A Broken Vessel by Kate Ross Read Free Book Online Page A

skin drawn tightly across it, like fabric stretched on an embroidery frame. Her eyes were black and beady, her hair a salt-and-pepper grey. Her mouth seemed set in a perpetual grim line. “Yes?”
    “Good morning.” He doffed his hat. “I was just passing and saw the sign on your door. Would you be good enough to tell me what the Reclamation Society is?”
    “We reclaim lost women. We turn them from their evil paths, and make them into humble, repentant, useful members of society. Perhaps you’ve heard of our founder,” she added proudly, “the Reverend Mr. Harcourt.”
    He had, now he thought of it. Harcourt was a clergyman from some country parish, who had made a minor stir in London lately with his sermons on the evils of prostitution. This had brought him a devoted following of respectable women, who were apt to be much harder on their fallen sisters than men were. Julian vaguely recalled that Harcourt had opened a refuge for prostitutes. This, obviously, was the place.
    “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?” he asked.
    “I’m Mrs. Fiske, one of the matrons.” Not that it’s any of your business, her tone implied.
    If there was a Mr. Fiske, he had all Julian’s sympathies. “It sounds a formidable endeavour—reforming these women, making them humble and useful. How do you go about it?”
    “We require them to confess their sins, as the first step toward repentance. Then they must submit to a regimen of hard work, prayer, and penitence. We impose the strictest discipline. Only by learning to conquer their wicked appetites and impulses can they regain some shred of the character they’ve thrown away.”
    “What if they don’t—take to it?”
    She drew herself up. “If they are too depraved to profit by the example we set and the chance we give them, they are free to leave. This isn’t a prison. But any of the creatures who leaves us is barred from ever coming back again. Otherwise we should have them crowding on our doorstep whenever they’re hungry or their landlords have very properly thrown them out, then returning to their vile habits after they’ve been fed and housed at our expense!”
    “I should have thought that was charity.”
    “Charity for the body—perdition for the soul! Who are you, sir? Are you a journalist?”
    She would never believe him if he said he was—not the way he was dressed. The question had been rhetorical, a tart comment on his inquisitiveness.
    She was starting to close the door.
    “Just a moment—” he began.
    “Good day to you, sir. I’ve no time for idle and curious people. Too many young men hang about this place as it is.”
    He thought quickly. “I might wish to make a donation.”
    The door stopped an inch from the jamb, and came grudgingly open again. “I’m sure we should be very grateful, sir,” she said stiffly.
    “Of course I should like to know a little more about your work. What sort of women do you take in? Are they all English? Are they any particular age? What sort of families do they come from?”
    “I can give you a pamphlet to read that describes our work. Mr. Harcourt wrote it himself. He isn’t here at present, but perhaps if you come back another day, he might find time to see you.” She spoke as a cardinal might of an audience with the Pope.
    “I should like to read it. Thank you.”
    “I’ll get it. I must ask you to wait outside. Gentlemen aren’t permitted in unless they have an appointment with Mr. Harcourt, or can prove they’re an inmate’s father or brother. Don’t think we haven’t had their fancy-men coming here pretending to be relatives, trying to get them out!” She pressed her lips together, her little eyes glinting.
    She went inside. Julian admitted ruefully that he had not accomplished very much. True, he knew now what was at No. 9, Stark Street. And it seemed very likely that the woman he sought was an inmate of this place—or had been three days ago, when she wrote the letter. The shame and regret