Ivy in now in London and residing in the home of Charles Spurgeon. If you should need a refresher before beginning the fourth serial edition of Ivy’s tale, read the links below in order. Then, scroll below the links to read of Ivy’s time in London in the 1880s.
Ivy and Mrs. Spurgeon
As the marquess had instructed me, once I arrived in London, I hired a hansom cab with a few of the coins he had given me. “Might you take me to Westwood on Beulah Hill?”
The driver gave me a nod, and without a word he helped me into the cab and handed me my baggage. He gazed at Pigeon’s basket suspiciously as I adjusted it on the seat so the kitten’s restless moves wouldn’t cause any more mishaps.
“He’s just a kitten and has never traveled before,” I explained. “I’ve been assured he will be a welcome addition to Reverend Spurgeon’s household.”
He nodded again. After handing me a fur blanket to ward off the chill of the autumn weather, I soon felt the jolt of him jumping into the seat above the cab. Within moments we were trotting through London.
The streets widened as we headed into the outskirts of London. I drew in a breath at the loveliness. There were piles of red, yellow, and brown leaves in yards and lining the cobblestones, but many more were still fluttering in the trees that lined the road. Yards were getting larger and larger, and some of the estates appeared to be surrounded by significant acreage. Finally, we drew to a halt in front of one of the most unusual homes I had ever seen — a small manor house completely covered by bright red and yellow ivy, except for the white tower that was complete with a gorgeous marble balustrade.
My jaw dropped at the beauty of the house and the grounds surrounding it. How had an orphan school teacher scorned by the entire town of Sunderland been welcomed to stay first in a lord’s home and now by one of the most revered ministers in all of England?
An elderly woman welcomed Pigeon and I. She introduced herself as Mrs. Elizabeth Thorne, and then graciously brought me straight to the kitchen where she gave me most of the remainder of a pot of stew and then scraped out the rest into a wooden bowl for Pigeon. “The reverend is in his study, most likely working on his Sunday sermon. Mrs. Spurgeon will be grateful to you if you could spare her some help while the reverend is occupied.” She shook her head sadly. “She takes too much on, she does, what with all the work she does for the Book Fund, helping her husband with his sermons, and writing her own books. I help her when I can, but there is enough bookwork for a staff of many.”
The stew was delicious and I was ravenous after the long journey. Pigeon too was enjoying it as well, as was obvious from his purr as he licked the bowl. I smiled at him, and then at the woman. “Thank you for being so kind to my kitten and I. What is your position here in the Spurgeons’ home?”
She chuckled. “Oft-times a letter writer. Sometimes an editor. Occasionally a cook and housekeeper. Mostly a friend.”
“I’m very honored to be here,” I whispered, and gave her a shyer smile now that I realized Elizabeth Thorne was much more than an employee.
She showed us to a tiny room off the kitchen that was right next to her own bedroom. “We must give Reverend and Mrs. Spurgeon all the privacy they require,” she warned me but in a gentle tone. “It isn’t long before he departs for Menton. His health is so poorly. Nothing but the climate in the Mediterranean seems to bring relief to his gout.”
“The poor man.” I sighed. “And what a shame that Mrs. Spurgeon’s own health keeps her from joining him. I will do all I can to help her get through the weeks that he is convalescing.”
She gave me a warm smile and left me with, “I have a feeling you and your Pigeon will be very helpful to my dear friend. Now you have a rest until Susie tells me she’s ready to meet you.”
It wasn’t until the next day that I met the Spurgeons, however. I would soon see that the couple adored each other despite having reached their pearl anniversary. Only the work God had called them to do and ill-health could keep them apart. They spent much time cloistered in the reverend’s study if their health allowed. If not, they had a safe haven in their bedchamber.
First, I met Charles Spurgeon — after I followed the sound of children’s laughter to the doorway of the library. I had seen his likeness in newspapers many times, so it was no surprise to see his broad face and shoulders, his heavy eyes and greying beard. He and the children were chuckling as they looked down at a large Bible.
He looked up as I hovered there, peeking around the doorframe, and beckoned me to join them. “Miss Ivy, I presume?”
I nodded.
“Join in our mirth in the story of Jonah. These young ones are visiting because they have shown great character this month.” He smiled, but sadly. “They so graciously informed me that a Bible story is an acceptable reward since my days of playing Blindman’s Bluff appear to be over.”
The little girl reached up to pat the reverend’s shoulder. “Any orphan would be grateful to sit at the same table as ‘the Prince of Preachers.’ And you are very good at telling stories.”
What a dear child. He patted her head and then as I drew up a chair, he resumed his story. I was so enraptured in his reading of the passage and humorous commentary, that I didn’t see or hear Mrs. Thorne come in behind me. Hence, I startled a bit when she whispered in my ear, “Susie is ready to meet you. She has decided to stay in her bedchamber today.”
Mrs. Spurgeon’s bedchamber was like another, smaller library with shelves and small tables laden with books, and like her husband, she quickly made me feel welcome and at ease. “Welcome to Westwood. I hope you come to love our delectable mountain and all its store of pretty sights.”
I sat in the chair that Mrs. Thorne pulled alongside the large bed for me and accepted the hand that Mrs. Spurgeon offered me. She clung to my hand and squeezed it weakly as she continued to speak. “I look forward to having your company during my husband’s time in France. I can only think that you being here is God-ordained, having prompted my beloved to check on your welfare in the midst of all his obligations and his pain.”
“It is indeed a miracle that he sent Lord and Lady Birmingham to find me, and just in time, for I was very ill,” I agreed hoarsely.
Despite her illness, the woman had such a glow about her. Her spiritual health transcended whatever suffering caused her to lie in her bed. Still holding my hand, she closed her lovely eyes and began to pray, “O Lord God, we would thank Thee for saving this child who has so suffered due to the tragedy in Sunderland. Wilt Thou shut the door to the memories that darken her spirit and enable her to rise out of those ashes with the eternal splendor that comes of fully committing oneself to Thine service? O, Thou precious Lord Jesus, may these weeks that my precious husband is away be fruitful to him and those that stay behind here on Beulah Hill. O, Savior, claim this young woman for Thine kingdom, and might I lead her closer to Thine heart even as she assists me with the duties with which Thou has blessed me. And come quickly, even so come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.”
Then, this dear woman of God introduced me to the manuscript which I was to spend the next week editing, Ten Years of My Life in the Service of the Book Fund.
Readers, I wish I had time to continue writing about Ivy’s first days in the Spurgeons’ home, but my own book is calling me for edits. I cannot wait to show you more of Victorian London and introduce you to the Stockwell Orphanage in the next episode. May God bless you all — and say a prayer for me as I attempt to get The Maestro’s Missing Melody off to my editor ASAP.
When the first Victorian serial is over, there will be a GIVEAWAY of a chatelaine reproduction necklace. To enter, comment here on my blog. Each time you ask a question, share information, or let me know you have invited a friend to my author pages, your name will be entered into the running an additional time. (https://www.facebook.com/walshmountainpublishing and https://www.amazon.com/stores/Amy-Walsh/author/B08RRLKTXT )
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