The Orphan's Dream (16 page)

‘It's all right, Mary.' Hubert strolled into the kitchen. ‘I'll show my wife to our room.' He crossed the floor swiftly and led the way up the narrow staircase.

Their tacit agreement that she would have her own room seemed to have been forgotten. Mirabel picked up her skirts, following him as fast as her long train would allow. ‘Wait a minute,' she said breathlessly when they reached the main staircase. ‘I thought I was to have my own room, Hubert.'

With one foot on the bottom step he turned his head slowly. ‘Did you really? Come along, my dear, you'll need to change for dinner.'

MIRABEL HURRIED AFTER
him. She was angry now, and anxious. She was not afraid of Hubert, but she knew that as a married woman she was bound to obey her husband in everything, including the rites of the marriage bed. He had promised, she told herself as she negotiated the steep stairs; he had said that he would not expect anything of her in the physical sense, and now he seemed to have gone back on his word. She caught up with him as he opened the door of a room on the second floor, directly above the drawing room.

‘Come in, my dear.' He stood aside. ‘This is our bedchamber.'

‘You promised, Hubert. You gave me your word that you did not expect anything other than companionship and mutual respect from this liaison.'

‘Won't you take a look?' A grim smile curved his lips, but there was no spark of humour in his eyes.

She peered over his shoulder. The room, lit by a brass oil lamp with a cranberry glass shade, was uncompromisingly masculine, with cumbersome mahogany furniture, a four-poster bed with a tapestry tester and curtains in sombre autumnal colours which might once have been vibrant but were now faded to almost nothing. The polished floorboards gleamed with a rich chestnut sheen and the occasional Persian rug provided islands of subdued colour, but it was a man's room with no hint of femininity. ‘You promised me,' she repeated dully. ‘I thought you were a man of honour.'

‘I was teasing you,' he said, raising a smile and puffing out his chest. ‘It's a joke, Mirabel.'

‘A joke?' She stared at him incredulously. ‘You call this a joke?'

‘It's the sort of joke they played on a fellow at school, only then it had nothing to do with the marriage bed, I need hardly add.' His expression darkened. ‘I thought you would find it funny. I wanted to prove that I have a lighter side to my nature and that I understand humour.'

Relief gave way to anger and she realised that she was shaking from head to foot. ‘You don't understand anything, Hubert. This is not the least bit funny, and now Mrs Flitton thinks that you will be sharing your bed with a woman young enough to be your granddaughter.'

‘That's unkind, my dear.'

‘No, Hubert, it's the truth.'

‘I know, but it hurts my pride.'

‘I'm sorry, but we had an agreement.'

He hung his head. ‘You're right, of course, and I doubt if I could honour my duties as a husband even if I felt so inclined. I thought if I could make you laugh you might feel more at home. I know this is a big change for you.'

‘It is, but I promise I'll do my best to be a good wife to you in every other way.'

‘Thank you, my dear. I know you will.' His shoulders sagged and he stared down at his feet, as if inspecting the polish on his shiny shoes.

‘And I love the orchids,' she added in an attempt to raise his spirits. ‘I want to learn everything I can about them.'

He looked up, meeting her gaze with an eager smile. ‘Do you mean it? You're not just saying that?'

‘I'm fascinated by everything I've seen, and if you should decide to make a trip abroad to find more I'll gladly go with you.'

‘Thank you, Mirabel.'

There was no doubting his sincerity and she felt ashamed of thinking ill of him, but she was cold and a draught was whistling up the stairs like an angry spirit out to cause havoc amongst the living. ‘Now, do you think I could see my room?' she said, hugging her arms around her body. ‘I'm freezing to death in this thin gown.'

‘You are my prize orchid, Mirabel,' he said earnestly. ‘I'll take good care of you and I promise never to try to be funny again.'

Touched by his desire to please her, she laid her hand on his arm. ‘You don't have to prove anything to me.'

Picking up the lamp, he moved quickly to open the door to the room a little further along the landing. ‘Your room is next to mine. Mrs Flitton made it ready for you. She understands our arrangement so you have no need to feel embarrassed. I hope this meets with your approval.'

Mirabel entered the candlelit room, her breath catching on a gasp of surprise and delight. In complete contrast to her husband's bedchamber hers was as feminine as she could have wished. Despite the fact that the curtains had been drawn and a fire blazed in the grate, it was like walking into eternal summertime. The wallpaper was patterned with a tracery of rosebuds, pinks and cornflowers garlanded and adorned with blue ribbons. The theme was repeated in the curtain material, the cushions on a velvet-covered chaise longue and the coverlet on the rococo eighteenth-century French bed. The dressing table and clothes press were of the same period, and vases spilling over with hothouse flowers filled the warm air with their sweet scent. Her feet sank into the thick Aubusson carpet and she turned to Hubert with a bemused smile. ‘I – I don't know what to say.'

‘Do you like it, Mirabel?' he asked eagerly. ‘I've had expert advice on furnishing a room fit for a lady, but if it's not to your taste . . . ?'

‘Oh, it is. It's perfect and I love everything in it. I'm not used to this sort of luxury.'

He frowned. ‘Your father was a rich man and you were his only child.'

‘I didn't want for anything, if that's what you mean, Hubert. But Pa didn't believe in spoiling anyone, at least not until he married that awful woman. She saw to it that I was put firmly in my place.'

‘Well, this is your place now, my dear. You are my wife and will be treated as such by all and sundry. Our private arrangements are nobody's business but ours.' He backed towards his own room. ‘I'll see you at dinner, Mrs Kettle.'

 

That night, after a tasty meal served by Mrs Flitton, and a pleasant evening sitting by the fire listening to Hubert's accounts of his travels, Mirabel slept in state feeling like a queen. She awoke next morning to the sound of someone raking the ashes in the grate. For a moment she thought she was back in the small attic room in Tenter Street, but the softness of the feather mattress and the crispness of the Egyptian cotton sheets reminded her that she was now a married woman, lying in her own bed in a room more luxurious than she could ever have imagined. She raised herself on her elbow, peering into the semi-darkness. ‘Who's there?'

A small figure scrambled to her feet, adjusting the mobcap which had fallen over one eye as she worked. ‘Good morning, ma'am. I'm sorry I never meant to wake you.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Gone six o'clock, ma'am. I'm a bit late starting but I'll get the fire going in a minute and then I'll bring you your hot water and a nice cup of tea.' The girl, who could not have been more than ten or eleven, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Even in the poor light Mirabel could see the smudge of soot on the child's cheek. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘What's your name?'

‘Tilda, ma'am. I comes in every morning to do the fires and put out the slops for the night soil collector.'

‘But you don't live in?'

‘No, ma'am. I lives in Black Raven Court with me Pa. Ma died last year and now there's ten of us living in one room, so I gets work when and wherever I can.'

‘And your pa? Does he work too?'

Tilda squared her small shoulders. ‘He works on the docks, but he's got the rheumatics something chronic and it's worse in winter, so all of us what's old enough to earn a penny or two has to help out.'

‘I see.' Mirabel reached for her wrap. ‘So you've eight brothers and sisters, is that right?'

‘That's right.' Tilda shifted from one foot to the other. ‘There was ten of us until last month when baby Joe was took.'

‘He was taken from you?'

‘Died from whooping cough, ma'am. Went to heaven to join Ma.' Tilda went down on her knees and proceeded to light the fire.

Despite the relative warmth of the room Mirabel felt a cold shiver run down her spine. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Pa said it's one less mouth to feed.' Tilda glanced up at her with a wry grin. ‘But he didn't mean it. Pa does his best to make us feel better, but I seen him crying at night when he thinks we're all asleep.' She leaned over to blow on the flames and soon had them licking round the kindling.

Mirabel put on her wrap, watching Tilda as she worked. Life was unfair, she had learned that long ago, but this poor child with her scrawny arms and legs and the face of an old woman was a victim of poverty and ignorance. ‘The fire has caught well,' she said, tying the satin sash around her trim waist. ‘I'll come downstairs with you, Tilda.'

‘Why, ma'am? Are you going to tell her in the kitchen that I was spouting off about me family? Please don't. I'll get a clip round the lughole and she won't want me no more.'

‘Nobody is going to harm you in any way. This is my house and Mrs Flitton will do as I ask.' Mirabel stuffed her feet into the slippers that Zilla had handed down to her. She knew what it was like to be poor, but she had never suffered such abject poverty as the frail girl standing before her now.

‘But Mrs Kettle, the child is too small and puny to do a full day's work,' Mrs Flitton protested, glowering at Tilda who was seated at the kitchen table making short work of a bowl of porridge.

‘All she needs is good food and some warm clothing,' Mirabel said calmly. ‘She's barefoot and it's snowing again.'

‘That's how the poor live, madam.' Mrs Flitton lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I pay her a penny a day to come in and see to the fires and do other jobs that I don't have time for.'

‘I know what she does, but a penny a day is not nearly enough. Do you know what her home conditions are like?'

Mrs Flitton drew herself up to her full height. ‘It's none of my business, Mrs Kettle. The girl came to me on the recommendation of the verger who had recently made arrangements for the latest Coker infant to be interred.'

Mirabel thought for a moment, staring at Tilda's bent head as she shovelled food into her mouth. ‘What time does Mr Kettle take breakfast, Mrs Flitton?' Even as the words left her lips she realised that it must seem like an odd question, but then she was a newly wed wife and unlikely to have acquired such knowledge. She met Mrs Flitton's blank stare with a steady look.

‘Nine o'clock sharp, madam. The master likes to have his meals punctual to the stroke of the hour, and that goes for luncheon at one o'clock and dinner at eight. Will you be making any changes?'

‘No. That sounds quite satisfactory.' Mirabel glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘It's only half past six so I'll have plenty of time. I want you to pack a basket with as much food as you can spare.'

Mrs Flitton's eyes opened wide and her raised eyebrows disappeared beneath the goffered frill of her white mobcap. ‘A basket, madam? For a picnic, in this weather?'

‘Certainly not. I intend to take it to Black Raven Court. Tilda may finish her breakfast and then I want her to show me the way.'

‘But she hasn't completed all her tasks yet, Mrs Kettle. She has to riddle the ashes and fetch water for the boiler, and I don't know what else, but I'll think of something.'

‘All for a penny a day.' Mirabel shook her head. ‘I don't think that's a fair wage. I'll be putting it up to threepence a day, and her breakfast will be included, as well as her midday meal if she needs to stay on longer.'

Tilda raised her head, swallowing a mouthful of porridge. ‘Are you talking about me, missis?'

‘Eat up. I'm taking you home. Will your pa be there at this time of day?'

‘I daresay he will. It all depends if there's work for him or not.'

‘I have a pair of boots that might do for you. They'll probably be too big, but anything is better than going barefoot in the snow. Wait here, Tilda. I'm going to get dressed.' She moved towards the stairs, pausing to look over her shoulder. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Flitton. I'll be back in time to take breakfast with my husband.'

Mirabel approached the building in Black Raven Court with some trepidation. Even with the softening effect of the newly fallen snow, it was a sinister place; narrow, dark and dirty. Barefoot boys pelted each other with snowballs and the prostrate body of a ragged beggar blocked a pub doorway. Whether he was dead or dead drunk was a matter of concern for the landlord, and Mirabel walked by, following Tilda who skipped ahead in her newly acquired boots. They were at least two sizes too large for her but Mirabel had found an old pair of woollen stockings, which she had insisted that Tilda must have, and with the addition of some carefully folded newspaper in place of insoles, the boots were now a reasonable fit. Tilda stopped, waiting for Mirabel to catch up with her. She pointed to the basement area. ‘We got a room down there, but the steps is a bit rotten so you have to tread careful like.'

‘Lead on,' Mirabel said with more confidence than she was feeling. A bitter wind had risen from the east, whipping the soft snow into eddies and causing small avalanches to slide off roofs. She trod carefully, holding up her long skirts and making sure she kept to the inside of the steps where the wood was less worn. Tilda jumped the last few, landing catlike on the snow. She opened the door, allowing a gust of putrid air to billow out in a suffocating cloud. Mirabel's hand flew to cover her mouth and nose. She had grown up with the stench from the river at low tide and overflowing sewers, but there was a sickly odour of death and decay, like gangrenous flesh, emanating from the basement. Tilda marched in, seemingly inured to the terrible smell and the lack of light below street level. Mirabel hesitated in the doorway, fighting down a feeling of nausea, but Tilda was calling to her and she stepped inside, holding her nose and breathing through her mouth in an attempt to escape the worst of the foul smell.