Mark shrugged. “Does that matter? It should be such a negligible difference. If contraception allows you to relax enough to enjoy intercourse, why wouldn’t I do that for you? Even if it did reduce my pleasure by ten percent—which I doubt it shall—it only seems fair, because it would increase your pleasure a hundredfold.”
Warmth spread through her chest, and she blinked back theburn of tears in her eyes. Overwhelmed, she leaned in and kissed his shoulder. “You’re wonderful.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Thank you?”
She gathered her emotions and then sat up to stroke the inside of his thigh. “Now, let’s see what we can do for you.”
His eyes sparked with delight and he opened himself to her touch.
Ellen shiveredand wrapped her coat tighter around her as she walked the last few blocks toward Tina O’Malley’s funeral at her parish church.
Freight carts and omnibuses crowded the main street, the noises of people and animals filling the cold air. People hurried up and down the edge of the street, sidestepping one another in their haste. Up ahead a woman held a bucket and a sign around her neck, calling out to the passersby. Beside her stood another woman with another bucket, body more rigid against the cold.
As Ellen neared the women, the first turned toward her, and Ellen could read the sign. SALVATION ARMY – DONATE THREE PENNIES TO GIVE THE HOMELESS A HOT MEAL AND BED.
Wind-reddened cheeks were the only spots of color on the pale woman’s face, and she wore the dark military-style uniform the soldiers in the Salvation Army used as well as a wide-brimmed bonnet. A silver S was pinned to her collar. She nodded at Ellen, who nodded back.
They didn’t know one another by name, but they had seen one another on the streets. Salvation Army had set up their headquarters and their rescue work in Whitechapel, in the East End of London. But sometimes a few soldiers would seek donations further west. This young woman often guided prostitutes to the Hanbury Street Rescue Shelter.
“Street preaching today?” Ellen inquired.
The woman smiled. “Gathering donations for soap and soup today. We’d love to have you join one of our sieges at an outpost in the East End. Or perhaps a daily rations meeting?”
Ellen had never quite understood why the Salvation Army went with military themes. She declined joining a revival meeting at one of their places of worship, nor did she have time for a Bible reading each morning. But she appreciated much of the work they did.
The other woman turned, holding the bucket stiffly before her.
Ellen, who’d almost started walking again, paused and her eyes widened. “Mrs. Chisom?”
Mrs. Chisom stood, bundled against the cold, with a scowl across her features.
“I didn’t know you were a Salvationist!” Ellen struggled to comprehend the idea that Mrs. Chisom was a soldier in the Salvation Army. She didn’t exactly seem like the sort to roll up her sleeves and delve into Whitechapel.
“I am not,” Mrs. Chisom declared. “I offered to knit stockings and read the Bible to the fallen women at the shelters.”
The woman with the sign smiled broadly. “But we decided that Mrs. Chisom would do better work out of the slums. Before we start her on the knitting projects, the Army Mother thought she could use some exposure to gathering donations and street preaching.”
Ellen barely stifled a laugh in time. “Are you enjoying your exposure?”
Mrs. Chisom pursed her lips. “Mrs. Booth suggested this, but I believe I am better suited to soliciting donations from the community or advocating for legislation. Better yet, funding evangelism.”
“We call her the Army Mother,” the woman told Mrs. Chisom with a friendly smile. “Worry not, we’ll have you sorted in no time.”
Ellen bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “I hope you find the experience educational.”
The Salvationist beamed. Mrs. Chisom stayed stone-faced.
Ellen hurried off, covering her laughter with a gloved hand. She hoped Mrs. Chisom would learn something from the experience, though she doubted the matron would show up tomorrow for marching orders.
She made her way past the wide streets and into St. Giles, heading for the parish church to attend Tina O’Malley’s funeral. It was a pauper’s service with a cleric rushing through the words while making the sign of the cross over seven cheap coffins in a line. A cart pulled by the saddest, scrawniest mule she’d ever seen carried the coffins from the church to the large hole in the graveyard, and coarse, rough men handed the coffins down to one another.
The families of all seven hung back, silent and stoic, watching their loved ones receive a mass funeral and group burial. It was all anyone could afford. Ellen stood back from the rest of the mourners,not wanting to intrude. She waved to Sean, who nodded back. The four children had new clothes and wore shoes, so the cousins must be taking good care of them. She hoped Spitalfields had a midwife who’d take the time to make sure Opal was being fed goat milk. Or maybe there was an affordable wetnurse.
Seamus O’Malley didn’t attend his wife’s funeral. No one missed him.
Ellen heard rumors over the next few days that he was living in the street behind his favorite pubs, drunk as ever, cursing his dead wife, his removed children, and the women who slummed in St. Giles and pretended to provide medical care. If Amelia heard those rumors, she didn’t let on. Ellen guessed Amelia was busy spending her scant free moments with Jiya, anyway. Mark, however, heard them, and scowled at the unflattering image of his wife.
“Never go out alone, swear it. That man wants someone to blame, and you are his perfect target after you humiliated him in front of everyone,” he told her on a trip home from the dispensary one early evening.