The Beggar Maid (27 page)

‘You're a remarkable girl, Charity Crosse.' Daniel's eyes were filled with admiration. ‘You're young and yet you know so much.'

‘It comes from begging on the streets. When you're the lowest of the low you see the world from a different angle. I know what it's like to be cold and hungry. I never want to suffer that again, and I wouldn't like to see Harry made destitute because of the greed of someone like Wilmot.'

‘Are you in love with my brother?'

The question, coming from nowhere, startled her and she felt herself blushing. ‘No, of course not. I'm not sure I even like him, but I'm in his debt and I hate injustice. Harry might be foolish but he's got a good heart and to me that's all that matters.'

‘He's lucky to have you for a friend.' Dan walked to the door and opened it. ‘I'll send for Jackson.'

She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I ought to stay until after the funeral?'

‘That wouldn't be a good idea. My mother and Wilmot will almost certainly arrive in time to put on a show for the villagers. Mama always says she looks her best in black.'

Charity returned to London next day. It was late afternoon when she arrived, bruised and exhausted after a long and uncomfortable journey. Jackson carried the crate of books into the house and set it down in the entrance hall. He straightened up, fixing Charity with a hard stare. ‘I need money, miss. The horse has to be fed and so do I, come to that. Sir Hedley used to pay me once a month.'

‘I haven't a penny to my name, Jackson.' She saw by his expression that she had been too frank. ‘But we will have funds when the books are sold. It's too late to take them to the auction house now, but we'll go there first thing tomorrow.'

He tipped his hat. ‘We can only last a few days, miss. It'll be the knacker's yard for the animal if we can't keep him fed.'

Charity walked through to the kitchen and was met with cries of delight from Dorrie and Violet and a sombre-faced Mrs Diment.

‘We wasn't expecting you yet,' Dorrie said, hugging Charity. ‘We missed you something chronic.'

‘I'm so glad you're back.' Violet put her arms around both of them and her eyes filled with tears. ‘We did miss you.'

‘Where's the master?' Mrs Diment demanded angrily. ‘It's all right for him to go off like that but I've had the tradesmen knocking on the door demanding to be paid. We've got almost nothing in the larder and I can't conjure up meals out of thin air.'

Charity eased herself free of Dorrie's clutching hands. ‘You'd best sit down, Mrs Diment. I'm afraid I've got bad news for you.'

Mrs Diment flung up her hands and collapsed onto the nearest chair. ‘Don't say he's backed yet another loser. There's precious little left to sell, at least nothing of any value. It'll be the bed curtains next and then the bedding. Soon we'll all be sleeping on the floor.'

‘The master had a seizure,' Charity said gently. ‘He never recovered.'

‘He's dead?'

‘I'm afraid so. It was very sudden.'

‘Where's Master Harry? He'll sort things out.'

‘He can't help at the moment, Mrs Diment. He had to go away on business.'

Mrs Diment's eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You mean he's cut and run? What will we do now?' She covered her head with her apron and sat rocking to and fro.

Dorrie burst into tears and Violet sank down on a chair at the table, holding her head in her hands. ‘I knew it was too good to last. We'll be out on the streets.'

‘No,' Charity said firmly. ‘That won't happen, because I've brought valuable books from Bligh Park and I've got Daniel's permission to sell them.'

Mrs Diment peered at her through a hole in the grimy cotton apron. ‘What's Master Daniel got to do with all this? He's the son of that woman and her fancy man.'

‘Apparently not.' Charity took off her bonnet and hung it on a peg followed by her shawl. ‘Mrs Barton lied and passed him off as Sir Philip's son, but Sir Hedley was his real father. It's come as a shock to him, but he's doing everything he can to set matters to rights.'

Mrs Diment slid the apron off her head. ‘The sly cat. Who would have thought it?'

‘What does it mean for us?' Violet asked anxiously. ‘Will Daniel allow us to remain here?'

‘You mustn't worry, Vi. Everything will be all right, you'll see.' Charity gave Dorrie an encouraging smile. ‘Why don't you make us all a lovely cup of tea? That's if there is any left in the caddy.'

Mrs Diment rose stiffly to her feet. ‘I've been drying the leaves and re-using them time and time again. We can't go on like this. Something must be done or we'll all end up in the workhouse.'

The following morning Charity took Sir Hedley's books to the sale room, but the next auction was not until the beginning of April and she knew they could not last that long without some form of income. She returned to the house and found Violet in the tiny front garden chatting to their next door neighbour's parlourmaid. One look at Charity's face was enough to make Violet put an abrupt end to her conversation and follow her into the house. ‘What's up?'

‘The sale isn't for another ten days. We need money now.'

Violet clasped her expanding belly with her hands as if protecting her unborn child. ‘What will we do?'

‘We can't wait for the auction. We've got to do something quickly.' Charity made for the library with Violet waddling after her.

‘We can't eat books,' Violet said crossly. ‘Haven't they caused us enough trouble already?'

Charity flung the door open and was enveloped in the familiar musty smell she had come to love. ‘This is where they start paying their way,' she said, rushing over to the shelves that she had only recently organised. ‘We need to get hold of a costermonger's barrow and we'll set up as street traders. We'll start with my books and some of Sir Hedley's less valuable volumes.'

Violet stood arms akimbo. ‘I agree with the idea of selling them, but where will we get a barrow?'

‘I don't know. We'll beg, borrow or steal one if it comes to that.'

‘Steal?' Violet cried in alarm. ‘You mustn't do anything silly, Charity.'

‘Don't worry, love. This is where the years I spent begging on street corners will come in useful. I know someone who might be able to help.'

‘Where are you going?' Violet demanded.

‘Back to the streets where I grew up,' Charity said with a wry smile.

‘Then I'm coming with you.' Violet followed her into the echoing entrance hall. ‘Wait there. I'll fetch our bonnets and shawls.' She hurried off, swaying from side to side like a galleon in full sail.

‘You're a born mother, Violet Chapman,' Charity murmured, smiling as she sensed an answering echo from the deep shadows in the wainscoted entrance hall. It felt as though the house was willing her on, or perhaps it was Sir Hedley's spirit begging her to save his beloved home from falling into Wilmot's hands. Fond as she was of Daniel, Charity was aware of his failings. She was afraid that his mother, urged on by Wilmot, would bully or cajole him into giving her control of the estate, and Harry would return to find nothing left of his inheritance. She would not allow that to happen. ‘I will find a way,' she whispered, gazing into the darkness at the top of the wide staircase. A breeze wafted from the upper floors, brushing her cheeks like a cool caress, but she was not afraid. The old house no longer held any terrors for her. She turned with a start as something cold touched her fingers and she looked down to find Sir Hedley's wolfhound gazing up at her with limpid brown eyes. ‘You must miss him, Bosun,' she said out loud and the dog wagged his tail in response. She patted his head. ‘Don't worry, old chap. We'll look after you.'

‘Who are you talking to?' Violet demanded, hurrying towards her with Charity's shawl draped over her arm and her bonnet dangling by its strings. She glanced at the dog. ‘That's the first time he's left his bed for days. He must know that his master's passed away.'

‘You're on guard, Bosun. You must look after us now that your master is no longer here.' Charity patted his head and he wagged his tail as if agreeing with her.

‘Talking to the hound won't put food on the table,' Violet said, rubbing her belly. ‘Me and the little 'un need vittles. We can't exist on bread and water, and there's only enough flour left for one loaf, so Mrs Diment says.'

Charity rammed her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons without bothering to look in the mirror. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘Come on then. We'll walk round to the mews and Jackson can take us in the carriage.'

They found Jackson standing on the pavement amidst a pile of battered pots and pans, a blackened kettle and a couple of bulging sacks.

‘What's happened?' Charity demanded. ‘What's all this?'

‘This here is the sum total of a man's life, miss. All me worldly possessions you see here on the pavement.'

Charity and Violet exchanged puzzled looks.

His shoulders sagged and he sighed heavily. ‘The stables was only rented, miss. No rent, no stables. The carriage is locked inside and will be kept in lieu of back rent if we can't pay up.'

‘What about the horse, Jackson?' Charity knew the answer even before he spoke. His whole demeanour was that of a defeated man.

‘Collapsed and died last night, miss. The poor old nag got us home as was his wont, and then he breathed his last. I was hoping he'd live out his days at Bligh Park, but it weren't to be. I looked after him since he was a colt and now we're both done for.'

Charity took him by the hand. ‘Don't say that, Jackson. I'm truly sorry about the poor horse, but I'm sure there's work for you at Bligh Park. Master Daniel will see that you're taken care of.'

He stared down at the objects scattered around on the paving stones. ‘This is all I got,' he murmured.

‘Violet will go with you to the house, Jackson. Mrs Diment will look after you until I return and then, when you're rested, we'll talk again.'

‘I can't let you go wandering round the streets on your own,' Violet protested. ‘I should come with you.'

‘I know my way around so you needn't worry about me. Take care of Jackson and I'll be home before you know it.' Charity picked up the kettle and thrust it into Violet's hand. ‘I expect the tea leaves that Mrs Diment has used and reused will do for one last brew.' She walked off, leaving them to manage on their own.

Although it was over a year since Charity left Duck's Foot Lane for the last time, she found that little had changed. The costermongers she met on the streets were familiar faces but not many of them recognised her. It was only now that she realised how much she must have changed since her grandfather's death had precipitated her into the world of books and commerce. She might still be shabbily dressed compared to the people she had met through Daniel and Wilmot, but she was no longer a skinny waif dressed in rags.

She held her head high and walked on as if in a dream. She stopped to pass the time of day with an elderly flower seller, but there was no responsive flicker in the woman's eyes as she offered her a bunch of violets in return for a penny. They had once, not so long ago, sat on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral and shared a cup of tea, but all Charity received was a mouthful of abuse when she confessed to being too poor to buy a single bloom. Shaken by the unfriendly reception, she walked on despite a sudden shower that fell from a previously cloudless sky. She walked past a coffee stall and the scent of baked potatoes soaked in butter made her mouth water, but she would have to go hungry until she returned to Nevill's Court, and even then there would be only weak tea to wash down the bread and scrape. Mrs Diment's hens had stopped laying and would shortly end up in the pot, even though they were nothing but skin, bone and feathers.

The rain became heavier and within minutes she was soaked to the skin. She took shelter in a doorway but was elbowed out by an irate woman who smelled strongly of jigger gin, an odour that Charity remembered from the days when her grandfather had drunk to excess. She apologised and retreated onto the wet pavement. She walked on, hoping to meet at least one of the costermongers who had befriended her in the old days, but there were new faces everywhere and the few who acknowledged her were unable to help. She had been counting on seeing Sal Sprat, the young woman from Billingsgate who plied her trade from a handcart, but either it was not the sprat season or Sal had changed her route. By mid-afternoon Charity was cold, wet and exhausted. She had not had a proper meal since she left Bligh Park, and she was faint from hunger as she retraced her steps, heading back in the direction of Fetter Lane. She was dispirited and desperate but even more determined not to be beaten, and at least the rain had ceased and the sun had come out. Her damp clothes steamed and dried on her back and as the chill left her bones her spirit of optimism began to return.

She was walking along Fleet Street and had just passed Hind Court when she heard someone shouting her name. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, and to her horror she saw Bert Chapman seated on the driver's seat of the brewery dray. He stood up in the well, waving his fists and calling out. She broke into a run.

BERT'S SHOUTS RANG
in her ears and she could hear him cracking the whip over the heads of the sturdy dray horses, but their way was obstructed by the heavy traffic in Fleet Street and Charity took the opportunity to duck into Red Lion Court. The narrow alley led out into Fetter Lane and it was only a short distance to Nevill's Court. She ran all the way, arriving at the house breathless and dishevelled. Dorrie answered her frantic hammering on the doorknocker and her mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘What's up, miss? You look like you've seen a ghost.'