The Beggar Maid (22 page)

‘I like babies,' Dorrie said stoutly. ‘I'll help you look after it.'

‘We both will.' Charity placed her free arm around Dorrie and hugged them both. ‘So we're agreed, are we? We stay here and slave away for Sir Hedley, for the time being anyway.'

‘Agreed,' Violet said, wiping tears from her cheeks.

Dorrie nodded her head. ‘That goes for me too.'

Charity felt the atmosphere in the room shift as if the lonely spirits in the house approved of their plan.

It was not easy at first to settle into an entirely new way of life. Charity was surprised to find that she missed the shop and its customers. She had grown independent and used to doing things her own way, but now she had to bow to Sir Hedley's dictates and comply with Mrs Diment's wishes. Not that the latter was too much trouble as the good lady seemed delighted to have their company, and did not make many demands on Charity's time. She was patient with Dorrie and took care not to overtax Violet, and despite Sir Hedley's penny-pinching ways they were warm and well fed during the worst of the winter weather.

Sir Hedley himself rarely put in an appearance, and Charity began to realise that her first meeting with him had happened by chance. She had thought he had risen early that morning, when in reality he had only just returned after one of his card-playing marathons, and had been preparing to retire to his bedchamber. He slept by day and rose in time for dinner, after which he would go out and not be seen again until next morning when he arrived home bleary-eyed and smelling of drink and stale tobacco smoke. She soon found that this worked to her advantage as, having given her instructions as to how he wanted his collection sorted and catalogued, he left her to her own devices. She made certain that the books she had brought from Liquorpond Street were kept apart from his, so that when the time came for her to move on it would be easy to separate them.

She worked diligently, rarely allowing herself the time to think about anything other than the matter in hand, but sometimes when she stopped to eat the food that Dorrie brought to her at midday, she allowed her thoughts to turn to Daniel. She missed his company and she wished that she had had the forethought to ask Harry for his half-brother's address. She wondered how the dig was progressing or if they had been forced to abandon it when winter came. For all she knew Daniel might be in London, living in Doughty Street, but if she went there she might come face to face with Wilmot Barton and that was the last thing she wanted. She would have liked to see Harry to thank him for finding them a place to live, albeit temporary, but he had kept well away from Nevill's Court and had apparently forgotten her existence. Mrs Diment did not know where to find him and Charity had not the courage to question Sir Hedley as the mere mention of Harry's name seemed to irritate him.

She had all but resigned herself to spending the rest of her life working in the library when, one morning in March, Sir Hedley strode into the kitchen where they were just finishing breakfast. They rose to their feet but he motioned them to sit with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘Finish your food. I don't pay for good vittles to see them wasted. There are plenty of starving people out there who would be grateful for a crust of bread, let alone a bowl of porridge and a goodly helping of toast and butter.' He leaned over to peer at the spread. ‘Marmalade? Do you treat them to marmalade, Mrs Diment?'

She half rose from her seat. ‘It's not every day, sir. I paid for it myself from the sale of eggs. The hens have been laying particularly well recently and our neighbour at number fourteen . . .'

He held up his hand. ‘I don't want to hear any more, but I think you're forgetting that the chickens, like everything else in this establishment, belong to me. I am not paying for feed so that the neighbours can enjoy eggs for their breakfasts, nor for you women to gorge on marmalade when you should be at work.'

Charity pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Mrs Diment is a good, kind woman who has only your best interests at heart, Sir Hedley. You shouldn't speak to her like that.'

Mrs Diment clasped her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle a sharp intake of breath, and Violet clutched her belly as if her baby had made a sudden movement. Dorrie sat there open-mouthed and wide-eyed with a slice of toast clutched in one sticky hand. They waited in silence for the storm to break.

Sir Hedley stared at Charity with narrowed eyes and then, to her surprise, he chuckled. ‘By God, woman, you've got a damned cheek.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. But I only spoke the truth.'

‘Yes, yes, well maybe I was a bit hasty.' He jerked his head in Mrs Diment's direction but he did not look her in the eye. ‘She knows me well enough not to take umbrage. Isn't that so, Mrs Diment?'

‘I should think so, sir. After all these years I should be used to your ways.' She reached for the teapot. ‘May I get you something, Sir Hedley? A nice cup of tea?'

‘Or a slice of toast and marmalade?' Dorrie added innocently. She turned her head to stare at Violet, who had nudged her in the ribs. ‘What's wrong? What did I say?'

‘Eat up and we'll go and make a start on the bedrooms,' Violet said in a low voice.

Sir Hedley slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Enough of this idiotic prattle – it's like living in a house filled with chattering starlings.' He turned to Mrs Diment. ‘Send a tray of tea and toast to my study, but I'll say what I came for in the first place before you silly women started jabbering.'

Mrs Diment opened her mouth and closed it again without uttering a word. Charity sank down on her chair, wondering what was so important that it brought him into the servants' quarters.

‘Urgent business makes it imperative that I leave today for Dorset.' He pointed his finger at Charity. ‘You will travel with me. We leave within the hour.' He marched out of the kitchen and there was a moment of stunned silence.

‘Why you?' Violet demanded anxiously. ‘Why would Sir Hedley make you go with him to Dorset? I dunno where that is.'

Mrs Diment jumped up from the table. ‘Dorrie. Make yourself useful and toast some bread for the master. Violet, make a fresh pot of tea.' She grabbed Charity by the arm and raised her to her feet. ‘Go and pack a few things. You'll no doubt be gone for several days.'

‘I don't understand,' Charity murmured. ‘Why me? And why are we going to Dorset?'

‘It's not for you to question the master,' Mrs Diment said primly. ‘At a guess I'd say that he has some urgent business to attend to at Bligh Park.'

‘That doesn't explain why he wants me to go with him. I can't leave my work here.'

‘Try telling that to Sir Hedley when you take him his breakfast.' Mrs Diment thrust the toasting fork into Dorrie's hand. ‘Have you put the kettle on to boil, Violet? Hurry up, do.'

‘You will look after them, won't you, Mrs Diment?' Charity whispered, indicating Dorrie and Violet with a nod of her head. ‘I mean, I feel responsible for them, and Dorrie's just a little kid, and with Violet and her baby . . .'

Mrs Diment laid her hand on Charity's shoulder. ‘Stop worrying, girl. You won't be gone for long, if I know Sir Hedley. He hates the country and he won't stay there a moment longer than necessary.'

Charity was not convinced. She knew they were safe in the confines of Nevill's Court, but she lived with the fear that Bert Chapman might discover their whereabouts and would come looking for his daughter. She did not doubt that he saw Violet as a future wage-earner who would go out to work as soon as Emily was old enough to look after the younger children.

‘Hurry up with the tea and toast,' Mrs Diment said cheerfully. ‘We haven't got all day.'

Within minutes they had a tray ready and Charity took it to the study on the ground floor. She knocked and entered. Sir Hedley was at his desk going through a pile of documents. He gave her a cursory glance. ‘Put it down, girl. Don't stand there like a ninny.'

She looked in vain for a space on the tooled leather, but she dared not move anything and she placed the tray on a pile of papers, taking care not to dislodge anything. ‘May I ask why you want me to accompany you, Sir Hedley? I still have much to do here.'

‘It's not up to you to question me, miss. I'm your employer and you do what I tell you.'

‘I'm not exactly a paid employee, sir. I work for nothing other than my keep.'

‘And you're lucky to have that.' He glanced at her, frowning. ‘I did you a favour by taking you in, not to mention the trollop and the child. Don't look daggers at me, girl. I'm impervious to your moods as well as to your maidenly charms, which undoubtedly attracted my errant son to you in the first place.'

‘If you're talking about Harry . . .'

‘Don't mention that libertine's name in my hearing. He's partly to blame for my present difficulties. I have to raise some money urgently and I believe I can do so by parting with some rare editions housed in the library at Bligh Park. I want you to go through them for me.'

‘But surely you know more about them than I do, sir? I know almost nothing about rare books.'

‘I have other business to attend to or I would do it myself. I'm not asking you to do the impossible, but you have a smattering of valuable knowledge and I'm trusting you to go through the collection and give me a selection. I, of course, will have the final say. Now go and get ready. It's a long journey.'

She hesitated in the doorway. ‘Will Harry be there, sir?'

He looked up from his papers, scowling. ‘What's that got to do with you?'

‘Nothing, sir. I was just asking.'

‘If you know what's good for you you'll mind your own business. I stand to lose everything if this fails, so don't delay.'

Sir Hedley said little on the long journey to Dorset. Charity dare not ask questions but leaned back against the leather squabs, which were stained and had split in places to reveal the padding, and held her peace. The carriage smelled of stale tobacco and wet dog, and there were cracks in the windows. The body swayed from side to side on leather straps as the wooden wheels lurched over cobblestones and rutted tracks, shaking its occupants until their teeth rattled.

They changed horses several times and put up at an inn that evening. Charity was saved from the embarrassment of sharing her employer's dinner table by the fact that he refused to allow her to sit with him. She took her supper in the taproom and retired to the small attic room which had been assigned to her as soon as she had finished eating. She slept beneath the eaves, listening to the pitter-patter of rodents' feet and the unearthly screech of hunting barn owls, with the odd bark of a dog fox thrown in for good measure. She could hear male voices raised in song emanating from the taproom two storeys below, and the snores of a maidservant who slept in the adjoining room, but even with this cacophony she soon fell asleep, exhausted by the events of the day.

MARCH WINDS WHIPPED
through the trees, shaking branches that were misted with a green haze of leaf buds, and bending the stately trumpets of daffodils so that they made obeisance like courtiers bowing before royalty. Charity had never seen fields and farms, much less pretty villages with thatched cottages and ancient flint churches. She had been born and bred in London and this was her first trip west of Chelsea. She might have enjoyed their second day on the road had it not been for Sir Hedley's moody expression. He had obviously drunk too much wine and brandy the previous evening and the smell of stale alcohol and tobacco filled the carriage, despite the draughts that whistled through the cracked windows.

Charity sat huddled in the corner, wrapped in an old boat cloak that Mrs Diment had unearthed from a sea chest in the attic. Its coarse folds still smelled of tar with a hint of salt fish, but it was warm and its odour preferable to the one emanating from her employer. She took comfort in knowing why she had been spirited away from London and what would be expected of her at Bligh Park. She stared out of the window, preferring the view of hedgerows to the sight of Sir Hedley's grim countenance, and suddenly her attention was caught by what looked like an army bivouac in the middle of a ploughed field. She leaned forward in an attempt to see more.

‘What's the matter, girl? Can't you sit still for a moment?' Sir Hedley's irritable tones made her turn her head.

‘There seems to be some activity in that field. It looks like an army encampment. I don't think it's gypsies because there are no caravans.'

He peered over her shoulder. ‘It's just possible that boggy morass might hold the answer to all my problems.'

‘Really, sir? How is that?' For a moment she thought she had gone too far by asking a direct question and she fully expected a swift reprimand, but Sir Hedley seemed to relax and his thin lips curved in a smile.

‘Buried treasure. That's what they're digging for.'

‘Do you mean like pirate gold, sir?'

His sudden bark of laughter made her jump. ‘Don't be silly, girl. Your head is so stuffed with fairytales that you don't live in the real world. I'm talking about ancient artefacts made of pure gold – coins and jewellery buried and lost for centuries – and it's on my land.'

‘If it's yours, why do you need to sell your precious books, Sir Hedley?'

His expression darkened. ‘Because I've been betrayed by my own flesh and blood and I need funds urgently. I've only just discovered that my former wife's brother-in-law put up the money for the archaeological dig and that her son, Harry's half-brother, has been working on it for months.'

‘Do you mean Daniel Barton?'

He shot her a scornful glance. ‘Who else? Myrtle will have delighted in persuading her husband and his brother Wilmot to finance such a venture. She had heard rumours of treasure buried somewhere on the estate, and she couldn't wait to get her grasping hands on it.'