Tilly True

About the Book

Dismissed from her position as housemaid under a cloud of misunderstanding, Tilly True is forced to return home. But Tilly is determined to make something of her life and, rather than admit the truth to her poverty-stricken family, she sets out once more in search of employment.

Her journey takes her to the London law courts, a grim parsonage in one of the most notorious parts of the East End and a house of ill-repute. But when she falls for the dangerous charms of Barnaby Palgrave, Tilly soon finds that her troubles have only just begun . . .

About the Author

Dilly Court grew up in North East London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children and four grandchildren, and now lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband and a large, yellow Labrador called Archie. She is the author of twelve novels. She also writes under the name of Lily Baxter.

Also by Dilly Court

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781446472699

Version 1.0

  

Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2007

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © Dilly Court 2006

Dilly Court has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

First published in the United Kingdom in 2006 by Century

Arrow Books

The Random House Group Limited

20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

Random House Australia (Pty) Limited

20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,

New South Wales 2061, Australia

Random House New Zealand Limited

18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Random House (Pty) Limited

Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O'Gowrie,

Houghton 2198, South Africa

Random House Publishers India Private Limited

301 World Trade Tower, Hotel Intercontinental Grand Complex,

Barakhamba Lane, New Delhi 110 001, India

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099499633

Contents

Chapter One

A pattern of lozenges and stars hurtled towards Tilly's eyes as the red, blue and white tiled floor of the Blesseds' entrance hall came up to hit her. With a sickening thud that knocked the wind from her lungs, she fell to the ground beneath a hail of blows. Shielding her face against the savage beating from the riding crop, Tilly rolled across the floor and scrambled to her feet.

‘You stole my garnet brooch, you wicked little trollop. Admit it.' Martha Blessed's pinpoint eyes disappeared into the folds of her florid cheeks, and her prune-wrinkled lips formed a tight circle. ‘Sly little bitch.' Swishing the crop, she advanced on Tilly, her tightly corseted flesh vibrating with each thundering step.

Rivulets of blood trickling down her face brought Tilly back to her senses. Springing forward, she grabbed the offending weapon, wrenching it from her employer's hand. ‘I never stole from you.' Breaking the crop across her knee, she flung it to the ground. ‘And I ain't standing for being whipped for something what I never done.'

‘Morris, Morris, come here quick!' Martha's refined accent slipped into broad cockney, and the lustres on the wall sconces shivered and tinkled as her voice rose to a glass-shattering pitch. ‘Morris, run and fetch a constable! I'll have you put away, Tilly True. A few years in Brixton will sort you out, lady.'

Morris poked her head round the door that led down to the basement kitchen, her needle-sharp features pinched and sour. ‘What's up, missis?'

Spinning round, Martha scowled at her cook-general. ‘Never mind what's up, and I've told you a million times it's madam not missis. We're in Islington now, Morris, not bleeding Plaistow.'

‘What's she done this time then, madam?' Not budging an inch, Morris stood, arms akimbo, staring curiously at Tilly.

‘I ain't done nothing, you sour-faced old sow.' Tilly backed towards the front door, dragging back the heavy chenille portiere. ‘And I ain't staying here another minute.'

‘She took my garnet brooch what Mr Blessed bought me to celebrate the opening of the emporium. He paid all of ten and six for it down Spitalfields Market. And she's broke my riding crop.' Martha clutched her bosom that defied gravity, jutting over the top of her stays in an impressive ledge. ‘I'm having palpitations. Fetch the sal volatile.'

‘Well, which is it?' demanded Morris, still not budging. ‘Call the constable or smelling salts? And anyway, that crop weren't no use. You ain't got a horse nor even a pony, nor never had one, nor likely to if you asks me.'

Wrenching the door open, Tilly shivered as a sleet-spiked gust of wind slapped her in the face. She wasn't going to spend another second in this hateful place but she was going to have the last word. ‘You're a jumped-up old haybag. It weren't so long ago that your old man was peddling taters from his barrow.'

‘Don't let her get away, Morris.' Martha staggered crabwise across the hall. ‘My poor heart, it's racing nineteen to the dozen. Fetch a doctor.'

Morris threw up her hands. ‘Make your mind up, missis. First it was a copper, then the smelling salts and now it's the doctor. What's it to be?'

Throwing herself down on a hall chair that creaked and groaned beneath her weight, Martha pointed a shaking finger at Tilly. ‘You wait until I tell Mr Blessed what you've done.'

‘You want to watch your old man – he's got more hands than an octopus.' Poised for flight, Tilly tossed her head. ‘Anyway, I wouldn't touch your rotten garnets. They're probably just glass – not worth more than tuppence.'

With a roar that made the glass shades on the gaslights tinkle, Martha launched her body off the chair, lunging at the open door, but Tilly was too quick; she jumped the remaining three stone steps and hit the pavement running.

Barbary Terrace marched along the north bank of the Regent's Canal flanked by a regiment of red-brick, four-storey houses. The upwardly mobile Blesseds had moved here when Mr Blessed swapped his fruit and vegetable barrow in Plaistow for a second-hand furniture emporium in Wharf Road, Islington. Tilly had been pleased enough to get a job as housemaid, until she realised that Martha Blessed was a snobbish, self-indulgent tyrant and her husband, outwardly meek and mild-mannered, had an eye for a pretty young face as well as wandering hands. To her cost, Tilly had soon discovered that Stanley Blessed's long subjugated carnal desires made it impossible for him to pass her in the narrow corridors of the house without fondling or groping some part of her anatomy.

Reaching the bridge that crossed the canal where St Peter's Street ended and Wharf Road began, Tilly stopped to catch her breath; it was only then that she felt the cold striking through her flesh and gnawing at the marrow of her bones. The sleety rain had soaked her cotton blouse within seconds and her long skirts clung damply to her bare legs. In her heightened state of emotion and anger, Tilly had not felt the pain from the welts and bruises on her back until this moment. Her teeth were chattering and she was shaking all over from delayed reaction and shock. Leaning over the parapet, she took deep breaths, but the wintry January air was contaminated with chemicals spewing from the manufactories, coal tar, smoke, and flour dust from the mills alongside the canal. Barely moving, the tobacco-brown water was streaked blue with indigo dye and crusted with wood chips from timber piled high on the wharves, waiting to be transported by horse and cart to the mills and cabinetmakers' workshops.

The polyglot crowds scurrying past her did not seem to notice her, even though her blouse was bloodstained and torn and she was coatless on a bitter winter day. Tilly's ears were filled with the din of horses' hooves, the rumble of cartwheels, the clanking of great cranes loading and unloading barges, and the babble of voices speaking in many different languages. Gathering her wits, she knew she must make a move or else end up frozen to the stonework: yet another cadaver to be flung into a pauper's grave in the nearest necropolis. Sudden death on the mean streets of London's East End was an everyday occurrence, whether from murder, misadventure or sheer poverty. Feral children scavenged alongside feral cats and dogs, vying for scraps with tramps and drunks. Shop doorways offered a minimum amount of shelter to the crawlers: destitute people, mostly women, who were old, sick or merely unwanted, and were so weak that they were unable to walk, subsisting on handouts and dying unmourned.

Tilly had no illusions about life: survival meant using your brains or your fists. She was in trouble and would be in even worse straits if old Ma Blessed had called the constable and the coppers were out looking for a thieving servant girl. The irony was that she had not stolen the wretched brooch; it wasn't worth stealing anyway. Tilly was pretty certain that the bloodcoloured gems were red glass and that old man Blessed had once again cheated on his wife.

The sleet had hardened into hailstones and Tilly knew that she must keep moving, or freeze to death. There was only one place that she could go now and that was home to Ma in Red Dragon Passage, Whitechapel. She might not be best pleased to hear that Tilly had lost her job, but Ma would be on her side and she would make it right with Pops when he staggered in late at night, exhausted from working long hours as a lighterman on the river. Home, home, the mantra repeated again and again in her brain; she must get home, even though it was a fair step to Whitechapel. Tilly broke into a jogging run, her numbed feet skidding on the tiny pearls of sleet that turned the pavements into a slippery skating rink, but as the crowds grew denser she was forced to slow down. Picking her way through piles of rotting vegetable matter tossed from costermongers' barrows, stepping over the messes left by mange-ridden mongrel curs and weaving in and out of people intent on going about their own business, Tilly kept going until she reached City Road. By this time, her clothes were steaming and the feeling had come back to her feet. The only trouble was that her chilblains were burning like fire and the weals on her back had begun to itch and sting.