The Beggar Maid (9 page)

Jethro's misshapen torso rose and fell as he struggled to catch his breath. His dark brows drew together in an ominous frown and he clenched and unclenched his fists, flexing his fingers as if preparing to strike again. ‘You'll do as I say or you'll get a taste of my leather belt around your skinny backside. That's the last time I let you out of my sight, girl. From now on you won't go anywhere without my say-so. D'you understand?'

Charity could see that he was beyond reason and acknowledged his harsh words with a brief nod as she took her plate of pease pudding into the shop, closing the door on his continued ranting. She sat on the floor under the counter and attempted to eat, but she had no appetite and she left the food untouched. She was trapped. She knew enough of the hardships in the outside world to understand the value of a roof over her head and regular meals, however meagre. She had seen poverty at its ugliest and she knew that there were few choices for a young woman who had neither family nor friends to protect her. She had seen fresh-faced girls, little more than children, who had been forced to sell their bodies in order to survive. In a few short years they would be old before their time, dependent upon the use of opium and cheap spirits to dull the pain of their futile existence and the disease that raddled their bodies. She could run away, but she might end up in a far worse situation; at least here, in Dawkins' shop, she had found an escape in books, and if she were to better herself it would be through education. If she had learned one thing in the past few months it was that the world was there for all to discover in the written word.

She waited until it was dark and she could hear Jethro's loud, laudanum-induced snores before going into the kitchen to clear the table. She left the dirty dishes soaking in cold water, and she went out into the back yard. The privy was in its usual disgusting state and she spent as little time as possible in its stuffy, evil-smelling confines. The smoky air outside seemed fresh in comparison and she made her way to the steps where she sat down, allowing the cool night air to caress her bruised face. She would have a black eye by morning and she would have to explain that away with the time-honoured excuse of having walked into a door. No one would believe her but they would be too polite to enquire further.

It was unusually quiet in the moonlit yard. The only sounds emanating from the upper floors were a baby crying and the occasional shout of laughter, but for once there were no raised voices to corrupt the serenity of the night. The click of the latch on the back gate made her suddenly alert and she shrank back into the shadow of the building, breathing a sigh of relief when she realised that it was Violet who sashayed down the narrow pathway between the piles of rubbish. She was holding out her patched skirts as if she were on a ballroom floor, dancing to music that she alone could hear. She looked unreal and ghostly in the moonlight, and she was smiling. ‘Violet, it's only me,' Charity said softly, trying not to startle her friend by suddenly making her presence known.

Violet came to a halt, peering into the shadows. ‘Charity?'

‘Yes. I didn't want to scare you.'

‘I've been out with Maisie and the boys,' Violet said dreamily. ‘We had such a laugh. You ought to come with us next time.' She moved closer. ‘What's up with your face? You've got a real shiner coming.'

‘Nothing,' Charity said, instinctively raising her hand to cover her bruises. ‘I walked into the door.'

‘I heard that one before.' Violet flopped down beside her. ‘The hunchback's got a reputation for using his fists, that's why he can never keep anyone for long. They all pack up and leave in the end.'

Charity stood up. Her whole body ached and she was overcome by weariness. ‘Well, I haven't got much choice, Violet. So I think I'll be here for quite a while yet.'

‘I'm so glad.' Violet leapt to her feet and gave her a hug. ‘You really must come out with us one evening. You need a bit of fun.'

Charity eyed her curiously. ‘How do you manage it, Violet?'

‘Manage what? I dunno what you mean.'

‘The back gate is always padlocked at night. How do you get in and out so easily?'

Violet slipped her hand into her pocket and produced a small key. ‘I use this to let meself out, and climb over the gate if it's locked when I get back. One of the boys we meet is an apprentice locksmith. He's keen on me and he was only too happy to make a duplicate. Me and Maisie can get in and out without anyone knowing. You could too, if you had a mind to.'

‘Thanks. Maybe I will one day, but I'm dog tired so I'll say goodnight, Violet.' Charity made her way slowly and painfully into the scullery where a pile of dirty dishes awaited her.

Next morning she was in the shop alone when the door opened to admit Wilmot, followed closely by Daniel. ‘My dear girl.' Wilmot studied her face with an angry scowl. ‘Daniel told me what happened last evening. Where is the scoundrel?'

‘It's nothing, sir. I'm all right.' She looked away, conscious of the livid bruise on her cheek and a black eye.

‘I want a word with Dawkins,' Wilmot said angrily. ‘I abhor violence of any kind, especially when used on women and children. I intend to tell him so.'

‘Please don't make things worse, sir.' Charity laid a restraining hand on his coat sleeve. ‘He's still very angry with me for losing the money and you'll only make things worse.'

‘I know what I'd like to do to the wretch,' Daniel muttered. ‘But as long as you're not feeling too bad, I suppose we ought to let it rest for now.'

Wilmot handed a small, deckle-edged card to Charity. ‘This will remind you of my address. It's not far from here. When might I expect you?'

‘I'm not allowed out,' Charity said sadly. ‘I'm afraid I can't come.'

‘Surely he can't keep you after hours?' Wilmot's frown deepened. ‘I must speak to him. This is unreasonable behaviour.' He took a step towards the back of the shop but Charity moved swiftly to bar his way.

‘I beg you not to say anything, Mr Barton. I have nowhere else to go and I would be in a far worse state if I lost my job.'

‘She's right, Uncle,' Daniel said reluctantly. ‘We might make things worse if we try to interfere.'

Wilmot looked from one to the other, shaking his head. ‘This is a sorry state of affairs.' He was silent for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very well. It goes against all my better judgement, but I'll leave it for now.' He patted Charity on the shoulder and strode out of the shop.

Daniel gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘We'll find a way round this. Do you think you could meet me on the corner of Gray's Inn Road after dark?'

‘He locks the shop up at night and keeps the key about his person. I'm not allowed out.'

‘What about the back yard? Isn't there a gate into the alleyway?'

‘There is, but that's locked at night.' Charity had a sudden vision of Violet dancing home after an enjoyable evening out, and she smiled. ‘But I know someone who has a key.'

‘Nine o'clock this evening,' Daniel said in a low voice. ‘Meet me on the corner.'

In the soft buttery glow of gaslights the tree-lined elegance of Doughty Street was like stepping into another world when compared with the commercial bustle and ugliness of Liquorpond Street. The terraced four-storey Georgian houses, with discreet basement areas protected by gated iron railings, exuded a confident aura of respectability and gentility from a bygone age. Charity had vague memories of the street in Chelsea where she had lived as a child, and although their house had been little more than a cottage it had been built in a similar style and roses had clambered over the porch in summer. She could recall the scent even now and she experienced a sudden and overwhelming feeling of homesickness.

Daniel, however, seemed to take it all for granted as he mounted the front steps and knocked on the door.

‘It's very nice here,' Charity said in a hushed tone. ‘Is this where you live too?'

‘Right now I'm supposed to be at home in the country, but I did rather badly last term so I'm here to do some swotting.'

‘And are you?'

He grinned. ‘Sometimes, but I'm more interested in working in the field than writing long theses on archaeology. I'm not an academic like my uncle.'

The door opened before she had a chance to comment and a maidservant ushered them inside. ‘Thank you, Biddy.' Daniel flashed a smile in her direction, and Charity was quick to notice that the girl blushed to the roots of her hair before scuttling off towards the basement stairs.

‘Do you have that effect on all the girls?'

‘Of course,' he said modestly. ‘All except one.'

‘If you mean me, you're wasting your time, Daniel Barton. I'm not interested in romance.'

‘Who said it was you?' He tweaked a lock of her hair that had escaped from beneath her bonnet. ‘Come upstairs. Uncle Wilmot's rooms are on the second floor. You will stay for supper, won't you?' He bounded up the stairs without giving her time to answer, and she followed more slowly in his wake.

Daniel opened a door on the second landing which led into a large room furnished with an eye to comfort rather than style. A mahogany desk set against one wall was littered with papers and writing materials. In the middle of the floor was a saggy, well-worn sofa and there were two armchairs, neither of which matched the other. The alcoves on either side of the chimney breast were crammed with books, some of which had overflowed onto the floor, while others were piled up on the small dining table and the three chairs which surrounded it. Faded blue velvet curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the room was lit by a gasolier which fizzed and popped occasionally, emitting a yellowish light. The walls were hung with framed watercolours of seascapes and sailing ships, and the whole atmosphere was decidedly male, cluttered and comfortable. She could imagine Wilmot and Daniel seated on either side of the fire on winter evenings, reading or talking over the events of the day.

‘Welcome.' Wilmot rose from a leather chair at his desk and came towards them holding out his hand to Charity. ‘I was afraid you might not make it, but you're here now and that's splendid.'

Charity took off her bonnet and shawl and laid them on a chair.

‘Sit down, my dear,' Wilmot said, smiling. ‘Would you like a glass of sherry wine? I've asked my housekeeper to send up a light supper and coffee.' He chuckled. ‘Actually, Mrs Bragg is my landlady and not my housekeeper – a title which suggests that I own the premises or at least rent the whole house. I do not, of course; I am merely a lodger here.'

‘My uncle is always precise,' Daniel said, grinning. ‘But we are very comfortable and well fed.'

‘You are a great deal too comfortable for your own good.' Wilmot tugged at the bell pull by the fireplace. ‘You should be off on a dig somewhere, instead of lounging about and enjoying yourself. Term starts in a few weeks and you'll have to buckle down to some hard work.'

‘I know it, Uncle, and I promise that I'll do my best.'

Charity sat down on the edge of the sofa, folding her hands in her lap as she waited for someone to tell her exactly what was expected of her. She could not imagine that she had any useful contribution to make to Wilmot's work, but she was here now and she might as well enjoy her brief time away from Dawkins and all that he stood for. She sat in silence, listening to their banter until the maid brought in a tray laden with plates of cold meat, bread and butter and a dish of pickles.

‘Thank you, Biddy,' Wilmot said, nodding in approval as she placed the tray on a table, taking care not to disturb the books. She blushed, and it was obvious to Charity that Daniel was the only person in the room as far as Biddy was concerned. She walked past him slowly, swaying her hips, but he seemed oblivious to her charms.

‘Put the poor child out of her misery, and tell her you're not interested,' Wilmot said when she had left the room. ‘She has a fondness for you, boy. Heaven knows why.'

‘She's a servant,' Daniel protested. ‘And Mrs Bragg would beat me with her rolling pin if I dared to flirt with her daughter, which I would never do.'

Wilmot took a seat at the table, pushing aside a pile of books. ‘Come and sit down, Charity. Have some supper and then we can sit and talk. Daniel will see you home, so don't worry about the time.'

Daniel rose to his feet and held out a chair for Charity. She murmured her thanks, wondering if this was how a gentleman treated a lady, or whether Daniel was simply trying to put her at ease. She sat down and glanced anxiously at Wilmot, but he was selecting slices of cold ham and mutton from the serving dish and arranging them neatly on a plate, which he then passed to her. ‘Help yourself to bread and pickles, my dear. You look as though you could do with a good meal. I'm sure that miser Dawkins is as mean with his food as he is in nature.' He glanced at his nephew who was about to take his place at table. ‘Pour the wine, Dan, there's a good chap. I enjoy a good claret with my meal, Charity.'

Charity was about to refuse when Daniel handed her a glass of wine, but Wilmot insisted that she take a sip. She did, and not wishing to insult him she smiled and nodded, but she would have preferred a glass of lemonade or a nice hot cup of tea. The wine, however, did not taste so bad after a mouthful or two, and it went straight to her head, loosening her tongue and making her relax in their company.

When the meal was finished Wilmot made himself comfortable in a chair by the fireplace and lit a pipe. Daniel sat beside Charity on the sofa and they slid closer together as the middle sagged beneath their combined weight. She edged away, conscious of his presence and feeling suddenly shy. Her head was spinning from the wine and she felt slightly sick after eating too much of the comparatively rich food. ‘I really ought to be going,' she said, trying not to cough as tobacco smoke wafted her way. ‘It was a lovely meal, thank you, sir.'