Lady Lightfingers (15 page)

Celia walked on, and the copse was a dark rustling place on either side of her. But ahead was a light, and she saw the house. It seemed familiar, as though it had burned into her memory from her fleeting visit here when she was but a child. A welcoming light burned in the window.

‘Chaffinch House,' she whispered, and the weight of the past journey hit her so hard that she wondered if she'd be able to reach the front door.

The gate squeaked as she pushed it open. Her trembling legs could hardly hold her upright and she had to support herself on the cart. The porch was a dark space ahead of her. One dragging step took her closer . . . then another. It took all of her will to place one foot in front of the other, to get herself up the path. The wheel came off the cart and went spinning off into a flower bed.

She reached the tiled entrance and fell to her knees, crawling the rest of the way to scrabble at the door with her fingers.

Lottie woke, shouting out her name in alarm. ‘Celia!'

‘I'm here, Lottie.'

Climbing from the cart Lottie came to where she lay and cuddled close to her. ‘I was afraid.'

‘There's nothing to fear. Bang on the door, Lottie.'

‘Are we there?'

‘We will have to be, for I can't go a step further.'

A gleam of yellow light spilled across them as the door opened to Lottie's thumping. A woman gazed down at them. She held an oil lamp in one hand and had a poker held aloft in the other.

There was another woman behind her, and her hand flew to her chest when she saw them. ‘Oh, my goodness, it's a young woman and a child. She looks to be at the end of her tether. Help me to get them inside, Millie.'

‘You be careful it isn't a trick, Miss Price.'

‘Are you Jane Price?' Celia croaked.

‘Gracious . . . no . . . I'm Harriet Price, Jane's sister.' The woman's arms came round her. ‘Can you stand, my dear?'

Celia managed it, and with Lottie clutching at her skirt tottered into the nearest room, where she sank on to a sofa. The lamp was set on the table, another one lit.

A circle of light framed the woman's face. It was a kind one, and there was the look of Celia's own mother about her.

‘Mama,' Lottie whispered uncertainly, and pressed against her.

Celia placed an arm around her. ‘The lady looks a little like mama, but it's not her. Mama has gone to live in heaven.'

‘What's your name, dear?'

‘Celia Laws.'

Shock and recognition came and went in Harriet's expression, and questions tripped from her tongue one after the other. ‘Celia Laws? Are you my sister Alice's daughter . . . yes, you must be . . . has Alice passed away? She must have, for where else would you go? We're kin, after all, though Alice swore she'd never come back while she had a breath in her body. How odd that I was thinking of you today, as though it was meant to be. Your poor feet, they're all cut and blistered. Have you travelled far?'

Celia managed to get a word or two in. ‘From London.'

Harriet gasped. ‘All that way . . . Millie, go and put the kettle on, and make up a bed for them. Use Alice's old room, because her things are still there. The child can sleep in the same room, on the daybed, so she won't feel alone. We must see what we can do for them. Are you hungry, dear?'

‘We've only had a cup of milk and a chunk of bread each in two days.'

On cue, Lottie cupped her hands and held them out to the woman. ‘I'm hungry, missus.'

‘This is Charlotte, my little sister. Don't beg, Lottie darling. However hard life was for us, mama wouldn't have approved of it,' Celia said, feeling like the biggest hypocrite on earth for playing on this woman's emotions.

Harriet burst into tears. ‘Oh, my dear, I'll warm you some broth. Then when you've eaten it you can rest.'

‘My cart . . . the wheel's broken.'

‘We'll drag it into the porch, in case it rains. Nobody will steal anything from it here. Goodness . . . imagine walking all this way from London. How brave of you . . . your poor, poor feet.'

Celia wanted to cry too, mostly because of her aunt's kindness, but she couldn't give in now she'd achieved what she'd set out to do. Her tattered feet were placed in a bowl and gently soaped and bathed in blissfully warm water. A soothing salve was applied to her blisters and they were bandaged with strips of clean linen.

The two women fussed around, trying to do everything at once, tripping over each other. Somehow it all got done. Lottie lapped up her broth then fell asleep against Celia's shoulder, her dirty little face so innocent and sweet in sleep that Celia nearly cried out with the wave of love she felt for her. She gently kissed her cheek, hoping the journey was finally over and they'd be offered a home here.

Harriet bent to the sleeping child. ‘I'll carry her upstairs. Do you think you can manage alone?'

Celia nodded. She was warming to this woman, who'd welcomed a complete stranger into her home, accepting her for what she was without asking questions.

She followed her up two flights of stairs, hobbling with each torturous step. They turned into a room where a night light burned in a saucer of water.

‘We're both dirty,' she said when she saw the crisp, white sheets.

‘As I see. I can also see that you're fatigued beyond measure, and that must take precedence.' She slid Lottie's ill-fitting boots from her feet and removed her clothing, leaving the child in the flannel smock Mrs Busby had fashioned for her. Lottie was tucked into her bed.

‘There, that will do her for tonight. Tomorrow you'll both take a bath and we'll talk. You must tell me about Charlotte and the circumstances you find yourselves in. Millie has put a nightgown and robe out for you to wear. Things will look better tomorrow, I promise.'

‘You're very kind, Miss Price.'

‘Aunt Harriet,' she said firmly, and gently kissed her on the forehead. ‘Goodnight, Celia dear. Wake me if you need anything during the night. My room is opposite.'

It would indeed be a good night, Celia thought as she sank into the feathery depths of the mattress and kept on sinking.

Celia vaguely remembered hearing a cockerel crow earlier, something she'd managed to ignore. Now she was woken from sleep by a beam of sunshine shining through a crack in the curtains, determined to single her out for attention.

She was reluctant to leave her warm and comfortable nest. Lottie's little bed was empty. Swinging her legs out of bed she winced as she gingerly put her weight on her feet, and called out, ‘Lottie, where are you?'

Footsteps came pattering up the stairs, and a knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Harriet, wearing a smile. ‘The child is downstairs, and Millie is going to take her into the garden to collect the eggs after breakfast. She's been bathed in the laundry sink and I took the liberty of looking in your cart for a clean smock. I hope you don't mind.'

‘No, I don't mind. Both her smocks are dirty.'

‘So I noticed. I've washed the spare one, and it should soon dry in the wind. You are quite the pair of ragamuffins, but it can't be helped, I suppose.'

It was said so kindly that Celia couldn't feel angry.

‘Put on your robe, my dear. We've filled the bathtub, but it's downstairs in the laundry room. There's a clean gown for you to wear afterwards; it used to belong to my sister, Jane, but she has no use for it now. You can wash your hair first. There's a mirror and a hairbrush on the table to use. I'll see to your feet afterwards and you will soon be comfortable.'

Celia's glance darted with some alarm to the dirty skirt she'd laid over the back of the chair. She was relieved to find it still there, for the pocket contained all her money. Before she went down, creeping on her sore feet, she removed the money and slid it under her mattress.

The laundry room was large, and had a stove in the corner on which to heat the water, so it was pleasantly warm. The soap smelled of lavender, reminding her of the soap she'd stolen from the stall in London, which had been a rare treat. Celia stayed in the tub until the water grew cool then dried herself. As well as sore feet, her muscles ached. She groaned as she stepped out of the tub.

The gown her aunt had left was blue checked, with a little lace collar. There was also a cotton petticoat. Celia felt shiny and new in the clothes, as though she'd just been born.

Her aunt came in and doctored her feet before handing her a pair of cotton stockings and some shoes of soft leather. ‘These might fit you; they used to belong to Jane.'

‘What happened to your sister?'

‘She and our mother died within days of each other a year ago from a throat infection.'

‘I'm so sorry . . .' I shouldn't have babbled on about my own troubles when you had your own loss to bear.'

They left the bath water running into the garden, using a hose attached to a small tap near the bottom of the bath.

Harriet came to stand in front of her, gazing into her eyes. ‘You weren't to know, and look what has come of it. We've been brought together, and perhaps that was meant to be. Now, come and have your breakfast.'

Wearing a milky moustache, Lottie smiled at her when she entered the kitchen. ‘Mrs Millie has a cat called Moggins. Can we stay here always?'

‘I don't know. That rather depends on Aunt Harriet.'

A dish of oatmeal was placed in front of her and there was toast with gooseberry conserve and tea. Celia hadn't felt so full since she'd left the inn, and she couldn't remember how long ago that had been. The hardships of the long trek seemed somehow remote from her. If it wasn't for her sore feet . . .' Spoon suspended in mid-air she wondered how Johnny was getting along.

Millie took Lottie outside, leaving her alone with Harriet.

‘Tell me about Charlotte; is Alice her mother? I cannot see a family resemblance.'

Celia was tempted to lie. If she did that would put her mother in a bad light, for she'd used the Laws' name up until the very end. She decided that the truth wouldn't hurt anyone. Whatever came of it, she'd never desert Lottie.

‘No, she isn't. We found Lottie on the banks of the River Thames. She was newly born, and had been left there for the stray dogs to make a meal of, or for the tide to carry her away . . . whichever came about first.'

When Harriet sucked in a deep, scandalized breath a knot of resentment surfaced. What did this woman in her fancy house know about poverty?

She laid it on thicker. ‘Oh, we could have taken Lottie to the workhouse and forgotten she existed. She wouldn't have lasted long there, but would have died of some disease or neglect before she was a month old, and without ever knowing love. We didn't have much. My mother worked long hours sewing seams in trousers to pay the rent. I begged on the street or recited poetry to the crowds for coins.'

Tears glistened in Harriet's eyes.

‘I was teaching Lottie to beg when our mother was killed. I could have earned a living, doing some work where I could take her, for she's too young to be left alone.' She shrugged, knowing it would be wiser not to say what that living would have been. ‘The work was . . .
unsuitable
for someone my age.'

‘Oh, my dear. Is that why Charlotte cups her hands like that when she sees food on the table, because she had to beg?'

Celia nodded. ‘At first we were tempted to leave her on the mud and pretend she didn't exist, because we hardly had enough money to feed ourselves with. But when she began to cry, my mother couldn't bring herself to ignore her.'

‘So you don't know who her parents are?'

‘She was born with no name, so my mother gave her ours, and called her Charlotte because she thought it was a name with some substance to it if she survived. So she became my sister.'

Harriet had a dubious look in her eyes. ‘Are you telling me the truth about the child?'

‘What would be the point of lying about her? Lottie thinks I'm her sister, and doesn't know any different. If you cannot find room in your heart to accept Lottie, I must go too. I don't want us to be a burden to you.'

‘Where would you go if I turned you away?'

‘There's an inn in the forest where we were offered a home by a generous-hearted couple. Our travelling companion took advantage of the opportunity, and I'm given to believe we'll be welcome there. Do you intend to turn us away? My mother told me to beg on my knees if I needed to – but I won't do that.'

‘Celia, my dear, you don't need to beg. I wouldn't dream of closing my door to either of you. In fact, I told my legal adviser that I intended to instigate a search for you and my sister.' She screwed up her nose. ‘I shall consult with him. There was a legacy for Alice, but he said it had been spent on house maintenance. I suspect we're not very well off because the money we had may have been mismanaged. Father was such a fool when it came to trusting people, and my mother was a spendthrift. I'll try and find out if any is owing to Alice from the estate. Arthur Avery will require proof that you're who you say you are, though.'

‘I have my mother's box containing her private papers in the cart. And I have some money . . . lent to me by a
friend
, in case I needed it for the journey,' she said with some difficulty, for she hated lying to this kind and generous woman. It was odd, too, how reluctant she felt about parting with, or spending the money she'd gained from the bargain she'd made with Charles Curtis. She'd never had so much money, and wondered if he'd been sent by the devil to tempt her.

‘It can't be much, so you keep that, dear, for if it's a loan you'll need to pay it back. I'll let you know if we're ever desperate enough to need to draw on it. I do feel sad that Alice has died, and I've thought of her often. She was badly treated by the man she married, as well as the family. I'm pleased she told you to come to Chaffinch House.'