by Janet Woods
The next morning Thomas and Celia visited Potter’s Field, where her mother was buried in her rough wooden coffin. Celia tried not to think of her lying beneath the earth in her ragged clothing, one of the many poor of the parish who were buried in great numbers, but without pomp. Gone and forgotten quickly, their memories were lost in the ongoing need of their families to survive.
‘I don’t even know where she is now,’ Celia said sadly, the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘The grass has grown over her.’
‘The earth has reclaimed her body, and her soul is in heaven.’
‘Now you sound like a real reverend, sort of pompous.’
‘It can’t be helped since I am a real reverend; and my faith sustains me.’
‘Tell me this, then, Reverend Thomas Hambert. What does a soul look like?’
He gazed sideways at her, grinned and murmured, ‘You have to be initiated to be trusted with that secret.’
She dashed away her tears and grinned at him in return. ‘What you mean is that you really don’t know?’
‘I didn’t say that. Tell me about your mother’s funeral while I gather my thoughts on this, Celia.’
‘It was a sad day; the grass was soaked through from the mist rising from the earth. The ravens were cawing, and the bare twigs on the trees scribbled on the sky as if it were a slate.’
He gave a faint murmur of appreciation at her description.
‘There was a gravedigger here with his son. He was gnarled-looking, and had calloused hands from working hard. Because there was no preacher here to say the words over the dead, he asked me if I’d like him to say a special prayer for my mother. He asked his dead wife to look after her in heaven, and his son told me that his father had always wanted to be a preacher. Then they wished us well and went off home. Lottie didn’t realize what was going on. She needed . . .’ Celia huffed out a laugh. ‘Lottie said she needed . . . to relieve herself.’
Thomas chuckled. ‘About the soul, Celia . . . it’s one of God’s great mysteries.’
‘So you really don’t know what a soul looks like . . . admit it?’
‘I do not think a soul has a shape and entity. It just is – and it’s too complex a concept to really grasp, except we know it when it touches us. What was the name of the man who said the prayer over your mother?’
‘Bert.’ Her face screwed up in concentration. ‘He called his dead wife Mary Holloway, so he must have been Bert Holloway. His support was comforting. It was nice to think that his wife might be waiting to look after my mother.’
‘He offered you comfort, and in doing so his own soul was comforted. Mankind has pondered on the soul since he realized there was a God. Years ago a man called John Dryden wrote:
Our souls sit close and silently within, and their own webs from their own entrails spin; and when eyes meet far off, our sense is such that spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
She closed her eyes and thought about it, and the wind was a soft caress against her face and she remembered her mother alive, her beautiful face illuminated by the candlelight as she bent to her sewing. She thought she felt her mother’s fingers smooth the hair back from her face, remembered her smile and knew she was standing there beside her. For the briefest of moments Celia felt the touch of her lips against her cheeks and her name carried as a whisper on the wind. ‘Celia . . . my sweet Celia.’
She opened her eyes and gazed at him through the tears flooding them. ‘John Dryden was writing about love.’
‘The line is from a play, a comedy called Marriage-A-la-Mode, which doesn’t really relate to what we were talking about. But that line is so beautifully written and evocative, and as good an explanation of the existence of the soul that I’ve ever come across.’
‘Can a soul feel the tenderest touch of those gone from us?’
‘My dearest child, you’re asking me if contact can be made with the dead. Tell me . . . did you feel a connection here with your mother?’
She nodded. ‘For just a moment I heard her whisper my name, then it slipped away like a wisp of smoke in the wind. It left me feeling . . . oh, I don’t know . . . happy and sad at the same time, and reassured.’
‘Then you have your answer. The soul is something so ethereal it can never really be understood. It’s faith . . . a mystery—’
‘A secret known only to those initiated,’ and she giggled. ‘Sometimes I think you pretend to be one person when you’re really another. You have answers for everything.’
‘I just wish were there more people like you around, who can supply questions for those answers.’ He gazed at her, half-smiling. ‘There will be other times when you’ll feel your soul at work, Celia. It’s nothing tangible, just emotion, but experienced at a level so deep that we’re incapable of understanding the source of it. We just have to accept that it’s there.’ He held out his arm. ‘Now we must go. We have a musical evening to attend tonight, and tomorrow is our final engagement. But before we go I just want to say that knowing you has brought me great joy.’
‘I treasure your friendship, and I always will.’
He gave a bit of a sigh. ‘I think my work here in London is done. I’m looking forward to moving, where I’ll be nearer to my family.’
He looked tired and Celia felt guilty for taking up his time and making him walk so far. ‘You must rest before we get ready to go out tonight. I’m so looking forward to it.’
‘Are you familiar with the works of Bach?’
‘My Aunt Harriet has played a couple of pieces on the piano, and I liked them.’
‘Then you’re in for a wonderful evening, for an orchestra, soloists and a choral society will be performing his work. Charles Curtis mentioned that he might attend the performance.’
‘Really,’ she said as casually as she could, and her heart leaped, so she missed the faint smile he gave.
Nineteen
On the way home from Potter’s Field Celia devised a plan to return the money to Charles. She’d never felt easy keeping it in her possession, knowing it was his, and what it represented to him.
When they returned to Bedford Square she wrapped the satchel in brown paper, tied it with string and wrote on it in her best hand, Charles Curtis esquire. Hesitating for a moment, she added in smaller letters, because he’d probably forgotten the beggar girl he’d given the money to, and she wanted him to think kindly of that girl she’d been, from Lizzie Carter.
She waited until the Reverend was asleep in his chair in front of the fire before fetching her parcel and concealing it under her shawl. ‘I’m going out for a short while, Mrs Packer.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, the reverend wouldn’t like you going out by yourself.’
‘I’m going to buy him a book he was admiring and I want it to be a secret. I’ll be back in time to take him his tea tray.’ Indeed, she did have her eyes on a collection of the work of the poet, Edgar Allan Poe, as a gift for the reverend. She’d overheard him saying to someone that he’d heard that Poe’s work had an uncomfortable dark edge to it that scared people, and he must read the American one day, and discover it for himself. Celia had checked his bookshelves and discovered he was indeed lacking a volume of Poe.
Reassured, Mrs Packer smiled. ‘I won’t tell him if he wakes up, but he usually naps for an hour or so after luncheon.’
Celia took Charles’ card from her pocket and looked at the words scribbled on the back before replacing it in her purse. ‘Oxford and Cambridge club . . . Pall Mall,’ she muttered.
She considered walking, but knew it would take her too long. With the latest royalties from the sale of the book she took a cab to the address. It was a men’s club, and several of them were lingering in the porch. Celia kept her head down as she handed the parcel over to the doorman, for she didn’t want to be noticed.
‘You’ll make sure he gets it, won’t you?’ she said, for it was a lot of money to hand over.
‘Don’t worry, Miss. We’re expecting Mr Curtis. He’s dinin
g with some of his friends, so I’m sure he won’t be long. If you’d like to wait for a few minutes you could hand it to him yourself . . . We can’t allow you inside the club, of course. Gentlemen only, you see. It would be against the rules.’
The breath left her body, and with some alarm in her eyes she gazed up at the man. ‘I don’t want to come into the club, and no, I can’t hand it to him, and he mustn’t see me,’ she said, and she turned and ran back down to the waiting cab.
As they turned into Bedford Square Celia felt jubilant. She’d paid it back. She no longer owed Charles Curtis anything, and a great weight had fallen from her shoulders.
‘Lizzie Carter?’ Charles tasted the name on his tongue as he turned the parcel over in his hands, trying to trigger his memory from the handwriting, which seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place it at the moment. ‘What did the girl look like?’
‘I only saw her for a moment, sir. She was a slim young woman with striking eyes, sir. Her dress was ordinary, not at all smart, and a little shabby. She kept her face shielded by her bonnet and only looked up once. That’s when I caught a glimpse of her eyes. Very appealing, they were; the colour of cornflowers.’
‘Ah yes.’ Charles grinned as he remembered them, and the sooty sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek . . . and the muddy face and tangled dark hair, of course. ‘Don’t wax too lyrical about her, Barton. The woman who left this parcel was a first-class pickpocket.’
Barton’s mouth pursed, as though he’d swallowed a sour plum. ‘And she looked like such a sweet young woman.’
Charles grinned, remembering his youthful lust for the girl who’d stolen his card case and returned it to claim a reward. He’d admired her spirit, and had discovered that, although she was a thief, she also had a moral code, and was not about to sell her body to him for any amount of money. Not even a bribe of one hundred pounds had tempted her to stray from the straight and narrow, it seemed.
‘She was sweet, and innocent, but you’d better check your pockets anyway.’
Was she innocent still? Charles wondered, as he unwrapped the parcel. He encountered a small satchel that was very familiar to him, for his initials were tooled into the surface in gold. He hadn’t expected her to return it, and he’d recalled that he’d asked her to get in touch when she was ready.
He smiled, hesitated, then smiled again as he gazed inside it to see if she’d written him a note. There wasn’t one; the contents of the satchel were the same as when handed to her. The sharp folds and creases spoke of the notes being kept under something weighty – a book perhaps?
‘Well, well . . . you’re an enigma, Lizzie Carter,’ he murmured about the ragged young woman whose services he’d once tried to buy, and who’d placed such value on retaining her purity over a promise made to a dead mother. That was something he’d found touching at the time – still did. ‘You must have decided I wasn’t worth waiting for.’
Or perhaps she’d lost the satchel and someone honest had found it and returned it. But over three years had gone by since then. Although Charles had never really expected Lizzie to honour the bargain they’d made, he’d never expected to get the money back, either.
He’d entertained his friends and acquaintances with the story of the expensive beggar maid he’d tried to buy over the years – now he’d have a fitting ending to the tale.
He couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the girl after all this time, though, and felt a twinge of conscience at making her the object of his jokes as he passed through into the dining room to be greeted by the laughter and chiding of his friends for his lateness. After all, it hadn’t been Lizzie Carter’s fault that she’d been born poor.
Celia had ordered the book she’d wanted from a bookshop not far from the house, and had been told they’d keep it under the counter for her. She left the cab there, and hurried home, relieved to find the reverend still sleeping off his lunch.
Head leaning against the right wing of his armchair, his sparse grey hair was disarranged, as though it had relaxed along with his body, and he gave an occasional quiet snuffle. His shoes stood side by side on the floor, while his feet rested on a shabby footstool. Affection for him raced through her when she saw a small hole in the heel of his black hose. The lump damming the tears in her throat was threatening to burst.
Taking in a deep breath to dispel the feeling, she wrote a note to go with her gift and tucked it under the red ribbon she’d tied round it. It read: To my beloved and finest friend, Reverend Thomas Hambert. No doubt you’ll ask me why I’ve bought you a gift, so here is the answer – it’s because you are you. Celia Jane Laws.
Being careful not to disturb him she picked up the fire tongs and carefully placed coal on the ashes so he wouldn’t be cold when he woke. Positioning her gift in a prominent position on the table in front of him, Celia went to the writing desk, where she took out paper and ink and began to write part three of her magazine serial.
When the clock chimed three Thomas woke with a grunt. ‘Goodness, is that the time already? I must have drifted off to sleep.’
‘I’ll go and prepare the tea tray.’
‘Thank you, dear. Ask Mrs Packer if there’s any of that delicious fruit cake left, if you would.’
‘I’m sure there is, since she hid half of it in the larder, so you wouldn’t eat it all at once.’
‘I do like fruit cake,’ he said with a laugh. His glance fell on the book with the gaudy ribbon bow. With a puzzled expression on his face he reached into his pocket for his reading glasses and said in a wondering manner, ‘Hello . . . What’s this parcel doing on the table?’
‘Waiting to be opened by you,’ and Celia kissed his forehead and left him to it.
The music recital was held in the hall of a large home of an earl, on the west side of Belgrave Square. He was a patron of the arts as well as the Poor Reform Society, and he’d sponsored the concert . . . or so the reverend had told her.
The orchestra was seated on a raised dais along with the solo artists. The choral singers were ranged up the staircase.
Celia had felt quite the lady in her blue skirt and evening bodice, until she set her eyes on the fashionable women with their satin, lace and feathers, flashing diamonds and affectations.
The chairs were numbered, and arranged in a fan shape. Their seats were near the back, a few seats away from a plinth – one of many that supported sculptures of composers, now long gone. There was an empty chair beside them. For Charles, she guessed.
The reverend named some of the sculptures for her, Ludwig Van Beethoven, who glowered at the assembly of people. Then there was George Frideric Handel, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music she was going to listen to before too long. He had rather an austere face, and his hairstyle – a wig, she imagined – was dressed in precise rolls that reminded her of sausages.
The air was becoming warm with all the people crowding in, and the hall that she’d first considered huge, now seemed a great deal smaller as everyone scrambled to find their seats. Thankful for the small fan she carried in her reticule, she slipped the cord over her wrist and put it to good use as she tried to make sense of the printed programme. What on earth were oratorios and cantatas? She must ask the reverend to explain the terms to her tomorrow. More and more she was realizing how wide a gulf existed between different social environments, and the opportunities available to them.
Celia was glad she wasn’t sitting amongst the ladies in their finery, where she would have contrasted badly, despite wearing her best gown – the one the reverend had bought for her, with a pretty lace collar. She wore short gloves too, and an embroidered shawl that Mrs Packer had lent her, because Celia had been worried that the neck of the gown was lower than was decent. Now she was here, she needn’t have worried, since most of the other ladies’ gowns were much lower.
The audience was a pickpocket’s dream, she thought irreverently, and she glanced over the crowd wondering if anyone was working it. But no, this
audience was too expensive and too rarefied for the average dip, who wouldn’t be able to afford the entry fee, or get past the doorman even if they could. There might be a few beggars in the street when the concert was over and the guests were all waiting for carriages to arrive.
There was a buzz in the room that affected her like a glass of wine. She smiled happily at the reverend, distinguished-looking in his evening suit, and wondered if Charles was in the audience.
The crowd was soon settled, the conductor came on to the dais, bowing to much applause before turning to face the orchestra. There was a breathless hush, then he lifted his baton and the music began – glorious music that instantly transported her from being a mere mortal into a world of sound so enthralling, that she wondered if she’d ever breathe again.
Standing a little to one side, for he’d been a little late and didn’t want to disturb the row to reach his seat, Charles stood, partially concealed by the plinth, where Beethoven frowned upon him for his tardiness.
He could almost smell Celia, the occasional drift of roses teasing at his nostrils. He wryly congratulated himself on being able to single her perfume out in a hall filled with ladies, when, in fact, the massed fragrance was more like a flower garden in high summer.
He had a good view of her lovely profile, and a good view of some of the men stealing looks at her, some more assessing than they should be. He blessed the fact that he’d been born a hunter instead of the prey. As most people were acquainted with and respected the reverend, he knew she would not be approached within these walls.
Unlike the play, where Celia’s face had reflected the drama, and she’d leaned forward to offer little comments under her breath, she was completely absorbed by the music. She sat upright, but relaxed, smiling a little, or giving a small nod when she was transported into the arrangement of notes. Sometimes her eyes closed, or a runaway tear escaped from under her lids to be captured on the square of lace-edged lawn she carried, and he wondered what was going on inside her head. She clapped enthusiastically when the interval was announced.