The Ragged Heiress (18 page)

‘We don’t get much passing trade,’ Peg explained through a mouthful of bread and cold sausage. ‘We get busy again when the workers knock off at six or seven, though there’s not much call for food until later on and then it’s mainly hot pies for the men to take home as a peace offering for spending their hard-earned wages on booze.’

‘You work hard,’ Lucetta said, mopping up the last of the gravy on her plate with a hunk of bread. ‘Don’t you ever get a day off?’

‘Everyone works hard round here, ducks. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. It’s as simple as that. You’ll learn.’

‘I have already,’ Lucetta murmured, licking her fingers one by one. ‘I’m very grateful to you for taking me in, Peg, but I must start looking for a more permanent position.’

‘You won’t find no better employers than us,’ Peg said, frowning. ‘I’d forget about being a lady’s maid if I was you, Lucy. You’re still young, but if you ain’t careful you could end up on the streets. Life is hard in these parts, and that’s a lesson you need to learn quick if you want to survive.’

Lucetta realised too late that she had said the wrong thing. She had no intention of staying any longer than was absolutely necessary, but it would have to do until
she could find someone who remembered her as Lucetta Froy, or she had found a more suitable position.

‘That’s enough chat,’ Peg said, pushing her plate away. ‘Get these dishes washed and sweep the floor. I’m going to have a nap upstairs on me bed while Bob’s out. Charlie will see to the bar and you, miss, can give yourself a good wash down in the yard while it’s quiet. You smell worse than the drayman’s horse, and that’s saying something.’

Lucetta rose to her feet, hiding her blushes by stacking the dirty crockery. For a brief second she was glad that her mother had not lived to see her daughter’s humiliation. To be upbraided for her lack of personal hygiene by a slattern such as Peg would have been less painful if it were untrue. Lucetta had not seen herself in a mirror since the night of the shipwreck, but her hair felt like tow and she knew she must look a sight. As she washed the last of the dishes in the stone sink, she gazed down at the greasy grey water thinking longingly of her bedroom at home. Every morning the maid had brought hot water to fill the violet-patterned china basin which stood on the washstand. Lined up against the tiled splashback were glass jars filled with sweet-smelling soft soap, made to the housekeeper’s own special recipe, hand cream scented with rose petals and cut-glass bottles filled with cologne and attar of roses. She had taken it all for granted then, never thinking that this way of life might end. She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve, and her eyes filled with tears. What had she come to? She did not even possess a handkerchief.

Suddenly she was angry. A cold white fury gripped her belly and she brushed away her tears. Uncle Bradley had robbed her of everything that was rightfully hers. Poor Papa would be turning in his grave if he knew what his wicked brother had done. She hiccuped on a sob as she realised that she did not even know where her parents were buried. Perhaps it would have been better if her memory had deserted her permanently. Her time spent in the fever hospital seemed like halcyon days compared to life since Stranks and Guthrie had claimed to be her brothers. She could see Mary’s fresh face and sympathetic smile, and Dr Harcourt had been kind and considerate. For a moment Lucetta could not recall his name, but she seemed to remember that he and Mary had been related in some way. Cousins – that was what Mary had said. ‘Come back and see us when you are fully recovered, Daisy,’ Mary had cried as she waved goodbye.

Lucetta had almost forgotten Mary while she was imprisoned in the damp, disgusting basement room, but she remembered her now and she felt as if someone had just given her the most precious present of all. She had a friend. She jerked the plug from the sink and watched the filthy water as it gurgled away down the drain. She stacked the clean dishes on the kitchen dresser, and picking up the rough piece of towelling that Peg had given her, she went out into the yard with renewed hope in her heart. She would seek out Mary and enlist her help in proving her identity. But first she must wash away the dirt that seemed to have become ingrained in her skin, or Mary might not recognise her.

Taking a quick glance around her, Lucetta was reassured that no one could see her as she stripped off her clothing. The inn yard was shielded from public view by its own outbuildings and high brick walls. Double wooden gates were securely padlocked against intruders and those who might attempt to pilfer a barrel or two, and shards of broken glass were cemented into the top of the walls. The autumn sunshine filtered through a haze from smoking chimneys, and having stripped off her clothes Lucetta closed her eyes as she worked the pump handle. The chilly air made her bare flesh tingle and when she finally worked up the courage to duck beneath the gushing jet of cold water, the shock took her breath away. Peg had given her a sliver of green soap which smelt strongly of carbolic. It was a far cry from attar of roses, but it formed a lather of sorts when she rubbed it over her body and into her hair. She watched the grime leach off her body and trickle down her slender legs to form pools at her feet. She was chilled to the bone but she felt cleansed. Her spirit had been crushed but it had not been broken. She was still Miss Lucetta Froy of Thornhill Crescent. She was the legal heir to her father’s estate, whatever that might be, and she was going to prove it if only for his sake. Once she had claimed her fortune she would be in a position to search for Sam, even if it took her to the other side of the world. She would find him and then …

The sun had gone behind a cloud and she sensed that someone was watching her. She spun round, folding her arms across her naked breasts.

Bob was standing in the shadows by the scullery door. His beard and moustache masked his expression, but to Lucetta he looked like a panther preparing to pounce on its unfortunate prey.

She reached for the towel and wrapped it around her slender body. She wanted to run but there seemed to be no way of escape: the gates were padlocked and Bob was blocking her only exit from the yard. They stood like statues, staring at each other for what seemed to her like an eternity. She willed him to go away or to break the dreadful silence that hung between them with an apology, but he might as well have turned to stone. She made a feeble movement with her hand and this seemed to bring him to his senses. Without a word, he turned his back on her and disappeared into the scullery.

As if on cue, the sun reappeared from behind the clouds and the yard was once again bathed in warmth and light. She leaned against the pump, controlling her erratic breathing with a supreme effort. Drying herself as best she could on the scrap of towelling, Lucetta pulled her shift over her head, followed by Poppy’s faded print frock. She was shaking uncontrollably, even though there had been no spoken threat to her person, but her instincts screamed out a warning. Her
doubts had been confirmed and she was certain that it was not safe to be alone with Bob Potts. Perhaps that was why Poppy had departed so suddenly. Maybe she was not in hospital after all, but had run away from her employer’s lewd looks and grasping hands?

Lucetta slipped her wet feet into her boots and towelled her hair until it was almost dry. Her lips trembled as she realised that she did not possess something as basic and necessary as a comb. Once, not so long ago, her dressing table had boasted silver-backed hairbrushes and tortoiseshell combs. She had had maidservants to wait on her and parents who loved and cherished her, but that life was gone forever and she might never find the man to whom she had given her heart and soul. It was all gone like a puff of smoke. She clenched her fists. ‘I will survive,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be bullied and browbeaten and I won’t stay here a moment longer than I have to.’ Holding her head high, she walked slowly across the cobbled yard. She paused outside the scullery. She was afraid, but she was not going to let Bob Potts see her fear. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

There was no one in the scullery and the only person in the kitchen was old Charlie the potman who was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea. He looked up as she entered the room and gave her a gummy grin. ‘You’re new here, ain’t you?’

Lucetta could have rushed over and hugged him simply for not being Bob. ‘I’m just here until Poppy gets better.’

Charlie pulled a face. ‘She won’t come back. She’s gone to a better place.’

‘Oh, the poor child. Is she dead?’

‘Dead?’ Charlie said, cackling with mirth. ‘No, she run off, didn’t she? She’ll be working in one of them knocking-shops or gone back to the workhouse. Either way it’ll be better than what she had here, but don’t tell the guvner that I said so.’

This statement confirmed Lucetta’s worst fears, but she managed a smile. ‘Well, I won’t be here long, Charlie. As soon as I find another position I’ll be off too.’

‘Good luck, girlie. I’m afraid you’re going to need it.’ Charlie rose hastily to his feet as Bob put his head round the door.

‘Where’s that barrel of ale you was supposed to be fetching? Hop to it, Charlie, or I’ll find a younger bloke to take your place. This ain’t a charity institution.’ Bob glared at Lucetta. ‘And you tidy yourself up. Where’s Peg? She should be down here seeing that you don’t laze about like that last little trollop. Get to work, the pair of you.’

That night, Lucetta heaved the pine chest into place across the door to the attic room. She knew that it would not stop a strong and determined man if he set his mind on entering, but it might make him think twice, and the noise would waken her from the deepest sleep. It was past midnight and she was bone weary. Peg had not allowed her to have a candle in her room in case she burned the place down, although Lucetta thought she was just being mean. Peg might appear to be open-handed but she was a thrifty housekeeper, and when Lucetta had asked if she might have an hour
or two off one afternoon, the answer had been a firm negative.

Lucetta made her way to her bed, ducking her head so that she did not collide with the rafters. A storm was rumbling around outside and clouds had obscured the moon. It was hot and stuffy in the attic and the darkness was filled with the sound of tiny feet scrabbling about beneath the eaves. A sudden flash of lightning turned night into day and Lucetta collapsed onto the hard little cot. She pulled off her boots and slipped the frock over her head, laying it across the foot of the bed. She would make certain to be up early and fully dressed so that Bob had no excuse to come to her room.

She lay down, listening to the thunder as it rumbled around the city. She knew now that she was almost as much a prisoner here as she had been when held captive by Stranks and Guthrie, and she was a virtual slave. Peg had no intention of paying her other than with food and lodging, and she had denied her right to time off. Lucetta had begun to appreciate the fact that her parents had been good employers. All their servants from the stable boy to the housekeeper were entitled to one afternoon off a month, and paid the going rate for their work. No wonder Poppy had run away, she thought sleepily. She would not stay here a moment longer than was necessary. She closed her eyes and curled up in a ball. Mary woud help her. She must think of a way to contact Mary.

But it was not that easy. Lucetta was guarded more closely than the crown jewels. She was kept busy from
early morning until late at night and she was never allowed out of the building even on the simplest errand. It seemed that the Potts had lost too many girls that way, Poppy being the last one to defect and take her chances in the outside world. Lucetta grew adept at avoiding Bob’s clumsy advances, and Peg was constantly alert, watching her husband’s every move.

As the days turned into weeks and autumn was overtaken by winter, Lucetta became more and more frustrated. She had written to Mary, and to her surprise Peg had agreed to post the letter, but when she received no reply Lucetta suspected that it had never reached the post office, let alone its destination at the fever hospital. The days became progressively colder and Lucetta’s attic room was filled with icy draughts that kept her awake at night, shivering beneath the thin coverlet.

The cotton frock that had once belonged to Poppy was so worn that the pattern was no longer distinguishable and it had begun to fall apart at the seams. Lucetta had found a coarse linsey-woolsey skirt in the chest but it was theadbare, and would not last the winter. She had learned to sew a straight seam at Miss Milton’s Academy, although most of their lessons had been devoted to the art of embroidery, but she was able to alter the garments that Stranks had brought to her at the hospital so that they now fitted reasonably well. Peg had given her a shawl but this was little protection against the bitter cold of early morning when Lucetta had to fetch water and coal from the yard. Chilblains were a constant torment and her calloused hands were cracked and bleeding by the end of each
long day. She had not given up hope but she had learned to live with her situation, and she had formed a working relationship with Peg, who was easy-going unless provoked. It was Bob who gave her the most cause for concern. Outwardly jovial and an excellent mine host in the taproom, he continued to be a brooding sexual menace. Lucetta took care never to be alone in his company and for the sake of peace she said nothing to Peg about his groping hands or the way his eyes raked her body as if he were mentally undressing her. She hated every minute that she was forced to slave away in Frog Hall, as the locals called it, but even though beneath the surface she rebelled she tried to maintain an outward appearance of meek acceptance.

She watched and waited for the opportunity to slip unnoticed from the pub and it came unexpectedly one afternoon in early December, when Charlie was laid low with a chill and she was called upon to fill the coal scuttle in the taproom. The yard was slippery with a thin coating of ice and the first flakes of snow were tumbling from a grey featherbed of clouds. She tied her shawl around her shoulders and she hefted the heavy bucket, slipping and sliding as she staggered over the cobblestones. Snowflakes settled on the frilled edge of her mobcap, melting as she entered the kitchen and trickling down her face. The wet cotton flopped over her eyes, obscuring her field of vision so that she accidentally barged into a man standing by the bar.