Oh, why did she blush so when he was near? But she didn’t mind, not really, in fact, not at all. The constant formalities between them were tiresome when they were alone, but that was the problem, they shouldn’t be alone together. The city had far too many strict rules of proprietary. Life had been so much simpler in the country. ‘Very well, sir.’ She gave in because there was no good reason to fight him anymore.
‘Adam. Say it, Meredith.’ He took her gloved hand in his strong fingers.
She wetted her lips; this was a step nearer to the intimacy she feared. ‘Adam?’ His name left her lips in little more than a whisper, but it rang in her ears like chiming bells.
He raised her hand to his lips, saying, ‘Adam and Meredith.’
She heard his words and they sounded like they belonged together, joined in harmony, joined in … she looked at him, what was happening to her?
Adam tilted his head and looked out of the window. ‘I have a meeting with Woody this afternoon at The Grapes Inn. I must go and become Dello Murphy again.’
‘But you haven’t told me anything you have discovered?’
‘There isn’t really anything of importance to tell you, but maybe later.’
‘Please, be careful, I didn’t mean to make you angry. I do know how dangerous this is.’ Her hand was still in his and she reluctantly withdrew it. ‘Please, don’t do anything to cause those drunken men to harm you.’
Adam touched her cheek with his finger and ran it down to tilt her chin. ‘Thank you for your concern. I will be careful.’
The coach stopped. Adam tapped the roof and the coachman opened the door. He got out and offered his hand to her. ‘Goodbye, Meredith.’
Adam pushed a silver coin over the table to Woody. ‘So, the dark woman does come below. That be a very interestin’ bit of news’
‘I’ve only seen her ’ere this once, and only ’cause her man got careless.’
‘And that be what I’m paying ’ee for. Keeping yer eyes open and yer ears lisenin’ for what’s goin’on in number six.’ Adam put a few extra pennies on the table, ’ave a mug of the ’keeper’s finest ale and I’ll see yer soon.’
He left the tavern room and hurried round to the back entrance, down the steps, and into room six. It amazed him how so many people could come and go without being noticed.
Lighting only one candle he opened the secret door to the hidden room. The paintings were still hanging there. He put himself in the position of Madame Lightfoot; there was danger in keeping goods stored without a buyer, so she must have one awaiting this delivery. She must realise that her situation was threatened, to the extent of imprisonment, if the Turner was not found. The danger to Meredith increased hourly, for Lightfoot would not hesitate to implicate Frederick Sanders to save herself in this criminal ruse.
Meredith waited until Clemmie left to go to a small market that only opened on Monday afternoons. Adam was meeting her father in Aldgate. Now she had agreed to call him Adam, she let his name float around her mind forming his face, his smile, and those dark eyes gentle just for her. But they were for Meredith, the lady; not Merry from Blackfriars.
With both her protectors occupied, this was an opportunity to go back to her past. After all her deliberations and decisions not to go, she wouldn’t rest until she did.
She changed into her own work dress again and left the gallery within fifteen minutes. Her heart thumped like a drum beating the rhythm of the soldiers’ steps as she walked up Ludgate Street to St Paul’s Cathedral. Turning round she looked back. From here on she would be stepping back into her past. Did she want to do this? The answer was a complicated muddle of emotions – a desire to see and the fear of knowing what was left of her home. She walked towards the river.
The roads and lanes had not changed in ten years; they were still the well-worn cobbles. Meredith didn’t hurry; she wanted to remember how dismal and cramped life was for the families in the narrow houses, more so in the cellar rooms. Everywhere was so familiar: children knelt sharing a chunk of bread; two small girls sat in a doorway holding hands. Her heart ached; every one of them unwashed, their hair matted, and without exception, torn and dirty clothes. Turning a corner Meredith stopped. Two ruffians were tugging furiously over a cabbage – such an everyday occurrence that no one interfered to stop them. The desolation drained her energy and she wanted to sit down on the cobbles as she had when she lived here. Poverty was still the way of life in Blackfriars.
She turned into another alley. Instantly, hardened mud and deep wheel ruts became difficult to walk along in her fashionable boots; boots she could be killed for if someone was desperate for money. The hovels on either side were little more than huts, held together by its neighbour either side. At least they had not lived quite like this. A harrowing thought burst into her mind: while she lived in luxury, could her family have been forced into a place like this? Time had made her forget the squalor, the choking smells of open drains and the wretchedness of these people.
She didn’t have to go on, there was no obligation, but she would be a coward to turn and run as she had before. Her mission now was to find her family – their fate, good or bad.
Although not hungry, her insides rumbled, almost as though it wanted to feel that gnawing pain again. Hawkers called out, selling pies and milk, spoons and knives. Traders pushed vegetable and fruit carts. She remembered stealing an apple from a cart and how frightened she had been.
A breeze cooled her face as she walked into Thames Street. The road stretched out before her. She was twelve again. She could smell the river, the houses unchanged, all of them in need of fresh paint. The people looked more tired, bedraggled and poor – why had progress passed them by? Did no one care? She had been lucky, no not lucky, she had escaped and fate had found her Frederick.
Meredith saw a young woman sat on the ground, her dress top pushed aside, feeding her baby and trying to cuddle three other children to her. They had that thin, hungry look and it made their dark eyes seem large in their pale, drawn faces. The clothes they wore would have been cast off as rags in Harlington. She wrenched open her reticule, her eyes filling with tears as her fingers fumbled to find her purse. Pity and sorrow raced through her as she put a shilling into the girl’s palm and closed the bony fingers tight around it. Running from Warder Snipes had been the right thing to do.
The house was there and the basement room. Nothing had changed: the bricks were black from the soot of chimneys, the door was unpainted, the windows needed washing – she pulled her thoughts to a stop. This was not an area where people cleaned, it was only a place to live, somewhere to eat and sleep. They did not have the fresh country air, the meadows to run in and the farms to buy their food. This was Blackfriars, where one survived and didn’t think of a future.
Meredith stood looking at the house. This is what she had come for, just to see. But now she was here, she wanted to go inside – make sure they were there. What good would it do? She had abandoned her family, hadn’t cared what happened to them. Why open the wound of guilt wider? Because she had to know, had to see they were all right. Before she could change her mind, Meredith crossed the road and went down the steps. She raised her hand and knocked. Pure undiluted fear raced through her. The door opened and a girl stood in the doorway.
‘Yar. What do yer want?’
What could she say? She swallowed hard. ‘Hello. I’m … are you the tenant’s daughter?’
‘Why?’ The girl sounded cautious. ‘If it’s Pa yer want, he’s out.’
I know that, I want to know about my family.
‘I’m doing a list of families in Thames Street. It’s for the … um, St Martin’s Church Foundation.’
‘Never ’eard of them. Pa says I’m not to talk to strangers.’
She went to close the door, but Meredith put her hand out to stop it closing. ‘I’m to give sixpence if you tell me who lives here.’ Oh, how the lies now flowed out of her mouth. ‘Can I come in?’
Meredith tried to see inside, but the girl slid out and closed the door. ‘No. But we can sit on the steps. Sixpence yer say. I’ll have it first before I tell yer.’
They sat down side by side. Meredith’s misery grew with each breath. The girl’s eyes were the colour of her own and her face was so like their mother’s. They were still here, still living in the same place. Still eating and sleeping amongst the rats and cockroaches. She should be appalled they hadn’t managed to get out of this basement, but selfishly, she was glad, because it meant she had found them.
Suddenly, she had no control over her body and every limb, every part of her, felt weak and it was difficult to breathe. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
The girl held out her hand. ‘First yer sixpence, I said.’
Meredith took the silver coin from her purse and handed it over. ‘There is your father and you and who else?’
‘Like I said, there’s only me and Pa.’
The words sent a hammer blow into her heart. There were only two of them out of six. ‘Where is your mother?’ The shock crawled through her, her brain ceased to function. She forced herself to ask, ‘Do you not have any brothers and sisters?’
The girl shrugged. Her breasts were only just beginning to show through the dress top. She could not be any older than when Meredith had run away. ‘What is your name?’
‘Tilly. Ma died.’
This was little Matilda! Her mother was dead! Meredith wouldn’t believe that – the girl was lying, ‘When?’
‘A long time, I was only little. Pa tells me about her sometimes.’
Mama was really dead – buried beneath the ground; she could never touch her hand, tell her she was sorry. Meredith was unable to put words together, but she had to know the whole story. ‘What about your brothers and sisters?’
‘Lily got married and left. Me brothers left and ’ave gone to sea. It’s just me and Pa, like I said.’
‘Is your sister living in Blackfriars? Do you have letters from your brothers?’
‘Why do yer want to know all that?’ The girl’s mouth closed into a firm line.
‘Just to …’ Meredith couldn’t think of an excuse. ‘Um … for the records, that’s all. There is nothing for your father to worry about.’ Tilly bit her lip and Meredith wanted to hug her. She did exactly the same thing when she was worried.
‘Lily lives in the country. Me brothers don’t know how to write.’
‘You don’t remember another sister?’
‘No. Ma never had any more babies after me.’
Merry was forgotten. She was not remembered at all. Pa never thought she was worth a mention. ‘Thank you. I must go now. Goodbye.’ Meredith stood and ran up the steps. She didn’t look back, she couldn’t, and this wasn’t how it should have been.
Her legs found new strength and she raced through the alleys, instinct guiding her back. She didn’t stop running until she reached St Martin’s church in Ludgate Hill. The door was open, the Reverend Jones welcomed the good and the bad at all times.
Kneeling in a pew, Meredith bowed her head. Nothing had gone according to her dream. In all her vows of not returning to Blackfriars, this had never included her mother. She had always wanted to see her again. That was why she had gone today, so she could tell her why she had run away and to wash the guilt from her soul.
But she was too late! Clasping her fingers together she prayed, ‘Please, Mama, forgive me.’
CHAPTER TEN
Madame Lightfoot lifted The Times from her breakfast tray. She scanned the sheet and a smile touched her lips, ‘Tonight, my beauties.’ As she continued to read, deep lines creased her forehead and her lips curled back across her teeth like a growling dog. She spat out her words like venom. ‘The Royal Academy announces their Summer Exhibition …’ She tore the paper into pieces and threw it across the bed. ‘If the girl doesn’t find the Turner, everything is lost.’ Her anger exploded with the tray flying across the bedchamber floor.
‘Sally Ann,’ she shouted. ‘I’m going out. Prepare my simple grey gown.’
In the shadow of the Tower of London, River Lane housed small dilapidated hovels. Madame Lightfoot’s dishevelled appearance and threadbare cloak fitted well with her surroundings as she walked amongst the pitiful souls who slept and begged every day in the gutters. Their hacking coughs, spitting, and whispers followed her until she unlocked the door of number thirteen.
Stepping inside she closed and bolted the heavily reinforced door. A shutter covered a small window and this made the room dim, only the bare whitewashed walls reflected its size. Not a single piece of furniture stood on the scrubbed floor.
A sigh left her lips. ‘Hello, Mama, is your spirit here today?’ She closed her eyes and waited. ‘No, Mama? My receptiveness is at odds with you. We will talk another time.’
She went to the back wall and lifted her arm to the ceiling, touched an unmarked spot. Part of the wall moved out and she descended a flight of steps. Her large hands used a flint and she lit a candle on a table.
The cellar expanded from a dark hole into a large room, the dirt floor embedded with flagstones. Perfectly centred, an easel was placed opposite a winged leather chair. Several small tables were placed around the room, each with a six-branch candelabrum. Lightfoot lit them all.
She sat in the chair and tapped her fingernails on the leather arms. Her head fell back and she closed her eyes. Softly and slowly a rhythmic chant left her lips. Her native tongue speeded up with the repeated rhyme, over and over, her fingernails tapping in time. Her chanting stopped. She opened her eyes and slammed both hands on the chair arms.
‘I curse you, Frederick Sanders. You will not rest until this task is complete.’
Reflected in the candlelight were oil paintings, delicate watercolours, and charcoal sketches. Each one painted by a French, Dutch, or Italian master. All in exquisite gold frames hanging on the walls. She smiled and a sigh left her lips. ‘Oh, my beauties, you outshine a thousand monuments.’ She rose from the chair, picked up a candelabrum, and toured the cellar. She replaced the flaming lights, then lifted a small oil painting from the wall and put it on the easel.
Sitting again, she spoke to the painting. ‘You’re not for sale, Rachel Ruysch. Oh, how I admire your talent. My mama coaxed me, loved me, but I didn’t have the gift. You! To be blessed with a father who encouraged such freedom as you wished. You were a woman painting against the odds of rejection. I could never succeed, but Frederick has taught the girl well. With a little unfriendly persuasion, Miss Sanders could continue his work.’
She sat for a long time, her smile still lighting her eyes. ‘Oh yes, Miss Sanders, find the Turner. I want you to work for me.’ She put the painting back on the wall, extinguished the candles, and climbed the steps back into her secret hovel.
Madame Lightfoot alighted from a hackney. She waited in the dark until the sound of the horse’s hooves died away. A few steps brought her to a door and she went inside. Three-quarters of the way along a narrow passage was a flight of steps. She lifted her skirts and ascended up them to an upper landing. She opened the door on her left. The room was large and furnished with a sofa and chairs in rich golden brocades. A cherry wood dining set completed the arrangement. She stepped onto an exquisite crimson carpet decorated with symmetric lines and swirling symbols. Hiding the window, silk drapes the colour of woodland primroses shimmered in the candlelight.
She was again the woman of wealth. Her hair re-dressed, wearing a dark green velvet cloak over a pink gown. She pulled at the fingers of her gloves.
A young servant girl curtsied. She had the same dark skin and hurried forward to take her mistress’ cloak. ‘Good evenin’, madame, your suppa is ready.’
‘Good. But first I will ready myself to retire. I am hungry tonight, Sally-Ann, but I can wait a little longer. Then you may go to bed.’
Two hours later she pushed away a fine china plate, picked up a gold go
blet, and slowly swirled the red wine inside. Raising the goblet high, she toasted aloud. ‘To the triangle of fate: Turner, Frederick, and Meredith Sanders.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Meredith looked down on to the busy road of Ludgate Hill. She was glad she didn’t have to go to Tallow House today. Her head was in no state to concentrate on Sarah’s portrait. She was a sweet child, but her chatter would have been difficult to cope with against the hammering headache Meredith had succumbed to yesterday after coming out of St Martin’s church.
Clemmie came into the room with a tray. ‘A cup of tea will help to revive you, dear. Your face is so white, you look like a ghost. Of course, I’ve never seen a ghost, only stories from my mother.’
Mother to daughter! In that cramped basement there had been no time or place for her mother to tell her stories. Except, sometimes, on hot summer nights, when she crept from her bed and sat on the basement steps, her mother came and sat beside her, held her hands and rubbed a hard-skinned thumb across her palm. In the cool of the dawn she would tell her stories about when she had been a young girl.
Meredith’s throat tightened, choking tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Clemmie’s voice came through her agony. ‘I’ve brought a few biscuits. Would you like one?’
Meredith wasn’t hungry, but Clemmie looked so concerned. ‘Yes, please. Shall we be naughty and sit on the sofa and forget about chores and dusting?’
‘Oh, I think I can give that up for today. Come and rest.’
The politeness of sipping tea and nibbling biscuits made her feel like a tightly wound clock spring. She had to speak about yesterday to someone. And her only confidante that she could tell was sat beside her.
‘Clemmie, when I came to Appleton House and Frederick said I was staying, what did you think?’
‘That’s a strange question to be asking after all this time. Frederick only said that you were a young lady who needed somewhere to live and that you would be of help to me in the house. When I asked your name he said from then on you would be called Meredith Sanders. It really wasn’t for me to question.’
The Hidden Legacy Page 10