Lady Lightfingers (27 page)

‘My son has always liked children. I understand you've made yourself responsible for your late mother's ward.'

‘Lottie is six, and I love her dearly. I rarely think of her in terms any less than my sister.'

‘You're young to have responsibility for a child of that age.'

Celia vaguely remembered that this woman had been susceptible to flattery on the previous occasion they'd met. ‘You must have been extremely young when Charles was born.'

Her mouth curved in a smile – a smile so like Charles' that it nearly robbed Celia of breath. ‘I was barely seventeen. I'm truly blessed with my children. Charles is so clever and well mannered. He never gave me a moment of unease when he was growing up, and I'm so proud of him. As for Adelaide, she's a joy.'

‘She certainly is.' Charles lifted an eyebrow and gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘There are problems attached to being the only son of a devoted mother. The motherly praise is quite unwarranted if you did but know it, Celia. I'm far from perfect.'

Celia offered him a faint grin. ‘As you say . . . and I imagine that both you and your mother know you better than I do. Which version to accept could prove to be the problem.'

He chuckled. ‘I stand willing to be convinced to the contrary.'

‘You mean you were hinting to be complimented? What a conceited creature you are, Charles Curtis . . . there, that is my opinion. By the way, thank you for the Christmas gifts. Lottie adores her doll.'

‘And you?'

‘I love my little bird, though I prefer to see them flying free than penned in a cage.'

‘Which is exactly why I bought you a metal bird. However, if you think you can make it fly . . .?'

His mother laughed.

Thomas gave one of his behave-yourself reminder coughs and stated to nobody in particular, ‘I have a theory that parental praise from an early age imbues a lad with self-confidence. Alas, I've never had the chance to put the idea into practice.' He held the back of a chair. ‘Will you sit here next to Celia, Mrs Harris? You'll have an excellent view of the stage.'

Joshua took the seat next to his wife. Charles and Thomas seated themselves behind.

Celia immersed herself in the programme, familiarizing herself with the characters.

When the curtain began to rise, Charles leaned forward and breathed against her ear, ‘I hope you'll enjoy the play.'

‘I will . . . I know I will. Thank you so much for inviting us, Charles; you're so kind, and I'm looking forward to it so much.'

Her words filled Charles with such tender pleasure that he could hardly breathe. Odd that something so commonplace as going to the theatre could raise such interest in her, and right from the beginning.

As soon as the scenery depicting Paris was revealed she gave a quiet little gasp of delight, and during the long prologue she leaned forward, as though determined to catch every word, and oblivious to those around her.

She cried over the fate of Richard Pride, and whispered under her breath, ‘Oh, no, that's not fair,' when his daughter, Janet Pride, was convicted of the crime.

Charles watched the emotions come and go on her face, heard her sigh with relief when Richard Pride confessed to the crime, and heard her trying to stifle a sob when he died.

He handed over his handkerchief for her to mop her eyes with.

When the play was over, she asked him, ‘Does the Bailey courtroom really look like that inside?'

‘It's a fairly accurate depiction. I'd say the scene painter had been inside, or at least had a sketch to work from.'

They paused at the top of the staircase, the other three going ahead.

‘And do barristers and judges wear those wigs?'

‘Yes, they do.'

‘Do you wear one?'

‘During a court trial, yes, just a short one. It's a tradition.'

She nodded. ‘I really enjoyed the play. The scenery was very good. It made me feel as though I was there. I should like to go to Paris one day, and also to the wilds of Australia. I know someone whose father was sent there for stealing a pair of boots from a dead man. I thought that was unfair, because the dead man didn't need them, and his young son was forced on to the streets and left all alone to fend for himself.'

‘Stealing is a crime that shouldn't go unpunished,' he said.

She knew that to be untrue, for he'd made an exception in her case. But that had been a long time ago and his thinking would have since been influenced by others. ‘What if a friend stole something from you, then confessed and gave it back somehow . . . would you have them arrested and charged?'

He gazed at her, his glance intent on her face then coming up to her eyes, where they held her trapped in their darkness. He appeared interested in the conversation, his head slanting a little to one side as he gave a faint smile and made a little murmur deep in his throat before saying, ‘I don't imagine my friends would ever steal from me. They're trustworthy.'

Guilt swallowed most of her breath, and although she tried to shift her eyes away, she couldn't. She would hate to be prosecuted by Charles Curtis, she thought. ‘What if they were hungry and had no choice?'

‘Then they'd only have to ask me, and I'd share with them what I had, including money, which they could repay when their circumstances had improved.' He tucked her arm through his. ‘Does that answer your question?'

‘Yes,' she murmured. No, she thought, for he'd never regard her as trustworthy now, even if she repaid that large amount of cash he'd given her. But she'd feel better about herself when she did, she mused, especially since its presence still tempted her sorely at the times she remembered it.

‘What happened to the friend of yours who was left alone to fend for himself?'

She didn't want to tell him anything of her background. ‘Johnny was taken in by a couple who'd lost their own son.'

‘A little like your sister Lottie.'

‘Johnnny was older, about twelve. The couple had an inn so he was able to offer them his services in return for his home. I was pleased to find him so settled, when I visited recently.'

‘So you see, there are people who do care about the welfare of abandoned children. That couple at the inn, your mother . . . you . . . Reverend Hambert. And there are church committees and boards that support and run workhouses. Where did you say the inn was?'

‘Oh, in the New Forest,' she said carelessly, and returned to the conversation. ‘Despite that, people still die on the streets from starvation and cold, and they have to steal to stay alive. And women are forced into selling—' She bit down on her lip. ‘Sorry,' she said, her voice faltering a little. ‘I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry.'

‘You don't have to apologize, Celia. The simple fact is that there are too many disadvantaged on the streets now, and that's partly because the rail network gives easy access to London, and the unemployed swarm here looking for work. If law and order isn't maintained there will be more crime. At the same time, the innocent are going to suffer along with the guilty. That's why I thought this play would interest you.'

‘Instead, it made me cry and fired my anger,' she said ruefully.

‘You're sensitive to the plight of the needy. I found it interesting. Have you had much to do with them? Your stories, the settings in particular, seem to have an edge of truth to them.'

She folded up his handkerchief and handed it back to him, attempting to distract his train of thought away from herself. ‘I'm afraid it's a little damp.'

‘You didn't answer my question.'

‘Goodness, didn't I?' She groped words out of the air. ‘I imagine the reverend's views have rubbed off on me a little.'

‘That must account for it, since Reverend Hambert is well known for his views on reform. James Kent takes after him somewhat, for he often intervenes in cases where children are handed down the death sentence.'

If Celia had intended to confide in him over her mother's death, now would have been the time, but they'd reached the bottom of the stairs and were about to join the others, who were waiting for the carriage to arrive. He smiled at her. ‘I'm aware this subject distressed you the last time we were together. I'll try not to raise it again.'

‘No . . . I'm quite all right. Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Charles.'

‘I enjoyed it, and I sincerely hope there will be more like it.'

She hoped so too, but didn't see any point in encouraging him, since she was as poor as a church mouse, and had nothing to wear. She looked around at the crowd pressing around them, the men with fat wallets and gold watch chains, and the women richly dressed for the most part. As they jostled against her they were almost begging to be relieved of their riches. It would take but a few moments to help herself.

‘What are you smiling at?' he asked.

‘Must I have a motive? Don't you ever smile for no reason?'

‘Never. I keep my smile for special occasions, but the one you displayed was a cross between a grimace and a leer, like a wolf, which having run its prey to ground then discovered it lacked the appetite to eat it.'

She giggled, because his analogy, had he but known it, was so apt. ‘I've never seen a wolf smile, but then, I've never seen a wolf – not a real one, though I've seen a picture of one in a book in Reverend Hambert's library. They're beautiful, even though dangerous. It's a pity they're extinct in England.'

He smiled. ‘I've never met a woman who reads books about wolves before?'

‘The reverend says I should read everything I can if I want to expand on my education. You have a nice smile, Charles. However, the only animal I can compare it to is a cat – a cat quite pleased with himself.'

‘Smug?'

‘As you please.'

‘I do not please. I'll never smile again.'

And he didn't, not until the carriage reached Bedford Square and he helped her down while Thomas opened the front door. When Charles kissed her hand and smiled at her everything inside her melted.

‘Goodnight, Celia. I enjoyed your company tonight.'

‘Thank you, Charles.' She remembered Mr and Mrs Harris, and hoped she hadn't been too careless in her conversation with their son. She smiled past his shoulder into the interior of the carriage. ‘Goodnight, Mr and Mrs Harris. Thank you for a perfect evening.'

Charles leaned back into the cushioned interior where Celia, sandwiched between himself and the reverend, had recently rested her head. He could almost smell her perfume, and said to his mother and stepfather as the carriage proceeded, ‘What do you think of Celia Laws?'

His mother spoke first. ‘My first impression is that she was out of her element. I'm surprised a girl of her age has never been to the theatre, and I thought her attire inappropriate; in fact it was a little shabby. Oh dear, Charles, I'm ashamed to say that I lived in fear that she might have booed and hissed out loud.'

Charles laughed as he hastened to defend Celia. ‘Her aunt, Miss Price, is not well off.'

‘The girl's manners are a little gauche, I feel, and sometimes she seems out of her depth. What of her background . . . has she a father?'

‘I know nothing about her except she lives with her aunt and has a young girl in her care. Her mother is now dead, but both the Reverend and James Kent were acquainted with her when she was a child. Thomas Hambert took it upon himself to mentor her.'

Joshua offered, ‘Reverend Hambert is an interesting man, and I was pleased to meet him at last. He has the reputation of being a bit of a reformer, and his methods of teaching are unorthodox. He also has a half-share interest in a publishing venture, which supports his views. Sometimes his essays are rather radical, and they put him at odds with his bishop. He was a little different to what I'd expected to find. Your young woman seems comfortable in his presence, and has a mind of her own, a rather lively one judging from your exchanges.'

Imogene sighed. ‘And she's emotional; she cried over the play.'

‘I believe she once wanted to act, but the reverend thinks her talents lie in the written word. That's her work in the book I gave you. He's found a kindred spirit I feel, for she certainly depicts life in the London slums sensitively, and well. It's as if she's lived amongst the poor.'

‘She's certainly a beauty. What did her parents die of?'

Charles shrugged. ‘I've never asked her. Celia has never mentioned her father in my presence.'

His mother frowned in concentration. ‘Laws . . . Where have I heard that name before? I believe there's an opera singer called Daniel Laws. I've heard he's very good. How did she come to be acquainted with Reverend Hambert and James Kent?'

‘I believe she met them when she lived in London.' His frown crinkled. ‘You said she seemed familiar to you when you first met. I formed the very same impression when we were introduced.'

Those close to Celia guarded her background very well . . . too well he was beginning to think, because the evasion and the odd slip of the tongue he'd noticed, though carefully covered up, had now piqued Charles' curiosity.

His mother leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. ‘I can see that Celia Laws intrigues you, Charles, and I can understand why, since she's lovely as well as being intelligent, and she has an air of innocence about her that's very refreshing.

If you are thinking of asking me if I approve of her, the answer is yes. Your judgement has always been sound, and, Lord knows, I came from a modest background myself. Just exercise some caution, my dear. You know very little about her. Perhaps you should ask James Kent when you return to Poole.'