London Lodgings

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Well, that will do, Eliza.’ Tilly was weary of it now, wishing she’d left matters alone. ‘Just let me say that you must really guard your tongue. People hear things you didn’t say if you give them half the chance and you have to be careful. I have enough problems as it is.’

  Eliza looked at her with brimming eyes. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to upset you, Mum, you knows that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Tilly said hurriedly. ‘Now, let’s set about some work. There will be an order of goods delivered this afternoon. Charlie Harrod will bring it, but don’t let that be an excuse for chattering! Just see to it that it’s all put away as carefully as may be. And we must use it all very economically, for I tell you flatly I have no notion whence the next is coming. And for heaven’s sake, Eliza, don’t mention that fact to a soul.’

  ‘I promise,’ Eliza said with all the fervour she could muster. ‘Not a word shall ever pass my lips.’

  ‘Yes, well, let be.’ Tilly got to her feet. ‘Now, I must ready myself for a most disagreeable task.’ She stood in the middle of the kitchen staring at the hearthrug which, with its bright colours and cheerful pattern, seemed so incongruous in her present state of mind, and Eliza looked over her shoulder at her as she made for the larder which she would scrub and tidy ready for the afternoon’s delivery.

  ‘I wager it won’t be as bad as you think, Mum,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Old vicar, him what taught me to read, he always said it’s much worse when you think about what’s comin’ than when it comes. Or something like that.’

  Tilly managed a smile. ‘I imagine it was rather different.’

  Eliza grinned cheerfully. ‘Well, I never listened as much as I might, I don’t deny, not when he took to preachin’ like. But I took it to mean that the more you think about a thing one day, the worse it looks. And then, when the real thing happens next day, why it’s not half the trouble you’d expected.’

  ‘I think he was probably saying, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,”’ Tilly said and Eliza looked amazed.

  ‘Well, fancy that! You got it exactly right, Mum. That was it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tilly murmured, remembering her encounter with Charlie and her conviction that he was about to expose her to his father as a liar and a would-be cheat. ‘Well, Eliza, as I say, I must go and deal with my task. I am going to visit the City. I shall, I hope, return before too late. Certainly before dark. But I must hurry. It’s almost two now and it will take me some time to reach him on the omnibus.’

  ‘Him?’ Eliza could not hide her curiosity.

  ‘Mr Conroy,’ Tilly said. ‘My lawyer.’

  It was in fact past four when she reached the City. The omnibuses had been full of people, even in this middle part of the day in a month when so many had left London for the country or the seaside to escape the heat and the smells. When at last it had been possible for her to secure a place, the horses had been slow and sweating and quite impervious to their driver’s shouts and whippings.

  She left the equipage at the top of Leadenhall Street, quite convinced that her journey would prove to have been a wasted one. It was entirely possible that by this time on a hot August afternoon, Mr Conroy would have left his office for the day.

  But at last her good fortune returned for his clerk, although he looked thoroughly disapproving at being disturbed, allowed that indeed Mr Conroy was in attendance and that Mr Cobbold was there also. He agreed to go and find out if they would see Mrs – ah – Quentin, was it?, and went away, looking like a bad-tempered crane with his long black-trousered legs and shiny shabby frock-coat flapping above them.

  He came back looking just as sour and indicated with a mere tilt of his head that she was to follow him, and she did, to Mr Cobbold’s office where she found both men waiting for her, and she thought – there is bad news for me. If it were not, they would not have seen me so quickly. She then realized how silly she was being, for surely the reverse could have been just as true. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ she whispered beneath her breath and moved forwards with what dignity she could muster.

  ‘It is good of you to see me at such short notice, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I dare say you have much work to prosecute and I will not long detain you.’

  Mr Cobbold, as round and cheerful as his partner was tall and remote, got to his feet and came hurrying round the desk towards her.

  ‘My dear Mrs Quentin! So good to see you – I would have waited on you tomorrow, you know, no later, to offer you my sincere condolences and regret. Sad loss, very sad loss, a man of – um – an excellent gentleman, your father. Excellent. I regret we were not able to attend his funeral – pressure of business, you understand.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Tilly said as she took the chair which he showed her, and indeed she did. Her father and this man had had many altercations over the years. She had heard Austen ranting about things Mr Cobbold had warned him over and, ‘the way the old buzzard sits on a man’s tail and stops him from doing all he might with his own money,’ often enough to be aware of the difficulties that had lain between them. She smiled at Mr Cobbold, grateful for the way he was not letting her father’s past behaviour affect his attitude towards her. In which, she thought, shooting a glance at Conroy, he was a much more agreeable person than his partner, who looked as miserable as she remembered.

  ‘I dare say I should have waited,’ she said. ‘But I must speak frankly, Mr Cobbold, and tell you that my situation vis-à-vis money is such that I cannot indulge myself with patience. I must think carefully of my predicament, and also of my mother. And –’ she looked directly at Mr Cobbold ‘– also of my coming infant. It will be born, I estimate, at about Christmas time.’

  Mr Cobbold looked not in the least embarrassed, but pleasantly avuncular. He almost beamed.

  ‘I am glad indeed to hear you have some joy in your life and some pleasure to which you can look forward, dear Mrs Quentin,’ he said. To have lost both husband and father in so short a space of time is indeed a cruel blow for one so young, and dare I say it, so delicate and sensitive in nature.’ He sketched a little bow. ‘I am happy for you.’

  She felt a wave of warmth towards this man, and thought: he is right. The baby is a joy to look forward to. Not just a problem and a fear and a responsibility. But then she remembered her situation and shook her head.

  ‘It will be easier to look forward with pleasure once I know where I stand with the world, Mr Cobbold,’ she said steadily. ‘I must tell you frankly that I am so beset with anxiety I cannot find any source of pleasure in anything at all.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Mr Cobbold’s face was creased with concern. ‘Your medical man will be most put out, I am sure, if he thinks that –’

  ‘I am not under the care of any medical man,’ Tilly said. ‘To tell you truly, Sir, I cannot be, for I cannot pay the necessary fees. At present I am taking care of myself.’

  Mr Cobbold looked distressed. ‘That is not wise, my dear lady. Why, when my daughter was in a delicate state, my wife was most concerned that –’

  ‘But I cannot pay for medical care,’ Tilly said again as patiently as she was able. ‘And that is why I am here. I need to know whether or not I am to lose my home, Mr Cobbold. I am aware that my father’s financial situation was perilous to say the least. He told me that some time ago. But the house, Sir. Is that left to me? Or to –’ She swallowed. ‘Mrs Leander? I have to know as soon as may be. For if he has left it to her, then I have no roof to my head, and that is far more of a problem, I do assure you, than not being able to pay an apothecary.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘BUT IT COULD have been much worse!’ Tilly said and positively beamed at Mr Cobbold, who still had the creased and worried look on his face that she found so endearing; so much so that she felt she had to comfort him. ‘You must understand I was quite terrified that I was to be thrown out of the house! To be told that there is no money is of small consequence compared with the prospect of having no home.’

&nb
sp; ‘Of small consequence?’ It was Mr Conroy who let the words burst from him. He looked as shocked as if she had suddenly jumped up on his side of the vast partners’ desk they shared and started to dance in the libidinous French manner, kicking her heels in the air. ‘How can you say it is of small consequence to lose a fortune?’

  ‘But you must understand that I did not know there was any fortune,’ she said reasonably. ‘I expected no money, so I cannot grieve over its loss. I am simply happy that the roof over my head, and that of my mother and coming child, is safe. It is all I had hoped for. I was quite terrified that he would leave the house to Mrs Leander.’

  ‘But he could not!’ Mr Cobbold said, almost wonderingly. ‘It is entailed to your mother and thus held in trust for you – it is an unusual arrangement, of course, since as a married woman her property is her husband’s. However, it is clear an ancestor was concerned to protect the security of his daughters and granddaughters, and so made this trust. It is a scheme I have used for several other clients, I must confess.’

  ‘I did not know that. No one told me that.’ She lifted her chin. ‘No one ever told me anything, in fact. My mother –’ she hesitated ‘– is unable to speak now, and as for my father –’

  ‘You said that he told you he was unable to give you money to run the house?’ Mr Cobbold said grimly. ‘Oh, if he were but here today! Well, I know it is wrong of me to question the work of the good Lord, but had He left your father here long enough I would have dealt with him in no uncertain terms. He had made bad investments indeed, as I warned him. I knew he was involved in a ridiculous get-rich-quick bubble of a scheme of precisely the sort he most loved and which was most pernicious, and so I told him. But he would not listen, and burned his fingers smartly in consequence, and serve him right, say I. But that did not mean he was quite penniless. Impulsive the man might have been, completely mad he was not! To have kept you on short commons was outrageous.’

  ‘Hardly mad,’ Mr Conroy said dryly. ‘Seeing he left some fifteen thousand pounds.’

  Mr Cobbold sighed. ‘Indeed he did. And all to go to a Mrs Leander.’

  ‘And none of my client’s money paid to him as it should have been, as promised on his marriage,’ Mr Conroy said sharply.

  Mr Cobbold spread his hands. ‘What can I do, Conroy? It was written into the contract as carefully as you please. Should Mr Quentin predecease Mr Kingsley no marriage settlement was to stand. He did so predecease –’

  ‘If you agreed to pay the sum out of the estate, Mrs Quentin here would at least have some money,’ Mr Conroy said and Tilly looked at him, amazed. Was the man fighting for her? It seemed an odd notion, especially as kind Mr Cobbold of the anxiety-creased face was the opponent. But then she realized he was not fighting for her at all; only for a dry-as-dust principle, and though she might benefit from such a battle she found she had small appetite for it.

  ‘I could not, I think, do it,’ Mr Cobbold said, almost wringing his hands in his distress. ‘It is so clearly written in the will that not a penny of his money is to go – anywhere except to Mrs Leander. In the event of her death it is to go to her further issue or other relations – he was clearly determined that you should have none of it, my dear.’ He looked apologetically at her. ‘Though it may comfort you a little to know that it is his wife, your esteemed mother, the former Miss Henrietta Speakman Cox, against whom he – ahem – expressed opprobrium. He made mention of her in most disagreeable terms.’

  ‘I should know what they are, I think,’ Tilly said. ‘Should I not?’

  ‘I would prefer not to –’ Mr Cobbold began, but she shook her head.

  ‘Perhaps so, Mr Cobbold, but since I am involved in this will, I have a right to know what he said.’

  ‘It is a disagreeable task to be a lawyer on occasion,’ Mr Cobbold said and got to his feet and went to the door. ‘Fetch me the Kingsley will,’ he called to his clerk, who gracelessly obliged. Mr Cobbold spread it on the desk before him.

  ‘Here it is. Oh dear, oh dear, I would really rather –’

  ‘Read it,’ Tilly said and he glanced at her and sighed and read it.

  ‘“To my wife, God help me, one Henrietta Speakman Cox, I leave nothing but my curses for the life of hell she has given me. Not a penny shall she or her issue have of me. She has enough possessions of her own –” That’s all that is germane.’ He rolled up the will quickly. ‘Truly, it is.’

  ‘I see,’ Tilly said and managed a sort of smile. ‘I suspected he had scant regard for me. Now I know.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mr Cobbold said and shook his head. ‘He was a most difficult man – I would have preferred you not to know all this.’

  ‘I am happy enough,’ Tilly said stolidly and got to her feet, showing a courage she did not really have. ‘I have my house, my mother’s house, and I bless her for it. I shall contrive well enough with that.’

  ‘It is not enough to own a house,’ Mr Conroy said and she thought – he is not as unpleasant as I thought him. There was an expression on his face that showed anger and she knew it was directed at the dead Austen Kingsley. ‘What will you do for cash?’

  ‘I am not entirely sure,’ she said and buttoned her gloves with steady fingers. ‘I need to think a little.’ She smoothed her gloves over her fingers and said slowly, ‘I believe I have the answer.’ She tilted her chin and smiled. ‘I believe I actually do.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Cobbold and Mr Conroy looked at her curiously, but she didn’t care what either of them were thinking. She had matters of her own on her mind.

  ‘Oh, I shall not discuss it now!’ she said cheerfully. ‘This is just a notion I have derived from an earlier conversation. I have further thought to put to it. Thank you for your help, gentlemen. You will see to it that the necessary documents relating to my house are sent to me?’ And she put a gentle but unmistakable emphasis on the ‘my’.

  Mr Cobbold shook his head regretfully. ‘They will be sent to your mother, Mrs Quentin,’ he murmured. ‘But I shall see the envelope is marked in care of you.’

  ‘That will do well enough. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ She was at the door before the thought came to her and she turned to them. ‘Mrs Leander’s legacy, gentlemen. How will she receive it?’

  The two men looked at each other. ‘When she claims it,’ Mr Cobbold said. ‘She may choose the form in which it will be paid.’ And Tilly lifted her brows at him.

  ‘But she has vanished,’ she said. ‘Gone from my house, and left no address behind her. She could be anywhere.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Cobbold, and he looked at Mr Conroy who said nothing.

  Tilly persisted. ‘Is it not incumbent upon you to make searches for her?’

  ‘I must legally advertise where I consider it possible she might see such an advertisement,’ Mr Cobbold said after a moment. ‘A line in the London Gazette perhaps. But I cannot in all conscience fritter away the money in fruitless expense on searches.’

  A smile curved Tilly’s mouth. ‘Thank you, Mr Cobbold,’ she said simply. ‘That does help a little. I wish the woman no harm, but I would not be human if I did not admit I don’t wish her well. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ And she went, to catch the omnibus to Brompton Grove and the house into which at last she knew it was safe for her baby to be born.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Eliza said. And could say no more.

  ‘Perhaps I should not have told you.’ Tilly was uneasy. When would she learn not to be too familiar with Eliza? It was very difficult to remember to treat her as a servant now that she was so much part of her life. It was even more difficult when she so needed to have someone to talk to, to relieve her of the pent-up feelings that often consumed her. It was impossible not to run down to the kitchen on her return home to assure Eliza excitedly that the house was safe, and that they were not about to be turned out on to the street.

  ‘All we have to worry about now is getting the money we need to eat and to pay the other bills that are inevitable to a house,’ Tilly said. ‘And I have
a notion regarding that.’ She looked closely at Eliza and gave up her struggle to be a distant employer. ‘I must talk of it with you. I think some tea would be delightful, what do you say? Has my Mamma had her evening meal?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mum. I did all that an hour gone. Sleeping happy, she is, and took only half the usual daffy and made no fuss at all!’ Eliza darted to the scullery to fetch the tea things. ‘Now sit yourself down, Mum, an’ I’ll be about it.’

  Tilly threw her pelisse on to the table and sat down in the big rocker, easing off her boots as she did so. They were not tight precisely, but her ankles ached. She put her feet up on the low fender and relaxed as Eliza came back with the tray and fussed over the kettle.

  The evening was slowly drawing in; the last light of the August day was dying in the window panes and she looked at it languorously, enjoying the moment and relishing it for what it was. The fears that had consumed her for, it seemed, so long a time had been vanquished. She had but to make arrangements of the sort that had buzzed through her head all the way back on the omnibus, and all would be well. It will be easy, truly it will. Live the moment, she thought, before more problems come.

  She opened her eyes at Eliza’s touch and took the tea gratefully and with it the slice of seed cake she was offered.

  ‘I made it, Mum, this afternoon,’ Eliza said. ‘I’ve tried it and I must say I ain’t ashamed of it.’

  It was excellent cake, if a little heavy in the middle, and Tilly praised her warmly for it. Eliza was glowing with pleasure as she pulled up her stool beside Tilly, her face turned trustingly up at her.

  ‘Our problem, Eliza,’ she said at length, when the tea and cake were finished, ‘is to obtain sufficient income for us all. I have an idea of how to do it, though at first I could not imagine myself undertaking such a thing. But the more I considered it, the more sensible it seemed to me. It will, however, mean extra work for you.’