Thick black smoke pours itself onto the clear blue sky. The factories of the new industrial London churn this black smoke out of them. Inside the bellies of these beasts workers toil and labor in the hot, stifling conditions. They dare not pause or take moment to rest unless they are wiping the sweat from their brow to prevent it from dripping into their eyes. Each of them is unrecognizable beneath the ash and dirt caked on their sweating faces. The sounds of the machines grinding, moving, and creating drown out any other. The workers are forced to shout at one another over the clamoring sound of advancement.

Outside the factories the streets are crowded with those not fortune enough to be employed in the factories. Some are injured. A few too many got too close to the whirling blades or had slipped and now found themselves with an arm in a sling and without a job. They stand there with their families and try to sell anything they can. Things they have taken from their own house; off of their very walls. They are all fighting to be heard.

“Meat pies! Piping hot meat pies, get ‘em while their hot!”

“Fancy a flower, sir? One for your lady friend, perhaps?”

“You look like a man in need of a pocket watch! Take a gander here, sir!”

This is the song of survival. They smile as best as they can and try to show you their wares are worth buying. But behind the dirt and the grime the worry still lingers. Their eyes are still laden and heavy with the prospect of no dinner that evening. Children scamper about underfoot; no shoes and covered from head to toe in soot and dirt. Finger nails are black and brittle from making too many mud pies. Young boys, some perhaps too young, stand on street corners with a stack of newspapers tucked under their arm and brandish one in front of them for all to see.

“Extra, extra! Read all about it!”

They smile at you as you walk by. They hope that maybe, perhaps you’ll stop and take a sudden interest in the bundle of withering violets and buy them, “Just one pence, sir.” Their lips part in what is supposedly a smile; their yellow jagged teeth peek out at you from their dry and cracking lips.

This is the fight of survival. All that matters is making it to the next day. After that: they haven’t really thought that far ahead, for who knows if there is even going to be a tomorrow.

The street is a parade of silken skirts. The footstep of horses drawing carriages is a percussion of drums against the cobblestone paved road. Women in their finest day dresses maneuver their way down the sidewalks; their bustles brush up against one another as they fight to get by. Chaperones are not far behind the ladies, trailing them diligently to make sure they meet no mischief today that will haunt them tomorrow. Some are accompanied by their dearest bosom friends. They link their arms together and bend their heads together in confidence, and only come up for air to giggle at one another’s observations and bits of gossip.

Black felt bowler hats bob above the sea of frilly laced bonnets. The gentlemen tip their hats as a particularly lovely specimen of feminine beauty flounces on by. Thick bushy mustaches are draped across many a man’s upper lips like expensive Persian rugs. Occasionally one of them guffaws in agreement at their companions comment, and sends the long wiry bristles of his grand moustache into a flutter. Some even have a pipe shoved in between the moustache and bottom lip. They blow the thin grey smoke out of their mouth and into the air to join the rest of the smoke in the sky. Their necks have vanished completely beneath their ascots and the heavily starched collar points that threaten to puncture holes in their necks.

Their words are like butterflies in the air; light and fleeting. They vary between discussions regarding ribbons to purchase for a new bonnet and new business deals that need to be arranged. They appear to be separated; men and women never venture very near one another. The men look dapper in their fine black silk suits whilst the women are a vision in their colorful frilly garb.

Lining the sides of the streets is a manner of fine shops and boutiques. As you pass by them you get brief glimpses into another person’s life. You see the woman standing on the box with her arms held out, submitting herself to the tailors measuring and prodding. You see her smack the tailors hand away impatiently as she is pricked with the point of a needle. You see the young girl in a bonnet shop with her droll mother. You see the smile on her face as she tries on a red and black bonnet that is much too big for her. She looks at her mother, hope in her eyes. “You’re too young.” Her mother snaps, “Take it off at once.” A thin man stands at a glass counter examining a large, exquisite pipe. “I’d rather like it a bit bigger, don’t you think?” The shop owner nods his head and agrees all the while wondering how he was going to manage to fill this order.

Their world is a massive collision. One thing does not move without another. Though they live in separate houses and have their own lives, nothing happens here that remains secret. They are aware, ever so aware that everyone is watching. Eyes are fixed upon them always, watching and waiting for something to happen of interest. Something, scandalous most of them hope. Their lives seem just a little bit brighter when something horrid is happening to another.

In an identical silk suit and bowler hat I meander amongst the throng. Although I am dressed like all those around me, my features stand out distinctively from those around me. I won’t attempt modesty and say it isn’t so. No, for I rather enjoy talking about it. My jaw line is square and chiseled; no traces of facial hair are to be found. Tufts of light brown hair appear from beneath the brim of my hat. My eyes are sharp and alert; piercing green with gold flecks. I am not a stranger in this city. Those around me acknowledge me with a nod, or a tip of their hat. I smile at them and return the gesture. I won’t emit the fact that I draw the ladies eyes. I have quite a talent at bringing a blush to the gentle porcelain curve of a woman’s cheek. I make a rather sudden turn and walk through the threshold of a ladies shop. A bell is attached to the door and it rings sweetly as I swing the door open and close it gently. I suddenly find myself smothered by full skirts and bunches of tulle. I maneuver my way amongst the frills and frocks, and stop to finger a swath of fabric between my fingertips. The air is lightly fragranced with a sweet flowery scent. I inhale deeply, and enjoy the delicate feminine smell. There is a raw creak as the door to the dressing chamber opens revealing a starling beauty in a grand gown. Her mouth falls open as she sees me in my full suit among the powdery pastels.

“Mr. Blake!” She exclaims. A blush rises quickly to her cheeks, “What on earth are you doing here?”

I smile. I am very amused to see her reaction to me, “I came to see you, of course.”

She blushes even brighter and steps onto the box in front of the three fold full length mirrors. Attendants rush toward her, smooth her skirts and adjust them so she could see just how wonderful she looks in the gown. Her fine, long fingered hands go up to her hair and she examines it self-consciously in the mirror. Every strand of golden blonde hair is in its proper place. Her long tresses are twisted up into a knot on the back of her head, and her short bangs are teased and curled to stylish perfection. “I don’t see why.” She says, with as much calm as she can muster.

I cross the room and sit down on the seat of a soft lavender ottoman, “I don’t suppose we would find much alone time, just you and I, Miss. Castlereagh, at the ball next week?”

She blushes again, a habit when I am around, “No. I do not suppose we would. Or should.” Miss. Castlereagh corrects, “It isn’t…decent.” Her propriety is clearly only for the benefits of the ears of the attendants around her, who of course, will run and re tell the tale to whoever will listen the moment she left.

“So I came to see you now. Simple as that.”

“You fancy yourself to be familiar with me then, Mr. Blake?” She challenges.

I grin, “If we are so familiar, as you seem to think I believe, then call me Peter. No need for such stiff formalities.”

“Then I suppose that if I am to call you Peter it would only be fair to permit you to call me Phoebe.”

I flashed Phoebe my most charming grin, “That suits me just fine, Phoebe.”

Phoebe looks back at her reflection in the mirror before her. Phoebe has the kind of face used for silhouettes on fine broaches. Her neck is thin, long and graceful. Her skin is creamy and white, with a fair rosy shade on her cheeks. Golden lashes frame hazel eyes. Her honey blonde hair is lusciously thick and pulled up in piles on top of her head. It sparkles in the sunlight; dazzling highlights glisten in the light. She runs her hand down the front of her dress and bites her plump lip between her teeth in a way that was suddenly seductive, “Now you’ve ruined it.” She laments.

Her complaint pulls me out of the daze she brought me into. I am stung by her comment, “Ruined what?”

“I cannot get this dress now that you’ve seen it.” She steps down onto the ground, sending the attendants around her into a flurry, “I shall have to find a new one.” She flounces back to the dressing chamber, her full skirts swishing in the air.

I stand to my feet in protest, “Now let’s not be hasty!” I call after her, “I like that dress.” I add.

Phoebe sticks her head out from the narrow crack in the door, “I greatly relish the look on a man’s face when he sees me at a ball for the first time. Without that look of surprise from you, Mr. Blake, however I will be fully dissatisfied.”

And she disappears behind the door.

I chuckle at Phoebe’s frank candor and leave the shop. It is a busy time of the day and the streets are crowded with hansom cabs, none of which, I am distressed to find, are available to take me home as they already have customers inside. I eye my shoes, which are beginning to pinch my toes, and am not enjoying the thought of the long walk home. A cab pulls up in front of me and I am relieved to find that my distress is short lived.

The door to the cab swings open and I jump back to avoid the moving door. A foot encased in fine leather sets itself down on the pavement. Said shoe, is quickly followed by the other. My eyes travel upward from the shoes, past the man’s fine trousers, waistcoat, ascot and winged collar, and finally to the man’s familiar gruff face.

“Mr. Lewis, what a surprise!” I said cordially.

Lewis grunts a greeting from behind his thick, bristly mustache and beard.

“I’ll see you next week then, sir!”

I climb into the cab abandoned by Lewis and settle into the seat. My feet ache something awful from the long day. “47 Breakspears Road, Brockley please.” The cab driver says something unintelligible in response and I lurch forward in my seat as the cab goes into motion. London is rolling by outside my window. Normally, I would like to sit and gaze out of said window in content but I am taxed and tired from the long afternoon and I know that the coming evening will tally on even longer. So, I make an executive decision and pull the swinging curtains shut and close my eyes.

Though the curtains are drawn and my eyes are closed they do not stop the sound of London life reaching my ears. I can hear the horses and the sounds of people chatting. As the cab rounds a corner I hear the distinctive sound of two people having a rather heated disagreement. Life moves on, whether or not I want to be a part of it.

It feels like only the barest of minutes have gone by when the cab suddenly pulls to a stop. I don’t have to open my eyes to know that I am home. I can hear the rolling lilt of the gardener, Mr. McEvans, arguing with the cook Ms. Florin.

“Of course your meat pie tasted like shite!” McEvans hollars at her, “That wasn’t parsley you picked, you idiot, it was a weed!”

“Well perhaps if you weeded the garden more often I wouldn’t have mistaken it for parsley!” Ms. Florin shrieks back.

I open the door and step out into the fading twilight sun. I give the driver his fee and thank him with a cordial tip of my hat. I walk up the sidewalk and past the red bricked half wall into my families’ property. The curtains are drawn in the large oriel window of the parlor, but I could see lights flickering from behind the fabrics. My families’ home in the suburb of Brockley stands two stories tall. Six windows in all on the whole front of the house. In the top center is the window to my own bedroom. It is a narrow single Yorkshire window, with an arched lintel in the Corinthian style. There are double hung sash windows flanking each side of my bedroom window. The front door of the home is almost completely invisible underneath the thick unruly vine that is growing on the front of the house. The decorative molding on the lintel of the door is identical to the arched molding on my bedroom window.

McEvans and Ms. Florin quiet their raised voices as they hear the gravel crunching beneath my feet. As I walk to the front door I admire the landscaping. I can momentarily forgive McEvans for snapping impolitely at Ms. Florin for the fine job he had done on the hedges. I am twisting the door knob when suddenly the door is pulled open on the other side. The butler, Mr. Gilson stands expectantly on the other side.

“Ah, Master Blake!” Gilson says with relief evident in his tone, “Your mother has been waiting for you.” He says meaningfully.

I sigh and shrugged out of my coat and hand it to Gilson who precedes to hand me a white waistcoat.

“I don’t know why she is so particular about this, Gilson.” I say as I put the waistcoat on.

“I’d assume she just wants the family to put their best foot forward, sir.”

I take my single breasted black dinner jacket Gilson is offering me and slip my arms into the sleeves, “We’re in the newspaper business, Gilson. It doesn’t matter what we do, people dislike us regardless.”

Gilson is adjusting my ascot and arranging my handkerchief, “On the contrary, sir. I’ve served with this family for many years and always seen that your family is well liked.”

I laugh bitterly, “Then you have been deceived my good friend.” I adjust the lapels of my jacket, “People only like us to see what they can gain for us in return. It is all about connections.”

Gilson removes my bowler from my head, “They all want to have their names in the paper, don’t they, sir?”

I smooth my hair with his hands, “And so they should.” I turn to Gilson and smile, “How do I look?”

Gilson bows at the waist, “Like a vision, sir.” He says with amusement in his tone. I clap Gilson heartily on the back, “Jolly good.”

I leave Gilson in the foyer and walk down the hall to the sitting room where I know my mother will be entertaining guests. My mother, Beatrice Blake, seems to always be entertaining guests. Which is the main reason why I am forced to change into my formal black tie in the foyer rather than in the comfort and privacy of my bedchamber. There was many a days when I had walked through my front door and been met by my mother’s guests in the improper attire. I had received a stern talking to by my mother, “Do not walk into this house unless you are appropriately dressed.”

“But, mother!” I had protested, “I can’t walk about all day in my dinner jacket and cummerbund! How do you expect me to do that?”

My mother blinked, flabbergasted, “Don’t badger me with your questions, Peter. Just do it.”

Ridiculous woman.

This now explains why Gilson finds himself waiting in the foyer for me to return every evening so I could be in proper dress.

But this particular evening I don’t mind jumping through my mother’s hoops. In fact, this particular day she doesn’t even mind that I have spent most of my day at the shops. For this is a very special day.

I open the door to the parlor. My mother is sitting straight backed on the seat of a fainting couch. Her dress is black and high collared, hiding all traces of her neck. Silver is beginning to line my mother’s raven black hair. As well, lines have begun their journey across her once youthful skin. Sitting next to her is my father, Albert. Albert Blake has a monster of a moustache on his upper lip that is the image of pride and joy that many successful men wish to imitate. His hair is salt and pepper and his green eyes, identical to my own, are observant and wary. Such are the eyes of reporters, perhaps. They are always aware and always watching for the next big story. My father has always taken great pride in the fact that the Queen’s consort shares the same name as him.

“Albert! Fabulous name, I think!” He’d say, “A name befitting a king!”

Then my mother would smirk and say slyly, “Albert isn’t king, dear. He’s only a prince.”

My father would mumble something unintelligible then and disappear behind his newspaper.

The parlor’s walls are painted a shade of emerald green. An unimaginably large ornate golden mirror hangs above Beatrice’s favorite fainting couch. The legs of the fainting couch are also painted gold, and have symmetrical circular carvings in the wood. The upholstery of the couch is a complimentary shade of green to match the walls and have glistening golden threads dancing their way across the expanse of green. A chair, identical in fabric and design, is angled to the left of the fainting couch, right next to the fireplace. On each side of the mirror hang portraits of family members long since deceased. Smaller, circular mirrors also hang on each side of the mirror, but in the upper left and right hand sides.

The thick decorate Persian rug on the parlor floor absorbs all sound as my feet touch down on its surface. In the chair by the fireplace sits Phoebe’s father, William Castlereagh. Castlereagh has an impressive handlebar moustache that is curled and waxed to absolute perfection. Constantly, he is stroking it and feeling it, making sure that not a hair is out of place. Castlereagh’s wife, Sophie Castlereagh, sits in the less ornate chair on the other side of the fainting couch. The grey in Sophie’s hair is only slightly beginning to show. She, unlike Beatrice, is wearing a stylish navy blue jersey dress with gold buttons. I cross the room and kiss my mother on both cheeks, “Good evening, mother.”

I then walk over to the fireplace, rest my arm against the mantle, and lean against it casually, since there are no more chairs in the room. The mantle of the fireplace is covered in a red sheath of fabric with tassels hanging from it. On top of the fabric covering is various décor bric-a-brac including, but not limited to, candlesticks and a lovely clock. The upper most part of the overmantle is lacquered with a shiny black. There are delicate illustrative paintings of deer in the forest and fish in the river on the black lacquer that is so small, and so precise it was as if only a fairy could have painted them in such a size and with such precision. The sides of the overmantle are laid in porcelain tiles, each also painted with dainty pictures in blue.

“I trust your afternoon was fruitful.” Beatrice says meaningfully.

My hand strays to my trouser pocket and I feel the square lump inside. The weight of it is like a ballast. It is the only thing keeping me firm on the earth’s surface, “Very, mother.”

Castlereagh claps his hands together suddenly, making everyone jump in surprise, “Excellent.” He says, “Let’s have no more of these discussions. The boy has proven himself worthy to me, we have examined our financial situations in length, and now he has a ring. Let us get on with it.”

Castlereagh is not a patient man.

Sophie Castlereagh sighs longingly from her position in the corner, “Oh, it is all lovely don’t you think?” No one asks what she means and she continues, “I find it positively exquisite that our Phoebe will get to marry someone she already loves!”

Beatrice nods, “A rarity, for sure. But then again our families were bred for great things.”

Albert rests his chin against the heel of his hand, “It’s a fine business deal, for certain.”

I stand here listening and can’t help but feel, for a fleeting moment, that Phoebe and I are nothing but prized cattle to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. But then my eyes see the jewels sparkling on the lobe of my mother’s ear and my body registers the finery of my clothes. Then, as quickly as the thought came it was gone.