by Dilly Court
'It was nothing, my dear.' He turned to the waiting coachman. 'Escort Miss Spinks and her cousin to the carriage, Jenkins. Then you can bring the umbrella back for Miss May and me.' He led her to the shelter of the porch, where he shook the vicar's hand and murmured appropriate words of thanks.
Rosina managed to voice her appreciation, and the vicar disappeared into the cool depths of the church just as another flash of lightning rent the dark sky. She huddled in the shelter of Roland's protective arm, wincing as a huge thunderclap followed almost immediately. 'You will come back to the cottage, won't you, Roland? I think Jemima has laid on some refreshments for us; although I don't feel in the least like attending a wake, even a small one.'
'No, I've stayed too long as it is, Rosie. I still have business in Harwich, and then I must return to Rotterdam.'
She stared up at him, barely comprehending his words. 'But I thought – I mean, I assumed that you would return to London with us, especially now, with poor Pa dead and gone.'
'My dear, I told you that I cannot risk it, and nothing has changed.'
'Are you so afraid of Sukey Barnum and her father? Surely a man of your means could buy them off if he so wished?'
'There's something that I haven't told you. A complication far greater than my fear of a mere scandal.'
Another jagged flash of lightning turned the air blue around them. The ensuing crack of thunder almost deafened her, but Rosina was concentrating on Roland. She tugged at his arm. 'I need your help desperately. What is it that you haven't told me?'
'I am already engaged to be married. It's a marriage of convenience and I barely know the young lady. She is impoverished but well connected, and I am wealthy. No doubt it is a match made in heaven.'
She stared up at him aghast. 'Roland, how could you agree to such a union?'
'My father holds the purse strings. He chose the earl's daughter to be my bride, and if I go against his wishes I will find myself cut off without a penny. Ironic, isn't it? I am a man approaching thirty, and still under the parental thumb. When I marry Lady Mary, who is an only child with no surviving male relatives, our eldest son will inherit an earldom, and my fortune will pay for the upkeep of a dreary castle in Northumberland. So you see, Rosie, you are not the only one with problems.'
'I do see that, but at least you are not facing eviction and destitution. Your heart will not break, because you do not love this lady. I am about to lose everything that is dear to me, and my papa is dead. I have no one else to turn to but you.'
He gripped her hands, looking deeply into her eyes. 'I do love a lady, but she does not love me.'
His meaning was all too clear, and his words came as a shock. 'You can't mean me, Roland.'
His features twisted with genuine pain. 'Can't I? Why do you think that I didn't take advantage of you while you were under my roof? Did you imagine that it was due to some chivalrous feeling on my part? If you did, then you were wrong. I didn't have a business meeting to attend: I did what most men do when they are faced with an impossible situation – I went out and got drunk.'
'I – I don't know what to say.'
'There is nothing that you can say, my love.' He glanced over her shoulder. 'Jenkins is returning with the umbrella. I will see you safely back to the cottage and then I must leave.'
'Oh, Roland. I am so sorry that I put you in this situation. You are a good man.'
He threw back his head and laughed. 'Damned with faint praise!' The momentary glimmer of amusement died from his eyes and he gripped her by the shoulders. 'If things get really bad in London, you have only to say the word and I will come for you. I cannot marry you, Rosie. But I could set you up in my house in Rotterdam. You would be my wife in everything but name, and I swear that you would never want for anything ever again.'
She was saved from answering by a discreet cough from Jenkins as he held out the umbrella.
Roland linked her hand through his arm. 'Jenkins will take me back to the inn, where I've arranged for a hired carriage to take me back to Harwich. He'll drive you to Colchester and put you on the train to London. You should be there before dark.'
Her reply was drowned by a clap of thunder, but she knew that it was useless to argue with him once his mind was made up. They hurried through the pouring rain to the waiting carriage and rode back to the cottage in silence, except for the occasional sniff from Bertha. Jenkins held the horses while Roland escorted them to the door.
Jemima went inside, but Bertha hesitated on the threshold. She eyed Roland with something like respect. 'I thought you was a typical snooty toff, but I was wrong. You're a good man, Mr Rivers, and I'm grateful to you for looking after me precious girl.'
Roland leaned over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. 'I'm sure I don't deserve such an accolade, but I appreciate it coming from a woman like you, Bertha.'
Rosina could have sworn that Bertha blushed. She giggled like an embarrassed schoolgirl and scuttled into the cottage.
'This has to be goodbye, my love. Unless you have a change of heart later on.' Roland took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily and so thoroughly that it took her breath away. As he released her slowly, and with regret in his eyes, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
'Thank you for everything, Roland. I hope that you find happiness with the earl's daughter. She is a very lucky lady.'
Inclining his head, he said nothing as he turned on his heel and strode away down the path to the waiting carriage. I shall never see him again, Rosina thought sadly. She did not, and could never, love him, but her heart was wrenched with pain on losing such a good friend. She stood in the doorway, doubly bereft: first her father and now Roland. She waved until the carriage was out of sight, and then she turned slowly and went indoors.
It was the first time that Rosina had ever travelled by train, and Jenkins had settled them in a first-class, ladies-only compartment, which she and Bertha had to themselves all the way to Liverpool Street. Rosina would have enjoyed the experience had she not been worried about what might be awaiting them when they reached home. The two weeks was up and she could only hope that Harry would not have been so heartless as to throw Caddie and her children out on the street. Her journey to Rotterdam had proved fruitless, and she had no more proof now of Walter's innocence than she had at the outset.
Bertha was huddled in the corner of the compartment, barely speaking, but Rosina knew that it was not bad temper that kept her dear Bebe silent; it was the nagging fear of what they would find on returning home. Bertha had begged her to stay on in Burnham, saying that cousin Jemima, being the widow of a fisherman, would be glad to have them as lodgers for as long as they wished to stay. Rosina had explained, as gently as possible, that without money, or any way in which she could earn a living in the country, it was out of the question. She had put forward the suggestion that Bebe might like to remain in Burnham, but that option had been treated with scorn. Now they were hurtling towards the city at an alarming speed, and the iron wheels clattered over the points with a rhythmic clickety-clack which eventually seemed to hypnotise Bertha into a deep sleep. Rosina leaned back against the seat, watching the fields and hedgerows flash past the windows.
As they came to the outskirts of London, the urban sprawl grew denser and the trees were more grey than green, heavy with dust, and drooping over the tracks as if too tired to hold up their branches. Factories and warehouses replaced the neat terraces, and daylight was fading as the train pulled into Liverpool Street station. Bertha awakened with a start, and Rosina jumped up to drag her carpet bag from the luggage rack. Jenkins had given her a purse, which he said was money for the cab fare to Black Eagle Wharf. She would have saved the money and walked, but Bertha's face was pale and drawn with exhaustion, and this was not the time for false economy. Rosina helped her out of the station to the cab rank.
It was dusk by the time they reached the house on Black Eagle Wharf. The umbrella cranes were silent and the tiers of moored boats bobbed gently on the water. Rosina's
heart sank as she saw that the house was in darkness. She took the key from her reticule and found that it would not fit in the lock. She felt panic rising in her throat. Surely Harry would not have had the locks changed so quickly? She beat on the door with her fists, swallowing a sob.
'He done it then?' Bertha said dully. 'We're too late.'
'He wouldn't have been so cruel. Harry loved me once; I can't believe that he would throw us out on the street.'
Bertha sat down heavily on her carpet bag. 'What do you call this then? Looks to me like he's done just that. What'll we do, poppet? Where will we go?'
Rosina paced up and down, wringing her hands. 'Where is Caddie? We must find her, Bebe. She is all alone with three babies to care for.'
'I can't go another step, ducks. I'm done for and will have to sleep here on the pavement if we can't get into the house.'
'I'll break in if necessary,' Rosina said, eyeing the shuttered window of the office, and realising even as she spoke the words that it was impossible.
Bertha leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. 'Ta, but I'd rather spend the night out here than in a prison cell.'
'I can see a light in Sam Smilie's window. You wait here, Bebe. I'm going to knock on their door and see if they know what's happened to Caddie.' Without waiting for an answer, Rosina's feet skimmed the cobblestones as she ran to the Smilies' shop. She hammered on the door until she heard footsteps approaching across the bare boards. The door opened and Sam stuck his head out. His eyes widened in surprise. 'Rosie, is that you?'
'It's me, Sam.' Rosina was still wearing the elegant gown that had belonged to Roland's sister, but it was travel-stained and crumpled and she knew that she must present an odd sight.
'It's a long story, but I've just got home and I'm locked out of my own house.'
'Come inside, Rosie.' Sam opened the door wider.
'I can't. I've left Bertha waiting outside the house. We've travelled a long way today, and . . .' her voice broke on a sob, 'and we buried my pa this morning. He's dead, Sam. And I wasn't with him when he was taken ill.' She could no longer hold back the tears and she covered her face with her hands. Great shuddering sobs racked her body and she struggled to regain her self-control.
'There, there, ducks. I am so sorry.' Sam patted her on the shoulder. 'Gladys, come here. I needs you in the shop.'
'I'm s-sorry,' Rosina said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. 'I'm tired, and I don't know where to find Caddie and the babies, or even where we'll sleep tonight.'
Gladys came hurrying towards them. She came to a halt as she saw Rosina. 'Gawd above, you look like a ghost, child. Come inside and let me make you a cup of tea.'
Rosina shook her head. 'I can't. Bertha is sitting on the pavement outside our house. We're locked out.'
Gladys pushed her husband out of the way and she put her arm around Rosina's shoulders. 'There, there, love. One thing at a time. Sam, go and fetch Miss Spinks. We can't have a woman of her age sitting out on the pavement at this time of night. She'll catch her death of cold. Get on with you, man. Don't stand there staring at me like a codfish.'
'All right, I'm going, woman. Don't nag.' Sam backed out of the door.
Gladys led Rosina into their snug parlour, where a kettle simmered on a trivet over the fire. 'Sit down, love, and I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea.'
Rosina sank down onto the horsehair sofa, gradually regaining control of her emotions. 'Th-thank you, Gladys. You're very kind.'
'Not at all. I knows how bad you've been treated by that young man of yours. Harry Gostellow weren't near good enough for you. I always said that.' Gladys busied herself making tea and fetching cups from a pine dresser.
'I must find Caddie,' Rosina said anxiously. 'Do you know where she went?'
'The last I saw of her she was terrified of going into the workhouse. Said she'd rather drown herself and the little ones than go into that dreadful place.'
'Oh, no! Surely, you don't think she would . . . No, I can't believe that Caddie would take the lives of her babies.' Rosina leapt to her feet. 'I must go out and look for them, Gladys. I can't rest until I find them.'
'I don't know about that, ducks. You shouldn't go wandering round in the dark. If she's done the deed then it's already too late. She'll be found in the drag, that's for sure.'
'Then I pray to God that I find her in time.' Rosina hurried out through the shop, passing Bertha and Sam in the doorway.
'And where do you think you're going?' Bertha demanded.
'I'm going to find Caddie before she does something stupid. And don't try to stop me.'
Sam gave Bertha a gentle push in the direction of the parlour. 'Go in, Miss Spinks. My Gladys will take care of you.' He turned to Rosina. 'Don't go no further than Union Stairs on your own. I'll get a search party together and we'll head towards St Katharine's docks.'
'Wait.' Gladys bustled into the shop carrying a dark cloak over her arm. She wrapped it around Rosina's shoulders. 'You'd best cover up them fancy duds, or you'll be giving blokes the wrong impression.'
Rosina knew that only a lady or a high-class whore could afford such an expensive gown, and no lady would be roaming the docks and wharves on her own in daylight, let alone in the dark. She gladly accepted the loan of the coarse woollen cloak, even though it made her feel hot and sticky. She had one thought in mind as she made her way along the wharves, keeping as much in the shadows as she could, and slipping unnoticed past groups of drunken sailors – she must find Caddie and the children. Rosina reached Union Stairs, peering down the slimy steps to the inky water lapping and sucking at the stanchions. There was nowhere there for them to hide. She wrapped the cloak even more tightly around her body and she hurried on, ignoring Sam's advice not to go any further. She crossed the London dock basin, passing Wapping Old Stairs, and then the New Stairs. She looked into dark doorways, beneath cranes and behind stacks of barrels on the wharves. By the time she reached Execution dock she had only come across drunks, tramps and crawlers sprawled anywhere they could find a space to sleep for the night. The sounds of the river filled her ears: oars creaking as they sliced through the water, splashing and sending out ripples as the watermen plied their trade carrying passengers to and from the moored vessels, or went about the grim business of the drag. She prayed silently that they would not pull Caddie and her babies from the murky waters.
Rosina was becoming desperate as she approached the mouth of the Thames tunnel. Rumour had it that, before the railway track was laid, people had lived in the tunnel alcoves, earning a scant living by peddling their wares to pedestrians. If there were still such places, then it was possible that some of the destitute and desperate might seek shelter there at night. It was her last hope. The mouth of the tunnel was illuminated by gaslights, but that made its gaping maw even more terrifying. The last train had gone but it was filled with strange echoes. She had to pluck up all her courage to enter the black hole, and the sound of her footsteps reverberated off the dripping walls. Water trickled from the curved roof down the slimy brick walls to form deep puddles on the ground. She almost tripped over the prostate body of a man, insensible from drinking cheap alcohol: the smell was unmistakeable. She stepped over him, retching at the stench of urine and human excrement as she went deeper into the tunnel. Dotted alongside the track she could see pinpricks of light where the occupants had lit small fires. No one bothered her as she trudged past their sordid dwelling places.
She heard a baby crying and quickened her pace. A young woman, barely more than a child herself, was huddled in an alcove, suckling her baby. She looked up as Rosina passed her by, her eyes blank and staring, as if all hope had deserted her. Touched beyond measure, Rosina put her hand in her pocket and took out a penny. She pressed it into the girl's hand. 'It's not much, but it will buy you some food.'
The girl nodded and looked furtively around her as she hid the coin beneath her ragged skirts.
'Have you seen a young woman with three young children, one of them just a babe
like your own?' Rosina asked in a whisper.
The girl shrugged her thin shoulders and turned her head away. There was nothing Rosina could do except walk on, guided by the flickering light of another fire. Just as she was about to give up and retrace her steps, she saw a small, ghostly figure dart out of an alcove. She was certain that it was Ronnie. Something about the shape of his head, or the way he walked, made her sure that it was him. She called out softly. 'Ronnie. It's me, Rosie.'