The Beggar Maid (12 page)

Dr Marchant laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘I'll contact Wiggins and he'll do the rest.'

‘But what will happen to the shop? Who will look after it now?'

‘You have the answer in your hand, my dear. Jethro's will must go to probate, but we need to know what his last wishes were. I suggest you open it now.'

Charity dropped the envelope on the table as if it had burned her fingers. ‘I'm not related to him. There must be someone.'

‘As far as I know he was alone in the world. His mother abandoned him as a baby and he grew up in an orphanage. He was fortunate enough to find work in this shop and was taken in by the previous owner, rather like you. I think that's why he took you on.'

‘I can't touch it, sir,' Charity said, taking a step away from the table. ‘Will you read it for me, please?'

Dr Marchant took his spectacles from his inside pocket and put them on. He picked up the envelope and opened it, taking out the single sheet of paper. He studied it for a moment. ‘I suspected as much, Charity. Here, read it for yourself.'

THE SINGLE SHEET
of paper fell from Charity's nerveless fingers. ‘But he can't have left the shop to me. It's not possible.'

Dr Marchant stooped and picked it up, studying the spidery writing with a puckered brow. ‘It's here in black and white, but it seems that the lease has only another year to run and then it must be renewed. The stock was owned by Jethro and that is yours.' He laid the will on the table where it shifted in the draught from the window as if twitched by unseen fingers.

‘It's a sign,' Charity breathed, clasping her hands to her chest in an attempt to steady her erratic heartbeats. ‘Jethro's trying to tell us something.' She raised her eyes to give Dr Marchant a searching look. ‘Has he really left me all those books?'

A tired smile curved his lips. ‘It seems so, Charity.'

‘They must be worth a fortune.'

‘Perhaps they are, but that depends on whether or not you can sell them.'

‘I've been managing the shop since his accident,' Charity said thoughtfully, ‘but I haven't paid much attention to the business side. I'm afraid I got carried away with my attempts to better myself, Dr Marchant. I've been spending too much time with Daniel and Mr Barton when I should have been thinking about how I could make the shop do better. Even worse, I've had my head stuck in a book more often than not when I should have been trying to persuade customers to make a purchase.'

He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come now, my dear. You're little more than a child. Jethro's business was his own affair and you were an underpaid shop assistant. If trade was poor it wasn't up to you to make improvements.'

‘But it is now. The landlord will send the bailiffs in if I can't pay the rent at the end of each month.'

‘You've managed so far.'

‘Yes,' she said slowly. ‘I have, but now I'm on my own.'

Dr Marchant pulled up the one and only chair and sat down. ‘I should be on my way, but I have a feeling that there's something else bothering you. I know that Jethro's death has been a shock, and that you felt responsible for him in some way, but that's not all, is it?'

‘No, sir.' Charity hesitated as she recalled her conversation with Wilmot. His offer had been startling and it had opened up a whole new world to her. Now she could see it slipping away and with it her chance of making a new life for herself.

‘Do you feel you can tell me about it?' Dr Marchant's tone was gentle.

‘Mr Barton offered to take me on as one of his students.' The words tumbled from her lips. ‘He wants me to go and live in Doughty Street. I could learn to be a lady, Dr Marchant. I could better myself.'

‘It sounds like a very generous offer, but are you sure you want to put yourself so heavily in debt to someone you hardly know? Have you considered that there might be strings attached to such a proposition?'

Charity turned away to hide her blushes. ‘It had occurred to me, doctor. I'm not sure that Mr Barton's intentions are honourable.'

‘I'm an old man, my dear. I've seen much in human nature that is good and a great deal that is bad. I don't know Barton, but I would advise you to think carefully before committing yourself to such a dependent relationship. Jethro's life was blighted by his suffering, but I think he saw more than you imagine. His will gives you a modicum of independence and a chance to succeed without relying on the charity of others. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

‘Yes, I think so, doctor.'

He rose from his seat and patted her on the shoulder. ‘The decision is yours. And now I must go and pay a call on Mr Wiggins and he'll make all the necessary arrangements. I take it that Jethro will receive a pauper's burial?'

Charity shook her head. ‘No, sir. He deserves better than that. He had some money tucked away and I can afford to give him a proper send off. It's the least I can do.'

‘I'm proud of you, my dear.' Dr Marchant wrapped his muffler round his neck and picked up his medical bag. ‘I'll see you at the funeral. I doubt if there will be anyone else there but us.'

As Dr Marchant had predicted they were the only mourners accompanying Jethro's coffin on the necropolis train to Brookwood cemetery. None of his regular customers had shown the slightest bit of interest in his demise, and even though she had draped the shop window in black crêpe, very few people had offered any words of condolence. Charity had been well aware that her employer was generally disliked, but it saddened her to think that his life had meant so little. He had been unwanted at birth and unloved in death. His legacy was bound in leather and cardboard, crammed together on the shelves in the dingy little shop. She felt responsible for each and every volume.

Charity and the doctor alighted at the north station, which served the nonconformist section in the vast Brookwood cemetery. It seemed appropriate for a man who had long ago abandoned any form of religion, and professed to hate the God that had created him in such a misshapen form. In a brief ceremony Jethro's remains were interred and Charity said a final farewell to the man who had taken her in from the streets. She chose to forget his acts of violence against her person and his meanness, and she shed genuine tears of grief as she threw a handful of soil onto the coffin.

Dr Marchant placed a comforting arm around her shoulders as they battled against a bitter wind on their way back to the station. ‘He is free from his crippled body now,' he said gently. ‘Jethro Dawkins was a troubled soul and he suffered much.'

‘People were cruel to him,' Charity said breathlessly as the wind whipped her veil around her face. ‘He had a sad life, but he loved his books. I'll do my best to carry on where he left off.'

‘So you've decided to turn down Barton's offer?'

‘I told him so last evening. He tried to persuade me otherwise, but I had made up my mind.'

‘And what of your friend Daniel?'

‘He was sorry, but he said he understood, and he teased me about becoming a shopkeeper.' She tried to avoid a puddle left by a recent downpour but icy water seeped through a gap between the sole and the worn uppers of her boots. She was in desperate need of a new pair, but she had chosen to spend the money on Jethro's funeral. ‘I'm going to do my best to make a go of it, doctor. I have a little of Jethro's money left, and that will keep the rent collector off my back for this month at least.'

‘There's a return train due any minute now.' Dr Marchant quickened his pace. ‘We'll catch it if we hurry.'

‘I closed the shop for the morning,' Charity said, lengthening her strides in an attempt to keep up with him. ‘But I'll open up when I get back.'

‘Really?' He turned his head to give her a worried look. ‘You ought to rest, my dear. This has been a very trying time for you.'

‘I need to keep occupied and I can't afford to lose even more trade.' She did not add that she had spent half the night studying the ledgers and Jethro's attempts at bookkeeping. The shop had been running at a loss, and she must reverse that if she was to stay in business.

Daniel breezed into the shop next morning. ‘I've just had some amazing news,' he said cheerfully. ‘You'll never guess what it is.'

Charity stopped dusting the shelves, turning to face him with a suppressed sigh. He had obviously forgotten that Jethro was barely cold in his grave, or he simply did not care. ‘What news?'

He moved closer, his smile fading. ‘Are you all right, Charity? You look a bit peaky.'

‘I'm fine, thank you. Just a bit tired.'

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, I forgot that the old devil was buried yesterday. At least it's over now and you're a businesswoman in your own right. I'd say that was a step up, wouldn't you?'

‘Yes, of course. Now tell me what's happened to make you so happy?'

‘I've been offered the chance to join an archaeological dig on my uncle's estate in Dorset. One of my professors is in charge and I'll be a very junior assistant, but I'll learn such a lot. It really is the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only will it work towards my degree but I'll be gaining valuable experience, and James Carruthers is the best in the business.'

For a moment she could not speak. Her lips were numb with shock and she could only stand and stare. He was joking, she thought dazedly. It was a ploy to make her laugh and cheer her up, but then she realised that he was in deadly earnest. ‘Wh-when did all this happen?'

He gave her a searching look. ‘What's the matter? I thought you'd be pleased for me.'

‘Of course I am, Daniel. It's just a bit sudden, that's all.'

‘The offer came out of the blue. I did rather well last term and apparently it was my tutor who recommended me, which was odd because we've never exactly hit it off. He gave me the news yesterday. I would have told you last evening, but I thought you might be a bit tired after all that business at Brookwood.'

‘If you mean Jethro's funeral, then yes, I was tired and upset for his sake. Dr Marchant and I were the only ones who cared enough to attend.'

Daniel looked away, avoiding her angry gaze. ‘It's not as if he would know who was there and who wasn't.'

‘That's not the point. It's a matter of respect. The man is dead.'

‘I'm not going to apologise, Charity. I'd be a hypocrite if I said I was sorry the old devil has met his maker. He was a mean man and he treated you like a slave. You don't owe him anything.'

‘That's where you're wrong. Jethro left me all he had in his will. The shop is mine for as long as the lease lasts, and longer if I can make enough money to renew it.'

Daniel's eyes opened wide. ‘Well I'm blowed. Who'd have thought it?'

‘I know. I'm still a bit shocked, but then he had no one else.'

‘Then we've both had a stroke of good fortune.' Daniel threw his arms around her and gave her a brotherly hug. ‘You'll be all right and I don't have to worry about you while I'm away.'

She drew back, forcing a smile. ‘When are you going?'

‘I'll be leaving on Monday.'

‘Will you be away for long?'

‘Months, I should think. I'll have to return for the spring term at university, but the site might be active for a year or more. It all depends on how well we do and I suppose on the funding. I won't earn very much, but I don't care about money.'

‘I'm really glad for you, Daniel.' Charity managed a smile but inwardly she was crying. He had been her one true friend and now he was going away. He would become immersed in his new life and forget all about her. She would have no excuse to visit Doughty Street, and Wilmot would have no need for her now that her contribution to his studies was complete. She felt more alone than she had since her grandfather's sudden death.

‘Are you all right, Charity?' Daniel grasped her by the hand. ‘You're shivering. I hope you didn't take a chill at the cemetery. The weather was foul yesterday.'

‘I'm all right.' She squeezed his fingers gently. ‘Don't worry about me. I'm much tougher than I look.'

‘I should hope so. A puff of wind would blow you away. You must take better care of yourself.' He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Just look at the time. I have an appointment with my tailor. He'll have to work fast if he's to make me a hacking jacket and a new pair of jodhpurs before I leave. I've no idea what one wears for such work.' He headed for the doorway. ‘I'll see you before I go, of course. You must come to dinner in Doughty Street. I'll ask Mrs Bragg to make something special.' He opened the door and stepped outside. A gust of ice-cold wind rushed in like a customer who had arrived at closing time desperate to make a purchase. It rustled the leaves of books and lifted a pile of leaflets off the counter, scattering them on the floor. The door closed again leaving a chill in the air and silence.

Charity stooped to pick up the papers but as she stacked them tidily on the counter the full realisation of her situation hit her. The book-filled shelves seemed to close in on her, each edition thrusting itself forward and demanding to be sold. The shop and all the stock were now her responsibility, and its success or failure depended upon her efforts and hers alone. She picked up a cloth and dusted the books one at a time, wiping the spines and the covers, giving them a gentle shake to dislodge the city smuts and grit that blew in from the street. She worked patiently and lovingly, treating each volume with the same amount of care. They were precious objects and their pages were filled with knowledge. She loved each and every one of them and the simple repetition of a mundane task was comforting, and brought with it a sense of normality even though events seemed to have been spiralling out of her control.