by Ruby Moone
“I have a proposal for you.”
“You do?” The smile disappeared and wariness in Christy’s eyes was back tenfold.
“I propose that we trial what you suggest, but it will be your enterprise.”
Christy nodded cautiously, curiously.
“I will give you an amount of cash to pay for tea, or whatever you decide to serve, and set up chairs and what not, then whatever you make in profit you can take as part of your salary. Also,” he added when Christy looked about to jump in. “Also, if the customers who partake of your refreshment make a purchase, I will give you ten percent of the profit.”
Christy’s eyes were wide.
“I propose that this is a separate arrangement to the salary that I give you to take home. I propose that whatever you make stays here, in the safe, in a strong box for you to use as you please.”
Lawrence realised his heart was thudding hard, and he was holding his breath as he waited for Christy to respond. He looked at him for a long moment. Lawrence couldn’t read what was in his eyes at all, and that was unusual because Christy was usually something of an open book. When he didn’t speak immediately, Lawrence feared for a moment that he had got the whole thing entirely wrong. He thought about the package that sat in the cupboard in the kitchen. The documents that he had drawn up in a mad moment. The documents that would most likely stay there forever.
But then Christy’s face broke into an excited grin. “How much do you think I will need to start?”
Chapter 3
Christy didn’t feel the cold as he made his way back home. His head was too busy planning and his heart too full of Mr. Fenton’s trust. He could see it now. People flocking to Fenton’s Bookstore to take advantage of the warmth, the hospitality, and the reasonably priced books and lounging happily like they did in the big bookshops. He’d been up to places like Hatchards or Stockdales and that was what the quality did, they lounged. Idle. As rich people did. Well, the people who frequented Fenton’s weren’t rich or idle, but a little time spent in the company of books in a warm bookshop, with a good cup of tea would make anyone happy enough to want to lounge for as long as possible. It was Christy’s idea of a perfect afternoon.
He tucked his head down as the incessant rain seemed to be bent on hitting him in the face, and tugged his cap as low as it would go. Small cakes. Small cakes and biscuits to go with the drinks. He had absolutely no idea how to make such things, but his mother might be able to help with that. Before his father had died, and they had been respectable, he remembered his mother in her neat apron and his father in his smart suit and hat. His smile at the memory was sad for a moment, but then he recalled the treats his mother used to bake and was sure she would know what to do and how to make them. It also struck him quite forcibly that if he could make money he could share with his mother, and possibly keep it away from the thieving hands of Stanley March, she might even be persuaded to get away from him altogether. His heart thumped at the notion as he headed to his mother’s house.
He arrived to find the door wide open and a cacophony of shrieks, banging, and bellowing coming from inside. March’s three youngest children were huddled in filthy misery on the floor outside the door in the freezing rain, crying, the eldest holding tightly to the younger two, and women from the rooms close by hovered on the threshold yelling and gesturing. Christy ran the rest of the way and pushed through to find March raging about the room like a mad bull, stinking of ale, and his mother cowering with her arms up, trying in vain to cover her head. March grabbed her by the hair, yanked her face up, and then slapped her so hard she tumbled back against the table and crumpled to the floor. He pulled her up again, but Christy launched himself at him, roaring with rage as he did so. He was no match for the brutish March, who was twice his size, but he didn’t care. He locked his arms around March’s neck and pulled him off his mother who scrambled under the table. March shook him off with a single move and Christy clattered to the floor, smacking his head on the stone.
“Come on then,” he taunted, weaving about and wagging his fingers in a ‘come and get me’ gesture. “Come on, molly boy. Give it your best.” He ran the back of his sleeve across his nose and mouth, sniffing loudly. “Come on…”
The appellation made Christy’s blood run cold. He faced up to the man who had made his and his mother’s life hell, and then rushed at him again only to have March backhand him across the face and send him spinning. Someone shouted from the doorway and distracted March so Christy leaped forward, grabbed his lapels, and brought his forehead down on March’s unprotected nose, as he had learned to do when fighting the French. Christy saw stars and staggered back, but March howled as his nose erupted and sprayed blood over everything. His mother whimpered under the table and someone yelled excitedly from the doorway. Christy didn’t know what to do. He wanted to send March packing, but the room they were in was March’s. He wanted to take his mother away but he feared she wouldn’t go. March grabbed a towel from the sink and plunged it into some water and then held it to his face, blinking and staggering.
“You,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at Christy, his voice muffled. “You are a dead man.” March’s bleary eyes bored furiously into his.
“No. You are the dead man if you touch my mother like that again,” Christy said, wishing to God he knew how he might achieve that.
March looked him in the eye and held his gaze whilst he turned his body slightly in the direction of his mother who still sat beneath the table.
“You hear that, Cecily? Brat thinks he can take me on.” He turned so swiftly it made Christy jump and swept everything off the table. He kicked out wildly at the chairs, scattering them. “Come on, molly boy.” He was bellowing at the top of his voice, and kicking at anything he could see. His mother scrambled from beneath the table, but before she could get to her feet, he lashed out again and instead of his boot connecting with the chair, he kicked her full in the stomach.
She crumpled to the ground moaning, holding herself, curling in on herself.
“Cecily…” March stopped dead in his tracks and reached out a shaking hand to her. “Cecily…I’m sorry…I never…”
Christy dropped to his knees beside her. “You bastard,” he spat at March. “Don’t dare touch her,” he warned as March snatched back his hand. March’s eldest daughter, Meg, rushed in with the women from the door and they went to his mother’s aid. He stood and faced March, went to push him away from her, but found himself grabbed by the throat so tight, he couldn’t breathe. His heart drummed in his ears, muffling his mother’s tortured gasps for air, the shouts of the women, and the sound of children crying. March dug his fingers into Christy’s airway until black spots flickered before his eyes.
In the early hours of the morning, Christy’s mother lay on the cot in his attic, looking small and old. She had lost the baby she had been carrying. That was apparently what the argument had been about. March couldn’t see why he should deny himself his conjugal rights and ignored the consequences. Well, the consequences were gone now, and the child that might have been his little brother or sister gone before they had chance to draw even the smallest breath. Christy’s eyes stung as he blinked back tears again. His mother didn’t cry. She just lay silent and still, one hand resting on her belly.
He turned as the kettle over the fire boiled and he poured the water onto the herbs that the neighbour had given him. Mrs. Wainwright was a kind woman with a huge family, a loving husband, and she seemed to know something about everything. Once March had stomped off into the night, and Christy had regained his senses, she helped him with his mother, made sure that the babe that wasn’t to be was dealt with properly, and then given him herbs and instructions about what to do. She had promised to look after the children, and then come back to sit with her whilst Christy went to work.
“Will you drink this?”
His mother turned her head and gave him a weary glance. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Wainwright gave it to me
. Said it would help.”
His mother struggled onto one elbow and heaved herself up. She took the cup and sipped, pulling a face. She sat back against the wall and held the cup to her chest.
“I’m sorry, Christy.”
“Why are you apologising? It should be him.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated and then sipped at the tea.
Christy didn’t know what to say. His mother was less than forty, but looked much older. Her hair was a mess, her skin dry, blotchy, and thin, her hands red and worn. If he’d had a gun he would have taken it to March’s head and shot the bastard where he stood. He’d never felt so damned helpless, not even when facing Bonaparte’s troops on a damned battlefield. At least he could do something then, but this? This was torture.
“I want you to rest today,” he said, taking the cup from her when she had finished. “I want you to lay here, all cosy and warm, and rest. There is plenty of firewood and Mr. Fenton will give me some more, I’m sure.”
She smiled at him. “You’re such a good boy, Christy.”
“I know, and you need to listen to me.”
She smiled again and Christy was encouraged. “Do you know how to make cakes and biscuits?” he asked, determined to change the mood.
She gave him a quizzical look. “Of course I do.”
“Could you teach me how to do it?”
“Why on earth do you want to know how to make cakes?” She pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked faintly interested, so Christy sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He kissed the back of it and quickly explained his fledgling enterprise in the book shop. When he was done she squeezed his fingers. “It’s a good idea,” she said. “People used to love my Shrewsbury biscuits.”
“Perhaps we could make them?” he said, heartened by her praise and her suggestion.
“Perhaps we could, darling.”
They talked for most of the night, and when Mrs. Wainwright came back the bells were tolling six. Christy let her in. She had brought all manner of things and Christy felt that his mother was at least in safe hands.
“Has he said anything?” Christy asked of her, quietly.
Mrs. Wainwright shook her head. “Left the bairns with me and disappeared.”
“For good, I hope,” Christy said bitterly.
“Don’t get your hopes up, love. That kind always bounces back. Like a bad penny.”
Christy feared that she might be right.
Christy hurried wearily to the bookshop. He was horribly late, though it was still dark. Rain beat down on his head in torrents, and the cold seeped through his shoes. He half ran across Covent Garden Piazza, around the edges of the stalls, past the church, and then down Southampton Street.
He opened the shop door and slipped inside, keeping his head down.
“Good morning, Mr. Shaw.”
Heart beating fast, Christy glanced over at Mr. Fenton seated as usual behind his desk and nodded. “Good morning.”
He hurried into the back room and started to unbutton his old shirt with shaking hands to get into his clean clothes, but Mr. Fenton surprised him by following.
“Whatever happened?” he said, eyes wide and shocked as he looked him over. Christy blinked and looked down. He was covered in blood. His hands, his clothes…he’d never even thought about how he might look, hadn’t even washed his hands. All he’d been able to think about was getting to the bookshop.
“Oh, oh…I…I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, feeling foolish.
“My dear boy. Sit down.” He found himself steered to the table and chairs whilst Mr. Fenton threw more wood on the fire and then pulled the kettle over it. “Let me take your coat and shirt.”
Christy wriggled out of the wet garments and sat at the table in his breeches, shivering. Gooseflesh covered every inch of him.
Mr. Fenton sat on a chair before him and gently raised one arm and inspected the bruising on his torso, then touched the bruised place on his forehead before tilting his chin so he could look at what were probably bruises the shape of fingerprints on his throat.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he said eventually as he poured hot water into a bowl and placed it by Christy’s arm along with a towel and a bar of soap. He dipped a cloth into the water, lathered it with soap, and when Christy just looked at it helplessly, took one of his hands and washed it gently. The kindness of the gesture undid him. He did not want to cry in front of Mr. Fenton. He did not.
Chapter 4
Fury boiled through every fibre of Lawrence’s being as he washed Christy’s hands as gently as he could. The lad had been badly beaten and seemed so dazed he could barely think or speak. His head drooped as he cleaned his hands, and then a warm splash startled him. When another hit his skin, he realised the lad was weeping. Lawrence squeezed his hands and then struggled to his feet. He went through to the shop and locked the door, turning the sign to closed. Any early shoppers would have to wait. He returned to find Christy with his hands pressed to his eyes as he breathed awkwardly, trying to stem the tears. Lawrence wanted to lift him up, sit in the leather chair, and pull Christy into his lap, put his head on his shoulder, and hold him. Instead, he stood beside him and laid a gentle hand on his naked back.
“No need to speak if it upsets you,” he murmured, rubbing gently.
Christy shook his head and dashed at the tears and rubbed his nose with the back of his arm. “Not upset.”
Lawrence pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to him. Christy stared at it a moment and then took it, wiped his face and blew his nose. Lawrence pulled his hand away and missed the contact with Christy’s skin. He was so thin and cold. Lawrence knew he didn’t eat much, but even so…
“Take your time.”
“The shop. We need to get set up.”
“I’ll leave the shop closed for now so that you can get yourself cleaned up and gather your thoughts.”
Christy looked at him, head on one side, frowning. “Why are you so good to me?”
Lawrence’s heart thumped uncomfortably. “You are a good employee.”
Christy nodded, apparently satisfied with that. “I owe you an explanation.”
“No, you don’t. Not if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“My mother was carrying a baby and I didn’t know.” He picked at the washcloth in his hands and didn’t look up.
Lawrence felt an ice cold chill settle about his heart. “Was?” he said, gently, kneeling beside him as far as his leg would allow.
Christy nodded. “Her husband kicked it out of her last night.”
Lawrence squeezed his eyes closed.
“He’s a big brute. A lot bigger than me, and older. I broke his nose. He’ll come after me. And her.” He spoke in staccato, nodding between each part. Then he looked at Lawrence. “I should probably go in case he finds me here. He would hurt you too. Couldn’t bear that.” He started to rise, agitated. Lawrence struggled, but stood up with him, and then they were facing each other.
“Couldn’t bear that,” Christy whispered.
Lawrence hesitated, and then pulled Christy to him. He was stiff at first, and then he leaned awkwardly into him. Lawrence wrapped his arms about his back and just held him. Tight. After a moment, Christy slid his arms tentatively around Lawrence and held on. Lawrence stroked the back of his head, then took his shoulders and pushed him away so he could look at him.
“I’m going to put some water on and then I want you to wash yourself thoroughly, including your hair.”
“Hair?”
“Yes, hair. It’s a mess. Then we will have another cup of tea and talk about how best to support your mother in this terrible time. Do you have other brothers and sisters?”
Christy shook his head. “Only his children. There’s six of them.”
“Six?”
“Six. Aged from about fifteen down to about three.”
“A lot for your mother to take on.”
Christy didn’t speak.
&
nbsp; “Once we have done that, we will return to your plan for the shop.”
Christy smiled sadly. “But I can’t stay. He’ll find me and ruin it all.”
“Mr. Shaw. Do you think me incapable of defending what is mine?”
Christy’s reply almost broke his heart. “Well, I hope you are better at it than I was.”
Lawrence had to leave the room whilst Christy made himself presentable and got himself together. If he could have laid hands on the lad’s stepfather there and then he would have torn him limb from limb. He busied himself at his desk, tidying a few bits here and there and then built up the fire in the shop. He could hear movement from the back room, so he tackled his invoices and marked them all up, then checked all the orders and stacked them neatly. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he went back into the room. Christy was sat on the floor by the fire, cross legged like a tailor, tilting his head forward and running his fingers through his wet hair to dry it in the heat of the blaze. As Lawrence had suspected, his hair was drying into fair curls about his head. Lawrence watched as he then leaned against the chair and closed his eyes. His cane must have made a noise as he entered the room as Christy jerked awake and immediately jumped up, but swayed on his feet.
“Forgive me,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“How much did you sleep?”
Christy blinked and then sighed. “Not at all, really.”
“Then you must sleep now.
“I couldn’t possibly…”
“Yes, you could.” Lawrence hardened his voice a little. “You are absolutely no use to me like this. I need you awake and alert. I suggest you go and lie on my bed until noon and then you can go and procure us some lunch and check on your mother.”
Christy wavered. Lawrence’s instinct had been right, he responded far better to instructions than kindness. No doubt a legacy from his army days.
“Now. Upstairs, door on the left. Put a towel on the pillow so your hair doesn’t wet it.” He handed a dry towel to him. Christy took it and with a wary glance over his shoulder, headed up the stairs.