The Beggar Maid (16 page)

Wilmot put the change in his pocket, staring at her expectantly. ‘Are you ready?'

‘Ready for what, Mr Barton?'

‘To come with us to the Café Royal, of course.'

‘Look at me, sir,' she said in a low voice. ‘Do I look like someone who would be welcome at a place like that?' She was uncomfortably aware of the soaked hem of her skirt where it had trailed in the snow, and the patch she had inexpertly sewn on to cover a tear in the material where it had snagged on a protruding nail in the back yard. The only other clothes she possessed were a faded cotton frock, or an even shabbier serge skirt and a blouse with frayed cuffs.

Wilmot shrugged his shoulders. ‘You look all right to me. A bit shabby, maybe, but who's going to look at you?' He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Harry and I will be the peacocks today. We had best enjoy the moment.'

‘I suggest we get a cab to Fleet Street,' Harry said, ignoring Wilmot's crass remark. ‘We could try one of the chop houses there, and maybe a visit to the Gaiety Theatre would be in order. A new play opened on Christmas Eve with Nellie Farren and Fred Leslie in the lead roles.'

‘A play?' Charity could hardly believe her ears. She had often stood outside theatres begging from the wealthy patrons, but to go inside one would be a new and exciting experience. She forgot everything else in her enthusiasm. ‘I'd love to go to the theatre. What play is it?'

‘
Frankenstein, or The Vampire's Victim
. It sounds suitably chilling, don't you think?'

Replete after an excellent meal in the Old Cheshire Cheese, Charity sat in the stalls between Wilmot and Harry. The musical burlesque did not seem to be going down well with the rest of the audience, but she loved every moment of the bizarre drama. It was both shocking and fascinating to see the famous Nellie Farren, darling of the London stage, in the role of Dr Frankenstein with Fred Leslie as a somewhat effeminate monster. When the final curtain fell Charity clapped until her hands were sore, but Wilmot rose from his seat and hustled them out of the theatre. ‘Absolute rubbish,' he said angrily. ‘That was a waste of money.'

‘It wasn't that bad,' Harry said, grinning. ‘I've seen worse.'

‘Hail a cab, there's a good fellow. I can't wait to get home and have a hot toddy before turning in.'

Charity stood ankle deep in snow, shivering. She had thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but Wilmot's angry words had made her feel that she was to blame for ruining his evening. Harry took off his overcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘There's no need to labour the point, Wilmot. This was Charity's treat and I think she had a good time.'

She felt the warmth of his body in the thick cashmere coat and the faint aroma of bay rum and Macassar oil clung to the garment. She managed a tired smile. ‘Thank you, yes. I loved every minute of it.'

‘Which just goes to prove that education would have been wasted on you, Charity.' Wilmot stepped off the pavement to flag down a hackney carriage.

‘That was uncalled for,' Harry said angrily. ‘I don't know what's been going on between you, but you have no right to speak to her like that, Wilmot.'

Charity tugged at his sleeve. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Yes, it does. I'm no saint, but I wouldn't talk to anyone in that manner.'

Wilmot turned on him. ‘It's a private matter and one which is no longer relevant.' He wrenched the cab door open as it drew to a halt and climbed inside. ‘Get in, Charity. We'll drop you off first.'

Harry handed her into the cab and she sat opposite Wilmot, huddling down inside Harry's coat. ‘Thank you for taking me out,' she said in a low voice. ‘But there was no need to insult me in front of a stranger.'

‘I'm hardly a stranger,' Harry said, making himself comfortable beside her. ‘We've had a very pleasant evening together and that makes us friends.' He leaned towards Wilmot. ‘I'd say an apology was in order, wouldn't you?'

‘Go to hell, Harry. I'm not apologising for speaking the truth. Charity was paid to tell me about the sordid life she'd led begging on the streets. I treated her extremely well considering the fact that I'd plucked her from the gutter. She's done well for herself since then.'

‘No thanks to you,' Charity said angrily. ‘It was Dr Marchant who found me a place with Jethro.'

‘The old freak couldn't get anyone else to put up with his weird ways. I taught you how to behave in company and how to speak properly.' He leaned back against the squabs, closing his eyes. ‘Wake me when we get to Doughty Street, Harry.' He opened one eye. ‘You've had all you're going to get from me, Charity, so don't come begging at my door when you're thrown out onto the streets.'

Harry banged on the roof of the cab. ‘Stop here, cabby.'

‘What's the matter?' Wilmot opened his eyes. ‘We can't be there yet.'

‘I'm going to see Charity home, but I'd prefer not to travel with a jumped-up schoolmaster who thinks he's a cut above everyone else simply because he's got a university degree. You're a boor and prig, Wilmot.'

He thrust the door open and leapt to the snowy ground. He held his hand out to Charity. ‘We'll get another cab.'

‘I used to think the world of you, Mr Barton,' Charity said as she slid towards the open door. ‘But now I see that I was mistaken.' She alighted from the vehicle with Harry's help and he slammed the door.

‘Take the gentleman to Doughty Street, cabby.'

Charity's boots had leaked and despite the cashmere coat she was chilled to the bone. ‘Thank you for standing up for me,' she said through chattering teeth.

‘I hate bullies.' Harry placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Let's get you home before you catch pneumonia.' He raised his arm to hail a hansom cab but it drove past them. ‘I'm sorry your birthday ended on a sour note.'

‘It doesn't matter. I had a lovely time at the theatre and I enjoyed my dinner. I'm just glad now that I didn't accept Mr Barton's offer to take me in and further my education.'

‘So that's what he called it. I think you had a lucky escape. Anyway, let's walk on. There'll be another cab along soon, but we need to keep moving.'

‘You should have your coat. You'll be the one to fall sick.'

‘Not I. I'm tough as an old boot, and there's enough alcohol in my veins to keep me warm for hours, if not days.'

She frowned, casting him a sideways glance. ‘You shouldn't drink. It killed my grandpa.'

‘And it will probably do for me in the end, that's if I don't get shot by a jealous husband or murdered by one of the London street gangs who run the gaming houses.'

‘Is that really how you live?'

‘I'm not the sort of chap you should associate with, young Charity. If your grandpa was alive now he'd tell you to avoid gamblers like the plague, and he'd be quite right.' He hailed another hansom cab and this time it pulled in and stopped.

By the time they reached Liquorpond Street Charity had told him all about herself, sparing no detail about life on the streets or the occasions when she had been desperate enough to steal food for herself and her grandfather. She confessed to being profligate with Jethro's money with a break in her voice.

‘You mustn't blame yourself,' he said sternly. ‘Giving the old man a proper burial was the decent thing to do. I don't think I would have been as forgiving or as generous, but you did what you thought was right. As for me, I always know what is right but more often than not I do the exact opposite. I admire your courage, Charity Crosse.'

‘We're here already,' Charity said as the cabby reined his horse in. ‘Thank you for everything.'

‘Don't mention it. I enjoyed myself. It was a refreshing change from smoky gaming halls or spending the evening humouring Wilmot. He's not an easy man to get on with.' Harry alighted first and helped her to the ground. ‘Wait for me, cabby. I'll only be a minute or so.' He took Charity by the arm, and although she was perfectly capable of navigating the slippery pavement on her own, she did not protest. He stood by while she fumbled in her pocket for the door key and followed her into the shop. She made her way to the counter and lit a candle.

‘Will you be all right?'

She took off Harry's overcoat and handed it to him. ‘I'm used to being on my own. Thank you for the loan of your coat, and for the evening out. It was all lovely.'

‘I'm glad you had a good time. It's not every day you turn seventeen. Goodnight, Charity.'

It was only when she locked the door after him that she realised he had not picked up the book for Daniel. ‘I don't know where to send it,' she said out loud as she made her way through the shop to the kitchen. The air was dank and her breath steamed around her head. She could feel the coldness rising from the flagstones and the windows were filmed with ice. A cup of hot cocoa would have been more than welcome but she had forgotten to buy coal and kindling and the range seemed to glare sullenly at her, baring its bars like blackened teeth in a rictus grin. She climbed into bed fully dressed, only stopping to take off her sodden boots and stockings. She pulled the coverlet over her head and curled up in a ball.

She lay shivering with Wilmot's spiteful words echoing in her ears as sleep evaded her. There had been an element of truth in them, which made it even worse. Wilmot had said that she might end up on the streets, but she would not allow that to happen. One way or another she would make something of her life. She would become a person who counted for something and no one, not even an important and well educated man like Wilmot, could take away her spirit or her ambition. She grew calmer as warmth seeped into her chilled bones and gradually drowsiness overtook her and she drifted off to sleep.

First thing in the morning she went out to buy the necessities needed to get through the next couple of days. She had until Friday to scrape up the rent money, and selling the book to Wilmot had helped, but she did not have quite enough. She staggered home carrying a bag of coal and a bundle of kindling, and after a few abortive attempts she managed to get the fire going. Within minutes the flames were licking around the coal with tongues of orange and blue. The kettle began to simmer on the hob and the aroma of toast filled the kitchen; the ghosts that haunted the night vanished as a feeble ray of sunlight filtered through the window. She speared a second slice of bread with the brass toasting fork and held it close to the fire.

She was just finishing her breakfast when the shop bell jangled noisily on its spring. She leapt to her feet and went to investigate. A customer this early in the morning was a good start to the day.

‘Good morning, Charity. I've come to collect Dan's book.' Harry stepped over the threshold, taking off his top hat with a flourish. ‘How are you today?'

‘You're up early. I thought you were a night person who didn't rise until midday.'

‘I plan to catch the eight thirty train from Paddington. My mother will never let me hear the last of it if I don't visit her before New Year.'

Meeting his smiling gaze she remembered blurting out her entire life story during the carriage ride home and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She took refuge behind the counter, searching for the book, although she knew very well that it lay where she had left it the previous evening. She wished that she had held her tongue. Only a child or a simpleton would have admitted to petty crimes and recounted the sordid details of life on the streets. She snatched up the book. ‘Shall I wrap it for you? It might get damaged during the train journey.'

‘I'll put it in my valise amongst my unmentionables.' He moved closer, studying her flushed face with an amused grin. ‘I do believe you're blushing, and I thought you were a woman of the world.'

‘You're teasing me and it's not fair.'

‘You're a sweet girl, Charity, and very pretty into the bargain. Take my advice and keep away from men like Wilmot and me.' He leaned over to take the book and kissed her on the cheek.

She watched him walk out of the shop and out of her life. He had treated her like an equal, and now he was gone. Like Daniel he had come into her world briefly and now he had returned to his life, which might as well have been on a distant star, and she was left with only her books as companions. She picked up her duster and began her morning routine, but she had barely finished the first stand when Violet burst through the kitchen door as if the devil himself were on her heels.

‘What's the matter?' Charity demanded anxiously. ‘Is there a fire?'

Violet collapsed in a heap on the floor. ‘Worse, much worse.'

Charity dropped the duster and rushed over to lift her to her feet. ‘What's wrong? Has your father beaten you or your poor mother? Are the little ones ill?' She helped Violet to the chair behind the counter.

‘My pa will kill me when he finds out.' Violet buried her head in her hands, babbling incoherently, and tears spurted out between her fingers.

Charity took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Calm down. Take a deep breath and speak slowly. I can't understand a word you're saying.'

‘It's me. I'm the one who's made a dreadful mistake.' Fresh tears ran unchecked down Violet's cheeks. ‘I – I'm in the family way and I dunno what to do.'

‘You're going to have a baby?'

Violet glared at her. ‘My, aren't you the bright one? That's what I said, didn't I.'

‘But are you sure? It could be a false alarm.'

‘I've seen Ma go through it more times than I care to remember. I've been sick in the mornings and I haven't started yet. It's been three months and nothing.'

‘I'm so sorry, but have you . . .' She hesitated. ‘I mean did you? You know what I mean.'

‘Only standing up in the alley. He said it was safe that way.'