The Beggar Maid (7 page)

‘I dunno. It never crossed my mind. I'm as likely to fly to the moon as travel abroad.'

He leaned forward, fixing her with an intense gaze. ‘But that's where you're wrong. Look at the women who've achieved amazing things in science and medicine, and those who campaign for women's suffrage.'

‘I dunno about all that either. The only women I know have to do what their men tell them or they get a black eye for their trouble.' Charity had seen the bruises on Mrs Chapman's face often enough to know that her husband had a violent temper. Maisie Spinks had warned her about his wandering hands and lewd suggestions, and it was obvious that Violet was afraid of her father. There were plenty of men who ruled by the fist, especially when drunk on jigger gin or too many pints of ale.

Daniel ran his finger round the inside of his stiff white collar and looked away. ‘I believe that does occur in some quarters,' he said slowly. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘What for? You done no wrong so far as I can see.'

‘Shall we start again, Charity?' He held his hand out to her. ‘My name is Daniel Barton and I'm studying archaeology at University College.'

She shook his hand. ‘I'm Charity Crosse and I work for Mr Dawkins. I'm teaching meself, I mean myself, by reading as much as I can. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.'

‘Now we're friends we can speak freely. What was it my uncle wanted you to do?' He smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me for being nosey, but I'm curious.'

‘You mean you can't think what an educated toff like Mr Barton would want with an ignorant girl like me.'

‘That's not what I meant. Do you take pleasure in putting me in the wrong?'

She suppressed a giggle. ‘You do that without any help from me.'

‘I've never met anyone like you, Charity Crosse. I don't know whether to be amused or . . .' he hesitated, ‘or cross.' His eyes danced with merriment, and Charity found herself laughing with him.

‘I can't help my name or the way I am.'

‘And I've never met a girl who could make me laugh. You're quite different from the young ladies I meet in the normal course of things.'

‘Are there many girls at the university?'

‘I don't know the exact numbers, but there are quite a few. You would enjoy attending lectures if you had the chance.'

Charity sighed. ‘That's not for the likes of me. I've got all the learning I need. I know how to cook and clean, and how to keep Mr Dawkins in order.'

‘You know, you should take my uncle up on his offer. I'm assuming it was to do with his work on social anthropology, and he must have thought you could make a valuable contribution. You can trust him.'

‘He might have changed his mind, and anyway I'm very busy with the shop.'

Wilmot, apparently overhearing her last remark, strolled over to the counter with a book in his hand. ‘Of course my offer is still open, although it might not sound as attractive now that you're settled in work.' He laid the leather-bound book on the counter. ‘I'll take this now, please. I've another on order so perhaps you might like to deliver it to my lodgings in Doughty Street when it comes in, and we could discuss my project then.'

Aware that Daniel was watching her closely, Charity smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.' She glanced at the price written on the inside of the front cover. ‘That will be five shillings, please.' She waited while he counted out the coins. It would take her over a week to earn such a princely sum. Mr Barton must be a rich man to be able to afford such a luxury. She locked the money away in the metal cash box.

‘I look forward to seeing you soon, Charity,' Wilmot said, doffing his bowler hat. ‘You must come in time for tea. My landlady makes the most delicious muffins and chocolate cake.'

‘I can vouch for that,' Daniel said enthusiastically. ‘Do come, Charity. She only brings out the cake when someone special comes to tea, and it's my particular favourite.'

‘I never go out after the shop closes, but I'll come if Mr Dawkins lets me.'

‘Make sure he does,' Wilmot said solemnly. ‘Dan will see you safely home.' He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door. ‘Come along, old chap. There are other customers waiting.'

Daniel hurried after him and it was only then that Charity realised there were two more people waiting to be served. She turned to the pinch-faced woman who was tapping her foot impatiently on the floorboards. ‘How may I help you, madam?'

After supper that evening when Jethro settled down in his chair to read the newspaper and smoke his briar pipe, Charity stepped outside into the yard to get a breath of air. It was a hot and sultry evening, with the threat of a thunderstorm hanging like a cloud above the steamy city streets. Flies settled in heaving masses on scraps of fat that had been tossed carelessly from upstairs windows, and the stench of the privy was all but masked by the smell of boiling hops and malt from the brewery, but it was marginally cooler outside than in the stuffy confines of the shop and kitchen. Charity leaned against the rough brickwork, marvelling at the tenacity of a dandelion that somehow managed to grow and thrive in nothing but dust. That's me, she thought dreamily. I'm like the weeds that fight their way through concrete and survive against all odds. She smiled to herself as she realised that her feeling of optimism was due to a chance meeting that morning with Mr Barton and his young nephew. She had not taken to Daniel Barton at first, but there was something about him that made her want to get to know him better, and he had taken the trouble to talk to her. Despite his initial rudeness he had seen her as a person in her own right, unlike the majority of the customers who came into the shop, to whom she was virtually invisible.

‘A penny for 'em.'

Charity turned with a start and saw Violet coming down the stairs. ‘You made me jump.'

‘You was miles away.' Violet leapt the last three steps, landing cat-like on all fours. She straightened up and wiped her hands on her grubby pinafore. ‘And you was grinning. What's so funny?'

‘I wasn't grinning.'

‘Yes you was. I bet it's a bloke. It always is. I seen it often enough with me eldest sister, Betsy. She used to smile like that after she'd been with the butcher's boy and he got her in the family way afore she was fifteen. They live in Brixton over the shop and she has three nippers and another on the way.'

‘It's not like that, Vi. I'm just feeling more cheerful, that's all.'

Violet sidled up to her. ‘What's his name then?'

Charity could see that she was not going to be put off no matter what she said. ‘All right, I did chat to a young man this morning. His uncle came in to buy a book.'

Violet squatted down on her haunches, pulling Charity down beside her. ‘Go on.'

The cobblestones were warm beneath her buttocks and the brick wall released the heat of the sun that it had absorbed during the day, making her feel warm and relaxed. Suddenly she had the need to confide in someone. ‘I met this cove when I was begging on the streets. He said he was a professor of something or other, and he wanted me to go to his lodgings and help him in his work.'

‘Oh yes, we've all heard that one.'

‘No, I don't think he meant it like that. He seems a really nice man and he still wants to see me – just to talk, nothing else.'

‘If you believe that you'll believe anything. Men are all the same, Charity, love. You can't trust 'em, and you can't believe a word they say. Ma's drummed that into us girls again and again, since Betsy got caught out. Mind you, it don't always work for the best. Me cousin Sukey's nearly twenty and she's said no so often that the fellers have given up. She'll be an old maid if she ain't careful.'

Charity scrambled to her feet. ‘There must be more to life than marrying the first bloke who comes along just to keep a roof over your head.'

Violet shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘That's life, my duck. What choice have we got?' She stood up and stretched. ‘I'm going to the Jockey Fields with Maisie Spinks. Are you coming?'

‘Not tonight. I've got some reading to do.'

‘You won't get much of a laugh from a dusty old book.'

‘Maybe not, but at least I won't get into any trouble.' Charity gave her a cheerful wave as she retraced her steps across the yard.

‘And you won't have no fun neither,' Violet called after her as Charity opened the scullery door.

‘I can do without that sort of fun,' Charity murmured as she went inside.

Jethro was still sitting at the kitchen table but he had abandoned the newspaper and was poring over a ledger. She cleared her throat. ‘Ahem, Mr Dawkins, may I have a word with you?'

He looked up, scowling. ‘What d'you want? Can't you see I'm busy?'

‘It won't take a moment, sir.'

‘Very well. Make it quick.'

‘Mr Barton has a book on order. I wondered if I might deliver it myself?'

‘Why would you want to do that?' Jethro eyed her suspiciously.

‘Because he's interested in me as a subject for one of his lectures.'

‘I never heard it called that before,' Jethro said, curling his lip. ‘I'll send it by messenger as usual. You keep away from men like him.'

‘It would be quite proper,' Charity protested. ‘His nephew would be there and his housekeeper. I've been invited to have tea with them.'

‘I'm not paying you to socialise. You work here on my terms and if you don't like it you know what you can do.' He bent his head over the columns of figures, dismissing her with an impatient wave of his hand. Charity realised that it was futile to argue when he was in this sort of mood and she retreated to the shop and immersed herself in the travels of Miss Amelia Edwards.

The order arrived from the warehouse two days later but Jethro was adamant, insisting that Charity remain in the shop and that a messenger be sent to Doughty Street. She wrote a brief note explaining why she had not come in person and slipped it inside the cover, hoping that Mr Barton would understand. She handed it to the messenger with a feeling of acute disappointment. Her chance to visit another world, quite different from her own, had slipped from her grasp.

‘There is something you can do for me.'

She turned with a start to see Jethro standing behind her with a book clutched in his hand. He thrust it at her with an attempt at a smile which only served to emphasise the paralysis of one side of his face. ‘Dr Marchant's order,' he muttered. ‘It needs to go to Old Fish Street today. You must take it.'

‘Me? But I thought I wasn't allowed to leave the shop.'

‘You are if I say so.'

‘I don't understand why it's all right for me to go all that way when you wouldn't let me make the short trip to Doughty Street.'

‘I don't pay you to think – I pay you to do as you're told. Dr Marchant is a friend as well as a valued client, so put your bonnet on and take this to him now. I expect you back before closing time and I don't want any excuses.'

‘Of course I'll go, but it would be quicker if I had the cab fare.'

‘I'm not made of money. Selling books pays your wages. If you want to go by cab you can pay for it yourself.' He thumped the book down on the counter and turned his back on her. ‘Go now, before I change my mind.'

Charity hooked her bonnet off its peg and picked up the book. She left the shop and started off on the long walk to the doctor's house. The sky was overcast when she set out, and the atmosphere humid. In the distance she could hear the rumble of thunder which rolled closer as she neared the river. She quickened her pace, hoping to get to Old Fish Street before the rain clouds broke and soaked her to the skin, but large drops began to fall as she reached St Paul's and the air was thick with a sulphurous glow. A sudden gust of wind tore at her bonnet and careered down the street like a runaway horse. The city skyline was illuminated by a sudden sheet of lightning followed by a resounding crash of thunder. She started to run, making her way across the busy street and narrowly escaped being run down by a startled horse which reared in the shafts of a hansom cab.

Blinded by the sudden downpour, she sought shelter beneath the colonnaded portico of St Paul's Cathedral. She took off her straw bonnet which was soaked and ruined. The colours in her cotton print frock had run, and trickles of blood-red dye stained her wrists and hands. Even worse, the brown paper wrapped around the doctor's book was soaked with rainwater. She peeled it off, uttering a heartfelt sight of relief when she saw that the leather binding was damp but undamaged. She huddled up, wrapping her arms around her knees and shivering despite the muggy heat. There was nothing she could do other than sit and wait for the storm to pass.

Mrs Rose opened the front door. ‘Well,' she said, shaking her head. ‘You look a sorry sight, Charity. I thought you were well set up with Mr Dawkins, but just look at the state of you.'

‘I brought the doctor's book,' Charity said through chattering teeth. She was wet through, and although the sun was now shining from a peerless blue sky she was chilled to the bone.

‘Come inside.' Mrs Rose ushered her in and closed the door. ‘You look in a worse state than you did last winter when you turned up in a snowstorm. Go through to the kitchen.'

‘I sh-should g-give the doctor his book first.'

Mrs Rose snatched it from her. ‘He's out on a house call, but I'll put it on his desk. Now do as I say, and don't argue.'

The kitchen was warm and the aroma of roasting meat made Charity's stomach rumble with hunger. ‘It's you. You've come at last.' Dorrie abandoned the task of shelling peas and flung her arms around Charity's neck. She stepped back, pulling a face. ‘You're soaking wet.'

‘She is indeed.' Mrs Rose bustled into the kitchen, carrying the now familiar missionary barrel, which spilled over with garments. She dumped it on the table. ‘Take off those wet things, my girl. I'm sure we've got something to fit you and that dress is all but ruined.' She fingered the wet fabric, shaking her head. ‘Cheap material and badly made. You bought this in a dolly shop, I should imagine. Well, whatever you paid for it you were robbed, Charity my girl. Now take it off and pick something from the charity box.' A grim smile lit her normally humourless features.