The Beggar Maid (3 page)

‘Yes, sir.'

He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘I remember now. Duck's Foot Lane, and you live with your grandpa. It's not a good place for a girl like you, Miss, er . . .'

‘Crosse, sir. Charity Crosse, and I think Grandpa's dead. He had some kind of fit . . .'

‘We'll see. The quicker we get there, the better.'

Charity waited in the narrow hallway while the doctor examined her grandfather. It did not take long. He returned moments later and guided her out of the building into the street. ‘I'm afraid he has passed away,' he said gently. ‘I'll make the necessary arrangements.'

‘What did for him, sir? Was it the drink?'

He nodded his head. ‘Without a doubt, Charity. I've seen it all too often.'

‘I can't pay you the full amount, and I got no money for the undertaker. My grandpa will have a pauper's funeral.'

‘You need not worry about my fee, but as to the latter I'm afraid there's no alternative, unless you have relations who would help.'

‘I got no one, sir. Grandpa was all I had.'

‘Have you any friends who will take you in?'

‘None, sir.' Charity met his anxious gaze with a defiant lift of her chin. ‘But I'll be all right. I've lived by my wits since I was a nipper. I don't need no one to look after me. I can manage on me own.' She hunched her shoulders against the cold and started to walk away.

‘Miss Crosse – wait.'

CHARITY GLANCED OVER
her shoulder. ‘Yes?'

Dr Marchant hurried to her side. ‘You've had a terrible shock, my dear. I insist that you come home with me. Mrs Rose will look after you – just for tonight, you understand.'

‘There's no need, sir. I'll be all right.'

‘I can't allow a young girl like you to roam the streets in weather like this. I wouldn't get a wink of sleep if I let you go now.' Dr Marchant took her firmly by the arm. ‘Mrs Rose has a brusque manner, but beneath the hard shell beats a heart of gold. She'll find you a bed.'

‘You can sleep there, under the kitchen table.' Mrs Rose folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Dorrie lies down by the range and that's her place. I don't expect to come down in the morning and find any different.'

Charity shot a wary glance through the open door which led into the tiny scullery. Dorrie, who could not have been more than eight or nine years old, was standing on a box struggling to cope with the washing up.

‘Do you understand?' Mrs Rose demanded angrily. ‘Or have your wits gone begging too?'

‘I understand, and I'll be off first thing. You won't need to be bothered with me any longer than necessary.'

Mrs Rose took a step closer, staring at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I know exactly how much food there is in the larder and I count the cutlery every morning, so don't think of taking anything that doesn't belong to you. I've warned the good doctor about his charitable actions, but he has a soft heart and people take advantage of his good nature. If you abuse his trust I'll have the law on you so quick that your head will spin.' Mrs Rose waddled across the room to stand in the scullery doorway. ‘Hurry up, Dorrie. Make sure you dry the dishes properly and put everything away. I'm going to my bed now but you'll be for it in the morning if I come down to a mess.' Taking the oil lamp with her she stamped out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her with a thud.

Charity took a spill from the jar high up on the mantelshelf and lit a candle, placing it on the kitchen table. The fire in the range had been banked up for the night, but the kitchen was warm and the aroma of mutton stew lingered in the air. For all her faults, Mrs Rose was a good cook, and it was obvious that the kindly doctor was well cared for. Charity had eaten well for the first time in months, although nothing could take away the pain of bereavement and the shock of seeing her grandfather breathe his last. She was physically exhausted, but she doubted if she would be able to sleep. The fact that she would be lying on the cold, hard floor did not come into the equation. She had slept on worse, and at least it was warm and dry in the doctor's kitchen, unlike the damp cellar in Duck's Foot Lane.

She walked into the scullery and was just in time to catch a plate as it slipped from Dorrie's fingers. The child was half asleep and in danger of falling into the stone sink where a thick scum of grease floated on the surface of the rapidly cooling water. Charity patted her on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, little 'un.'

Dorrie opened her eyes and blinked. ‘I'm doing it, miss. I'm working as hard as I can.'

Charity lifted her from the box and was shocked to feel how little the child weighed. ‘You're soaked to the skin. Have you got a change of clothes?'

‘Who are you?' Dorrie eyed her suspiciously. ‘You ain't gonna take me back to the workhouse, are you, miss?'

‘Certainly not. I'm only here for tonight because I've nowhere else to go, and in the morning I'll be gone. But that's neither here nor there – you need to get out of those wet things and go to bed.'

‘She'll skin me alive if I leaves a mess. I got to finish the dishes and put everything away. You heard her. She's a terror when she's roused.'

Charity rolled up her sleeves. ‘I'll do the dishes, and I'll put them away. Now do as I say or you'll catch your death of cold.'

Dorrie backed away. ‘I dunno. You're not going to steal stuff when me back's turned, are you? One of the doctor's charity cases took six silver spoons and an egg cup.'

‘I'm not going to do anything of the sort. Now go to bed like a good girl. You need your beauty sleep. That's what my granny used to say to me.' Charity's eyes filled with tears as she thought of her old home and she turned away quickly. ‘Go on, Dorrie. Do as you're told.' She busied herself washing and drying the remaining dishes, and when she took them into the kitchen to put them away she found Dorrie curled up on a crocheted rug by the fire and already sound asleep.

Having made certain that everything was as it should be, Charity glanced at the space under the table where she was supposed to make her bed and decided instead to sit in the rocking chair by the range. She knew it was where Mrs Rose chose to sit, but she had no intention of sleeping on the bare tiles. Tomorrow she would be gone, and in the morning she would face the world on her own. She sat down and took off her boots. Her feet were filthy and it was at least two weeks since she had treated herself to the public baths. It was only now that she was away from the foetid stench of her old lodgings that she realised there was a distinctive and unpleasant odour emanating from her person. It was little wonder that Mrs Rose did not want her to sleep in one of her clean beds. Shame and humiliation added to her raw emotions. She was tempted to leave the doctor's house and disappear into the night, but the fact was that she had nowhere to go. And even worse, her grandfather would now be lying on a cold stone slab in the dead house, awaiting the coroner's verdict before he could be interred. At the very worst, his lifeless body might have been taken illegally and sold to a medical school for anatomical dissection. The thought of that happening made her feel sick, and made it all the more important for her to remain at the doctor's house until she knew what arrangements had been made to give her grandfather a proper burial, even if it had to be in an unmarked pauper's grave.

She slept at last, only to be rudely awakened by someone shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Get out of my chair. What did I tell you about where you had to sleep?'

Charity opened her eyes and found herself looking into Mrs Rose's irate face. She slid off the chair and stood up. ‘I'm sorry – I must have dropped off.'

The cold light of a snowy dawn filtered through the kitchen window and a gust of icy air blew in through the scullery door as Dorrie struggled into the room hefting a bucket of coal. ‘Shut the door,' Mrs Rose ordered in stentorian tones. ‘And get the fire going, you stupid child. You should have been up half an hour ago.' She turned her attention back to Charity. ‘As for you, miss. I have to say it – you smell. And your clothes are filthy. Take them off now.'

Charity shook her head. ‘I got nothing else to wear.'

‘The doctor is known for his work amongst the poor and needy and there are generous people who donate clothes for the missionary barrel.'

‘I ain't going to the women's refuge, if that's what you're thinking,' Charity said, sticking out her chin. ‘I got me pride, ma'am, and I ain't no pauper.'

‘But you are happy to take from others by begging, so I see very little difference in your station in life. You and your kind are a burden to society.' Mrs Rose took a step towards her. ‘Now either take those filthy clothes off, or leave this house and don't return because the door will be slammed in your face.'

‘But I got to know what happened to Grandpa. The doctor promised me he'd see to everything.'

‘It's your choice, Miss Crosse.'

Charity knew when she was beaten. She could not let her grandfather down now. ‘All right,' she said slowly. ‘But at least give us a blanket or something. I ain't standing here naked for all to see.'

A triumphant smile lit Mrs Rose's grim features for a second and then was gone. ‘At least you have some sense of decency.' She wagged a finger at Dorrie. ‘Hurry up and get the fire going again, and fill the kettle and the largest pan with water. Miss Crosse is going to take a bath. I'll fetch a towel and a change of clothes.' She fixed Charity with a hard stare. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness – always remember that.'

She bustled out of the room, leaving Charity to undress.

‘I'll get the fire going and it won't take the water long to heat up,' Dorrie said with a shy smile. ‘Ta for what you done last night. I won't forget it in a hurry.'

‘It was nothing. Anyway, it's too much work for a youngster like you.'

‘I'm eight, miss. Or at least I think I am. That's what they told me in the workhouse.' Dorrie riddled the embers and added more coal to the fire. She took the bellows and pumped them until flames shot up the chimney. ‘Tell her you can bath yourself,' she said in a whisper. ‘If she gets the loofah to your skin you'll end up red raw, and don't let her pour neat vinegar over your head. It don't half sting your eyes.'

‘I haven't got nits,' Charity said firmly. ‘I'm not a guttersnipe, even if she treats me like one. I'm only putting up with all this because I want my grandpa to have a proper send-off. Otherwise I'd be out of here like a shot.'

‘Would you really?' Dorrie picked up the kettle and hurried into the scullery. ‘I'd come with you if I could. I hates it here, and she hates me. I can't please the old besom no matter how hard I try.' She staggered back into the kitchen, slopping water on the tiles in her efforts to put the kettle on the hob.

‘Let me help you. After all, it's for my benefit.' Charity snatched a pan from the shelf and took it into the scullery. ‘I'll do what I can for you while I'm here, but I'll be gone by tonight.'

Dorrie stood in the doorway, watching her. ‘Where will you go, miss?'

‘You don't have to call me miss. My name is Charity.'

‘Where will you go, Charity?' Dorrie grinned, revealing a missing front tooth.

‘I haven't the faintest idea, but it won't be the workhouse. Maybe the old besom is doing me a favour with all this palaver. I might find work if I look clean and tidy.'

Scrubbed until her skin glowed and with her hair washed and towel-dried, Charity peered at her reflection in the fly-spotted mirror above the mantelshelf. The clothes that Mrs Rose had selected from the missionary barrel were not meant to enhance her looks, but at least they were clean and in good condition. The navy-blue linsey-woolsey skirt was faded and the hem slightly frayed, but it was a reasonable fit, and the white cotton blouse was on the large side but there was plenty of wear left in it, as Mrs Rose was quick to point out. A grey hand-knitted cardigan that came down almost to Charity's knees completed the outfit, and what it lacked in style it made up for in warmth.

‘You'll have to make do with your own boots,' Mrs Rose said, standing back to admire her handiwork. ‘But you'll do.' She reached out and lifted a strand of Charity's hair, allowing it to run through her fingers. ‘Such dark hair, and yet you have blue eyes.' She frowned. ‘You're not Irish, are you?'

‘I'm as English as you or the doctor,' Charity replied, stung by the implied insult. The only Irish she had ever met were itinerant navvies who had a reputation for drinking and brawling, although in her experience they mostly kept to themselves.

‘Well, it's an unusual combination. Your looks will get you into trouble, Charity Crosse. You will have to take care or you'll come to no good.' She dragged the damp curls back from Charity's face. ‘That's better. I'll find you a scrap of ribbon so that you can tie it back and look tidy. When you're done I'll take you to the doctor's study. He has something to tell you.'

Dr Marchant looked up from his desk where he was writing something in what looked like a diary. The book-lined study and clutter of files and correspondence reminded Charity of the house in Chelsea. She had been allowed into her father's tiny study on infrequent occasions, as he seemed to spend all his spare time writing papers on what she had considered to be a very boring subject. As a diversion from work he liked to pore over books on archaeology, and had tried to explain his fascination for ancient Egypt, but she had been too young to understand. He had taken her to the British Museum, but she had been scared by the huge stone statues, and soon tired of peering at artefacts in glass cases. She hung back, waiting for Mrs Rose to speak.

‘Miss Crosse is here, doctor.'