A Christmas Odyssey

Henry’s own son, who was perhaps London’s most brilliant barrister, had been both admired and deplored, depending upon whom he had represented most recently. He had also, at times, behaved in ways that Henry found difficult to understand, and would certainly not have wished to discuss with anyone outside the family—except perhaps Hester Monk. It had never been a matter of overindulgence. Actually he wondered at times if it might not have been better for Oliver to have let himself go occasionally, even at the cost of an error or two!

Once, Henry had hoped Oliver would marry Hester, but he had realized some time ago that it would not have made Hester happy. She needed a man of more will and passion, like William Monk. Whether or not Hester would have made Oliver happy he was less certain. He thought perhaps she might have, but of course it was far too late now.

However, Hester might be able to advise Henry in his quest for Lucien, and he could be honest with her. There would be no need for any pretense, which would be exhausting, and in the end also self-defeating.

Hester had been a nurse in the Crimea during that wretched war, which was now—at the end of 1865—a decade gone into history. On her return home, she had initially dreamed of reforming nursing in England, in line with Florence Nightingale’s beliefs. However, the world of medicine was powerful, and unready for such advances. Hester had been obliged to seek one position after another in private nursing. Then she had married Monk, and found it difficult to work so far from home. As his work prospered, she had opened the clinic in Portpool Lane where she and others nursed women of the street who could find no other medical care for their most desperate needs. The funds came from charitable donations. Through these experiences, Hester might well have access to the kind of knowledge that Henry now needed.

With a little spring in his step he increased his pace along the wet, windy street and hailed a hansom cab.

“Portpool Lane, if you please,” he requested, climbing up and seating himself comfortably. It was not a long ride, even though the traffic was growing denser as the light faded in the winter afternoon.

“Right y’are, Guv,” the driver said briskly, urging his horse forward along the Strand, and then left up Chancery Lane.

The street lamps were being lit already. It was not long until the shortest day of the year, and they traveled in the murk of smoke and drifting rain. Henry could hear the clatter of hooves, the jingle of harness, and the hiss of wheels on the wet cobbles.

“Happy Christmas!” a man called out cheerfully, his voice rising above the cries of peddlers and curses of those caught up in tangles of traffic.

“You too!” came back the reply.

“Get on, yer fool!” someone else yelled out, caught behind a slow-moving dray, and there was a roar of laughter.

“Happy Christmas to you too!”

They turned right briefly up High Holborn, and then left on Gray’s Inn Road. Just past the square Henry rapped with his cane to catch the driver’s attention. “This will be excellent, thank you. I can walk the rest of the way.”

“Right, sir,” the driver said with some surprise. “ ’Appy Christmas, sir.”

Henry paid him, adding a rather generous tip, prompted by the well wishes, even though he knew they were given for precisely that purpose.

He crossed the road to the entrance of Portpool Lane and stepped onto the narrow path with confidence. The street lamps were few, and the vast dark mass of Reid’s Brewery dominated the farther end, but he knew his way.