¡¯t slip. If you catch a spot you missed, clean it. For now, wait for me to get all the way down first. I¡¯ll tell you when to follow.¡± Sarah waited for his call and squeezed back into the tiny space. Going down was indeed easier than going up: she could let herself slide a short distance before steadying herself with her hands and knees. Before long she was back at the first curve in the flue, where she jumped to the bottom. The impact jarred her ankles, and she nearly stumbled into the brick wall as she landed. Stanton caught her. ¡°Before steppin¡¯ off the sheet,¡± he said, ¡°brush off what soot you can. Customers don¡¯t like sooty footprints ¡®cross their sittin¡¯ room.¡± Sarah brushed the ashes off her jacket and trousers and ducked out of the chimney. Stanton packed up his brushes, folded the sheet, and stuffed it into his bag. As they left the house, the surrounding church clocks chimed five, earlier than she¡¯d left the factory. Mr. Stanton gave her sixpence back at the lodging house. ¡°Good work, Mr. Lee. I¡¯ll see you at seven o¡¯clock sharp tomorrow,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a more experienced partner tomorrow, should you need the help.¡± ¡°Thank you, sir.¡± Sarah pocketed her money, shouldered her bag, and left the lodging house. The sky was just beginning to darken as Sarah reached her house and climbed the stairs. Her knees ached with every step, drained from supporting her body weight all day. Abigail took one look at her as she entered and burst out laughing. ¡°Sarah, you¡¯re so dirty!¡± she said, touching Sarah¡¯s shirt and giggling when her fingers came off streaked with black. She bent down and began to trace a picture on the wooden floor with her sooty left hand. ¡°I climbed a chimney,¡± said Sarah, setting down her bag and freeing her hair from its cloth prison with a sigh of relief. The idea was still alien to her; if she¡¯d been told the week before that she would soon be scaling chimneys for a living, she would have laughed aloud. Abigail looked up from her creation, a crude depiction of a smiling face. ¡°Can I climb a chimney?¡± Sarah laughed. ¡°Not today.¡± She knelt at the water basin and scrubbed her face and hands until they itched. ¡°Come here and wash your hands¡ªwe can¡¯t have them all filthy for dinner.¡± Abigail did so. The door opened and Thomas entered, hanging up his coat and grinning at the sight of Sarah¡¯s masculine clothes. ¡°Now, who let the chimney sweeper in?¡± he joked, imitating a Cockney accent that sounded remarkably like Mr. Stanton. Sarah smirked. ¡°Oh, stop it.¡± ¡°How was work?¡± he asked. ¡°Dirty.¡± Sarah rubbed a sore spot on her back. ¡°And cramped.¡± He flashed a smile. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t your fault. It wasn¡¯t so bad, in any case. You can¡¯t imagine how strange it is to be called Mr. Lee.¡± He snorted. ¡°How was yours?¡± Sarah asked. He tilted his head from side to side. ¡°The usual: boring, exhausting, and smelly.¡± He cast a glance over his shoulder at the hearth, where Mother was making dinner. ¡°I hate the factory.¡± Sarah nodded, her mirth fading. In her relief to escape the factory, she had forgotten that her brother had remained. ¡°I know,¡± she murmured. ¡°At least you aren¡¯t trapped in that awful place anymore.¡± Thomas yawned and ran his fingers through his hair. ¡°I hope dinner is ready soon¡ªI¡¯m starving.¡± Sarah rolled her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re always starving.¡± In the past year, accompanying his recent growth spurt that had left him six inches taller than Sarah, Thomas¡¯ appetite had become insatiable. ¡°Well, you can¡¯t blame me. We haven¡¯t had a full meal in ages.¡± Mother cast Thomas a reproachful look from the hearth. ¡°Thomas, you know perfectly well¡ª¡± Thomas sighed. ¡°Aye, I know.¡± The unspoken acknowledgment of their situation lingered in the air. Although Father would not admit it, it was clear that the family clung to subsistence by a thread even with Sarah and Thomas¡¯ wages. ¡°We¡¯ll eat in a moment,¡± said Sarah finally, eager to break the heavy silence. Thomas sat on a bench, facing outwards, and leaned back against the table as Sarah left to help Mother prepare the meal.
[1] Though not regulated until the Weights and Measures Act in 1824 when the British Imperial System was put into place, inches, feet, and similar measurements were widely used in the United Kingdom for centuries. The UK adopted the Metric System in 1965. [2] vendors who sell produce from a handcart at a market [3] a single-breasted coat with lapels, a waist seam, and three buttons Chapter 4: The Rooftop Covent Garden Market was less populous on Sarah¡¯s second day than on her first, to her relief. Twenty or thirty boys congregated in front of the lodging house, wearing dirty clothing similar to hers and carrying identical bags, their faces caked with soot and dirt. The eldest of them looked around Sarah¡¯s age, and the youngest was hardly older than Abigail. Sarah cringed at the sordid party: the chimney sweepers scarcely seemed better off than the vagrant boy she¡¯d seen in the street the week before. How long would it be before she looked the same? The lobby of the lodging house was crowded with more sweepers, most of them shorter and dirtier than Sarah was. The boys were loud and unruly, laughing and slapping one another on the backs. It was clear that they had known each other for years. An ache set into Sarah¡¯s chest. There had been children her age at the factory, but she hadn¡¯t dared speak to anyone but Thomas for fear of the overseer¡¯s discipline. With the exception of Thomas, she¡¯d spent five months without anyone she could truly call a friend. She stepped into the queue of sweepers that formed in front of the desk. Mr. Stanton handed each boy a slip of paper with an address written on it. Sarah received hers, along with a smile and a ¡°Good luck!¡± from Stanton. She left as Mr. Stanton spoke to the next boy in line. Sarah found the house with some difficulty, since she¡¯d spent little time in the richer parts of the city. Along with the address, Mr. Stanton had scrawled a hasty set of instructions, which Sarah used to navigate herself to her assignment. As Sarah reached Piccadilly, the properties transformed from close quarters to spacious enclosures, and the houses themselves grew larger and more extravagant. Sarah tore her gaze away from the mansions to find her assignment, a house smaller than some in the vicinity, but still many times the size of the Lees¡¯ flat. Stanton had also noted that the house¡¯s kitchen fireplace connected with that of the sitting room to form a single chimney stack. She was to sweep the former, while another boy would join her to clean the latter. Sarah found the kitchen, spread out her sheet to cover the floor, and ducked into the fireplace. If possible, this chimney was even narrower than the one she¡¯d climbed the day before. Stanton¡¯s direction to use her back and knees to ascend the flue was harder than it sounded, particularly in a space barely wider than Sarah¡¯s own body. Sarah reached behind her to withdraw a brush, but there was so little room to move that she could not remove it from her bag. She had climbed twice as far as she was tall, which was not very far, and at least five more of that distance remained before the top. Her legs were beginning to lose sensation, and the opening of the chimney seemed impossibly far above her. ¡°Is anyone there?¡± she called, not expecting an answer. To her surprise, a boy¡¯s voice hollered back. ¡°Aye! You the sweeper they sent?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Sarah lowered her voice mid-word; she¡¯d forgotten to disguise her tone in her relief. ¡°Are you a sweeper as well?¡± ¡°I am indeed,¡± said the boy. His voice was throaty and muffled by the brick. ¡°Either that, or an odd little nipper[1] what fancies climbin¡¯ his own chimney stack. You get stuck or somethin¡¯?¡± ¡°No, I¡¯m just having trouble climbing. Where are you?¡± ¡°Comin¡¯ out the other chimney. Mind your head, I¡¯m comin¡¯ down.¡± Sarah craned her neck upwards as a shadowy figure slid out of an opening several feet above her. He caught himself against the opposite wall with a grunt. ¡°I¡¯m goin¡¯ to tie the rope at the top, and you¡¯re goin¡¯ to climb up. Can you do that?¡± Sarah had never attempted anything of the sort, but she answered, ¡°I think so.¡± The boy shimmied up the chimney, his body blocking the light above Sarah until he was climbing out of the top. The square of light reappeared, broken by the boy¡¯s silhouette. Seconds later, a rope tickled her shoulder. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Hold on,¡± said the boy. Sarah did so. ¡°Now climb! I tied it up here.¡± Sarah pulled herself, hand over hand, up the rope. Her gloves allowed her to clutch the rope without losing traction, and she climbed until the top of the chimney was within reach. She raised a hand to her hat before heaving her torso above the rim. ¡°You ought to be more careful,¡± said the boy, watching the absurd contortions that resulted from Sarah¡¯s attempt to climb onto the rooftop. ¡°You¡¯d have been caught down there. Last thing you want is your strength givin¡¯ out on the job.¡± Sarah¡¯s efforts finally succeeded, and she clambered onto the roof. She was grateful for her cap¡¯s brim as she squinted against the sudden brightness, a stark contrast to the gloom of the chimney. The other sweeper looked twelve or thirteen, albeit shorter and skinnier than she. Soot covered his face and clothes, and his bare feet were stained with dirt. He wore a flimsy black top hat over long, greasy brown hair that hung in tangled curls about his face, and his distinctive dark eyes seemed to stare straight through her. ¡°Thank you for that,¡± said Sarah, careful to keep her tone low and masculine. The boy shrugged. ¡°Just doin¡¯ my job. You can thank me by learnin¡¯ to climb on your own.¡± He held out a hand, unsmiling. ¡°Name¡¯s Jamie. Jamie Wright. What¡¯s yours?¡± ¡°Sam Lee.¡± Sarah kept her face blank. ¡°Pleased to meet you, Sam.¡± Jamie¡¯s face betrayed no such emotion as he surveyed her with narrowed eyes. At least he called her Sam; the alias was more bearable than Mr. Lee. ¡°You¡¯re awfully tall for a sweeper,¡± Jamie said. ¡°New?¡± Sarah nodded, amused that anyone could consider her tall. ¡°First day on the job. Well, second, but my first day was with Mr. Stanton. How did you get up? And how did you know I was here?¡± ¡°Stanton told me to watch you. Said you was new, you¡¯d need help. And what do you know? I was just finishin¡¯ the other chimney when you called.¡± Jamie crossed the roof and climbed back into the chimney with ease. ¡°I¡¯m goin¡¯ down the way you came,¡± he said. ¡°The one I came from joins with yours at the top.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Chimney tops is taxed more, so it¡¯s cheaper to combine ¡®em.¡± ¡°Ah. That makes sense.¡± Sarah¡¯s gaze drifted back to the skyline of the city. She experienced a moment of vertigo as it dawned on her how high above the ground she was: forty or fifty feet at the very least. Saint James¡¯ Park was a splash of green amid the grays and browns beneath her. Beyond the park lay the Palace of Westminster, its spires rising into the clouds. ¡°Enjoy the view?¡± Sarah realized that Jamie was still watching her and nodded, turning to face him. He looked past her at the city. ¡°There¡¯s some sort o¡¯ beauty in it, I suppose,¡± he said. ¡°Can¡¯t nobody but us sweepers see London from this angle.¡± He jerked his head towards the chimney. ¡°C¡¯mon back down.¡± Sarah followed Jamie back into the slim passageway. Soon she was back at the bottom, packing up her tools. Jamie did the same in the other room and joined her at the door. ¡°How long have you been a chimney sweeper?¡± said Sarah as they left the house. His eyes cut to her, narrowing slightly. ¡°Three years.¡± ¡°That long?¡± ¡°Aye, hard to believe.¡± Jamie shrugged. ¡°But Stanton¡¯s good to us, at least. Makes it easier.¡± Sarah swallowed, trying to dispel the lingering taste of soot from her mouth. ¡°Does the feeling in your throat go away?¡± she asked. ¡°Not fully. You gets used to it.¡± They reached the lodging house, where Mr. Stanton handed them each a shilling. Jamie entered a side room and deposited the contents of his soot bag into a large metal box in the corner. Sarah followed suit. ¡°What do they do with the soot?¡± she wondered as they left the lodging house. Jamie shot her a bemused glance, and Sarah became aware that she had been asking far too many questions. Perhaps Abigail was a bad influence on her. ¡°Dunno,¡± said Jamie. ¡°Make ink. Send it to a farm or somethin¡¯.¡± ¡°Oh, of course. I reckon it¡¯s used to fertilize the crops.¡± Jamie glanced over his shoulder as though searching for an escape route. ¡°I¡¯d better get home,¡± he said. ¡°Get back to George and¡­¡± He trailed off, as though he¡¯d just realized that he was speaking aloud. ¡°Who¡¯s George?¡± Sarah asked, immediately cursing herself. Another question. Jamie was silent for a moment. ¡°My brother. My family¡¯s waitin¡¯.¡± He gestured to the James Street entrance to the market. Sarah smirked. ¡°James Street,¡± she said. ¡°How funny.¡± His expression hardened. ¡°That ain¡¯t my name.¡± Sarah raised her eyebrows in confusion. James was the only name that came to mind for which a nickname would be Jamie, but she let the matter drop. ¡°I should best be goin¡¯,¡± Jamie said pointedly. ¡°As should I,¡± said Sarah, wondering how she could have botched the conversation so thoroughly. ¡°Good evening, Jamie.¡± He tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadows.
[1] child