Lady Lightfingers

by Janet Woods

  When the ladies retired, heading for the drawing room in a swish of multi-coloured silk and lace, feathering eyelashes and fluttering fans, his stepfather ushered the men towards the games room, where they could talk freely.

  Talk mostly settled on the Crimean war, which had started with the sinking of several Turkish boats by the Russians. The French and English had become allies, and in the battle for Alma had beaten the Russians back.

  That was followed by concern over the month-long cholera outbreak.

  ‘I’ve heard that the source is one of the street pumps in Broad Street,’ somebody said morosely. ‘The handle has been removed so it can’t be used any longer.’

  ‘I heard that the pump was blocked by a decomposing eel, and that caused the outbreak.’

  Joshua handed round brandy and cigars. ‘Then again, it could be the system of pumping sewage into the Thames that caused the sporadic outbreaks in the past. The staff have been instructed to boil all the water.’

  ‘Oh, it seems as though the outbreak is just about over though. Luckily it hasn’t affected this part of London.’

  Another brandy and the talk turned to lighter subjects – the latest music hall acts, then, inevitably, on to women.’

  Someone said with a guffaw of laughter, ‘Did Chas ever tell you about the time he paid one hundred pounds advance to a young woman, on a promise?’

  All eyes turned his way.

  He shrugged, then chuckled, for it all seemed so stupid now. ‘It’s true. Because she was a beggar, I also assumed that she was a street-girl, and I offered to buy her services from a madam. As a result, she had to run for her life, with her baby sister in tow. The girl came to return my card case, which she said she’d found,’ and his arched eyebrow brought laughter. ‘She asked me if she could claim a reward. The long and the short of it is, when I saw her up close she was—’

  ‘An old hag?’ Joshua suggested.

  ‘On the contrary. She was on the brink of womanhood, but she was an exquisitely beautiful creature under her dirt, with the most amazing eyes. The thing was, she recognized me. She said that if I’d paid the madam, then she wouldn’t have seen a penny of it, and besides, she was still intact and had promised her mother she’d be a good girl.’

  ‘And we all know that Chas Curtis likes his girls on the wicked side,’ Ernest Edwards said drily.

  Barnaby Dean laughed. ‘So Chas gave her the hundred pounds he’d won from me the night before at the gambling table.’

  Charles shrugged. ‘I felt responsible for her plight, and I told her to come back when she was eighteen with her virginity intact. In fact, I was quite taken by her. Unfortunately, she took the money, and I haven’t seen her since. That was over three years ago.’

  The butler came in while they were still laughing at Charles’ expense. When the man caught his eyes he nodded towards his stepfather to redirect him.

  Joshua didn’t miss the gesture and he grinned as the butler whispered something in his ear. Joshua announced, ‘Gentlemen, you’d better don your parlour manners again. It’s time to join the ladies for the entertainment.’

  ‘I hope Mrs Robothan doesn’t do any of her caterwauling tonight,’ Ernest said under his breath as they made their way back to the drawing room.

  Thomas Hambert’s work in London was finished. His paper on the London poor had been read to a meeting of the Anglican Philanthropic Society, earning a standing ovation. The paper had also been presented to the House of Lords by a titled gentleman of Thomas’ acquaintance.

  Following that, The Times newspaper printed it in full, which attracted lively discussion through readers’ letters, and donations of a gratifying amount of money to the society, to benefit the poor. Afterwards, printed into pamphlet form it was distributed through the clubs and coffee houses to anyone who wished to read a copy.

  Pleased with the results of his research, Thomas had gone back to more pleasurable writing pursuits, perfecting some poems he’d written. Barely back from a visit to the printer’s establishment he partly owned, he received an invitation from his sister to visit for Christmas, and to stay as long as he wished.

  Thomas accepted, and began to plan his journey. He was looking forward to seeing James again. And he intended to surprise Miss Celia Laws if James could discover her whereabouts, for her letter had omitted her address. It had said they were safe, and living in Hanbury Cross, in Dorset, with her aunt Miss Harriet Price. She had thanked him for the friendship he’d offered to herself and her family, and hoped they would meet again one day.

  Thomas had been mightily relieved to receive the first letter from Celia, but she hadn’t followed it up with a second one. Celia was a resourceful young woman, and it was obvious she wouldn’t presume on their friendship – one Thomas intended to retain if he could, since her future welfare, and that of Lottie, interested him.

  After all this time Celia would be quite the young woman, he thought, and he hoped she’d not given in to the impulse to go on the stage, especially since he had a surprise for her . . . if it were ready in time.

  Although his housekeeper would drop in from time to time to keep the place dusted, he would leave a key with his adjoining neighbour. As for Frederick, it would be unthinkable to leave him behind. His cat had travelled by train before, and, although not enamoured by the process, Frederick put up with his confinement to a wicker basket tolerably well, and without too much complaint. After all, it wasn’t a long journey on the train, and he’d sleep for most of the way.

  If the trains were running on time and he managed to catch the Southampton to Dorchester connection, James would meet him at the station. If not, he would get a cab.

  A month later Thomas set out for Waterloo station. It was one of those odd, unsettled days, that threatened much but did very little but grumble. The wind gusts tumbled rubbish along the gutters. Ladies clung to their skirts with one hand, yet still they afforded more than a glimpse of a petticoat to the discerning eyes of the gentlemen, who clamped their top hats firmly to their heads with one hand. The day had a bite of winter to it.

  The air smelled of soot. Waiting at the station, looking important with its funnel stretching tall and the brass-work gleaming, the engine, with carriages at the ready, gave impatient little puffs of steam.

  Thomas had made sure Frederick’s basket was securely tied, and had settled the dolefully meowing cat in the luggage compartment.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Frederick. Just settle down and go to sleep like the last time. I won’t forget you and we’ll meet at the other end.’

  Now seated comfortably in his first-class compartment, he watched the people on the station going about their business. Taking out his notebook and pencil he began to write.

  A loud whistle followed by a series of louder steam blasts startled him. With clanking jerks, the train began to move, then settled into a smoother motion. As they made their way out of the station and he sank back into the padded, buttoned seat, Thomas admitted to a flicker of excitement at being able to use such a fast and luxurious mode of travel. Who would have imagined such a thing when he’d been young?

  James was indeed waiting for him at the other end. While they took a cab through the port town, James told him, ‘I have discovered the whereabouts of Miss Laws for you and we shall pay her a visit as soon as you’re settled.’

  Lottie had settled in to Chaffinch House, and it seemed to Celia that the child had already forgotten her early years of poverty. She’d been a sweet infant; now she was six, and a child who charmed everyone around her.

  At eighteen, Celia had reached her full size. Physically, she’d not changed much over the previous two years, except for becoming slightly fuller in the bosom and hip. She was more mature in her outlook though. She’d learned a lot from copying her aunt, but didn’t possess her elegance, a fact she bewailed.

  ‘My dear, we’re all different, and you are lovely. Just be yourself,’ Harriet told her.

  Gradually, the rough edges of Celia’s
speech had been smoothed away and her voice, always slightly husky, adopted the same inflections and mannerisms of her aunt as she worked at it. An actress must be able to master different voices, she told herself. The watchful distrust that was once a barrier to friendship thinned enough over the months to allow her to take people at face value – though she was aware of the difference between friendship and acquaintance.

  As part of the Price family, they’d been accepted into life at Hanbury Cross.

  Harriet had been honest with her from the first day they’d met. ‘Few of the people living here will remember Alice clearly. The murky nature of her departure wouldn’t have been made public by my mother, since it would have reflected badly on her.’

  If Harriet knew exactly how murky her sister’s life had become at times, she would probably turn Celia out. But she had lived in this big house since birth. Despite having to be careful with her money, she had no concept of real poverty, and neither had she needed to stoop to the level her sister had.

  ‘I shall tell people the truth, that you’re my beloved niece, and Charlotte is my late sister’s ward.’

  When Celia had looked askance at that, Harriet said, ‘Charlotte must be told the truth of her birth when she’s old enough to understand, in case she has expectations that cannot be fulfilled. It would be upsetting if she learned of her lowly start in life from another . . . a friend perhaps . . . and was judged by it.’

  Feeling troubled, Celia said, ‘Surely real friends don’t judge you, they accept you for what you are.’

  ‘One would think so, my dear, but it doesn’t pay to be too trusting with people, however friendly and supportive they seem – or to offer them confidences which could prove detrimental to either of you in the future.’

  Towards the end of November the water in the village pond crackled over with ice and the tree limbs became stark bare bones, except for a fringe of hanging icicles decorating each branch. The land woke each morning covered in a layer of mist that sometimes lasted all day. It smelled better than the London fogs, and was a stark reminder to them all that Christmas was nearly upon them.

  There was an air of excitement in Hanbury Cross. Neighbours visited, exchanging recipes for Christmas puddings and fruit tarts, and sampling the port and gossiping. Celia had been invited to read one of the lessons at the Christmas Eve service, and she was looking forward to it.

  ‘I hear there’s a company of players coming to Dorchester in time for the January hiring fare,’ Mrs Hardy said.

  Celia’s ears pricked up. ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘It has a foreign name, Bento or something similar. I heard that it’s a variety show with different acts, with a talent show for anyone who wishes to enter. There’s a five shilling prize.’

  Benito’s troupe of jugglers came to mind, his performing dog act and his wife, who walked across a rope stretched between two poles. Celia smiled. ‘May we go and see them, Aunt?’

  ‘Perhaps. We’ll see what the weather is like. I do hope they’re not too vulgar.’

  ‘Oh, they’re not, really. That’s if it’s the Benito I knew in London.’

  Mrs Hardy’s eyes began to gleam. ‘You know him? How interesting. Was he a neighbour?’

  ‘No, he was just somebody I knew, a street player. Sometimes he’d allow me to work for him . . . to collect the money, and he’d give me sixpence. I was only a child then.’

  ‘How odd to know an entertainer.’

  The woman’s superior tone annoyed her. ‘Why is it? There’s a large world outside of this village, Mrs Hardy, and people are all different. In fact, my mother and I toured with a theatre company once, when I was a child, and my father was an impresario.’

  ‘Ah, yes . . . so he was . . . an American I recall. My husband invested some money in one of his shows, but we heard no more, and we lost our investment. I recall that Jackaby Laws was a charming man. What ever happened to him?’

  Celia wished she knew. Pleased for once that she possessed such a sorry skill, she plucked a lie from the air. ‘I imagine he’s making his fortune in America with a Wild West—’

  Harriet intervened, saying smoothly as she hid her displeasure, ‘Perhaps you’d like to fetch a jug of hot water for the tea, Celia. It’s a little on the strong side. After that, help Millie in the kitchen, please. Perhaps take Charlotte off Millie’s hands.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt.’

  ‘A rather forthright young woman,’ Mrs Hardy said with a sigh as Celia walked away, and without bothering to lower her voice. ‘She has the look of her father and her mother’s manner. Alice was always straightforward. A pity, since Jackaby Laws had so much charm.’

  As did most deceivers, Celia thought, scowling. Uneasily, she remembered the snippet of information she’d gleaned from the conversation. Had Jackaby Laws been an American? If so, she might never catch up with him.

  Later, her aunt took her to task. ‘Celia, you must not deliberately make a guest in our home feel uncomfortable again. Mrs Hardy meant no harm. She was just making conversation.’

  ‘She was looking for something to gossip about.’

  ‘And you gave her plenty of ammunition with all that talk about street players and touring with a theatre company.’

  ‘Oh? I thought it fitted in well, since she knew my father, the great impresario.’ She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Or thought she did.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘From the little I know of him, it’s occurred to me on more than one occasion that he might have been a liar and a trickster who went around fooling people to steal their money. Was he from America?’

  Harriet sighed. ‘He may have been. I was a child, and I can’t remember him all that well. I would advise you to leave this well alone.’

  ‘I can’t. You don’t know what my mother was forced to do to keep me alive. That was his fault.’

  ‘You said she was a seamstress.’

  ‘Yes, she was.’ Celia bit down on her bottom lip. ‘But sometimes she was forced to . . . entertain . . . otherwise we would have starved.’ There, it was said.

  ‘I don’t understand; you’ve already told me that Alice acted on the stage.’

  ‘My mother entertained . . . men.’

  There was a sudden silence, into which a small, choking cry of comprehension dropped. Harriet’s eyes widened, and their momentary disbelief was slowly replaced by horror and disgust. ‘No,’ she whispered, and the anguish in her voice raised pity in Celia.

  ‘I’m sorry; I needed to tell you that. Now you know why I must find him. I need to confront him on her behalf.’

  ‘Yes. God help me . . . I do understand. What sort of life must you have led to know of such things?’ Harriet had tears in her eyes. ‘My dear, I hate to ask you this but are you still . . . well, you know?’

  ‘Intact? Physically, yes, but that was placed in jeopardy when mother died because I had nobody to protect me. I’ve seen too much, know too much. That comes of poverty. Children grow up too quickly with the constant need for survival foremost in their mind. That’s why my mother told me to throw myself on your charity.’

  ‘You poor child. I’m so glad you came. It’s a pity Alice didn’t survive to come with you.’

  ‘My mother would have been too ashamed, and too proud to let you know how low she’d fallen. Now you can understand why she made me promise to come here. She loved me, and she didn’t want me to follow in her footsteps.’

  Harriet held out her arms and Celia stepped into their protective circle. They hugged each other tight and Celia bathed in the warmth of Harriet’s sympathy, and love.

  ‘You will never do that – not while I still have a breath left in my body,’ she whispered.

  Into the fraught silence, a knock at the door sounded startlingly loud.

  Eleven

  Millie brought a card in. But instead of giving it to Harriet, Celia found herself the recipient.

  Astonished, she gazed at it, a smile spreading across her fac
e. She hadn’t known Thomas Hambert was a church official; if she had she would probably have run in the opposite direction rather than allow him into her life. But it couldn’t be anyone else with the name Reverend Thomas Hambert.

  Harriet gazed at her. ‘Who has called on you, dear?’

  ‘It’s a gentleman friend of mine from London. May I invite him to join us?’

  ‘There’s two of them,’ Millie said. ‘One’s a right handsome gent who said his name is James Kent.’

  Celia’s smile encompassed the room as she said with great enthusiasm, ‘How wonderful.’

  Harriet looked worried. ‘Do you think we will be safe? They won’t breathe fire and set light to the house, or do acrobatics or anything.’

  She giggled at the thought of the portly Thomas Hambert doing acrobatics. ‘I do hope not.’

  ‘They look perfectly normal to me,’ Millie said. ‘I’d better get back to the kitchen. I’m teaching Miss Charlotte to make scones and she’s up to her eyebrows in flour.’

  Celia chuckled. ‘I’ll vouch for them, Aunt. Millie, on your way out would you tell them to come in please? And ask Lottie to join us when she’s finished.’

  Thomas came in first, dressed in black, and followed by the taller James, whose eyes widened at the sight of her. They laid their capes and hats on a vacant chair and removed their gloves.

  ‘I hardly recognize you, Celia,’ James said, stepping forward to kiss her cheek.

  ‘I told you there was a lovely young woman waiting to emerge from inside our little heathen,’ Thomas murmured, doing likewise. ‘Though I must admit to being amazed by the transformation myself.’

  ‘May I introduce you to my aunt, Miss Harriet Price. Aunt, this is . . .’ She grinned as she gazed at his card before meeting his eyes. ‘My friend; Reverend Thomas Hambert, who has turned out to be a dark horse, after all. This gentleman with him is his nephew, Mr James Kent, who is a lawyer.’

  ‘Soon to be a magistrate.’