The Beggar Maid (20 page)

‘There are three of us now,' Charity said, lowering her voice so that the coachman could not hear. ‘Violet's father discovered that she's in the family way and beat her senseless. She can't stay here.'

Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why am I not surprised? You seem to go round collecting waifs and strays as well as leather-bound volumes that no one wants.'

‘Violet is a friend and she's in trouble.'

‘I hope you know what you're doing.'

Charity could see that it would be futile to enter an argument about the rights and wrongs of her decision. She watched the coachman as he filled the floor of the carriage with piles of books. ‘Will there be room for all of us?'

‘I'll ride with Jackson and you ladies will have to sit with your feet resting on the books until you get to Sir Hedley Bligh's house in Nevill's Court.'

‘Who is this man, Harry? And why has he agreed to take complete strangers into his house?'

‘He's my father.'

Charity put her head on one side. ‘But why is your name Elliot when your father's name is Bligh?'

‘Let's just say that we don't exactly see eye to eye. I left home several years ago and chose to use my mother's maiden name.'

‘Will he mind having us to stay, even temporarily?'

‘Nevill's Court is a huge house. I doubt if he'll even realise that you're there.'

‘I'm not sure about this, Harry. What about my books?'

‘Ah now, that's the best part. My father has an extensive library, although I doubt if he's ever read any of them. He's a well-known collector of antiquarian books. You may find you have something in common with him.'

‘Am I going into service in his household? What will I have to do there?'

Harry threw back his head and laughed. ‘Let's worry about that later. As I said, the house is big and run down, and your main difficulty will be in finding your way around.'

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Harry?' Charity watched the last of her precious books being loaded into the carriage with a feeling of misgiving. ‘It all sounds a bit odd.'

He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Go and gather up your flock, shepherdess. It's time to go.'

She hesitated. ‘I'm not sure . . .'

‘Do you want to lose everything?'

‘I'll go and get Vi and Dorrie.'

The carriage drew up in Fetter Lane outside the entrance of Nevill's Court, a narrow alley sandwiched between the Moravian chapel and a terrace of tall buildings. Charity's heart sank as she peered into the dark maw of the passage that smelled strongly of cat urine and worse. It was not what she had been led to expect and she could not imagine that a wealthy man would make his home in such a place. She helped Dorrie from the carriage and Harry leapt from the box to assist Violet.

‘Do you want me to unload the books now, sir?' Jackson did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘Best leave it until morning,' Harry said, without stopping to consult Charity. ‘I take it that we still own the coach house and stables?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Then the morning will do nicely. Wait here and you can take me back to my lodgings.'

Jackson tipped his hat. ‘Right you are, sir.'

‘What sort of place is this?' Charity demanded as Harry led them into the darkness. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand in an attempt to escape from the noxious smell.

‘You'll see.' He quickened his pace.

Dorrie clutched Charity's arm. ‘I'm scared.'

‘We'll be fine,' Charity said with more conviction than she was feeling. ‘Are you all right, Vi?'

Leaning heavily on Harry's arm, Violet turned her head. ‘I think so.'

A shaft of moonlight dazzled Charity's eyes as they emerged into a hidden part of London that had been saved from the Great Fire by an act of God or pure chance. Four-storey seventeenth-century houses with small cottage gardens formed three sides of a square, abutting a magnificent but slightly dilapidated town house of the same era. Beneath a portico supported by two Doric columns was an eight-panelled front door boasting a brass lion's head knocker, which even by moonlight Charity could see was sadly in need of polishing. The house was in darkness but the small-paned windows glittered in the moonlight, creating an eerie impression of invisible hands holding dozens of candles as ghostly entities moved from room to room. A shiver ran down Charity's spine and she longed for the comfort of her own bed in the place that had become home.

Harry seemed to have no qualms as he marched up to the door and knocked. The sound echoed as if the house was an empty shell, and they waited in breathless silence. Then slow, measured footsteps came closer and closer. Charity was ready to run, expecting to see a hideous ghoulish figure like the monster created by Dr Frankenstein in Mary Shelley's novel. The door screamed on unoiled hinges and Charity stifled a gasp of fear, but the person who stood on the threshold was no monster. They were ushered inside by a small, plump woman with a kindly face like a wizened crab apple. ‘I haven't had much time to prepare for the young ladies, Master Harry, but I've done my best.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Diment. Whatever you've done will be excellent. I'll leave them in your capable hands.' Harry helped Violet to a carved oak chair before turning to Charity with an encouraging smile. ‘You'll be safe in this haven between the Inns of Court and the bustle of Fleet Street. This place is a secret hidden from all but the most discerning eyes.'

‘What happens now?' Charity followed him to the door. ‘Are you going to abandon us in this creepy old house? What am I supposed to say to Sir Hedley in the morning?'

‘I doubt if you'll see very much of the man himself. He's mostly nocturnal and sleeps all day until it's time to visit his club or the gaming houses.'

She lowered her voice, not wanting to upset Dorrie or Violet any more than was necessary. ‘But surely he won't allow us to live here rent free? Why would he do that for complete strangers?'

Harry laid his finger on her lips. ‘Stop worrying. When you see him you have only to mention that you've brought a fresh supply of books and he'll welcome you with open arms.'

‘I wish I could believe that,' she said doubtfully.

‘You'll be fine, Charity Crosse.' He leaned over to brush her cheek with a kiss. ‘Goodbye, my dear. I'll let Daniel know where you are when I next see him.' He opened the door and stepped outside.

‘Come with me, ladies.' Mrs Diment walked slowly towards a wide staircase with ornately carved newel posts and banisters. She held an oil lamp high above her head and they followed her up to the second floor. Charity supported Violet on one side and Dorrie did her best to help by taking her free arm, but it was slow and painful progress.

The room that Mrs Diment showed them into was large and smelled of soot and damp. The beamed ceiling was festooned with lacy cobwebs and the four-poster bed was hung with threadbare damask curtains on which moths must have been feasting for a century or more. She lit a candle and placed it on a dressing table set between two windows. She drew the curtains and clouds of dust filled the air, making them all cough. ‘This will have to do for tonight. There are other bedchambers, but I wouldn't advise you to go wandering about in the dark as some of the floorboards are in a sorry state of repair and might give way.' With a nod and a smile she left them with only the one candle to light the large room.

Charity helped Violet to a low boudoir chair and made her sit while she and Dorrie made up the bed. The sheets and blankets felt damp to the touch and eventually they huddled together, still fully clothed, beneath the covers. Despite her reservations about the house and its owner and her fears that Violet's injuries might bring on a miscarriage, Charity fell asleep with Dorrie curled up at her side.

She could not think where she was when she opened her eyes next morning, but when Dorrie turned over in her sleep, digging her in the ribs with her elbow, Charity realised that she was not dreaming. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and slithered to the floor, taking care not to wake the others. At least there had been no emergency during the night, and it looked as though the baby had survived the vicious beating that Violet had suffered at the hands of her father.

The bedroom was in semi-darkness with a sliver of daylight forcing its way through a tear in the damask curtains, and she padded across the floor in bare feet to draw them and allow daylight to filter in through the grimy windowpanes. She felt as though she had stepped back into the past as she gazed out at the ancient houses with their tiny gardens blanketed in snow. She would barely have been surprised if she had seen people emerge from their doors dressed like cavaliers or roundheads, but she knew that this was no dream and she needed to face reality. They were here under sufferance, although Harry had been vague as to the terms under which she was to be employed in the home of Sir Hedley Bligh. She took a clean pair of woollen stockings from her valise and put them on before slipping her feet into her boots. They were still damp, but she had no choice as they were the only footwear she possessed. She brushed the tangles from her hair and tied it back with a ribbon, checking her appearance in the fly-spotted mirror on the dressing table. She would have liked to wash her hands and face before meeting her new employer, but at least she looked reasonably presentable, even if her plain grey gown was slightly crumpled.

She left Violet and Dorrie to sleep and made her way downstairs to the oak-panelled entrance hall. The portraits of sober-looking ancestors looked down at her with disapproving stares, but there was no sign of life apart from the scurrying of mice behind the wainscoting. She made her way towards the back of the house, hoping to find Mrs Diment, who had seemed to be a sensible sort of woman. She had to negotiate a maze of corridors, and she kept stopping to peer into rooms where everything was shrouded in dust sheets, and the air was heavy with silence. Eventually she came to a door that led into a huge kitchen that must have changed little since the builders laid the last flagstone.

An open fireplace occupied half the wall at one end of the kitchen, complete with an ancient spit and a weight-driven jack. A pine table, such as monks might have sat round in a refectory, ran almost the length of the room, and beneath a window overlooking a small courtyard was a stone sink and a pump. A desultory fire burned in the grate and a kettle hung on a trivet over the flames. Charity had seen pictures of old-fashioned kitchens in books, but this was archaic even by the standards in Liquorpond Street. She turned with a start as a shabbily dressed man emerged from the larder with a large Irish wolfhound at his heels. He clutched a leg of roast chicken in his hand and was gnawing on it like a hungry lion. Judging by his stained leather waistcoat, knee breeches and gaiters, she assumed he must work outdoors or in the stables. ‘Good morning,' she said politely. ‘I was hoping to find Mrs Diment.'

He continued chewing for some time before answering. ‘I can't help you.' He took another bite. ‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Miss Crosse and I'm here by invitation. Sir Hedley knows all about it.'

‘You're a liar.'

She stared at him, stunned by his rudeness. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Sir Hedley knows nothing about it.'

‘I can assure you that he does. Anyway, who are you?'

‘I'm Sir Hedley Bligh.' He tossed the bone onto the floor and the hound leapt upon it.

Charity was at a loss for words. At first she thought he was joking, but there was not a glimmer of humour in his flinty grey eyes. She took a deep breath and bobbed a curtsey. ‘How do you do, sir?'

‘Bah!' He strode towards the door. ‘Bosun, come.' With the bone sticking out of his mouth the dog followed him from the room, leaving Charity staring after them.

‘
IF A PROPOSITION
seems too good to be true, you should make further enquiries, Charity my love.' Her grandfather's words came back to her with such force that she began to tremble convulsively. She had taken Harry at his word, but he had literally dumped them in his father's house without gaining his parent's consent. Fear and anger roiled in her stomach. Sir Hedley was more than an eccentric, he was probably quite mad, and he was rude into the bargain. She would have to break the news gently to Violet in order not to cause her even more distress, and Dorrie would be heartbroken, but it was clear that they could not remain in a place where they were unwelcome.

She controlled her ragged breathing with difficulty as she paced the floor, wringing her hands. It was an impossible situation, but it was too late to return to Liquorpond Street – the bailiffs would be there by now and her sudden flight would have been discovered. Seth Woods might report her to the police and she would be labelled as a debtor and a thief for taking the books, even though they were rightfully hers. She was in a state of panic and did not realise that she was no longer alone in the kitchen until someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun round with a cry of fright and found herself looking into Mrs Diment's smiling face. ‘What's the matter, dearie? You look troubled.'

‘I've just met Sir Hedley. He knows nothing about us.'

Mrs Diment smiled and patted her on the shoulder. ‘He's probably forgotten all about it. I did tell him yesterday, but likely as not it went out of his head.'

‘He didn't seem too pleased,' Charity said warily. ‘I don't think we should have come here.'

‘You don't want to worry about the master. He's probably forgotten your existence by now and retired to bed.'

‘I'm confused. Are we to stay here, or not? Am I to work for Sir Hedley? Harry seemed to think it would be all right.'

‘Master Harry said something about the library. You're to sort out the books, or some such thing.'