Lady Lightfingers (30 page)

He meant Aunt Harriet. She nodded, willing to bow to his superior wisdom in this. It wasn't until later, as the reverend hailed the cab, that she realized it was yet another unsavoury part of her past – and another reason why Charles Curtis would turn away from her.

It wasn't until they reached their destination and the cab turned to retrace its steps that Celia thought she saw the boy from the alley clinging to the back of the cab like a fly on a wall. Then they were gone from sight round the corner and she heard the horses pick up speed.

Charles could have sworn that he'd caught a glimpse of Thomas Hambert in the wings at the theatre, and he wondered if Celia was with him. As soon as he could he excused himself from the company of his companions and hurried backstage. His way was blocked by the figure of the stage manager. ‘I'm afraid the public are not allowed backstage, sir.'

‘I was looking for someone.'

‘I daresay. One of the lady performers, was it?'

‘It was the Reverend Thomas Hambert. I thought I saw him in the wings.'

‘If I were you I'd try the church down the road.'

‘He would have had a woman with him – a Miss Laws.'

‘A pert little piece of goods with blue eyes and dark hair?'

Charles smiled at the description, and nodded.

‘They were here . . . They wanted to speak to Daniel Laws. They spent half an hour together, now they're gone . . . It must be fifteen minutes, since.'

‘What did they want with Daniel Laws?'

‘I didn't ask them, sir, since it were none of my business. Because of the similarity in name, I assumed they were relatives. Now, would you mind leaving, sir? I have a theatre to run.'

‘Could I speak to Daniel Laws then?'

‘Not at the moment, sir, he's resting before the next show. If you'd like to buy a ticket for the next show you can see him afterwards perhaps.'

‘I've just come from the first sitting, and I have companions waiting.' Charles slid his hand into his inside pocket. ‘Just one minute with Mr Laws, perhaps.'

The manager smiled at the gesture. ‘I don't take money for favours, so you're wasting my time as well as your own. That way out, sir, if you please. You'll be able to catch Mr Laws at the stage door when he leaves after the show. He'll be last on because he's top billing. Watch out for the beggars.'

Charles shrugged. They were attending the same musical function tomorrow evening. He'd simply ask Thomas Hambert, or Celia herself come to that, what they were doing backstage at the theatre. He was surprised that Celia hadn't mentioned having a relative who was a singer.

The next morning Thomas and Celia visited Potter's Field, where her mother was buried in her rough wooden coffin. Celia tried not to think of her lying beneath the earth in her ragged clothing, one of the many poor of the parish who were buried in great numbers, but without pomp. Gone and forgotten quickly, their memories were lost in the ongoing need of their families to survive.

‘I don't even know where she is now,' Celia said sadly, the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘The grass has grown over her.'

‘The earth has reclaimed her body, and her soul is in heaven.'

‘Now you sound like a real reverend, sort of pompous.'

‘It can't be helped since I am a real reverend; and my faith sustains me.'

‘Tell me this, then, Reverend Thomas Hambert. What does a soul look like?'

He gazed sideways at her, grinned and murmured, ‘You have to be initiated to be trusted with that secret.'

She dashed away her tears and grinned at him in return. ‘What you mean is that you really don't know?'

‘I didn't say that. Tell me about your mother's funeral while I gather my thoughts on this, Celia.'

‘It was a sad day; the grass was soaked through from the mist rising from the earth. The ravens were cawing, and the bare twigs on the trees scribbled on the sky as if it were a slate.'

He gave a faint murmur of appreciation at her description.

‘There was a gravedigger here with his son. He was gnarled-looking, and had calloused hands from working hard. Because there was no preacher here to say the words over the dead, he asked me if I'd like him to say a special prayer for my mother. He asked his dead wife to look after her in heaven, and his son told me that his father had always wanted to be a preacher. Then they wished us well and went off home. Lottie didn't realize what was going on. She needed . . .' Celia huffed out a laugh. ‘Lottie said she needed . . . to relieve herself.'

Thomas chuckled. ‘About the soul, Celia . . . it's one of God's great mysteries.'

‘So you really don't know what a soul looks like . . . admit it?'

‘I do not think a soul has a shape and entity. It just is – and it's too complex a concept to really grasp, except we know it when it touches us. What was the name of the man who said the prayer over your mother?'

‘Bert.' Her face screwed up in concentration. ‘He called his dead wife Mary Holloway, so he must have been Bert Holloway. His support was comforting. It was nice to think that his wife might be waiting to look after my mother.'

‘He offered you comfort, and in doing so his own soul was comforted. Mankind has pondered on the soul since he realized there was a God. Years ago a man called John Dryden wrote:

She closed her eyes and thought about it, and the wind was a soft caress against her face and she remembered her mother alive, her beautiful face illuminated by the candlelight as she bent to her sewing. She thought she felt her mother's fingers smooth the hair back from her face, remembered her smile and knew she was standing there beside her. For the briefest of moments Celia felt the touch of her lips against her cheeks and her name carried as a whisper on the wind. ‘
Celia . . . my sweet Celia.
'

She opened her eyes and gazed at him through the tears flooding them. ‘John Dryden was writing about love.'

‘The line is from a play, a comedy called
Marriage-A-la-Mode
, which doesn't really relate to what we were talking about. But that line is so beautifully written and evocative, and as good an explanation of the existence of the soul that I've ever come across.'

‘Can a soul feel the
tenderest
touch of those gone from us?'

‘My dearest child, you're asking me if contact can be made with the dead. Tell me . . . did you feel a connection here with your mother?'

She nodded. ‘For just a moment I heard her whisper my name, then it slipped away like a wisp of smoke in the wind. It left me feeling . . . oh, I don't know . . . happy and sad at the same time, and reassured.'

‘Then you have your answer. The soul is something so ethereal it can never really be understood. It's faith . . . a mystery—'

‘A secret known only to those initiated,' and she giggled. ‘Sometimes I think you pretend to be one person when you're really another. You have answers for everything.'

‘I just wish were there more people like you around, who can supply questions for those answers.' He gazed at her, half-smiling. ‘There will be other times when you'll feel your soul at work, Celia. It's nothing tangible, just emotion, but experienced at a level so deep that we're incapable of understanding the source of it. We just have to accept that it's there.' He held out his arm. ‘Now we must go. We have a musical evening to attend tonight, and tomorrow is our final engagement. But before we go I just want to say that knowing you has brought me great joy.'

‘I treasure your friendship, and I always will.'

He gave a bit of a sigh. ‘I think my work here in London is done. I'm looking forward to moving, where I'll be nearer to my family.'

He looked tired and Celia felt guilty for taking up his time and making him walk so far. ‘You must rest before we get ready to go out tonight. I'm so looking forward to it.'

‘Are you familiar with the works of Bach?'

‘My Aunt Harriet has played a couple of pieces on the piano, and I liked them.'

‘Then you're in for a wonderful evening, for an orchestra, soloists and a choral society will be performing his work. Charles Curtis mentioned that he might attend the performance.'

‘Really,' she said as casually as she could, and her heart leaped, so she missed the faint smile he gave.

Nineteen

On the way home from Potter's Field Celia devised a plan to return the money to Charles. She'd never felt easy keeping it in her possession, knowing it was his, and what it represented to him.

When they returned to Bedford Square she wrapped the satchel in brown paper, tied it with string and wrote on it in her best hand,
Charles Curtis esquire
. Hesitating for a moment, she added in smaller letters, because he'd probably forgotten the beggar girl he'd given the money to, and she wanted him to think kindly of that girl she'd been,
from Lizzie Carter
.

She waited until the Reverend was asleep in his chair in front of the fire before fetching her parcel and concealing it under her shawl. ‘I'm going out for a short while, Mrs Packer.'

‘If you don't mind me saying so, the reverend wouldn't like you going out by yourself.'

‘I'm going to buy him a book he was admiring and I want it to be a secret. I'll be back in time to take him his tea tray.' Indeed, she did have her eyes on a collection of the work of the poet, Edgar Allan Poe, as a gift for the reverend. She'd overheard him saying to someone that he'd heard that Poe's work had an uncomfortable dark edge to it that scared people, and he must read the American one day, and discover it for himself. Celia had checked his bookshelves and discovered he was indeed lacking a volume of Poe.

Reassured, Mrs Packer smiled. ‘I won't tell him if he wakes up, but he usually naps for an hour or so after luncheon.'

Celia took Charles' card from her pocket and looked at the words scribbled on the back before replacing it in her purse. ‘Oxford and Cambridge club . . . Pall Mall,' she muttered.

She considered walking, but knew it would take her too long. With the latest royalties from the sale of the book she took a cab to the address. It was a men's club, and several of them were lingering in the porch. Celia kept her head down as she handed the parcel over to the doorman, for she didn't want to be noticed.

‘You'll make sure he gets it, won't you?' she said, for it was a lot of money to hand over.

‘Don't worry, Miss. We're expecting Mr Curtis. He's dining with some of his friends, so I'm sure he won't be long. If you'd like to wait for a few minutes you could hand it to him yourself . . . We can't allow you inside the club, of course. Gentlemen only, you see. It would be against the rules.'

The breath left her body, and with some alarm in her eyes she gazed up at the man. ‘I don't want to come into the club, and no, I can't hand it to him, and he mustn't see me,' she said, and she turned and ran back down to the waiting cab.

As they turned into Bedford Square Celia felt jubilant. She'd paid it back. She no longer owed Charles Curtis anything, and a great weight had fallen from her shoulders.

‘Lizzie Carter?' Charles tasted the name on his tongue as he turned the parcel over in his hands, trying to trigger his memory from the handwriting, which seemed familiar, though he couldn't place it at the moment. ‘What did the girl look like?'

‘I only saw her for a moment, sir. She was a slim young woman with striking eyes, sir. Her dress was ordinary, not at all smart, and a little shabby. She kept her face shielded by her bonnet and only looked up once. That's when I caught a glimpse of her eyes. Very appealing, they were; the colour of cornflowers.'

‘Ah yes.' Charles grinned as he remembered them, and the sooty sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek . . . and the muddy face and tangled dark hair, of course. ‘Don't wax too lyrical about her, Barton. The woman who left this parcel was a first-class pickpocket.'

Barton's mouth pursed, as though he'd swallowed a sour plum. ‘And she looked like such a sweet young woman.'

Charles grinned, remembering his youthful lust for the girl who'd stolen his card case and returned it to claim a reward. He'd admired her spirit, and had discovered that, although she was a thief, she also had a moral code, and was not about to sell her body to him for any amount of money. Not even a bribe of one hundred pounds had tempted her to stray from the straight and narrow, it seemed.

‘She
was
sweet, and innocent, but you'd better check your pockets anyway.'

Was she innocent still? Charles wondered, as he unwrapped the parcel. He encountered a small satchel that was very familiar to him, for his initials were tooled into the surface in gold. He hadn't expected her to return it, and he'd recalled that he'd asked her to get in touch when she was ready.

He smiled, hesitated, then smiled again as he gazed inside it to see if she'd written him a note. There wasn't one; the contents of the satchel were the same as when handed to her. The sharp folds and creases spoke of the notes being kept under something weighty – a book perhaps?

‘Well, well . . . you're an enigma, Lizzie Carter,' he murmured about the ragged young woman whose services he'd once tried to buy, and who'd placed such value on retaining her purity over a promise made to a dead mother. That was something he'd found touching at the time – still did. ‘You must have decided I wasn't worth waiting for.'