by Dilly Court
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Dilly Court
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Copyright
About the Book
Stella Barry is forced into service as a kitchen maid when her father dies at sea and the family find themselves living hand-to-mouth.
Leaving her mother and younger brother and sister in the slums of London’s docklands, Stella goes to a big country house outside London.
A year later, having not seen them in all that time, Stella walks to London with a cake for her mother for mothering Sunday. But she discovers the family has disappeared. Thrown out of their lodgings no one knows where they have gone.
Seven years later Stella is now undercook and it looks likely she’ll soon become Cook. But when the son of the house makes improper advances and she knows he’ll be believed over her, she must leave at once.
With no references and only a few personal possessions to her name she heads off. She has never forgotten her loving family and is determined to find out what happened to them – once and for all.
About the Author
Dilly Court grew up in North-east London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two children and four grandchildren, and lives in Dorset on the beautiful Jurassic Coast with her husband. She is the author of eighteen novels, and also writes under the name of Lily Baxter.
Also by Dilly Court
Mermaids Singing
The Dollmaker’s Daughters
Tilly True
The Best of Sisters
The Cockney Sparrow
A Mother’s Courage
The Constant Heart
A Mother’s Promise
The Cockney Angel
A Mother’s Wish
The Ragged Heiress
A Mother’s Secret
Cinderella Sister
A Mother’s Trust
The Lady’s Maid
The Best of Daughters
The Workhouse Girl
A Loving Family
Dilly Court
For Di Ellard
Chapter One
Barrack Hospital, Scutari, 1855
THE SMELL OF lye soap could not mask the stench of disease and death that filtered from the hospital wards to the laundry room in the basement of the Barrack hospital. The army wives and camp followers attempted to cope with the soiled bedding and bloodstained bandages of the wounded soldiers, but it was a never-ending battle.
Miss Nightingale rarely showed her face in the hell-hole below the ground where the washerwomen were often as sick as the men lying in the hospital beds. Sanchia Romero had been working since daybreak and now it was late in the evening. She knew that she was ill. She had seen many of her comrades sicken and collapse in the rat-infested cellars, which were never intended to be used for such work. With little ventilation and the overpowering heat from the coppers they were a breeding ground for the cholera and dysentery that Miss Nightingale and her nurses were trying so desperately to eradicate.
‘I must go back to our tent,’ Sanchia whispered to the woman who was scrubbing a bloodstained sheet on a washboard. ‘My daughter is all alone. She needs me more than the poor devils on the wards.’
Nellie Jones made the sign of the cross on her flat chest. ‘I wish I’d never followed my old man to the battlefield. I should have stayed at home in Spitalfields, even if I had to put up with a mean old bitch of a mother-in-law, and I wish to God that I had.’
Sanchia clasped a work-roughened hand to her forehead. She was burning up with fever. She knew the danger signs only too well. ‘I have to go, Nellie.’ Gathering strength from the thought of seeing her fourteen-year-old daughter, perhaps for the last time, Sanchia made her way between the steaming coppers towards the stone steps.
Outside the building the hospital yard was filled with the injured on stretchers or simply lying on the ground where they had been left to await admission. Their pathetic groans and pleas for water made her cover her ears, and the rumble of the cart taking the deceased to the mortuary would echo in her head long after she had reached the haven of their makeshift accommodation. It seemed that there was no escape from this terrible place, but Sanchia was determined that her beautiful child would not suffer a similar fate to the one she knew awaited her. She feared that time was not on her side.
She found Jacinta huddled in the rough shelter of canvas that had been their home since they arrived at Scutari weeks ago. How long exactly they had been in this hell on earth she did not know, but it felt as though it had been forever. She had watched her man die slowly and painfully from the wounds he had received in battle, and she had been helpless to save him. Fred Wilton’s last wish had been for her to take their daughter to London, where they had met when Sanchia was a girl of thirteen, but it was not easy to get a passage home.
Orphaned by the death of her immigrant parents in a typhoid epidemic, she had been roaming the streets begging for food when Fred had come across her. It had been love at first sight, although they had never got round to making their union legal. She had known it was not a good idea to bring their daughter with them, but Fred had insisted on keeping their small family together. Jacinta had always been her father’s pet and Fred had insisted that his little girl would be kept safe. With his last breath, the husband of her heart and father of her beloved daughter had declared his love for them.
Sanchia wiped a tear from her eye as she lifted the canvas tent flap and saw her daughter huddled up against the bitter cold. ‘Jacinta,’ she whispered. ‘I am sick. You must leave here immediately.’
Jacinta raised a tear-stained face and her lips trembled. ‘No, Mama. I won’t leave you.’
Sanchia shook her head. ‘You are to leave tonight on the steamboat heading for Boulogne. It is all arranged. You are to travel with one of the nurses in charge of the soldiers who are being repatriated. You are going to England. Your father’s family will look after you. I have written them a letter.’ Breathless and burning up with fever, Sanchia pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and pressed it into her daughter’s hand. ‘I cannot look after you, my darling child. I will soon be joining your father in heaven. I have followed him since I was a girl like you, and in death we will be reunited.’
‘Mama, I will stay with you and make you better.’ Jacinta’s voice broke on a sob.
‘It is too late for that.’ Sanchia leaned out of the tent and waved to attract the attention of Nurse Davis, who had shown her small kindnesses in the past. ‘Miss Davis, over here, please.’ With the last of her strength she dragged her daughter to her feet and thrust her outside. ‘Miss Davis will see you safely on board the Victus. When you arrive in London go to the address on the letter. Go now and God go with you, my sweet girl.’
On board the ship Jacinta had to sleep on deck as there was no r
oom in the accommodation. Miss Davis was kind, but too busy looking after the men in her care to bother about a healthy young girl, and Jacinta was left to her own devices. She was still grieving for her father and now she had lost her mother. She had seen enough in her short life to know the reality of cholera and her mother had exhibited all the symptoms of the dreaded disease.
‘Are you all right, love?’
Jacinta was huddled against the bulwarks with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The night air was chilly and she had not had anything to eat since a bowl of thin soup at midday. She looked up into the face of a young seaman. ‘I am all right. Thank you.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll feel better if you drink this.’ He handed her a tin mug filled with tea.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t like tea.’
‘You ain’t English, are you, love?’ He squatted down beside her. ‘I can tell by your looks and your accent. I’d say you were from Spain. Is that right?’
‘I have never been there, but my mother is from Catalonia.’ She turned her head away so that he could not see the tears in her eyes. ‘I mean, she was from there. My pa was English. From Bethnal Green, London. His father is what they call a rag and bone man.’
‘I see.’ He thrust the mug into her hands. ‘Well, your pa would say drink the split pea and you’ll soon perk up.’ He nodded his head. ‘Go on, love. It’s hot and sweet. Just the thing on a cold night.’
She sipped the brew. ‘It’s quite nice,’ she said with an attempt at a smile. ‘You are kind.’
He held out his hand. ‘Isaac Barry. What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you love, although you are a very pretty girl, if I may say so.’
‘Jacinta,’ she said, blushing. ‘Jacinta Romero.’
He frowned. ‘You said your pa was from London.’
‘It’s my mother’s name.’
‘I understand,’ he said hastily. ‘And it’s a very good name too. Now how about something to eat, Jacinta? I’m well in with the cook on this particular voyage. Why don’t we go down to the galley and see if he’s got anything left from supper that a young lady might fancy?’
She met his smiling gaze and she knew in that moment that she was alone no longer. Isaac Barry was not the most handsome young man she had ever seen. Some people might call him plain to the point of ugliness with a snub nose and large ears that stuck out at a comical angle, but his generous mouth seemed permanently curved in a smile and his blue eyes had a kindly look in them that made her want to trust him. She held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Isaac. I am rather hungry.’
He helped her to her feet. ‘Come on, my duck. You’re skinny as a little rabbit, but we’ll soon feed you up and bring the roses back to your cheeks.’
By the time they reached Boulogne Jacinta was halfway to being in love with Isaac and the thought of parting from him was agony, but when he announced that he was travelling on to London she knew for certain that she wanted to be with him forever.
They travelled overland to Calais and onward by ferry to Dover, where they caught the train for Victoria. Miss Davis had been reluctant to hand Jacinta over to the care of a young man who was unrelated to her, but Isaac assured her that his intentions were strictly honourable. He reassured her that he was going to take Jacinta to her father’s family in Bethnal Green, and Miss Davis seemed pleased to accept his plan. ‘Your mother was a good woman,’ she said as they parted at Victoria station. ‘She wanted you to be happy, Jacinta, and I’m sure that your papa’s family will give you the welcome you deserve.’
The address in Bethnal Green that Sanchia had scribbled on the brief note to Jacinta’s grandparents led them to a mean street backing on to the railway goods depot. The run-down terraced houses were all in a similar state of dilapidation. Broken windowpanes were stuffed with rags to keep out the worst of the weather. The paint on the doors was blistered and peeling, and a thin layer of soot veiled the brickwork. Dung lay in heaps on the cobbled street and detritus filled the gutters, attracting vermin even in the middle of the day. Rats as large as cats trawled through the rubbish and barefoot children played in animal excrement.
‘This can’t be the place, Isaac,’ Jacinta whispered as he consulted the well-thumbed letter.
‘I’m afraid it is, my duck.’ Isaac pushed his cap to the back of his head. ‘Shall I knock on the door, or shall us go straight to my place in Limehouse?’
Jacinta thought of Scutari and the encampment surrounding the Barrack hospital. She had seen worse. ‘We’ve come this far. Maybe it’s not so bad.’
He rapped on the front door and stood back. From inside they could hear a child wailing and a man shouting followed by the clatter of footsteps on bare boards. The door opened a fraction and a slatternly woman peered at them. ‘What d’you want?’
Isaac cleared his throat. ‘Is this the home of Mr Saul Wilton, rag and bone merchant?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Jacinta stepped forward. ‘Are you Mrs Wilton, ma’am?’
‘It can’t be the Spanish trollop.’ The woman poked her head out, glaring at Jacinta. ‘No, it can’t. She’d be in her thirties by now. Who are you, girl?’
‘I’m Jacinta. If you are Mrs Wilton you’re my grandmother.’
‘Who is it, Aggie?’ A man wrenched the door open, almost knocking his wife off the step. ‘What’s all the bloody noise about? Can’t a man get some rest in his own home?’
Isaac placed a protective arm around Jacinta’s shoulders. ‘Are you the rag and bone man, mister? If you are then this is your granddaughter and it ain’t the way to greet a long-lost relation.’
‘Who asked for your opinion?’ Mrs Wilton took a step towards him, sticking out her chin as if she were about to attack. ‘Get off my front step or I’ll set the dog on you.’
‘My parents are both dead.’ Jacinta’s voice broke and she hid her face against Isaac’s shoulder. ‘Pa succumbed to his wounds and Ma died of cholera.’
‘Cholera?’ Agnes Wilton paled visibly. ‘Get away from here. Don’t bring that filthy disease to our neighbourhood.’
‘Don’t talk soft, woman. They wouldn’t be here now if they’d caught the disease. Go inside and shut your stupid mouth.’ Wilton grabbed her by the neck and propelled her into the narrow hallway. He rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal brawny forearms. ‘Now clear off, you two. Whatever you come for there ain’t nothing for you here.’
Trembling but determined to discover the truth, Jacinta stood her ground. ‘My pa died in the service of his country. If you’re my grandfather I want to know.’
Wilton leaned towards her, curling his lip. ‘I want don’t get, missy. I washed me hands of that person when he took up with the Spanish piece, and I can see that you’re her daughter. You got the look of a dago and we got enough foreigners round here without adding to their numbers.’
‘Don’t you dare speak ill of my mother,’ Jacinta cried angrily. ‘She thought you might want to take care of me, but I’d rather starve in the gutter than be beholden to a brute like you.’
‘That’s good then, ain’t it?’ Wilton hawked and spat on the pavement at her feet. ‘Because that’s where you’ll end up.’ He slammed the door in her face.
Stunned by the hostile reception, Jacinta could only stare at the closed door.
‘That’s that then,’ Isaac said firmly. ‘Now we know why your pa saw fit to drag you all the way to the Crimea along with your ma.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Jacinta said dully. ‘Why were they like that with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Never mind them, love. Come on, I’m taking you home to Limehouse. My ma might have a liking for a drop of blue ruin now and again, but at least she’s got a warm heart. She’ll take us in until I can find somewhere for us to live.’
Jacinta turned her head to look him in the eye. ‘For us to live, Isaac?’
He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘I ain’t a man of many words, but I love you, girl. If you’ll have a f
ellow like me then we’d best get spliced all legal and proper like.’
‘Spliced?’
‘Find a parson and get married. That’s what I meant, my little Spanish flower. I want to wed you and take care of you for the rest of me life. How about it, love? What do you say?’
She slid her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. ‘I say yes, Isaac. With all my heart I say yes.’
He lifted her off her feet and spun her round, setting her down again with a whoop of glee. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to Limehouse and you’ll meet Ma. She’s been widowed these past fifteen years, but she kept a roof over our heads by delivering other women’s babes and laying out the dead. She’s quite a character is Ma. I think you’ll like her and she’ll love you as I do. Come on. Let’s get away from this midden of a place. Let’s go home.’
They were about to walk away when a hansom cab pulled into the street and drew up outside the Wiltons’ house. They had to move away from the kerb in order to avoid being splashed by the mud thrown up from the huge wheels. ‘Hey, watch out, cully.’ Isaac shook his fist at the cabby and received a string of invective in reply.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Jacinta said, eyeing the woman who was preparing to alight from the cab. ‘Help the lady, Isaac.’
He stepped forward to proffer his hand and the plump middle-aged woman gave him a grateful smile. ‘Thank you, young man.’ She glanced at the irate cabby. ‘Wait here. I won’t be long, I can assure you of that.’
‘This ain’t the place for a lady like you, ma’am,’ Isaac said, tipping his cap. ‘No offence meant, I’m sure, but are you sure you’ve come to the right place?’
‘Quite sure, thank you.’ The woman stared hard at Jacinta. ‘My eyesight might not be as good as it was but I know that face.’
Jacinta glanced over her shoulder to make certain that the lady was not addressing someone else. ‘Are you talking to me, ma’am?’
‘I’d know you anywhere. You’re so like your ma.’ The woman enveloped her in a hug. ‘It’s little Jacinta, grown up to be a lovely young lady as I knew you would.’