II.

"Half-past five! Rouse yourselves!"

Marianne wakes at the crack of dawn, to the sound of the constable's cry. 

It is the start of a new day, with the same usual routine to follow. She dons her work clothes, her warm sweater and her mittens, takes a few coins from the New Age tin, then shuffles outside. Still groggy, her first stop is to fetch a cup of water at the communal pump, where she notices some chaps having a chat nearby.

"Times are grim," says the first man, his face smeared  with black soot. "If even the royals, with all the money in the world, aren't safe from some blimey sickness, then we lot are all doomed."

The other man nods, absently puffing on a tobacco pipe. 

"I lost another of me mates to the cough just this last week, I did."

Marianne is quite enamored with the way these men talk, with a kind of roughened wisdom and grit. Meanwhile, she takes her first sip from the cup: the pump water is warm, with a slight metallic taste; and her immediate impulse is to spit it out, but she resists; and it is then the sooty men notice her, in the midst of the ensuing coughing fit.

"What say you, girl?" One asks. "Think our boy Bertie will make it through alright?"

Marianne is caught off guard. "B-Bertie?" Feeling the pressure of their bored gazes, she fumbles for a reply: "Beg your pardon, but I don't know any Bertie." She innocently replies. "Is he a friend of yours that's unwell?"

At this, the sooty men both burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

Marianne stares at them a bit, feeling like she had just accidentally made herself the butt of a joke, and while they aren't paying any mind she quietly slips away, unnoticed.

**********

In the midst of the morning rush hour, there is scarcely room to breathe in the busy streets of the parish. 

Chaise-carts and carriages pave a treacherous path, between endless rows of people--some flipping through newspapers, others chatting in sullen monotones--all of them dragging their feet on the way to work. That is except for the jobless vagabonds who hunker in the shadows like wraiths, only emerging to occasionally pilfer and terrorize the unsuspecting daywalkers.

There are general storesDry goods stores. Cosmetics stores, and lavish boutiques. Advertisements are posted on store walls and windows, making boasts of all manner of "modern" amenities: ranging from bar soaps, to ginger wine, to pharmaceuticals and fishnet stockings.

Coffee stalls are arranged at irregular intervals along the roadside, to prey upon the mumbling, half-awake masses. At one such stall, for but a few pence out of the money Marianne has on hand, she is able to finally cleanse herself of the lingering taste of the pump water from earlier; it only helps for a while, though, as before longin her walk she must pass by a butcher carving a pig in the middle of the street: rendering her sick, all over again, from the raw scent and gory sight of the beast's briny blood, as it drains into the cobblestones.

**********

It is close to 6 by the time Marianne arrives at the factory. 

The foreman is at the door, bidding everyone inside, but tenses up when he sees her.

"Annie." He greets her stiffly. "We need to talk."

Marianne peers up at him sheepishly, unnerved by such formal tone. She wonders what could be weighing on his mind, remembering the awkwardness he'd exhibited in their brief chat yesterday.

"Sir, if this is about the boy who got crushed yesterday--"

"Sorry, but I've decided I'm letting you go, Annie."

Marianne's heart sinks. "What!?"

"Not just you, but all of the children I have had to work for me."

"Sir, but why? Haven't I been good?"

He licks his lips. "Yes. That's not the reason, though."

"It's just, I had an epiphany...I suppose you could call it, after what had transpired yesterday."

Marianne shakes her head, her eyes blurry with  tears.

"You're the best boss I ever had, sir."

"The others whip us children, and call us names. They laugh when we get hurt, and scold us if we whine or complain." 

"Please, sir! Don't make me go back to that!"

"I'm sorry, Annie. I really am." The foreman softly says, sighing. "I can scarcely imagine how difficult your life has been. It is my sincere hope that you'll one day find the life that you deserve, but it shan't be here. My Christian soul simply cannot bear the anguish."

He offers her a shoulder in compassion, but it does nothing to stop her sobbing, for it was to her as though the Lord himself had struck her down yet again.

**********

Marianne leaves the factory that morning, for the very last time, in a daze. With no desire to return home straight away, she wanders the streets aimlessly, with naught but a desire to dwell among people; to lose herself completely, amid the ceaseless hustle and bustle of others.

She finds herself drawn to the town park, which lies to the north along the river bank. It is the only part of town where the air is crisp, among abundant lawns of well-tended green grass, and small forests of trees, home to tweeting birds and tiny creatures that scurry; populated predominantly by elegant housewives with their children, dog walkers, artists and musicians: among whom Marianne cannot help but to feel self-conscious.

At the center of the park is a large fountain: a wide, circular basin surrounding a tall, pillar-shaped statue, of four maidens all seated in a ring with their backs to each other, holding an upturned shell from whence water cascades on all sides. Marianne stops to watch as children--not much younger than she--splash and play in the shimmering, clear water; becoming so preoccupied, that she completely fails to notice the girl that has silently crept up beside her: to follow suit in her melancholic musing.

"So young. So carefree. Don't you wish you could join them?" 

Hers is a comely, sweet voice--bearing a delightfully smooth Irish accent, in a sound that is almost lyrical to Marianne's unaccustomed ear. 

Marianne turns to greet her, and could be convinced that she has been acquainted with a princess, torn straight from the pages of one of the fairy tales she'd stopped believing in long ago: this being most evident in the gregarious girl's grandiose attire: a bonnet and fashionable bodice, with tight-waisted dress and bustle skirt: bedecking her from head to toe in an eye-catching array of cutesy frills and ribbons; whilst, more subtly, it is something in the way her blue eyes always seem to alight whenever she occasions to smile or laugh; and with how her sparsely freckled, cherub face lacks any visible presence of grime or dirt: again, much like an angel: pure and clean, as though entrusted directly from on high to dwell among the befouled mortals.

All considered, it is clear at a glance that this girl is a cut above the average crowd. Marianne can only stare at first, her mouth partially agape in awe--feeling a fool over how hopelessly incapable she was at reigning in herself, yet unable to resist. Until this point, she's only ever caught glimpses of the exalted upper class of society from afar: whether it be here at the park, or cruising by in their fancy carriages through town; never properly basking in the presence of one up close.

"Apologies if I startled you." The girl goes on to say, quite oblivious to the profound reaction she's stirred in Marianne. "I just noticed you watching the little ones in the fountain so wistfully, and thought I should extend a small greeting."

She curtsies, wafting the still quite stunned Marianne in a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume as she does.

"My name is Luella Lafferty." She says, before leading into a frown.

"Now, I don't mean to pry, but you seem a touch troubled."

"Indeed, I would wager that the devil has had his laugh at your expense today, friend."

Marianne swallows anxiously in her presence, and takes a while to talk.

"I...was sacked, today." She first manages to utter. "Even though I worked hard, and didn't make any mistakes."

"How perfectly awful." Luella says; surprising Marianne with a soft embrace: immediately and unreservedly acting as though they were longtime acquaintances. "Oh, but life can be so cruel and unfair at times. I know it well."

Marianne nods; though, discreetly, she cannot help but be skeptical of a girl so glamorous as Luella, as it pertains to her lived experience with said cruelties. Nevertheless, the young heiress's words are reassuring and seemingly earnest enough; such that Marianne is sufficiently charmed into joining with her on an extended walk through the park, during which they engage in some friendly small-talk: an art, in which Luella is proven to be a master, and Marianne a hopelessly outmatched neophyte. 

Even when it comes to such idle topics as the weather, Luella ardently refuses to allow the conversation to grind to any of the awkward halts or pauses one predicts in a first meeting.

"It isn't as cold here as I remember it being back in Ireland." She says. "I came to England with my mum, after things got really bad back home. We were starving--could barely even find scraps to eat--until mum was met with Mr. Lafferty! He's a well-to-do gent that owns a garment business here; even owning his own mansion, and all that; so, things really are a fair bit better."

"I'm...glad." Marianne says, swallowing her shameful jealousy with a timid smile.

Suddenly, Luella stops walking; and for a moment, Marianne fears that some of her ill feeling had shone through after all, prompting her to begin to panic; but rather, Luella turns to her camly: with the exaggerated boldness of one who has just been struck by a great epiphany.

"I know! I'll put in a good word for you with my father."

Marianne starts, beside herself. "Really?" She blurts. 'You would truly do that?: For a complete stranger--you've only just met?"

 Luella clasps unto Marianne's hands, prompting her to blush.

"Nonsense." She says, treating her with yet another of her impeccable smiles. "We may have only just met, but we're already great friends; and it is only natural that friends must help each other." 

Directly following this assertion, there is a strangely intense moment of the two staring fixedly into one another's eyes: a moment that is to be looked back on as one of substantial portent for years to come, as well as the words that Luella proceeds to utter that--unbeknownst to either girl--would one day carry them through on a most fantastic adventure:

"My mother says to always give to those less fortunate than you."

"That way, should our fates ever reverse: I may return to you, for help in exchange!"

She takes Marianne by the hands. "

At this time, a dizzying surge of emotions well up inside Marianne all at once; as well there being many questions:

Who is this girl? Why does she bless me with her presence?

Her presence is so warm. Her beauty is without parallel.

Everything about her is without flaw, and yet...

Why concern herself with the troubles of a lowly maggot such as me?

It is nearly sundown when the two part ways, with a promise to meet again at the fountain on Sunday. Marianne's mind and heart are racing as she embarks on the long trip home, still trying to make sense of the wonderfully strange encounter.

Luella Lafferty…

I won't forget this kindness you've shown me!