Replenish the Earth (2 page)

‘Pretty she must have been once,’ the man went on. ‘Here, Bill, you take the feet. That's it! Gently does it.’ He arranged the body, then stepped back to study it with the eye of a connoisseur. ‘They don’t always look this peaceful. Some of them has a terrible look on their face, like they've gone straight to hell.’

Sarah knew he meant well, but she wished he’d finish what he had to do and go.

‘We’ll set it on the floor or you’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight.’

They had no trouble lifting the coffin. Her mother had weighed almost nothing at the end.

‘Nail it down, shall I, miss?’

‘Yes . . . no . . . I . . . just a moment!’ She went to bend over the cheap, crudely-varnished box for a last look at her mother. Kneeling down, she kissed the wasted cheek one final time, noticed the locket round Elizabeth's neck and hesitated. It was gold and contained miniatures of her mother and father, not very good ones, but it was all she would have to remember them by. Steeling herself, she unfastened the locket and then, after further hesitation, slipped the gold wedding ring from her mother's finger.

Her mother would understand her desperate need, she was sure, but she still felt guilty, as if she were committing a theft. Poverty was a harsh master. Dropping the locket and ring on to the table, she watched bleakly as the coffin lid was secured.

The rest of the day dragged slowly past. She went out to buy a pie from a seller crying his wares, came back and tried to read. Unable to concentrate, she went to stand by the window and watch the people go past. Such a busy street, so many ragged people shivering their way along it.

* * * *

In the morning, Sarah toasted and ate the last piece of stale bread, then put on her best dress, which she wore only to church on Sundays. The dark blue silk was faded and worn, and the dress offered little warmth on such a bleak day, but it was all she had to honour her mother’s passing.

On a sudden impulse, she threaded the gold ring on the chain holding the locket and fastened it round her neck. They didn’t show under her high-necked gown, but she could feel them and that comforted her.

When the men came for the coffin, she was sitting ready, her features set in a calm expression. She didn’t intend to give way to her grief in front of these strangers, or in front of the curate, either.

After the funeral, at which she was the only mourner, she returned to Furness Road to find the door to her room, which she had locked carefully, standing ajar. That jerked her out of her lethargy. ‘Dear heaven, no!’ She pushed it open and sobbed aloud at what she saw.

The place had been ransacked and the thief seemed to have vented his annoyance at such poor pickings upon its meagre contents. Pieces of threadbare clothing were strewn around and her precious few books were tumbled on the floor, their spines broken, their pages spilling out. Worst of all, her mother’s papers had been tossed into the hearth and had caught light. The grate was now full of ashes with only one or two singed corners remaining. Her mother’s marriage lines, her father’s letters, everything gone!

She choked on another sob and went to find Widow Thomas, who vowed she had seen and heard nothing, and grew angry when her lodger insisted on sending for the parish constable.

He came within the hour and examined the room, but could offer her little hope of catching the culprits. ‘Times is very lawless and with no reward offered, well, who’s to take an interest?’

When he’d gone, the landlady came up to rap on Sarah’s door. ‘I shall be obliged, miss, if you will leave my house immediately.’

‘But we’ve paid until the end of the month!’

‘I want you out now. Deaths and constables! What next, I ask!’

And suddenly it was all too much. Sarah took a step towards Widow Thomas, the pent-up anger exploding out of her in a rush of words. ‘If you even
try
to turn me out before I’m ready, then I’ll hire a bully-boy to come and smash your front door down - and I’ll tell him to smash anything else he fancies while he’s at it. See if I don’t!’

Widow Thomas gasped and backed away, but Sarah was between her and the stairs, and she could only retreat to the end of the landing, stuttering in fright. ‘Well, I - I - your mother just buried. A day or two - you shall have a day or two.’

‘And the rent?’

‘I shall refund what is not used.’

Sarah stood there for a minute longer, then laughed scornfully and moved away. ‘I have to go and see my lawyer now. I trust you will keep an eye on my room while I’m gone? I should be very angry indeed if anything happened to what’s left of our things. Who knows what I’d do then?’

She held the woman’s eyes for a moment longer, then walked out.

Even though the sky was heavy with clouds and she would be lucky to escape another drenching, she regretfully refused the shrill offer of a passing sedan chair.

Her iron pattens were soon encrusted with mud and who knew what else. Since she didn’t dare spend even a halfpenny on paying one of the urchins to sweep a crossing for her, she picked her own way among the refuse and slops, crossing streets when she could behind some wealthier citizen who could afford to have a path swept clear.

Impatiently, she waved away the pie seller who accosted her, as well as the hawkers of ballads and newssheets, clasping her purse firmly inside her worn rabbit-fur muff, instead of leaving it hanging by a tape beneath her skirt. Pickpockets were everywhere. It had nearly broken her mother’s heart to be reduced to lodgings in Furness Road.

After a while, Sarah came to a more respectable area, where the streets were cleaner and people better-dressed. She asked directions from a motherly-looking woman standing in a shop doorway, and so found her way at last to Newbury Square. Wearily she limped round it in the drizzling rain, studying the signs swinging above the doorways.

When at last she found the Sign of the Quill she didn’t let herself stop to think, but strode immediately up the steps and into the hallway, pushing open the door, anxious to have this humiliation over and done with. She was sure the lawyer would only tell her to go away, sure her uncle would refuse to do anything for her. But she had promised her mother to ask for his help - and she would keep her word.

Inside was warmth and order, with a cosy fire reflected in the gleaming oak panelling. She pushed her damp hood back and tried to think what to say. An elderly clerk was standing writing at a high, sloping desk by the window. The lad standing at the desk next to him didn’t even raise his eyes from his work, but kept his quill scratching across the paper as if his life depended upon the speed of it. The older man set his quill down on the inkstand and looked questioningly at the newcomer.

‘I would like to see Mr Jamieson, please,’ she said firmly. ‘This is his place of business, is it not?’

‘Is he expecting you, madam?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m afraid Mr Jamieson cannot see you today. He’s a very busy man. Perhaps you could leave your name and come back next week?’

She could see his glance straying back to the papers on his desk, so let the anger that had never really subsided since her confrontation with the landlady rise again. ‘My business is urgent. I
must
see Mr Jamieson today!’

‘May I inquire as to the nature of your business, madam?’

‘No, you may not!’

They stood arguing for a while, with the clerk becoming less civil by the minute and Sarah standing her ground. She
would
carry out her mother’s last wish, and do so today.

Suddenly, a door on the other side of the room banged open, and a small stout gentleman came storming out. He had on a maroon waistcoat beneath his grey jacket, with grey knee-breeches, and an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig crowning his rosy face.

‘What is all this noise?’ he demanded. ‘Did I not expressly tell you, Pickersleigh, that I was not to be disturbed?’

Sarah stepped forward before the clerk could speak. ‘Are you Mr Jamieson, sir?’

‘I am, madam.’

‘Sir, I beg you to grant me a few moments of your time. It’s very important.’

He frowned at her, then pressed his lips together as if holding back a refusal.

‘My name is Mortonby. I . . . ‘ She stopped in bewilderment as the room grew instantly still, even the lad by the window stopping work to gape at her openly.

‘Mortonby? Did you say
Mortonby?’
Mr Jamieson took a step towards her, his expression eager now.

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother’s name? Her maiden name?’

‘Elizabeth Bedham. But . .. ’

‘Aaah!’ Mr Jamieson let out a long exhalation of satisfaction. ‘You have seen our notice, no doubt, madam? The broadsheet?’

‘No.’ Sarah was bewildered, the anger ebbing suddenly and a great weariness taking its place.

‘Then how did you know we were looking for you?’

‘I didn’t, sir. My mother died yesterday. She made me promise to come and see you.’ Sarah’s voice trembled for a moment and she had to fight for self-control.

His voice became gentler. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry. But what am I thinking of, keeping you standing here like this? Pickersleigh, send out for a pot of chocolate and some pastries. The lady is wet and chilled, and could use some refreshment, no doubt. Leave your pattens by the door and come this way, my dear Miss Mortonby. I have a fine fire in my room. Dear me, have you hurt your foot?’

‘No, sir. I’ve been lame since birth.’ She was used to such questions, but he coloured and tried to hide his embarrassment by whisking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.

‘Pray take a seat, ma’am! Pickering, the chocolate, the pastries. At once!’

Sarah sank into a huge, leather-covered armchair and held her hands out to the blaze, the muff dropping forgotten to the floor. Such an extravagant fire and sea coal four guineas the chaldron this winter! It was a long time since she’d enjoyed such wonderful warmth. ‘Why were you seeking me, sir?’

‘First, can you prove who you are? I’m not doubting your word, my dear, but ’twould all be much easier if you could
prove
your identity. Papers, your mother’s marriage lines, for instance? Anything, really?’

Her heart sank. ‘My room was ransacked while I was at the funeral. They burned all the papers.’ Perhaps he wouldn’t believe her now.

‘Then is there someone who knows you? A clergyman, perhaps, someone who could vouch for your identity?’

‘Not a clergyman. We have moved about so much, but,’ her face cleared, ‘would a lawyer do? My father’s lawyer? Mr Peabody has known me all my life. My mother had a small annuity, which he administered.’

Mr Jamieson beamed at her. ‘Elias Peabody? Sign of the Red Seal, Hotham Gardens?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I am not personally acquainted with the gentleman, but I know of him. His testimony would be quite acceptable. Ho there!’ He sent the young man who answered his call off to find Mr Peabody, then turned to beam at Sarah. ‘My dear lady, it is my pleasure, my very great pleasure, to tell you that if you are indeed Miss Mortonby, you have been left a legacy. Not a great fortune, you understand, but still . . . Miss Mortonby! Oh, my goodness!
Pickersleigh, come quickly!’

For the first time in her life Sarah had fainted clear away. 

She came round to a vile smell and feebly pushed away the burning feather, ruins of a quill, that the clerk was waving under her nose. ‘I’m sorry.’ She tried to sit up straight, but felt distant and dizzy still.

The outer door banged and the boy came in, staggering under the weight of an enormous tray containing a bulbous pewter chocolate-pot and a platter of sticky pastries.

Mr Jamieson brightened. ‘There you are at last, Thomas! Put it down there, put it down! Now, my dear Miss Mortonby, I shall pour you some chocolate and you’ll take a pastry, will you not? That’ll make you feel better, I’m sure.’

This was such a rare treat that Sarah found herself eating and drinking almost as heartily as her host. She wouldn’t now need to spend money on an evening meal . . . but perhaps that didn’t matter any more? The tide of questions could be stemmed no longer.

‘A legacy, you said, Mr Jamieson?’

‘Yes, indeed. Not a fortune, but enough to provide for you in modest comfort, once the house is sold.’

‘House! I’ve been left a house?’ she asked, dazed at the prospect. All her life she had lived in rented rooms. The thought of owning a whole house of her own was an astounding idea!

‘On certain conditions.’ He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them and added hastily, ‘But those conditions need not concern us now.’

‘What conditions? Why need they concern us no longer?’ she asked quietly and a little grimly.

‘My dear . . . ’

‘I insist you tell me.’

‘Well, the bequest is from your grandfather and is upon condition you change your name to Bedham and - ’ He hesitated.

‘And?’ she prompted.

‘And that your mother does not reside in the house with you or - or ever visit it.’

She said nothing, but he heard the quick intake of breath and leaned forward to say earnestly, ‘He was not a forgiving man, I’m afraid, and he grew quite strange after his son’s death. Sad to say, the only reason you have inherited the house is because there is simply no other family member left.’

She banished her anger resolutely. No use being angry at a dead man. And at least her mother could no longer be upset by the unkind conditions. ‘He must have been very bitter.’

‘Yes. With reason.’

‘Whatever the reason for inheriting, it seems like a miracle to me. Tell me about my house, if you please. Where is it and why must it be sold?’

‘Well, the house is Broadhurst Manor, of course, your mother’s old home. And it must be sold because it’s been let run to rack and ruin, and is now scarcely habitable. The roof leaks, the place reeks of damp, the gardens are overgrown . . . Oh, it must certainly be sold! And very fortunately, I have a buyer already waiting - indeed, he is pressing for a sale. There is some land, you see, as well as the house. We shall get you a fair price, don’t worry!’

She leaned forward, her expression eager. ‘But surely the house, or part of it, could be made habitable? Broadhurst has belonged to my mother’s family ever since the Great Queen’s day - Elizabeth, you know.’ She beamed at him, joy flooding through her suddenly. ‘My mother used to tell me all about her home, but I never thought it would belong to me one day, never expected to see it. I - I still can’t quite take it in. Surely it can be restored, at least in part . . . ?’ She looked at him pleadingly.