So he had gone back for the ball after all; he had stood beside her in the ballroom; he had announced it to the world. And then the last line, which made Clara's hands go cold:
*Owing to the happy couple's eagerness, the wedding has been brought forward. It will now take place in only two weeks' time at St. George's Church in Hanover Square.*
Two weeks.
Clara folded the newspaper and put it away. She did not cry; she was past crying now.
Over the next few days, Polly grew worse: the fever rose, the cough deepened. Clara sat up with her every night, holding cool cloths to her forehead. By day, she took in sewing from a tailor down the street, working until her fingers ached for a few pennies a shirt. It was not enough—it was not nearly enough.
On the fourth day, the landlady came pounding on the door. Mrs. Crabbe was a large, red-faced woman who smelled of gin.
"Rent's three weeks owing," she said, folding her arms. "I've been patient; patience is finished. You pay by Saturday, or you and that coughing girl are out on the street. I don't want her dying in my house."
Clara heard Polly crying softly behind her.
That afternoon, a doctor came at last. He listened to Polly's chest for a long time. When he came out of the room, his face was grave.
"Her lungs are very weak," he said quietly. "She needs medicine, good food, warm rooms, and rest. And she needs to be away from this damp river air as soon as possible—somewhere in the country, perhaps. Otherwise..." He shook his head. "I will be honest with you, miss: otherwise, I fear she will not see the spring."
His fee was five shillings; Clara had four.
That evening, Clara took her mother's silver-backed hairbrush to the pawnshop at the end of the street. It was the last precious thing she owned; her mother had brushed her hair with it every night—one hundred strokes by the fire.
The pawnbroker was a little bald man with clever eyes. He turned the brush over in his hands and named a price: it was less than half of what it was worth. Clara did not argue; she could not afford to argue.
As he counted out the coins, he glanced at the gray scarf wrapped around her head. A few short, ragged ends of hair were sticking out from under it.
"Cut it off recently, did you?" he said. "Shame. A girl like you with hair that color—it must have been long once." He clicked his tongue. "A good long braid like that, I'd have given you three pounds for it. Wigmakers pay well. Three whole pounds."