“Then I assume you are here to take responsibility for her. Mrs. Jekyll has been quite generous, but it’s impossible for her to stay any longer. She is a continual disruption. She whispers blasphemies during prayers. And I can’t tell you what she did in the baptismal font of St. Mary Magdalen, where we attend services.”
Mary stared, astonished. What in the world was the director talking about? And what could this possibly have to do with Hyde? “I don’t understand,” she said. “Letters to my mother?”
“Through her solicitor, of course. A Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street.”
“But Mr. Utterson died several years ago, and his offices are not in Gaunt Street—perhaps you were sending them to his personal address? That would explain why my mother never received them.”
“That,” said Mrs. Raymond with a frown, “is not my problem. She’s been confined to her room for singing inappropriate songs during dinner. We can have her packed in fifteen minutes.”
“When you say her—,” Mary began, but Mrs. Raymond had already turned and started walking out of the room. Whom do you mean? Who is this Diana? she had meant to ask. However, there was nothing to do but follow, with Sister Margaret trailing after them. They walked back down the hallway and up yet another flight of stairs. Two women in plain gray dresses, with white aprons and caps, who were washing the stone steps rose and curtseyed as they passed. “Both rescued from a brothel in Limehouse,” said Mrs. Raymond. “We do wonderful work here, Miss Jekyll, bringing strayed souls back to the Lord’s path.” Mary nodded without paying particular attention, but as they reached the top of the steps and walked down another hallway, she became interested in the rooms they were passing, where women in identical gray dresses, with white aprons and caps, were sewing in long, straight rows. “The work our Magdalens do supports our mission,” said the director. It looked like a rather grim mission, to Mary. The women worked silently: there was no chattering, the way there usually is in a room full of women, and if they looked up as Mary passed, they almost immediately looked down again to their work. Finally, Mrs. Raymond opened a door and said, “Diana, there’s a lady here to see you. She’s going to take you with her.”
“About bloody time,” Mary heard.
She entered the room. There, sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot and in a white shift, was a girl. She had red hair curling down to her waist, and her face was covered with freckles. The room around her was a mess. A bureau in the corner had its drawers pulled out, and there were clothes strewn over the floor. A bookshelf had been emptied of its books, which lay on the floor among the clothes. Mary noted that they were all pious works—a Bible, The Sermons of Reverend Dr. Throckmorton, a book with Holy Thoughts and Good Deeds written on the spine, lying open with its pages downward. A table was pulled out from the wall and the chair had been turned over. On the floor, Mary could see the shards of a pitcher and washbasin, a brass candlestick, and a hair brush. On one wall was written, in large red letters, LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU BLOODY HIPOCRITES!
“What have you done now, you ungrateful miscreant?” said Mrs. Raymond, in icy tones.
With a grin, the girl held up her arm. It was obvious where the red letters had come from: she had wrapped a long cut with pieces torn from her shift. The red on the strips had crusted.
“Oh, how dreadful!” said Sister Margaret. She looked faint.
“Well, you’re not going to be my problem much longer,” said Mrs. Raymond. “Pack your trunk immediately. You don’t want to keep Miss Jekyll waiting.”
“Miss Jekyll, is it?” said the girl. “Oh, that’s rich. Lovely to meet you, Miss Jekyll. Where are you going to take me, that’s what I want to know. Is it the asylum next? Or prison?”
“Who is this girl?” Mary asked Mrs. Raymond, feeling utterly bewildered. It was about time she got some answers. And the girl, whoever she was, should have her arm tended to.
“This is Diana Hyde,” said Mrs. Raymond, looking at her with astonishment. “Surely you knew? She was brought to us after her mother died, with a letter from Mrs. Jekyll charging us to care for and raise her. Your mother has paid for her maintenance ever since. Didn’t she tell you?”
“My mother died last week,” said Mary. Why would her mother do such a thing? She did not understand.
“Oh dear!” said Sister Margaret. “How dreadful!”
“My condolences,” said Mrs. Raymond, sounding not at all sincere. Indeed, she sounded rather pleased. Some people enjoyed death when it did not touch them directly. “But that does not change my position. The girl must go.”
“But can you give me no explanation?” said Mary. “I understand that my mother left this child under your care and arranged for her maintenance. I assume she is somehow connected to my father’s assistant, Mr. Hyde. But why?” What interest could her mother have had in this child? A charitable one, surely. It was just the sort of case that would have appealed to Ernestine Jekyll. But then why had she not told Mary about her? The child must be thirteen or fourteen, although she looked small for her age—food was probably not overabundant at the Society of St. Mary Magdalen.
DIANA: Not overabundant! They damn near starved us to death. Those sanctimonious . . .
CATHERINE: I already warned you about using that sort of language.
“Well,” said Diana, “are you going to take me out of this place?”
Was she? Mary wondered what in the world to do. She had no idea why her mother had supported this child for so many years. But she had, and Mary supposed that created some sort of obligation. After all, once she closed the bank account, there would be no more money for the child’s maintenance. What would the Society of St. Mary Magdalen do with her?
“If she were to stay here—,” she began.
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly keep her, Miss Jekyll,” said Mrs. Raymond. “We’re a society for fallen angels of the Lord, not wayward children. No, I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.” She smiled, a grim and implacable smile.
Mary looked at the girl again. Her arm needed tending to. Obviously no one here was going to do it, and then there was the mystery of her origin and name. What was her relationship to Hyde? If she left the girl here, she would never find out. She was the right age to be Hyde’s daughter. . . . If so, perhaps she would know something of her father’s whereabouts? “All right,” said Mary. “She can come with me.”
“Thank you, Miss Jekyll,” said Mrs. Raymond. Now that the matter was settled, she was much more gracious. “Perhaps you can beat some sense into her. We have attempted to prepare her for a useful trade, but have found her utterly unteachable. We had initially accepted her on the understanding that she might be trained for service in a private household, or have a religious vocation—”
“Not bloody likely, you old bitch!” said Diana, getting up and starting to dance around on the bed. She moved so wildly that Mary was afraid she would fall off.