The Beggar Maid (42 page)

‘You should know me better than that, Charity.' He took off his hat and sat down. ‘Of course we're still friends. I wouldn't want it any other way and I've accepted the fact that I'm not the man for you, even though I wish it were different.'

She took a seat opposite him, folding her hands tightly in her lap. ‘I must find Harry.' She raised her head to look him in the eyes. ‘It's not for me. I know there can never be anything between us.'

He frowned. ‘Why not? He loves you.'

‘He told you that?'

‘We're old friends, and he was devastated when you rejected him.'

‘Harry needs a wife from his own class. A girl with my background would never fit in – his mother made that perfectly clear.'

‘His mother? You've met the beautiful Myrtle?'

‘She is lovely, isn't she? And she must have been stunning when she was young. I could never live up to the standard she set as Lady Bligh.'

Gideon leaned forward to cover her hands with his. ‘Are you comparing yourself to the woman who tricked Sir Philip into thinking that Daniel was his son?'

‘Yes, well, that's not the point,' Charity said lamely. ‘She's a society lady and they behave differently.'

‘My point exactly. Many of our so-called betters behave exactly as they wish without a thought for anyone else. They don't think of themselves in the same way as the rest of the world, but you are a good person, Charity. You're loyal and brave and you would make any man a wonderful wife. Harry would be lucky to have you.'

She met his earnest gaze with a rueful smile. ‘Try telling that to his mother.' She held up her hand. ‘Don't say any more on the subject, Gideon. The most important thing is to find Harry and tell him that Mr and Mrs Barton have moved into Bligh Park, with every intention of remaining there. I don't know what pressure they can bring to bear on Daniel, but it seems that they are after a share in the money.'

‘Harry has been pursuing his claim to the baronetcy. He's required to produce his birth certificate and the marriage certificate of his parents, as well as his father's death certificate and that's just the beginning of the procedure.'

‘And I suppose he needs to remain in London while this is in progress?'

‘That's what I would think, but it's Harry you must ask.' Gideon gave her a long look. ‘He's staying with me, so what shall I tell him when I see him this evening?'

‘Your landlady denied all knowledge of him.'

Gideon grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘She would charge me double if she knew I had a guest sleeping on my sofa.'

‘Does he spend every evening with you?'

‘He hasn't returned to his old ways, if that's what you mean.'

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘He made me a promise when we were on the island. I didn't know whether he would be able to keep it.'

Gideon rose from his seat. ‘Only he can answer that, but if I were a betting man, I'd put my money on Harry.' He picked up his hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘I must go now, but would you be happy to see him this evening? I doubt if I would be able to prevent him from rushing round here the moment he knows you're in town.'

‘Yes, of course. I must see him as soon as possible.'

Charity was on edge for the rest of the afternoon, and although she prepared supper for herself and Jackson she could not eat a thing. If Jackson noticed he said nothing, nor did he comment when she put her plate of food on the floor for Bosun to finish off in several greedy gulps.

‘I'm going to the pub,' Jackson said, getting up from the table. ‘Will you be all right on your own?'

‘Of course,' she said confidently. ‘I'm expecting visitors and they'll keep me company.'

Jackson nodded. ‘C'mon then, Bosun. We'll stretch our legs afore we goes for a pint.'

Charity set about clearing away the dishes and washing them in the stone sink. It helped to keep her hands busy, but she kept glancing at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was a warm summer evening but there was a damp chill in the parlour and she lit a fire before taking off the rest of the dust covers. It was still light outside but the wainscoting made the room appear dark and she lit candles. She sat down to wait. She tried to read a book, but she could not concentrate and she put it aside. She rose from her seat by the fire and paced the floor. The ormolu clock had long since stopped working and according to the hands on its pale face the time was stuck at a quarter to twelve. She went to the kitchen to look at the clock on the mantelshelf, but less than an hour had passed since she last checked the time. She filled the kettle and placed it on the hob.

She returned to the parlour but she could not settle. She walked up and down, rehearsing what she would say to Harry, but she was unaccountably nervous. She began to think he was not coming and that his feelings towards her had changed.

The sound of the doorbell made her jump and her heart started to pound. For a moment she could not move but she took several deep breaths and forced herself to walk slowly to the front door. She opened it with a welcoming smile which froze on her face when she saw Bert Chapman standing on the doorstep. He forced his way in and pinned her against the wall. She opened her mouth to scream for help but he clamped his huge hand to her face and strange-smelling fumes filled her lungs. She struggled for breath but darkness enveloped her and she felt herself sinking into a swirling eddy of oblivion.

SHE OPENED HER
eyes and at first she could see nothing. She was lying on her side, facing what appeared to be a brick wall which was running with damp, and the rank air was thick with the smell of stale beer and must. Every bone in her body ached. She tried to roll onto her back but then she realised that her hands were tied, as were her ankles. She had not eaten since breakfast and she was tormented by thirst. She lay still for a moment, exhausted and chilled to the bone. The sound of a movement behind her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. ‘Who's there?'

‘So you've come back to the land of the living, have you?' Bert moved to her side, and she was blinded by the light of a lantern swinging over her head. ‘I thought I'd overdone the chloroform and killed you. Not that you'd be any great loss, but I wants to know where you've hid me daughter.'

‘I can't breathe like this,' Charity murmured. ‘Sit me up.'

‘You'd better mind your Ps and Qs if you wants to stay alive for a bit longer. I could leave you here in this rat-infested cellar and no one would find you until you was a mass of bleached bones.'

‘Please sit me up,' Charity said through clenched teeth. ‘If you kill me you'll never find Violet.'

He reached out and dragged her to a sitting position by her hair. He held the lantern very close to her face. ‘There now. I ain't going to repeat the question. Have you got an answer for me?'

She turned her head away. ‘Why do you want to find Violet?'

‘She's me daughter and I love her.'

‘No, you don't. You treated her like a slave.'

He grinned, revealing blackened teeth, and his breath reeked of alcohol and stale tobacco. ‘That's what daughters are for, my girl. Someone should have taken the strap to you long ago and knocked some of the cockiness out of you.'

‘Violet is happy where she is. You should be thankful that you have one less mouth to feed.'

He put the lantern down and grabbed her by the ear, twisting it until she cried out with pain. ‘Less of the lip, girly. Answer me this, has she given birth and is it a boy or a girl?'

‘Let go of me and I'll tell you.'

‘Where's that little word?'

She shot him a sideways glance. It was obvious that torturing her was giving him pleasure. ‘Please let go of my ear.'

He thrust his face closer. ‘And you'll tell me?'

She nodded and with a last spiteful tweak he released her.

‘She has a lovely baby girl.'

‘I got a customer for that nipper. A poor woman whose child died in infancy and she can't have no more of her own. I'll be doing me civic duty in providing the grieving parents with a substitute and now my Violet has provided me with one.' He scrambled to his feet. ‘You'll take me to her.'

Charity stared at him in disgust. ‘You'd sell your own flesh and blood, never mind breaking your daughter's heart?'

‘She ain't got no heart. Poor folks like us can't afford to be sentimental. Violet should think herself lucky that her old pa is willing to get her out of this scrape. She don't stand a chance of finding a husband if she's got a nipper tied to her apron strings. I'm giving her the opportunity to make good her mistake.'

‘You can't take Vi's baby. I won't let you.' Charity turned her head away, expecting to receive a blow from his raised hand, but he let it fall to his side, shrugging his shoulders.

‘You'll change your mind, sweetheart. Let's see what a night alone with the rats and cockroaches will do.'

‘Where am I?' she demanded angrily. ‘You can't keep me here. My friends will be looking for me.'

‘Let them look. There's no one knows that you're here. This place was a pub years ago. It was on my delivery round so I knows every inch of this cellar.'

‘The police will have been informed.'

‘This building is due for demolition tomorrow. You'd better make up your mind quickly.' He picked up the lantern and walked towards the steps. ‘I'll be back first thing and you'd better be ready to tell me what I want to know or it'll be the worse for you.'

‘At least leave me a candle,' Charity cried urgently, but all she received in answer was a mocking laugh that echoed round the cellar walls after he had gone. She was left in almost complete darkness, and she was close to panicking when she saw a glimmer of light coming from the street above. For a moment she was puzzled, and then she realised that she was in a pub cellar, and the sliver of light was coming from trap doors which would have opened to allow barrels of beer to be delivered down a chute. She forced herself to remain calm, subduing the fear of the dark that had haunted her since childhood. It was late evening and if there was light outside it must come from a street lamp, which meant that the former pub was in a thoroughfare. She strained her ears, listening for the sound of footsteps and passing traffic. If she could work her way free from her bonds she might be able to attract the attention of a passer-by. She tried shouting for help, but there was no answer to her frantic cries.

She struggled, but the ropes chafed her wrists and ankles and tore at her skin, forcing her to stop. She rested for a while, trying to ignore the crippling pangs of hunger and increasing thirst. As her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness she could make out the shape of a table and what looked like a bottle that Bert must have forgotten to take with him. Driven by desperation she threw herself onto her side and rolled across the filthy floor, scattering cockroaches and crushing those that were not quick enough to make their getaway.

She could not see where she was going and she came to a sudden halt as she crashed against the table. She heard the bottle topple and it fell to the floor, shattering into shards, the largest of which reflected the sliver of light from above. If she could just get her hands free she could untie the rope that bound her ankles, or at the very least slice through it with a piece of broken glass. She rocked sideways in an attempt to raise herself to a sitting position. It took several tries but eventually she managed to sit upright, and then she began the process of freeing her hands. The pain was intense but she gritted her teeth and persisted until the bonds slackened. She rested for a few minutes and then began again until she could slip her hands free.

The rope burns hurt but she had no intention of giving up until she was free. She reached down and attempted to untie Bert's knots. When this failed she picked up a shard of glass and began sawing through the tight cords. Eventually, with blood pouring from her cut fingers, she managed to slice through the last few strands and she uttered a cry of relief. Tearing a strip off her petticoat she made a rough bandage for her right hand. The cuts were superficial but painful, and the numbness in her feet was replaced by pins and needles. She reached up to hold on to the table and pulled herself into a standing position, stamping her feet in an attempt to bring them back to life. It was only then that she realised how quiet it was. The traffic had ceased and she could no longer hear the sound of footsteps on the pavement. It must be the middle of the night, but time did not seem to mean anything in this subterranean world. She was exhausted and there was nothing she could do until morning, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was not alone in the dank cellar. She could hear the patter of small feet as the resident rodents circled around her. She had heard horrific stories of people attacked by rats, and she dragged the table over to the far wall and climbed onto it. She lay down and curled up, making herself as small as possible in order to retain some of her body heat. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back in the bedroom at the cottage with Violet and Dorrie sleeping in the next room. In her mind's eye she could see Alice sleeping peacefully in her crib and she vowed that she would protect Violet's baby with her life if necessary.

She was awakened by the rumble of traffic overhead and the sound of footsteps as people walked over the trap doors. The events of last evening came back to her in a terrifying flood and she knew that Bert would return. What would happen then did not bear thinking about; she sat up and she swung her legs over the side of the table. The cuts on her hand were the least of her worries but they stung painfully and her stomach contracted with pangs of hunger. She slid off the table and made her way carefully towards the chute, stepping between the scattered slivers of glass. She looked around, hoping to see a stick or a broom that was long enough to tap on the doors above her head, but it was too dark to see into the corners of the cellar. She shouted until she was hoarse, but no one seemed to hear her. She made an abortive attempt to walk up the chute but it was damp and slippery and she could not get a foothold.