Lady Lightfingers

by Janet Woods

  It was a generous offer, but as much as Celia liked the couple who had offered them a home, she reluctantly refused. They would have been comfortable living at the inn, but the stink of the London slums was still in her nostrils and the further away from it she was, the better she’d like it. Lottie needed to be educated, and Celia intended to set her aim higher for her sister.

  Johnny had the need to settle in him, though, she could see it in his eyes. As for their hosts . . . they were simple, open-hearted country folk with a vacant place by their hearth and a need to replace the son they’d lost.

  When they said their goodbyes and were barely on their way, Johnny kept gazing back at the couple with a wistful look.

  Tinker began to wriggle and yelp as Busby held him fast, lest he followed after Johnny. Mrs Busby had one hand clutching her shawl around her, the other holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Busby was comforting her as best he could, awkwardly patting her back. She could hear the rumble of his voice on the wind. ‘There . . . there . . . don’t take on so, Aggie love.’

  Celia brought them to a halt. Johnny wasn’t really her responsibility. She had no right to make up his mind for him, or tell him what he must do. She wondered if he might be acting out of loyalty to her. ‘Johnny, you’re free to stay if you want to, you know. The Busbys would be grateful for your help, I imagine, and you’d have a comfortable home at the inn. In fact, they’d treat you like a grandson. They’re nice people and you couldn’t find better.’

  Hope came into the lad’s eyes. ‘What about you and Lottie? I promised to help you.’

  ‘I’ll manage by myself, like I was going to in the first place.’ Though she wondered now if she wouldn’t have been better off taking a train all the way in the first place. But as her mother had once told her, it was no good worrying about mistakes of the past; much better to just learn something from them.

  ‘Busby told me that it’s not much further to go . . . t’other side of Poole,’ she mimicked. ‘We’re in Hampshire now, and it’s about eighteen miles to the Dorset border. Hanbury Cross village will take me a bit longer. He drew me a map so I know how to get there without getting lost.’

  It crossed her mind that if Johnny stayed with the Busbys it would be one less problem for her. Celia had been wondering what to do with him when they got to her destination. She might be able to get away with Lottie if she appealed to their consciences by pouring on the pathos. She doubted if her relatives would feel obliged to take in a lad and feed him. They might turn herself and Lottie away, but at least she would find a home with the Busbys if need be.

  Busby chose that moment to release Tinker. He came hurtling down the road and leapt into Johnny’s arms, squirming and yelping and licking his face.

  Celia smiled encouragingly at him, knowing Busby had released the dog deliberately to help the boy make up his mind. She sent Busby a smile. ‘Go if you’re going, Johnny; I don’t want to stand here all day.’

  He grinned and picked up his bundle. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay with me?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out two shillings. ‘I haven’t paid you for the cart. Here, take that with you. Good luck, Johnny boy; thanks for your company.’ She turned him round and gave him a gentle push.

  He hesitated, then flipped the money back to her. ‘It cost you more than that for my food on the way, and you might need it.’ He took a few hesitant steps, then began to run back up the road to where the couple stood.

  Celia watched with tears in her eyes when Mrs Busby gave Johnny a hug, and Busby placed a secure, fatherly hand on his shoulder. The three of them waved at her, then turned and went into the inn together.

  Just like a family? Envy tore through her and a lump grew in her throat to nearly choke her, as she experienced a lonely feeling of being cut adrift.

  Tears blinding her eyes she trudged on without looking back, the capricious puffs of the wind thrusting at her back and the rain clouds scudding overhead.

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she said loudly when the inn was out of sight and earshot.

  Lottie’s bottom lip quivered, and Celia stooped to kiss her. ‘Not you, my love. I was talking to myself.’ Lottie giggled when she tickled her, and Celia’s spirits brightened.

  Around her the countryside was coming awake. The air was full of birdsong, daffodils shook out their brilliant golden skirts and a scattering of violets turned butterfly faces to the sun. She knew very little about plants or animals, so gazed with wonder at the secrets nature revealed to her.

  For a fleeting moment she wished she’d returned to the inn with Johnny. But the feeling that time had passed the place by still persisted, and a stronger instinct surfaced. Johnny needed all of the security and affection the Busbys offered, but ahead of Celia, she sensed that destiny had something different waiting.

  Celia wanted to embrace the life she’d been given, not hide herself away. She looked down at Lottie’s dark head and smiled as she composed a snatch of a prayer. ‘Listen to this and take heed, Lottie love.’ She struck a pose, folded her hands together and said into the wind, trying to look as holy as she knew how,

  May the unknown incite my passion,

  Your strength allow mine to renew.

  Heart of my heart, take courage.

  Arise, and dare . . . and do!

  When Lottie clapped her hands and giggled on cue, even though she didn’t know what Celia was talking about, Celia bowed. ‘Thank you, Lady Charlotte, you’re indeed an appreciative audience. I just hope it falls into the right pair of ears. Now, we’d better get on our way, because it will be a while yet before we reach our destination.’

  Eight

  Harriet Price lingered in the grounds of Hanbury Church after the congregation had scattered, loosening the crop of spring weeds from the graves of her sister and mother. After over a year of occupancy the memorial tablets had gradually lost their stark whiteness, and now resembled the colour of bones. Mother and daughter had been carried off painfully from diphtheria within hours of each other.

  For reasons unknown, Harriet had been spared the same fate. She often wondered why, when she’d been the sickly child, the frail, youngest one of the two sisters, who’d caught a cold easily as a child, and was often ill.

  Harriet had always taken longer to recover from illness than the robust Jane. So even while she’d tried to make Jane and their mother comfortable during their illness, she’d fully expected to catch the disease and die with them.

  ‘You had it when you were a youngster, I expect,’ Millie Smith, the housekeeper, had told her. ‘You were always being ill, and nobody expected you to survive childhood. They say that if you can recover from a childhood illness, you’ll never suffer from it a second time.’

  Harriet missed her elder sister. Not so much her mother, who’d been tediously disagreeable for most of the time, though she hadn’t realized it until peace had descended on the house, she thought guiltily. Her mother had been pleasant to people, but had gossiped and made unkind remarks about them when they were no longer in earshot, and she’d been demanding and quarrelsome at home.

  Harriet stood, a petite woman of exactly thirty-three years, elegant in the modest grey gown that she’d replaced the drab black of mourning with. Brushing crumbs of dark earth from her skirt and hands she thrust them into already-soiled gloves and headed out of the churchyard with short, rapid steps. Being out of mourning made her feel more alive . . . like spring itself. There was a feeling in the air, as if there was going to be change in her life, and for the better.

  It was the beginning of May. There had been a shower of rain. It had been heavy enough to soak the ground and wash the flowers and leaves, so they now sparkled in the sunshine. A short lane led from the church to the village.

  Hanbury Cross consisted of a main street that contained four small shops. A haberdashery sold everything a woman needed for sewing, including ribbons and laces, as well as an assortment of gloves, hosiery and handkerchief
s. The proprietor also advertised her skills as a dressmaker, though should the ladies of the village need something special to wear they’d take their business to the nearest bigger towns of either Dorchester or Poole. Then there was a baker, a butcher, and a shop that sold everything for the house from soap and beeswax, through to pots and pans, stationery and ink.

  Behind, and beyond the main street was a straggle of neat cottages, mostly built from brick and cob, the roofs thatched with reeds.

  The larger homes – built beyond the village and usually standing in ample gardens to offer their occupiers privacy as well as the illusion of being landed gentry – were roofed in grey slate, as was the home Harriet grew up in, and now owned. She could just see the sooty tops of the brown glazed chimney pots beyond the copse, where there was a slight rise. It was an empty house, which the laughter of children had long since deserted.

  Although Harriet loved her home, she felt lonely living there by herself with only the maid to keep her company. She couldn’t leave, not now, while there was still hope that her half-sister, Alice, and her young daughter – Celia, she recalled that that was her niece’s name – might return.

  There was a duck pond in the village, fed by a trickle of a stream that trickled through many villages, and was inclined to flood across the road and into the cottages in the winter unless the debris was cleared from it regularly.

  A strong smell of pigs saw Harriet hold a handkerchief to her nose, for most people kept a pigsty. Chickens and ducks clucked and quacked, and waddled out of her way. She stopped to briefly pat the nose of the farmer’s big shaggy carthorse and it whuffled moistly into her hand.

  ‘Sorry, Nellie, but you had your ration of sugar on my way out.’ Harriet hummed a little tune to herself as she continued on towards her home, skirting the puddles, for the showers had intruded into May, keeping the land moist.

  She kept her mind occupied with her own thoughts, though she waved and said a pleasant good day to any villager she saw. Arthur Avery, who’d been her mother’s legal representative, as well as being engaged to marry her late sister, intended to call on her this afternoon to discuss her inheritance. She found the widower tedious in his quest to acquire Chaffinch House.

  Today was Harriet’s birthday. Not that anyone would remember it, except Millie perhaps. However, she hoped to hear some good news from Mr Avery regarding a trust fund that her mother had left for her.

  She stopped to gaze at the warm brick facade of her home. Apart from wanting to be here in case Alice returned, for many reasons she didn’t want to leave the place. She loved the garden with its secret places, made even more secretive now the gardener could no longer be afforded, and the growth had been left untamed. Harriet harboured a notion that, if it was left to grow, the grass would envelop the house and nobody would know she existed.

  Except one day a handsome man riding by on a black horse would find his way through the clutter to her door, and fall instantly in love with her.

  She laughed at the notion, saying out loud, ‘Stop that nonsense, Harriet. Your spinsterhood is now entrenched, and I thought you’d given up on that particular dream.’

  The only horse to arrive that day belonged to Arthur Avery, and it was a rather superior-looking chestnut gelding, attached to a rig.

  Harriet watched Arthur descend from the rig. He was a heavily built man of about fifty years, with a fulsome moustache and a balding head under his top hat. Not that he could help his baldness, she thought, since most men seemed to succumb to the condition eventually. As he turned to retrieve a satchel of papers the cloth strained under his arms, revealing a beefy back.

  Harriet couldn’t imagine Jane being married to the lawyer. But then, Arthur Avery was the only offer Jane had received. Her sister had indicated that having Arthur as a husband was better than not being married at all. It was a sentiment Harriet disagreed with, although she didn’t say so at the time, for Jane would have accused her of being jealous because Arthur hadn’t proposed to her instead.

  ‘After all,’ Jane had said, sounding as though she was trying to convince herself as well as Harriet, ‘he’s quite wealthy, and he hasn’t got any relatives to leave his money to. He does want a child, which would be quite worthwhile. Mother said one must put up with the creation of it first, which is distasteful, and you must try and think of something else while that’s going on.’

  Arthur Avery had wanted to buy the house, and their mother had been considering it, because it was expensive to maintain. He had some good qualities, Harriet supposed, as she waited in the drawing room for Millie to announce him. He was intelligent and hard-working, she imagined. He was also boring and pompous, she reminded herself.

  ‘Miss Price,’ he said, bowing over her hand and sweeping it with his moustache, which, for all intents and purposes, resembled the head of a broom. He left a dewy patch, which she managed to wipe off across her skirt as she retrieved her hand. The lawyer was perspiring quite heavily, though the day itself wasn’t particularly warm.

  ‘Are you quite well, Mr Avery?’

  Taking out a handkerchief he mopped his brow. ‘I’m rarely ill, Miss Price.’

  Harriet gazed at Millie. ‘We’ll have some tea, and some cake if there is any.’

  ‘There is, Miss Price. I made one when you were at church . . . It was going to be a surprise for your birthday.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful surprise, Millie. Thank you.’

  When Millie had shuffled off, Arthur tut-tutted. ‘That woman is too familiar now your mother and sister have gone.’ He ran a gloved finger along the mantelpiece, bringing it down covered in dust. His lips pursed. ‘She’s far too old to do her work properly, and you should get rid of her.’

  ‘Millie has nowhere to go . . . besides, she’s company for me.’

  ‘Which brings me to the point of my visit, Miss Price.’

  ‘Does it?’ She allowed her astonishment to show. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that Millie was of any importance to you. I thought you were coming to talk to me about finances.’

  ‘Oh, dear me no, Miss Price. Your mother’s will has yet to go through probate, and there are debts. In the meantime, your monthly allowance should be sufficient to see you through.’ He mopped more perspiration from his forehead. ‘Miss Price, I have something to say to you. Kindly sit down and listen without interruption. Perhaps it will turn out to be a happy surprise for your birthday.’

  ‘Good Lord, you’re as agitated as a man about to propose marriage,’ she said helpfully, and wondered if Arthur was being completely honest with her about the will. It was taking a long time to be sorted out.

  ‘Quite,’ he said, and fumbled in his pocket. ‘Now your sister and mother have gone it has occurred to me that you must be lonely living in this big house by yourself.’

  She opened her mouth to speak, shutting it again when he held up a hand for her to keep quiet.

  ‘My dear Harriet, I’m a man of considerable means. All I lack in life is a wife to see to my comfort, and an heir or two. Your mother had come to an agreement with me, that were I to marry Jane, then your mother’s own portion of the house as well as Jane’s would come into the marriage with her.’

  So, her mother had been going to sacrifice Harriet’s own portion to buy Jane a husband. ‘And what of my entitlement?’

  ‘You would have been recompensed, and, of course, would have always enjoyed a secure home with us. You are now in the happy position of owning Chaffinch House outright, which is much less complicated for me, and also along with a moderate amount of money, which will provide for you, without any serious expense on my part.’

  ‘Mr Avery, I must tell you I was not being serious when I suggested you looked like a man with marriage on his mind. You are not, in fact, seriously proposing a marriage between us, are you?’

  ‘Why, yes, am I not making the situation clear? Now Jane has gone, I’m offering myself to you. Of course, your manner is a little more spirited than I’d look for in a wife. That comes from
being a long time without having a father to correct you. But once we were wed I’m sure you’d respond to my guidance, and according to my calculations, you are still of childbearing age, and I am, as you know, in need of an heir.’

  One to leave my property and estate to, she thought. Pompous fool! Harriet slid her hands into her cuffs in case they took on a strength and a mind of their own – and strangled him! She allowed her gaze to drop demurely to her lap. ‘Thank you, Mr Avery; it was kind of you to think of my welfare. However, I have no intention of marrying.’

  ‘Miss Price, allow me to be frank. You’re a spinster lady with very little chance of meeting eligible men or making a better match. Due to that unfortunate business with your father and your half-sister, the family name is not as well regarded as it once was.’

  ‘Ah . . . poor Alice. It wasn’t her fault.’ The sigh she gave was heartfelt. ‘All she did was fall in love with Jackaby Laws. I wonder what happened to my sister.’

  ‘Nothing good, I imagine.’

  ‘Why should you imagine that, when father told me there was a legacy for Alice from her mother, enough to live modestly on if need be?’

  She felt like laughing when his face mottled red and he began to splutter. ‘Unfortunately, there was nowhere to send it, and on your mother’s advice it was used to maintain the house . . . since it would go a long way towards repayment of the debt Alice Laws’ husband owed to the estate.’

  ‘Are you telling me that my mother spent money that belonged to Alice?’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s so.’

  ‘That money had belonged to Alice since she was a child, and came through her maternal grandmother. Alice was not responsible for payment of her husband’s debts. And since my mother was no kin to Alice Laws, but her stepmother, surely she had no right to authorize it to be spent in such a manner. Can that be legal?’