by Janet Woods
Her next breath was a long and heartfelt sigh. ‘I’m nowhere near good enough for him.’
‘Celia dear . . . don’t talk nonsense. Poverty is a state of being, not of inferiority. You’ve changed from a grubby, awkward child with a thirst to learn, into a graceful and intelligent young woman. You’ve learned much from your aunt, including patience, and as each day passes you will gain in sense and wisdom. Be careful that the need for independence doesn’t make you headstrong.’ Rising, he gently kissed her cheek. ‘Your mother would be proud of you, my dear. As for Charles Curtis, beware, for he will seduce you if you allow it.’
Celia knew he would, and the very thought of being seduced by him was sublime. Her initial distaste at the thought of the method of mating between men and women had gradually become curiosity as she’d come to realize it was meant to be that way, and nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes, and unaided, her body indicated an eagerness to experience it in a way that made her blush, and she wondered if it was normal to be so needy of something she’d never experienced – like an addiction waiting to happen for her.
But the innocence of women was an asset highly prized by men. They were less careful of their own though. Goodness . . . Charles had offered her money when she was hardly more than a child, and himself so callow there was barely a stray whisker on his chin. What was more, she’d found his kiss so sweet that she’d dreamed of it for years. If he seriously turned his charm towards seduction she doubted if it would be easy to stand up against such a sweet assault.
The reverend had been right. She did need an older and wiser head to chaperone her, and it was sweet of the reverend and his sister to be concerned about her.
‘Thank you for your offer of a home, Reverend. Lottie and I will be happy to live with you and Mrs Kent if the need arises. I do like your sister, and her gossip. She told me that you were often naughty, and caused your father no end of despair.’
‘No wonder he wanted me to be a soldier.’ He laughed, then said, ‘Why do you always put up an argument, Celia?’
‘Because you expect me to.’
‘Expect you to?’
‘Oh, don’t look so innocent. You usually tie me in a knot and I have to think in several directions to find my way out of all the tangles in it, and come to the right conclusion – which is usually your opinion. That’s the way you taught me to think for myself, though I didn’t know it at the time. I thought of you often when we were apart. I missed our conversations where you encouraged me to speak my mind. I think I shocked Aunt Harriet a few times.’
He nodded. ‘The life you and your mother led, and the reason behind it, is not something that can be easily understood and absorbed without making judgement.’
‘Yet you would expect me to tell Ch . . . someone who loved me of my past, and risk losing that love.’
‘There is no love without trust, my dear. What’s the alternative?’
‘Not to love in the first place, for to love and lose would be to suffer the pain of having it dashed in your face and regarded as worthless.’
‘My dear, you’re too young to be so pessimistic. Not even you can guard your heart from the ache of unrequited love.’
‘I can try.’
‘You should allow a man to show what he’s worth rather than judge him in advance. I think your mother’s experience may have coloured your thinking.’
Celia had not considered that, but she would, and now her mother had been mentioned she said, ‘I would like to visit the site of her grave while we’re in London, if you don’t mind. It might reassure her to know that Lottie and I are well and happy.’
‘I imagine she already knows that, my dear, but I’m sure we can find time to fit in a visit.’
‘And, Reverend . . . I want to look for Daniel Laws.’
This time he did look slightly shocked. ‘Are you sure this is wise?’
‘I’m only sure it’s something I must do. If he’s my father I need to know it. Or if he’s dead I need to know that too . . . in which case I can safely bury him in my mind.’
‘And if he is your father and denies knowing your mother?’
She shrugged. ‘Then he won’t be worth knowing. My mother said his eyes were the same colour as mine.’
Thomas gave a sigh, then grumbled, ‘I know a theatrical agent. He’ll be able to locate him and arrange a meeting, I imagine. And Celia, put any romantic notion you may have about long-lost daughters from your head. I almost wish Charles had chosen a different play to take you to. Janet Pride was bound to give you ideas.’
Eighteen
‘Mr Laws can give you five minutes before he has to warm up his voice,’ the theatre manager said.
They found him in his dressing room. Daniel Laws was in his mid forties. He had greyish hair and eyes the colour of amber. First disappointment. He was slightly rotund and of medium height. Second disappointment. He was altogether more ordinary-looking than Jackaby Laws was in her mind. She had a picture of a larger-than-life gentleman who was tall and handsome, and had a booming laugh.
Daniel Laws was dressed in an evening suit, and applying greasepaint to his eyes with his fingertip, making his eyes look bigger. Those eyes widened as they fell on Celia and he said, ‘What can I do for you, Miss . . . and you, sir? The theatre manager said you were a relative.’
His voice was soft and cultured, so it flowed more smoothly and warmly than that of the average Englishman.
‘We’re looking for Jackaby Laws,’ Celia said.
‘Are you? Are you, now?’ His eyes speculated on her. ‘May I ask why?’
She didn’t wait for the reverend; after all, they only had five minutes. She blurted out, ‘Jackaby Laws is my father, and I thought—’
A smile spread across his face and he held up a hand, palm foremost. ‘You assumed that, because my second name is Laws, I’m your father?’
‘Are you?’
‘There are hundreds of people with the same name, and I assure you I’m not your father.’ Picking up a glass of water he gargled, then sang up and down the scale in a soft voice that was perfectly pitched, and rather beautiful.
‘We’re sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Laws,’ the reverend said, and they turned away.
‘Wait . . . I didn’t say I’d never heard of Jackaby Laws.’ He took another sip of the water and repeated the exercise, going slightly higher and louder.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Two minutes, Mr Laws,’ someone said.
The man gazed into her eyes for a moment, contemplating what he saw, then said, ‘I suppose you could be his daughter, at that, but it’s a long time since I set eyes on Jackaby. Look, I can see this is important to you, young lady . . . I haven’t got time to explain now. Come into the wings and watch my act, the pair of you. We can talk afterwards.’
Daniel Laws was good. His voice soared to the ceilings and the clink of the cutlery against china plates of the diners became subdued, then stopped altogether.
He sang three songs, one of them a popular aria. Celia was entranced and the applause was deafening. Then she spotted Charles seated at one of the tables with a small group of men and women, and she shrank back in case he saw her. He looked her way a couple of times, placing his hand across his brows so he could peer into the darkness of the wings better.
Daniel Laws’ body came between them.
‘I don’t know how you can sing so beautifully with all that cigar smoke drifting about,’ Celia said, when Daniel came off stage.
‘Sometimes it’s difficult, but you get used to it. I have half an hour before I’m on stage again. Let’s go to my dressing room and talk.’
There was only one chair, and the singer pulled a small wooden bench inside for them to seat themselves on. He offered the reverend a brandy, which was declined. ‘Now, young woman,’ he said. ‘How well did you know your father?’
‘I didn’t know him at all. He went away before I was born, to America. He was a famous impresario in the theatre, and had been raisin
g money for a show.’
Daniel Laws gave a faint smile and slowly shook his head.
‘He told my mother, whose name was Alice Price before their marriage, that he’d be back. She waited for him.’
‘Yes . . . I thought that might have been the case. You see, my dear, Jackaby Laws died when the ship he was on sank in a storm with the loss of all on board . . . It must have been about nineteen years ago now.’
She gave a distressed little cry, even though such news was half expected.
‘Perhaps there’s something else I should tell you,’ and he gazed at the reverend. ‘With your permission, sir, since it might prove to be upsetting to the young lady.’
‘I want to know the truth, whatever that truth may be, Mr Laws.’
He took her hands in his. ‘I do believe Jackaby fathered you, since there are similarities, especially your eyes, which are an unusually striking colour, and the darkness of your hair. Jackaby Laws was my cousin but we were not close. He wasn’t an impresario; he was a confidence trickster who posed as a Southern gentleman, and he also had a wife he left behind in Boston. She was very young . . . not much older than you. Jackaby was a thief and a liar who preyed on women without compunction. He was deeply in debt when he died, and his widow was left destitute.’
‘So was my mother,’ she said bitterly, and despite wanting to know the truth, found it unpalatable. She’d rather he’d been a dead hero than a criminal. ‘We ended up living in the slums begging for food, even though she came from a good home. He ruined her, then brought her down. My mother was killed for the few shillings she’d earned sewing trouser seams.’
He looked shocked. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re better off without Jackaby Laws in your life.’
Celia felt like crying. It was not what she’d wanted to hear. Then hope flared in her eyes. ‘Did they have any children?’
There was sympathy in the gaze he bestowed on her. ‘You have no siblings, I’m afraid. His widow married again and she has two sons from her second husband. The only kin you have left on your father’s side is me, and that link is so remote it’s almost non-existent.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful, but at least you know where you stand now, and won’t waste time looking for somebody who no longer exists. Jackaby is not worth breaking your heart over, but I’m sorry you and your mother suffered at his hands.’
Celia smiled, even though her heart ached and she felt like crying. ‘I’m glad you’re my cousin, even though it might be such a tenuous link. And I’m pleased you’re so talented. I once wanted to make my way on the stage, but thanks to Reverend Hambert here, I became an author instead.’
He smiled at that. ‘You became an author . . . at your age?’
He sounded so disbelieving that the Reverend reached into his pocket, where he always kept a cloth-bound version of their book. ‘This contains several of Celia’s stories. You will learn something of her life by reading it.’
A new respect filled his eyes and he whistled. ‘A published writer . . . well done, my dear. May I keep this?’
‘We’ll sign it for you.’
When they’d done that it was time to go. ‘You’ve been very kind. Thank you so much, Mr Laws. I’m sorry I took up your time with this matter.’ She kissed his cheek.
‘I was pleased to have been of some help. If you ever come to Boston, look me up.’
‘I will . . . I promise,’ she said, as he shook hands with the reverend. ‘Good luck with your tour.’ She had tears in her eyes as they left the theatre in the same way as they’d arrived, through the stage door in the back alley, which was lit only by a sputtering gas lamp.
Like most alleyways in London it afforded room for the underclass to squat or sleep. There was a group of several men and women passing round a stone jar containing gin, their shadows leaping and dancing in a demented dance against the alley walls. Children wandered amongst them, some staggering a little, for tuppence worth of gin in empty stomachs dulled the hunger pangs and brought forgetfulness.
A couple of light-skirts leaned against the wall, and there was the scrape and rattle of rubbish as a breeze circled the alley and swept the dust out of the dark corners.
‘Do you need a woman? I’ve got starving children at home,’ one of them said to the reverend.
‘You know very well that I don’t, Rosie.’ Fumbling in his pocket he brought a coin out and spun it through the air. ‘Buy your children some soup.’
‘Bless you, Reverend,’ one of them said.
The other one stared hard at Celia. ‘Hello, dearie, don’t I know you? Didn’t your mother work for Bessie?’
She was grateful for the darkness when her face flamed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She took the reverend’s arm. ‘We should have gone out of the front way. Let’s hurry.’
Two small lads detached themselves from the group and casually followed after them. One of them held out cupped hands to Celia, and the other one jostled the reverend.
They were in sight of the main thoroughfare. Celia smiled as she stepped in the path of the second lad, dislodging from his cuff the coin he’d stolen from the reverend’s pocket and catching it. Hissing with menace she handed the reverend back the shilling they’d taken from his coin pocket, then turned back to them. ‘Get going, else I’ll shout for a constable.’
One backed off, the other stood his ground. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Here then, buy yourself and your companion a meal.’ Thomas handed the boy the shilling. They ran back to the light-skirts; the one who’d remembered Celia’s mother took the coin from the older lad, then whispered something in his ear. A quick glance came their way.
‘If word gets round you’ll be besieged by beggars every time you come here,’ she told him.
‘Stop fussing, Celia,’ and he gave a chuckle. ‘I’ve walked amongst these people without suffering harm for years. Would you deny me the pleasure of offering the price of a meal to the hungry?’
She remembered him buying her a bowl of soup once, and felt ashamed – but still, she felt safer when they turned the corner into the crowd of pleasure-seekers queuing for the second sitting of the supper hall.
‘I was afraid for you.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps I was being selfish and didn’t want to share you with anyone.’
‘You’re angry, and are reacting to that. I’m sorry your search for your father was fruitless. Are you very disappointed?’
‘I wanted a hero, preferably a live one.’ She offered him a quick smile. ‘I used to rehearse what I’d say to Jackaby Laws if we ever met. At the moment I feel like a cat must when its prey disappears down a mouse-hole and escapes for good, just as it’s about to pounce.’
‘A good analogy.’
‘I think I’m disappointed on behalf of my mother, rather than me. After all, I never knew him. At least I know what he was like, and his fate. My mother didn’t. She always hoped he’d come back into her life. She would have been heartbroken had she known for certain she’d been duped, that he was married and that I . . . I’m illegitimate.’
‘Your mother married him in good faith, my dear. There’s proof of their marriage in the parish records of the church they were married in. Only you, Daniel Laws, and myself know the truth of the matter, and that doesn’t reflect on you in any way. Were I you I’d leave it at that, otherwise it might upset others who loved your mother.’
He meant Aunt Harriet. She nodded, willing to bow to his superior wisdom in this. It wasn’t until later, as the reverend hailed the cab, that she realized it was yet another unsavoury part of her past – and another reason why Charles Curtis would turn away from her.
It wasn’t until they reached their destination and the cab turned to retrace its steps that Celia thought she saw the boy from the alley clinging to the back of the cab like a fly on a wall. Then they were gone from sight round the corner and she heard the horses pick up speed.
; Charles could have sworn that he’d caught a glimpse of Thomas Hambert in the wings at the theatre, and he wondered if Celia was with him. As soon as he could he excused himself from the company of his companions and hurried backstage. His way was blocked by the figure of the stage manager. ‘I’m afraid the public are not allowed backstage, sir.’
‘I was looking for someone.’
‘I daresay. One of the lady performers, was it?’
‘It was the Reverend Thomas Hambert. I thought I saw him in the wings.’
‘If I were you I’d try the church down the road.’
‘He would have had a woman with him – a Miss Laws.’
‘A pert little piece of goods with blue eyes and dark hair?’
Charles smiled at the description, and nodded.
‘They were here . . . They wanted to speak to Daniel Laws. They spent half an hour together, now they’re gone . . . It must be fifteen minutes, since.’
‘What did they want with Daniel Laws?’
‘I didn’t ask them, sir, since it were none of my business. Because of the similarity in name, I assumed they were relatives. Now, would you mind leaving, sir? I have a theatre to run.’
‘Could I speak to Daniel Laws then?’
‘Not at the moment, sir, he’s resting before the next show. If you’d like to buy a ticket for the next show you can see him afterwards perhaps.’
‘I’ve just come from the first sitting, and I have companions waiting.’ Charles slid his hand into his inside pocket. ‘Just one minute with Mr Laws, perhaps.’
The manager smiled at the gesture. ‘I don’t take money for favours, so you’re wasting my time as well as your own. That way out, sir, if you please. You’ll be able to catch Mr Laws at the stage door when he leaves after the show. He’ll be last on because he’s top billing. Watch out for the beggars.’
Charles shrugged. They were attending the same musical function tomorrow evening. He’d simply ask Thomas Hambert, or Celia herself come to that, what they were doing backstage at the theatre. He was surprised that Celia hadn’t mentioned having a relative who was a singer.