The Beggar Maid (6 page)

As she ate she could hear a strange rustling, scratching sound emanating from the other side of the counter and an unpleasant smell assaulted her nostrils. She snatched up the candle and rose to her feet, hardly daring to look but needing to know what it was that disturbed the night. She held the candle high and the sight that met her eyes made her cry out in horror. The floor was a heaving, moving mass of cockroaches that had seemingly come from nowhere, and as the light fell on them they scattered and were gone, leaving behind their ghastly stench.

Although she was accustomed to all manner of insects and vermin, Charity had never seen cockroaches in such a vast horde and she felt physically sick. They did not seem to like the light and so she set the candlestick down on the top of the desk. In the morning she would take on the task of clearing the floor and cleaning the place so that it was fit for habitation, but in the meantime she would have to try to sleep in the cramped space under the counter. Jethro had somewhat reluctantly parted with a filthy blanket that smelled of horses and might easily have come from the stable attached to the neighbouring brewery. Perhaps it had been given in part exchange by a scholarly drayman, she thought with a wry smile as she cocooned herself in its coarse folds. She curled up on the floor, but even though she was exhausted it was some time before she fell asleep. The sudden death of her grandfather had been a terrible shock, and she wished she could have accompanied him on his last journey to the cemetery at Brookwood. Even though she knew that he was beyond pain and the problems that afflicted the living, she could not help feeling guilty for deserting him at the last. And then there were the cockroaches. Every small sound, even the rustle of her own clothing, brought her out in a cold sweat. She could imagine a whole army of them marching over her while she slept. She would have to stay awake all night to ensure that did not happen. She pulled the blanket over her head.

She was awakened by the sound of heavy horses pulling a dray, and pounding of booted feet on the icy surface of the cobblestones as men went to work in the brewery. She was cramped and stiff and her clothes were damp with sweat, even though the temperature of the shop could only have been a little above that outside. The horse blanket had done its work and she had slept soundly, despite a series of nightmarish dreams. She scrambled onto her knees and stood up, stretching and taking deep breaths in order to clear her head. It was still dark but the light of the street lamps filtered through the windowpanes. For a moment when she first opened her eyes she had not known where she was, but now the reality of her situation hit her with full force. This was to be her home for the foreseeable future, and there was little or no choice for a girl from her background, as she knew to her cost.

She shook the creases out of her second-hand skirt, lifting it above her ankles as she walked round the counter, her gaze fixed on the floor. But to her relief there was no sign of the cockroaches that had appeared so suddenly and then vanished. ‘Well,' she said out loud, ‘I'll soon sort you out, you little brutes. I'm going to turn this place upside down today and woe betide any of you that get in my way. I'm going to scrub and clean every corner of this shop.' She made her way towards the kitchen, stepping carefully over the obstacles in her way. She opened the door quietly and, as she had suspected, the lumpy shape in the bed was snoring loudly. Jethro was still asleep. She did not want to wake him, and she crept through the scullery and let herself out into the back yard.

What she had not anticipated was the long queue for the privy. The occupants of the upper floors stood in line, shivering with cold, some of them still half asleep, and others mumbling to each other in hushed tones. Above them the sky was still inky black with no sign of dawn, and the snow and sludge had frozen overnight to a crisp coating that crunched underfoot. Charity was in two minds as to whether to stand in line or go indoors and wait until everyone had relieved themselves, but just as she was about to retreat someone caught her by the hand. She peered into the darkness and saw a friendly face smiling at her. ‘You're new here. What's your name?' The girl, who Charity guessed was roughly the same age as herself, looked pale and ethereal in the pre-dawn gloom, but her eyes shone in the reflected light of the snow, and she was very pretty. Charity warmed to her at once.

‘Charity Crosse. What's yours?'

‘Violet Chapman. I live up top.' She pointed to a small attic window. ‘There's ten of us lives in one room so as you can guess it's a bit crowded. Me dad works at Reid's Brewery, like most of the men round here, and me mum does the washing for the brewmaster's wife, which leaves me to stay at home and look after the nippers. That's me, so what's your story?' She shivered, clutching her thin shawl around her slender body.

‘I only came here yesterday,' Charity said through chattering teeth. ‘I'm working for Mr Dawkins in the bookshop.'

Violet pulled a face. ‘Not him? The monster, we calls him. He's ugly enough to scare the bogeyman.'

‘That's not fair. He can't help the way he looks.'

‘He's a miserable geezer.' Violet shuffled on a couple of paces as a man emerged from the privy, shrugging on his jacket and pulling his cap down over his eyes. ‘That's me dad. He's a drayman at Reid's.' Violet turned away as her father strode past them and he ignored her, which Charity thought odd, but maybe there had been a falling out in the family.

‘Hurry up in there.' A woman's voice rang out across the yard, echoing off the high walls. ‘Some of us ain't got all day.'

‘That's Mary Spinks. She lives on the second floor too, and she's a cook at the workhouse. Keep out of her way. She's got a fearsome temper and she'll clock you one as soon as look at you if the mood takes her, but her daughter Maisie is a good laugh if you keep on her right side.'

‘Isn't there anyone it's safe to talk too?'

Violet smiled sweetly. ‘There's always me, Charity. I could do with a friend.'

‘And so could I,' Charity said wholeheartedly. ‘I lost me grandad the day afore yesterday. He's to be buried in a pauper's grave and I won't be able to find him, even if I saves up enough of me wages to go to Brookwood. It was the drink that did for him in the end.'

Violet slipped her arm around Charity's shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘You poor thing. I know how you feel. There's three of my baby brothers and sisters buried in unmarked graves. It's only the toffs what can afford headstones and horses with plumes.'

Charity was about to answer when she heard a shuffling noise behind her. She turned to see Jethro skidding across the ice. ‘Look out,' he shouted. ‘I can't stop once I get going.'

‘It's always like that.' Violet leapt out of the way and the line of people parted as Jethro careered along towards the privy, almost knocking down the startled man who was coming out, doing up his trousers. Jethro plunged into the brick building and the door slammed shut.

Charity felt embarrassed for him and also for herself as all eyes turned upon her.

‘Are you really going to work for him?' Violet stared at her in disbelief.

CHARITY WAS IN
the shop alone. Jethro had gone to an antiquarian book sale in Aldgate and left her in charge. During the six months she had been working for him they had come to an uneasy truce. He was still suspicious and his temper was easily roused, but although getting money out of him for necessities was still an uphill struggle, he was not as parsimonious as he had been in the beginning. Charity felt sorry for him, and she had been quick to realise just how difficult life was for a man with disabilities that left him in constant pain. She had discovered early on that he relied on laudanum to help him sleep, and she had learned to keep out of his way when he was having a particularly bad day.

She could not say that she liked him or that he was a kindly employer, and she still slept under the counter in the shop, although Jethro had given her the money to buy a flock-filled mattress, which made sleeping easier. The cockroaches had seemingly left the building or had made the journey to the upper floors due to Charity's obsession with cleanliness. She swept and scrubbed the floors daily, and there was not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen in the living accommodation or on the shop floor. The bookshelves were immaculate and she had begun to catalogue the volumes on sale. She took pride in window dressing and many more customers came through the door as a result. Jethro was slow to praise but Charity had the satisfaction of seeing the takings increase, and it was largely due to her efforts.

The weather was hot and oppressive at the approach of autumn. She had wedged the shop door open in an attempt to cool the air, but had been forced to close it in order to shut out the smell of seething sewers, horse dung and the fumes from the brewery. Trade was slow due to the fact that the students and their professors would not return to the university until the autumn term. She undid the top button of her cotton print frock, which she had recently purchased from the dolly shop in Gray's Inn Road, and went to sit on the high stool behind the counter, picking up a copy of
A Thousand Miles Up the Nile
by Amelia Edwards. She was already halfway through the fascinating account of the intrepid lady's travels in Egypt, and it had fired her with a desire to see such wonders for herself. Of course that was an impossibility, but it was wonderful to dream of an exotic country with fascinating glimpses into a past civilisation. She was so intent on reading that she only realised that the door had opened when the bell jangled noisily on its spring. She closed the book with a snap and sat upright. ‘Good morning, sir. May I be . . .' She stopped midsentence, staring at the elder of two gentlemen who had entered the shop. ‘Mr Barton?' she said tentatively. ‘Is it you, sir?'

He came closer, staring at her curiously, and then a slow smile spread across his handsome features. ‘It's Charity, isn't it? I remember you very well. It was outside the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street that we met, wasn't it?'

She shook her head. ‘I dunno about any old lady, sir. But it was outside the Bank of England. I knows that for a fact.'

Barton's companion, a much younger man with a mop of unruly fair hair and hazel eyes, chortled with laughter, but a look from Charity silenced him and he blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, miss. I didn't mean any offence.'

‘What's funny?' she demanded angrily. ‘You shouldn't mock the way I speak – it ain't polite.'

‘Quite right.' Wilmot Barton nodded in agreement. ‘Remember your manners, Daniel my boy.'

‘I'm sorry, sir.'

‘You'll have to forgive my nephew, Charity. He's a raw lad up from the country and has yet to learn the ways of polite society.'

Daniel grinned sheepishly. ‘Hold on, Uncle. I haven't got straw growing out of my ears. Just because I grew up in Devonshire doesn't mean that I'm a yokel.'

‘Of course not,' Wilmot said equably, ‘and that's my point, Dan. Just because Charity lacks a little polish doesn't mean that she's a lesser person.'

Charity cleared her throat to remind them of her presence. ‘I ain't deaf, sir.'

‘And I'm being just as impolite as my young nephew.' Wilmot treated her to a disarming smile. ‘You didn't take up my offer. Why was that? Were you afraid that I had ulterior motives?'

‘My grandpa died, sir. I had to find work and a place to live.'

‘I'm sorry for your loss.' Wilmot eyed her curiously. ‘What was it that brought you here to Dawkins' bookshop?'

‘Dr Marchant brought me here because I had nowhere else to go. He thought I would suit this type of work.'

Wilmot nodded his head. ‘A wise gentleman indeed.'

‘And he's very kind and caring. He came here a few days ago making the excuse of ordering a book, but I think he wanted to make sure I was all right. I can't think of many professional men who'd bother with someone who used to scratch a living by begging on street corners.'

‘I say, did you really?' Daniel's eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Wasn't that terribly risky for a girl like you?'

‘I suppose it was, but I learned how to take care of myself.'

‘You look as though a puff of wind would blow you over.' His cheeks burned with colour. ‘I say, I'm frightfully sorry. I seem to say all the wrong things.'

‘Think nothing of it, sir.' Charity turned to Wilmot with a polite smile. ‘How may I help you?'

‘I came to browse through Jethro's collection of antiquarian volumes. Occasionally I find something of interest.' He gazed round at the neatly labelled shelves. ‘I can see that you've been busy.'

Charity accepted the compliment with a nod of her head. ‘I can't bear a muddle, and books should be treated with respect. I just think of the work that someone has had to do putting all those words together and it's little short of a miracle.'

‘I wish my students were as appreciative as you.' Wilmot walked over to the stand where Charity had stacked the rarer editions. He paused, turning to his nephew. ‘You might find something on the shelves that will keep you amused while you're staying with me in Doughty Street, Daniel my boy.' He chuckled and began to browse.

Daniel shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'm more of a doer than someone who is happy to take everything from the pages of a book.' He picked up the book that Charity had been reading and his eyes lit up with interest. ‘Now this is a good read. Are you interested in Egyptology?'

‘I ain't sure what that means exactly,' Charity admitted grudgingly. ‘But if you mean reading about Egypt and Pharaohs and such, then yes I am.'

He pulled a face. ‘I apologise again if I offended you.' He opened the book and flicked through the pages. ‘The study of ancient Egypt interests me too. I'm an archaeology student and I hope one day to visit the Valley of the Kings and see the ancient wonders for myself. Doesn't Miss Edwards' account of her experiences make you want to follow in her footsteps too?'