Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter 4 June 1st, 1723 Morning In St. Giles
Mercifully, the small girl, alone and unsheltered in a dodgy neighborhood, was not molested during the night. There are so many horrible things could have happened to her that I must leave them to the imagination of my readers.
Shivering in the early morning cold, Rebecca woke tired and hungry and most of all thirsty. Stretching out her cramped muscles, she choked on the fog that John Evelyn, gardener and diarist, had described a hundred years earlier as “Stink and Darknesse” and the composer, Joseph Haydn, visiting London seventy years after this time, found so thick “one might have spread it on bread.”
Rebecca stepped out into St. Andrew’s Street and was immediately knocked over and almost run over by a large barrow of coal pushed by two dirty men. “’Ave a look out there, Miss.” One said as they continued without stopping.
Fanteeg, but unhurt, she stood up and carefully now proceeded up the already busy street. A little way along, she spied a horse trough, and despite a fair amount of disgust, did scoop a few handfuls to slake her raging thirst. She nearly retched at the taste, but soon felt a little refreshed.
She returned to #27 and knocked more, though not so loud as to disturb the neighbor, (Rebecca’s mother had raised her to be polite and courteous.) After waiting a half hour, Rebecca gave up and wandered back down to the Seven Dials. The teen was scared and confused. She knew no one in the city except for her cousin and she had no money. She hadn’t eaten since a small breakfast the day before and only a little filthy horse water to drink. What was she going to do? For the time being, she didn’t want to wander off and get lost, so she stayed on St. Andrew’s Street between the Dials and High Holborn. She watched the door of #27 to see her cousin return, but he did not appear.
A number of food vendors set their barrows in the intersection, but Rebecca had not a pence to purchase any. By late morning, the fog had burned away , the sun came out, and June warmth returned.
As the day wore on to afternoon, the weather turned unseasonably warm. Clad in her warm woolens from the country, the oppressive closeness of the urban air was squeezing her head like a ripe lemon as sweat ran down her back. At times, she thought a man was watching her. The small man disappeared for a while into the door of #25 but later, she would see him looking at her. She tried to ignore him; his attention just added to her worry. Reluctantly, she drank again from the horse trough. What was she to do!
Mercifully, the small girl, alone and unsheltered in a dodgy neighborhood, was not molested during the night. There are so many horrible things could have happened to her that I must leave them to the imagination of my readers.
Shivering in the early morning cold, Rebecca woke tired and hungry and most of all thirsty. Stretching out her cramped muscles, she choked on the fog that John Evelyn, gardener and diarist, had described a hundred years earlier as “Stink and Darknesse” and the composer, Joseph Haydn, visiting London seventy years after this time, found so thick “one might have spread it on bread.”
Rebecca stepped out into St. Andrew’s Street and was immediately knocked over and almost run over by a large barrow of coal pushed by two dirty men. “’Ave a look out there, Miss.” One said as they continued without stopping.
Fanteeg, but unhurt, she stood up and carefully now proceeded up the already busy street. A little way along, she spied a horse trough, and despite a fair amount of disgust, did scoop a few handfuls to slake her raging thirst. She nearly retched at the taste, but soon felt a little refreshed.
She returned to #27 and knocked more, though not so loud as to disturb the neighbor, (Rebecca’s mother had raised her to be polite and courteous.) After waiting a half hour, Rebecca gave up and wandered back down to the Seven Dials. The teen was scared and confused. She knew no one in the city except for her cousin and she had no money. She hadn’t eaten since a small breakfast the day before and only a little filthy horse water to drink. What was she going to do? For the time being, she didn’t want to wander off and get lost, so she stayed on St. Andrew’s Street between the Dials and High Holborn. She watched the door of #27 to see her cousin return, but he did not appear.
A number of food vendors set their barrows in the intersection, but Rebecca had not a pence to purchase any. By late morning, the fog had burned away , the sun came out, and June warmth returned.
As the day wore on to afternoon, the weather turned unseasonably warm. Clad in her warm woolens from the country, the oppressive closeness of the urban air was squeezing her head like a ripe lemon as sweat ran down her back. At times, she thought a man was watching her. The small man disappeared for a while into the door of #25 but later, she would see him looking at her. She tried to ignore him; his attention just added to her worry. Reluctantly, she drank again from the horse trough. What was she to do!
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