Lady Lightfingers (31 page)

Or perhaps she'd lost the satchel and someone honest had found it and returned it. But over three years had gone by since then. Although Charles had never really expected Lizzie to honour the bargain they'd made, he'd never expected to get the money back, either.

He'd entertained his friends and acquaintances with the story of the expensive beggar maid he'd tried to buy over the years – now he'd have a fitting ending to the tale.

He couldn't help wondering what had happened to the girl after all this time, though, and felt a twinge of conscience at making her the object of his jokes as he passed through into the dining room to be greeted by the laughter and chiding of his friends for his lateness. After all, it hadn't been Lizzie Carter's fault that she'd been born poor.

Celia had ordered the book she'd wanted from a bookshop not far from the house, and had been told they'd keep it under the counter for her. She left the cab there, and hurried home, relieved to find the reverend still sleeping off his lunch.

Head leaning against the right wing of his armchair, his sparse grey hair was disarranged, as though it had relaxed along with his body, and he gave an occasional quiet snuffle. His shoes stood side by side on the floor, while his feet rested on a shabby footstool. Affection for him raced through her when she saw a small hole in the heel of his black hose. The lump damming the tears in her throat was threatening to burst.

Taking in a deep breath to dispel the feeling, she wrote a note to go with her gift and tucked it under the red ribbon she'd tied round it. It read: To my beloved and finest friend, Reverend Thomas Hambert. No doubt you'll ask me why I've bought you a gift, so here is the answer – it's because you are you. Celia Jane Laws.

Being careful not to disturb him she picked up the fire tongs and carefully placed coal on the ashes so he wouldn't be cold when he woke. Positioning her gift in a prominent position on the table in front of him, Celia went to the writing desk, where she took out paper and ink
and began to write part three of her magazine serial
.

When the clock chimed three Thomas woke with a grunt. ‘Goodness, is that the time already? I must have drifted off to sleep.'

‘I'll go and prepare the tea tray.'

‘Thank you, dear. Ask Mrs Packer if there's any of that delicious fruit cake left, if you would.'

‘I'm sure there is, since she hid half of it in the larder, so you wouldn't eat it all at once.'

‘I do like fruit cake,' he said with a laugh. His glance fell on the book with the gaudy ribbon bow. With a puzzled expression on his face he reached into his pocket for his reading glasses and said in a wondering manner, ‘Hello . . . What's this parcel doing on the table?'

‘Waiting to be opened by you,' and Celia kissed his forehead and left him to it.

The music recital was held in the hall of a large home of an earl, on the west side of Belgrave Square. He was a patron of the arts as well as the Poor Reform Society, and he'd sponsored the concert . . . or so the reverend had told her.

The orchestra was seated on a raised dais along with the solo artists. The choral singers were ranged up the staircase.

Celia had felt quite the lady in her blue skirt and evening bodice, until she set her eyes on the fashionable women with their satin, lace and feathers, flashing diamonds and affectations.

The chairs were numbered, and arranged in a fan shape. Their seats were near the back, a few seats away from a plinth – one of many that supported sculptures of composers, now long gone. There was an empty chair beside them. For Charles, she guessed.

The reverend named some of the sculptures for her, Ludwig Van Beethoven, who glowered at the assembly of people. Then there was George Frideric Handel, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music she was going to listen to before too long. He had rather an austere face, and his hairstyle – a wig, she imagined – was dressed in precise rolls that reminded her of sausages.

The air was becoming warm with all the people crowding in, and the hall that she'd first considered huge, now seemed a great deal smaller as everyone scrambled to find their seats. Thankful for the small fan she carried in her reticule, she slipped the cord over her wrist and put it to good use as she tried to make sense of the printed programme. What on earth were oratorios and cantatas? She must ask the reverend to explain the terms to her tomorrow. More and more she was realizing how wide a gulf existed between different social environments, and the opportunities available to them.

Celia was glad she wasn't sitting amongst the ladies in their finery, where she would have contrasted badly, despite wearing her best gown – the one the reverend had bought for her, with a pretty lace collar. She wore short gloves too, and an embroidered shawl that Mrs Packer had lent her, because Celia had been worried that the neck of the gown was lower than was decent. Now she was here, she needn't have worried, since most of the other ladies' gowns were much lower.

The audience was a pickpocket's dream, she thought irreverently, and she glanced over the crowd wondering if anyone was working it. But no, this audience was too expensive and too rarefied for the average dip, who wouldn't be able to afford the entry fee, or get past the doorman even if they could. There might be a few beggars in the street when the concert was over and the guests were all waiting for carriages to arrive.

There was a buzz in the room that affected her like a glass of wine. She smiled happily at the reverend, distinguished-looking in his evening suit, and wondered if Charles was in the audience.

The crowd was soon settled, the conductor came on to the dais, bowing to much applause before turning to face the orchestra. There was a breathless hush, then he lifted his baton and the music began – glorious music that instantly transported her from being a mere mortal into a world of sound so enthralling, that she wondered if she'd ever breathe again.

Standing a little to one side, for he'd been a little late and didn't want to disturb the row to reach his seat, Charles stood, partially concealed by the plinth, where Beethoven frowned upon him for his tardiness.

He could almost smell Celia, the occasional drift of roses teasing at his nostrils. He wryly congratulated himself on being able to single her perfume out in a hall filled with ladies, when, in fact, the massed fragrance was more like a flower garden in high summer.

He had a good view of her lovely profile, and a good view of some of the men stealing looks at her, some more assessing than they should be. He blessed the fact that he'd been born a hunter instead of the prey. As most people were acquainted with and respected the reverend, he knew she would not be approached within these walls.

Unlike the play, where Celia's face had reflected the drama, and she'd leaned forward to offer little comments under her breath, she was completely absorbed by the music. She sat upright, but relaxed, smiling a little, or giving a small nod when she was transported into the arrangement of notes. Sometimes her eyes closed, or a runaway tear escaped from under her lids to be captured on the square of lace-edged lawn she carried, and he wondered what was going on inside her head. She clapped enthusiastically when the interval was announced.

Charles joined them at the refreshment table, handing her a glass of lemonade. ‘I'm sorry I was late . . . in fact I've been running late all day. I'm pleased to see you kept my seat vacant, Reverend.'

Celia had a slightly wary expression on her face. ‘Did anything exciting happen today to make you late?'

‘I dined at my club with some friends, then we went to the Bailey to watch a fraud trial. Time slipped by. Are you enjoying the music, Celia?'

Her face lit up. ‘It's wonderful; I've never heard a real orchestra and choir before, except in Hyde Park. The notes have such clarity, as if . . .' Her eyes began to shine. ‘As if icicles were dropping from a branch into a pond, making perfect ripples. It's precise, yet relaxing . . . so exquisite that I feel like crying. This is the best night of my life and I want it to go on for ever.'

Charles exchanged a smile with Thomas. ‘Bach will be dancing in his grave at that endorsement, I imagine.'

She gave in to a moment of flirtation when the reverend turned aside to greet someone, spreading her fan and gazing over it at him from wide eyes a mesmerizing shade of blue that were circled by a sweep of sooty lashes. Cornflowers, the porter had said.
Cornflowers!
No, it couldn't be his Lizzie. He was being ridiculous. Yet the handwriting had seemed familiar. He couldn't help but ask, ‘What did you get up to today, Celia?'

She started, as though she'd just realized that her gesture might be misconstrued as personal interest in him, then folded her fan and averted her gaze. ‘Very little. We visited my mother's grave this morning.'

‘How long has your mother been gone?'

‘Getting on for four years. I do miss her.'

‘It wasn't a good age for a young woman to lose her mother, I imagine.'

‘No it wasn't, but then, when is any age a good one? I understand you lost your father when you were younger, so I expect the same applies to you.'

He gently touched her hand. ‘You never get over losing someone you love, but the pain does grow less over time.'

‘After our visit to Potter's Field, Celia was kind enough to keep an old man company for the rest of the day,' Thomas interjected. ‘And she gave me a gift, a volume of Edgar Allen Poe's work.'

‘I wouldn't have thought that the darkness of the human spirit would be of interest to you, Reverend. Some people regard Poe as being not quite sane.'

‘An interesting man for that reason alone, I'd say, and his work might offer some insight into that unhappy condition. He seems a very accomplished poet nevertheless.'

‘Perhaps he has an unhappy soul,' Celia said giving a huff of laughter, which caused Thomas to chuckle, as if each had complete understanding of the other.

Thomas allowed Charles the privilege of sitting next to her in this public setting. Charles was very aware of her by his side, but involved with the music as she was, to his chagrin she didn't seem to notice him at all.

She pandered to her own senses, feasting on the music like someone who'd been totally starved of such a delight in the past. Idly, he wondered if she'd indulge in lovemaking with such an all-absorbing passion. One day he hoped to find out.

Her eyes were full of dreams when the music ended. They fetched their cloaks and went out into the street – walking into a thin fog that had crept out of the River Thames to try and rob the streets of their identity.

Charles managed to find a cab. ‘I'll accompany you all the way home, since it's a long way and this will probably thicken.'

The reverend protested. ‘Charles, your home is the closer, is it not? We could leave you there and travel on.'

‘I was going to sleep at my club tonight, but I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't escort you both safely to your destination. No doubt you'll offer me a bed for the night should it be needed.'

The fog did thicken, and the cabbie said apologetically, ‘Sorry, sir, but I'll have to leave you here. I was on my way home when I picked you up. If I'm lucky I'll just have time to get there in time to bed my horse down before it worsens. Luckily, the horse knows its own way home.'

And worse the fog got, pressing against the house like a clammy mustard-coloured shroud, a bare ten minutes after the sound of horse and cab disappeared.

Her little reticule still swinging from her wrist by its loops, Celia turned back the cover in the second guest bedroom, her fingers unconsciously smoothing the pillow where Charles' head would rest. She lit the fire, placing the spark guard back around it before going to her own room to remove her bonnet and cloak.

The two men were in the library sipping at a brandy when she went down. ‘Would you like some supper? I expect Mrs Packer has left something cold in the larder for us.'

The kitchen was in the basement, and was a large room hung with shining copper pots. The house was built to accommodate a large family and a staff to match. The reverend barely occupied the first two floors.

The cellar she'd once lived in with her mother and Lottie would have fitted in this domestic kingdom twice over.

Through the door was a second room with a copper tub, under which a fire could be lit to boil the water. There was a mangle with big wooden rollers that squeezed water from the garments once they were clean. Overhead were some racks, with pulleys to lower them down, so garments could be hung to dry. The ironing was done on a padded table, and there was a place down here to bathe in private . . . something Celia loved. When she was married and had her own house she intended to take a bath every day and wash away the memories of the dirt of her childhood. And she'd have pots with bright flowers on every table, if she could afford them.

There was a plate containing slices of pork pie, cheese, pickles and bread on a covered marble slab in the larder. The tea tray was laid, the black iron kettle warm and set to one side of the stove so it wouldn't boil dry. Celia lifted the kettle on to the hob, then added a third cup and saucer to the tray. She was not hungry herself. Her head was full of the music, which had given her a sense of contentment as well as wonder that a man could create such delight from just a few notes of music.

Just as the kettle began to sing she thought she heard a noise outside the window. She drew aside the lace curtain that hid the interior of the room from outsiders and pressed her face against the glass. All she could see was the bottom couple of steps and a railing.