The Beggar Maid

by Dilly Court

  On Boxing Day morning, despite the fact that it was now officially a bank holiday, Charity insisted on returning to the shop. Dr Marchant sent Dorrie out to hail a cab and Charity travelled home in style. He had pressed money into her hand as she was leaving, with strict instructions to spend it on necessities such as food, coal and candles. ‘Don’t forget, my dear. You will always have a home here should the worst happen.’

  His words rang in her ears as she alighted from the cab outside the shop. She paid the cabby and made her way carefully across the frozen snow to unlock the door. She let herself in and the familiar musty smell of books enveloped her as she walked between the stands to the back of the shop. The kitchen was cold and dark and she could feel Jethro’s presence as if he were still huddled up on his bed giving her a reproachful stare. She placed the rush basket that Mrs Rose had given her on the table. It had been a parting gift, given, no doubt, in the hope that it would be the last she would see of her master’s protégée. A quick glance beneath the spotless white napkin revealed a bundle of candles, a loaf of bread and a pat of butter wrapped in a cabbage leaf. There was also a slab of cheddar cheese and two slices of ham, an apple and an orange.

  Charity picked up the fruit and held it close to her face, breathing in its zesty aroma. She had not tasted an orange since her last meal in Doughty Street. Wilmot had peeled one for her and divided it into segments so that it was easy to eat. She felt her throat constrict at the memory. They had been a happy threesome that particular evening. She had felt at ease with Wilmot and Daniel then, and had not foreseen the sudden end to their friendship, but it had happened all the same. Daniel’s departure to the wilds of Dorset had left a gap in her life, and it was unlikely that she would have any further contact with Wilmot. She must look to the future now, and her most pressing need was for warmth, but first she would have to brave the cold and go in search of somewhere that was open on Boxing Day. She walked back through the shop and was about to open the door when a hackney carriage pulled up at the kerb. She raised her mittened hand and scraped a circle in the ice on one of the small panes in the half-glassed door. To her astonishment it was Wilmot who alighted first, followed by a younger man. She took a step backward as Wilmot approached the shop. The Closed sign was on the door but he rattled the handle and tugged at the chain. The bell clanged noisily above her head and, driven by curiosity, she unlocked the door. Wilmot and his companion entered, stamping the snow off their shoes on the doormat.

  Wilmot embraced Charity as if she were a long lost friend, holding her a little too long for comfort. ‘Compliments of the season, my dear. I’m afraid it’s a bit late, but I’ve been up to my eyes in preparing lectures for next term and time has flown by. How are you?’ He held her at arm’s length. ‘You look pale, but the light in this emporium is appalling.’

  ‘I’m quite well, thank you, sir.’ Charity shot a curious glance at the young man, who was looking round the shop with a disdainful expression on his handsome features.

  Wilmot released her with an apologetic smile. ‘You’ll never guess who this is, Charity.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘ALLOW ME TO introduce my step-nephew, if there is such a relationship.’ Wilmot turned to the young man who was standing behind him. ‘This, my dear, is Daniel’s elder brother, Harry.’

  ‘Half-brother, to be exact – Harry Elliott. How do you do, Miss Crosse?’ Harry doffed his top hat, and there was a teasing, mischievous gleam in his dark eyes as he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  ‘How do you do?’ Charity met his steady gaze without blinking. She had come across mashers like him in theatre crowds and outside expensive restaurants. They were men who could not resist a pretty face even if the girl was dressed in rags, and she had got Harry Elliott’s measure. Even though questions about Daniel buzzed in her brain like a hive of angry bees, she could not bring herself to mention his name. He had obviously forgotten her and she did not want his brother to see how much that hurt. ‘I’m afraid the shop is closed today,’ she added in an icy tone. ‘I was going out.’

  ‘Come now, Charity, that’s no way to treat friends.’ Wilmot was smiling but there was a warning look in his grey eyes.

  ‘It’s my fault entirely, Miss Crosse,’ Harry said with a disarming smile. ‘Daniel sent me a note asking me to get a book for him that he could not find locally. He thought you might have it in stock.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he write and ask me? We were good friends, or so I thought.’

  ‘You know Daniel,’ Harry said casually. ‘He’s not the most thoughtful chap in the world, and anyway he knew that I was duty bound to visit our mother at some time during the twelve days of Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t see that it matters who he asked to find the wretched book. I’ll look for it myself.’ Wilmot moved away and began browsing, and there was an awkward silence.

  ‘I seem to have put my foot in it,’ Harry said, grinning. ‘Tact and diplomacy were never my strong point. Have I offended you, Miss Crosse?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She met his amused gaze with a steady look. ‘Are you an archaeologist, Mr Elliott?’ He was as unlike Daniel as it was possible to be when they were so closely related. Whereas Daniel was not much above medium height, his half brother was a good head taller, and his hair was much darker and waved back from a high forehead. Daniel had boyish good looks, but his brother had a cynical, world-weary look. His hand, when he touched her fingers, was satin smooth, as if he had never done a hard day’s work in his life, and she suspected that he was more at home at the gaming tables or at the races than he was in the country.

  ‘Good Lord, no. I’m what you might call a gentleman of fortune.’

  ‘You’re a gambler?’ Her first impression of him had been correct, and she could not keep a note of triumph from her voice.

  ‘I’ve been known to play the tables occasionally, and you are a shopkeeper. Aren’t you rather young to be bound in leather and condemned to spend all day in this dreary emporium with only books for company?’

  ‘I love books,’ Charity said with a break in her voice. ‘And I’m seventeen today, as it happens.’ Until that moment she had all but forgotten her birthday. Since Jethro’s untimely death her mind had been focused on survival, and in the past such anniversaries had meant little. Life had been a struggle when she was trying to prevent her grandfather from ending up in the gutter, and it was not much easier now.

  ‘Wilmot, did you hear that? This young lady is seventeen today. I think that calls for a celebration, don’t you?’

  Wilmot appeared from behind one of the stands clutching a heavy tome. ‘Most certainly, Harry. What do you suggest?’

  ‘How about the Café Royal?’

  ‘Excellent notion,’ Wilmot said, slamming the book down on the counter. ‘Allow me to pay for this, Harry. Consider it my Christmas gift to Daniel. I’ve missed the boy.’

  ‘He’s only happy when he’s up to his armpits in mud and shards of ancient pottery. I expect he’ll be bored to death with my mother and stepfather in Devon, which is why I seldom visit the family home.’

  ‘So you’re not exactly a dutiful son.’ Wilmot took a leather wallet from his pocket. ‘Have you change for a five pound note, Charity?’

  She shook her head. ‘You must know that I can’t, sir.’

  He delved in his pocket and took out a golden guinea. ‘Will that suffice?’

  ‘The book is twelve and six, Mr Barton, as you will see if you look inside the cover.’ She moved swiftly round the counter and unlocked the cash box, taking out four florins and a sixpenny bit, which she handed to Wilmot in exchange for the guinea. The sale of an expensive volume meant that she had almost enough money for the rent at the old rate. Perhaps Woods might allow her time to find the extra, or give her a month to make up the shortfall. Maybe this was the turning point and she had Daniel to thank for a second chance.

  Wilmot put the change in his pocket, staring at her expectantly. ‘Are you ready?’
>
  ‘Ready for what, Mr Barton?’

  ‘To come with us to the Café Royal, of course.’

  ‘Look at me, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Do I look like someone who would be welcome at a place like that?’ She was uncomfortably aware of the soaked hem of her skirt where it had trailed in the snow, and the patch she had inexpertly sewn on to cover a tear in the material where it had snagged on a protruding nail in the back yard. The only other clothes she possessed were a faded cotton frock, or an even shabbier serge skirt and a blouse with frayed cuffs.

  Wilmot shrugged his shoulders. ‘You look all right to me. A bit shabby, maybe, but who’s going to look at you?’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Harry and I will be the peacocks today. We had best enjoy the moment.’

  ‘I suggest we get a cab to Fleet Street,’ Harry said, ignoring Wilmot’s crass remark. ‘We could try one of the chop houses there, and maybe a visit to the Gaiety Theatre would be in order. A new play opened on Christmas Eve with Nellie Farren and Fred Leslie in the lead roles.’

  ‘A play?’ Charity could hardly believe her ears. She had often stood outside theatres begging from the wealthy patrons, but to go inside one would be a new and exciting experience. She forgot everything else in her enthusiasm. ‘I’d love to go to the theatre. What play is it?’

  ‘Frankenstein, or The Vampire’s Victim. It sounds suitably chilling, don’t you think?’

  Replete after an excellent meal in the Old Cheshire Cheese, Charity sat in the stalls between Wilmot and Harry. The musical burlesque did not seem to be going down well with the rest of the audience, but she loved every moment of the bizarre drama. It was both shocking and fascinating to see the famous Nellie Farren, darling of the London stage, in the role of Dr Frankenstein with Fred Leslie as a somewhat effeminate monster. When the final curtain fell Charity clapped until her hands were sore, but Wilmot rose from his seat and hustled them out of the theatre. ‘Absolute rubbish,’ he said angrily. ‘That was a waste of money.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Harry said, grinning. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Hail a cab, there’s a good fellow. I can’t wait to get home and have a hot toddy before turning in.’

  Charity stood ankle deep in snow, shivering. She had thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but Wilmot’s angry words had made her feel that she was to blame for ruining his evening. Harry took off his overcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘There’s no need to labour the point, Wilmot. This was Charity’s treat and I think she had a good time.’

  She felt the warmth of his body in the thick cashmere coat and the faint aroma of bay rum and Macassar oil clung to the garment. She managed a tired smile. ‘Thank you, yes. I loved every minute of it.’

  ‘Which just goes to prove that education would have been wasted on you, Charity.’ Wilmot stepped off the pavement to flag down a hackney carriage.

  ‘That was uncalled for,’ Harry said angrily. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on between you, but you have no right to speak to her like that, Wilmot.’

  Charity tugged at his sleeve. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does. I’m no saint, but I wouldn’t talk to anyone in that manner.’

  Wilmot turned on him. ‘It’s a private matter and one which is no longer relevant.’ He wrenched the cab door open as it drew to a halt and climbed inside. ‘Get in, Charity. We’ll drop you off first.’

  Harry handed her into the cab and she sat opposite Wilmot, huddling down inside Harry’s coat. ‘Thank you for taking me out,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But there was no need to insult me in front of a stranger.’

  ‘I’m hardly a stranger,’ Harry said, making himself comfortable beside her. ‘We’ve had a very pleasant evening together and that makes us friends.’ He leaned towards Wilmot. ‘I’d say an apology was in order, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Go to hell, Harry. I’m not apologising for speaking the truth. Charity was paid to tell me about the sordid life she’d led begging on the streets. I treated her extremely well considering the fact that I’d plucked her from the gutter. She’s done well for herself since then.’

  ‘No thanks to you,’ Charity said angrily. ‘It was Dr Marchant who found me a place with Jethro.’

  ‘The old freak couldn’t get anyone else to put up with his weird ways. I taught you how to behave in company and how to speak properly.’ He leaned back against the squabs, closing his eyes. ‘Wake me when we get to Doughty Street, Harry.’ He opened one eye. ‘You’ve had all you’re going to get from me, Charity, so don’t come begging at my door when you’re thrown out onto the streets.’

  Harry banged on the roof of the cab. ‘Stop here, cabby.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Wilmot opened his eyes. ‘We can’t be there yet.’

  ‘I’m going to see Charity home, but I’d prefer not to travel with a jumped-up schoolmaster who thinks he’s a cut above everyone else simply because he’s got a university degree. You’re a boor and prig, Wilmot.’

  He thrust the door open and leapt to the snowy ground. He held his hand out to Charity. ‘We’ll get another cab.’

  ‘I used to think the world of you, Mr Barton,’ Charity said as she slid towards the open door. ‘But now I see that I was mistaken.’ She alighted from the vehicle with Harry’s help and he slammed the door.

  ‘Take the gentleman to Doughty Street, cabby.’

  Charity’s boots had leaked and despite the cashmere coat she was chilled to the bone. ‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ she said through chattering teeth.

  ‘I hate bullies.’ Harry placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s get you home before you catch pneumonia.’ He raised his arm to hail a hansom cab but it drove past them. ‘I’m sorry your birthday ended on a sour note.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I had a lovely time at the theatre and I enjoyed my dinner. I’m just glad now that I didn’t accept Mr Barton’s offer to take me in and further my education.’

  ‘So that’s what he called it. I think you had a lucky escape. Anyway, let’s walk on. There’ll be another cab along soon, but we need to keep moving.’

  ‘You should have your coat. You’ll be the one to fall sick.’

  ‘Not I. I’m tough as an old boot, and there’s enough alcohol in my veins to keep me warm for hours, if not days.’

  She frowned, casting him a sideways glance. ‘You shouldn’t drink. It killed my grandpa.’

  ‘And it will probably do for me in the end, that’s if I don’t get shot by a jealous husband or murdered by one of the London street gangs who run the gaming houses.’

  ‘Is that really how you live?’

  ‘I’m not the sort of chap you should associate with, young Charity. If your grandpa was alive now he’d tell you to avoid gamblers like the plague, and he’d be quite right.’ He hailed another hansom cab and this time it pulled in and stopped.

  By the time they reached Liquorpond Street Charity had told him all about herself, sparing no detail about life on the streets or the occasions when she had been desperate enough to steal food for herself and her grandfather. She confessed to being profligate with Jethro’s money with a break in her voice.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said sternly. ‘Giving the old man a proper burial was the decent thing to do. I don’t think I would have been as forgiving or as generous, but you did what you thought was right. As for me, I always know what is right but more often than not I do the exact opposite. I admire your courage, Charity Crosse.’

  ‘We’re here already,’ Charity said as the cabby reined his horse in. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I enjoyed myself. It was a refreshing change from smoky gaming halls or spending the evening humouring Wilmot. He’s not an easy man to get on with.’ Harry alighted first and helped her to the ground. ‘Wait for me, cabby. I’ll only be a minute or so.’ He took Charity by the arm, and although she was perfectly capable of navigating the slippery pavement on her own, she did
not protest. He stood by while she fumbled in her pocket for the door key and followed her into the shop. She made her way to the counter and lit a candle.

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  She took off Harry’s overcoat and handed it to him. ‘I’m used to being on my own. Thank you for the loan of your coat, and for the evening out. It was all lovely.’

  ‘I’m glad you had a good time. It’s not every day you turn seventeen. Goodnight, Charity.’

  It was only when she locked the door after him that she realised he had not picked up the book for Daniel. ‘I don’t know where to send it,’ she said out loud as she made her way through the shop to the kitchen. The air was dank and her breath steamed around her head. She could feel the coldness rising from the flagstones and the windows were filmed with ice. A cup of hot cocoa would have been more than welcome but she had forgotten to buy coal and kindling and the range seemed to glare sullenly at her, baring its bars like blackened teeth in a rictus grin. She climbed into bed fully dressed, only stopping to take off her sodden boots and stockings. She pulled the coverlet over her head and curled up in a ball.

  She lay shivering with Wilmot’s spiteful words echoing in her ears as sleep evaded her. There had been an element of truth in them, which made it even worse. Wilmot had said that she might end up on the streets, but she would not allow that to happen. One way or another she would make something of her life. She would become a person who counted for something and no one, not even an important and well educated man like Wilmot, could take away her spirit or her ambition. She grew calmer as warmth seeped into her chilled bones and gradually drowsiness overtook her and she drifted off to sleep.

  First thing in the morning she went out to buy the necessities needed to get through the next couple of days. She had until Friday to scrape up the rent money, and selling the book to Wilmot had helped, but she did not have quite enough. She staggered home carrying a bag of coal and a bundle of kindling, and after a few abortive attempts she managed to get the fire going. Within minutes the flames were licking around the coal with tongues of orange and blue. The kettle began to simmer on the hob and the aroma of toast filled the kitchen; the ghosts that haunted the night vanished as a feeble ray of sunlight filtered through the window. She speared a second slice of bread with the brass toasting fork and held it close to the fire.