by Cathy Sharp
‘Perhaps she will return to you,’ Ruth suggested. ‘She must know you were upset.’
‘I suspect she thinks I meant to take her back to the workhouse, but I would never have been so cruel.’
Ruth had found herself comforting the other woman, but there was no hope she could offer. Eliza had no friends that Ruth knew of or anywhere she could take refuge. It meant that she was on the streets in the bitter weather and would have to beg for her food, unless she was able to find work. If she stole to feed herself she could fall foul of the watch and end up being sent to prison – and the alternative was to die of starvation or the cold.
Now, sitting in her parlour, Ruth realised she was crying. She fumbled for her handkerchief and took out the one in which she had wrapped the trinket that belonged to Eliza. Its sale would keep the child alive for weeks – long enough to find a home perhaps, but Ruth had kept it safe and now she felt guilty. It ought to have been Eliza’s long ago.
‘What is wrong, Ruth? Has something upset you?’
Hearing Mr Stoneham’s voice, Ruth looked up. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief and the trinket dropped to the floor and rolled to his feet. He bent to pick it up and then stood staring at it for a moment, the oddest look in his eyes.
‘What is this?’ he asked at last.
‘It belongs to Eliza, sir,’ Ruth said and blew her nose. ‘I went to visit her at the apothecary’s shop today, for I believe it valuable and intended to give it to her if she was settled and happy – but she’d gone.’
‘Gone?’ Arthur drew out a chair and sat so that he could look at her face. ‘What do you mean?’
Ruth explained all that she’d been told and he nodded. He was turning the halfpenny over and over in his fingers, seeming a little distracted.
‘That was unfortunate. We must see what can be done to find her, Ruth,’ he said, and then, leaning towards her, an intent look in his eyes, asked, ‘Why do you say this trinket belongs to Eliza?’
‘Because it was tucked inside her shawl when she was brought to the workhouse. I did see her mother, sir – a young and gentle woman – and the shawl was of the finest spun wool. Mistress Simpkins gave the babe, who was wrapped in a blanket so mistress never saw the shawl, to me to care for because her cloths were wet and she was screaming. Later, she took away the fine clothes Eliza was wearing, but I found the trinket in her shawl and I kept it – and the shawl – hidden, for it is Eliza’s from her mother and she must have it.’
‘Yes …’ Mr Stoneham frowned and placed the trinket on the table. ‘It looks quite valuable. I wonder why her mother placed it in her shawl.’
‘She must have had her reasons, sir. It be valuable I know that. I reckon it be gold that holds the halfpenny and diamonds on the clip.’
‘Yes, I am sure it is – a watch fob, I daresay.’ Ruth wondered at the look in his eyes.
‘Yes, sir. A trinket a gentleman might wear. Do you think it belonged to Eliza’s father?’
‘No! It could not,’ Mr Stoneham said and then put a hand to his forehead. ‘God forgive me, it could not!’
‘Is something wrong, sir?’
He looked at her for a moment and she thought he meant to tell her something important, but then he shook his head. ‘No, Ruth. It just reminded me of something that happened long ago … but as to your question, I think it unlikely. If the young lady had been deserted she would not wish to give her child something that had been her father’s, would she? Perhaps she found it, or someone else found it and gave it to her.’
Ruth was puzzled, because it was obvious that the trinket disturbed him. ‘I be right to think it belongs to Eliza, be that not so, sir?’
‘Yes, Ruth, this trinket belongs to Eliza no matter whose it once was,’ he said and reached across to place it in her hand. ‘Take care of it for her and I promise you that I shall find her – somehow I will discover what has happened to her and I shall bring her home to you.’
Arthur walked home through Regent’s Park later. Icicles hung from the trees and ice frosted the grass, his breath making white clouds on the air, so bitter was it. To one side of the main path stood an old man roasting chestnuts and the scent of burning assailing his nostrils as he passed the stall by, only half aware of the children clustering for the festive treat, chaperoned by their nannies. He could hear carols being sung as he emerged into the street and crossed the road towards the house his uncle had left him all those years ago; the uncle who had made it clear that if he married beneath him he would lose the fortune that would otherwise be bequeathed to him. A headline on a newsstand casting doubts on Queen Victoria’s health caught his eye but at this moment he had no interest in such news.
His thoughts were churning, breaking into patterns like a kaleidoscope. He had never thought to see that trinket again. Seeing it fall from Ruth’s hand had been a shock. His lucky halfpenny that he’d had set in gold and diamonds because he believed it brought him luck – but then his luck had run out after he’d heard of Sarah’s death and he’d cast it aside in the woods near her home.
Arthur recalled the day that he’d met Sarah’s brother, Henry York. He’d been staying with friends near the Yorks’ home and was taking a shortcut through the woods, determined to put things right with Sarah, when he became aware that he was being followed. When Henry suddenly threw himself on him and started yelling, accusing him of causing Sarah’s death, they had fought until Arthur found himself lying on the ground, his face battered and bruised. He’d got much the worst of it, because he’d refused to fight back from the moment Henry had said that he, Arthur, had caused Sarah’s death, reeling from the shock and guilt at the terrible news of Sarah’s fate. He’d had no wish to hurt her brother, for he had done the family enough harm. Because of what he’d done, a beautiful, gentle girl had broken her heart and died of her unhappiness.
Lying beaten and sunk in misery as Henry York had poured scorn on him, telling him what a knave he’d been to seduce and then desert the sweetest, gentlest girl that had ever lived, Arthur had wished that he too might die and join her in the cold ground. He’d never believed that Sarah giving herself to him so freely, so joyfully, could end this way – Sarah dead of grief and he knowing that he would carry the burden of it all his life.
After Henry York had walked away, leaving Arthur lying in the woods he’d cast away the halfpenny that he’d considered lucky. A wretch such as he did not deserve to be lucky. Throwing it on the ground he’d walked away and not looked back. Now, all these years later, it was in Ruth’s possession and she believed it belonged to Eliza’s mother or father.
How could that be? Sarah had surely not given birth to a child? Her brother had said nothing of it that day and Arthur had heard no rumours of her being with child before or after her death. He’d believed she died of a broken heart, nothing more.
Besides, he had not thrown away the coin until after her death. It was mere coincidence. Eliza – that lovely child who reminded him a little of Sarah – could not be his. It was not possible. Yet the thought haunted him. If he believed that his daughter – Sarah’s daughter! – had been brought up in a workhouse and mistreated so terribly, it would drive him mad.
No, no, Eliza could not be his and yet … how had the trinket been in her shawl and why? Why had Eliza’s mother chosen to put it inside her daughter’s shawl? Had Henry found it? Would he have known it was Arthur’s? Had someone else found it and given it to the child’s mother? Another woman who had needed to abandon her child? None of that made sense.
Sarah would have definitely known the coin was Arthur’s had she seen it lying in the woods. She might have picked it up and kept it, even put it in her babe’s shawl if she was forced to give the child away – but she was dead before he discarded the coin, wasn’t she?
Oh God, if she had still lived when her brother had attacked him – if John had lied! But that would be like a blessing, forgiveness of his sin. He could not believe that anyone would lie about the death of his sister, and ot
hers had spoken of her death later. Arthur had never visited her grave, because he felt himself unworthy, but he’d never had cause to doubt she was dead until now.
The mystery was tearing at his heart, destroying his peace of mind, and he knew it would not let him rest. He must find Eliza, whether she was Sarah’s daughter or not, and make certain she was safe – and then he must discover the secret of her birth. Only that way could he make amends for what he had done to Sarah.
CHAPTER 20
It was so cold that her toes had gone numb and her shoulders and fingers ached with it. Eliza hugged her ragged shawl about her as she crouched in the corner of the deserted workshops where waxed rope had once been made. She’d found this place the first night she was back on the streets, remembering it from her time with Tucker and the others. There had been talk of it being pulled down then, but it was still here and it was a little better than being on the streets, because there were still coils of rope to sit on and make some kind of shelter to keep out the icy cold.
Eliza had tried to find work that first day, but the stalls had begun to sell their wares off cheaply and told her to come back another day. One of the costers had given her a small loaf of bread, which was already a little stale, but it had kept her from going hungry for two days. She’d begged a cup of milk from a girl selling it round the doors, and the girl had given her enough to soak her stale bread and make it soft enough to swallow. Her water came from the tap that filled one of the horse troughs situated everywhere for the many workhorses which served the huge city of London: bakers’ vans, brewery carts, coal merchants, hansom cabs – they all needed big strong horses and so there were water troughs everywhere to refresh them.
Eliza did her best to keep herself looking clean, using water from the troughs to wash herself early in the mornings. Sometimes, she had to break the ice and it made her shiver to splash her face in the cold water, but she knew that unless she looked respectable no one would give her work. She’d been lucky on several mornings, given work cutting outside leaves from cabbages to make them look fresher, clearing the debris from round the stalls, and once a kindly man had let her wash the front of his shop down after passing traffic had splashed it with the filth of the gutters, giving her a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich when she’d finished – but no one had offered her proper work.
She was too young to work behind the counter in a shop or one of the many pubs that she’d tried. The owners simply sent her away, and one of them had aimed a blow at her head for bothering him; another had leered at her and told her to come into his back room, but the expression on his face and the smell of him had alerted her and she’d run away before he could grab her. He’d smelled of strong drink and she guessed what kind of work he would offer her – and Eliza would never agree to prostitute herself. She would rather go hungry.
It had rained in the night, which meant it was not quite as cold as the previous days. Eliza knew that it was getting close to Christmas, for the carol singers were everywhere; in the evening the light from their lanterns was to be seen on street corners and the sound of their voices was sweet and comforting. The markets smelled of exotic spices, cinnamon and fir trees, and she thought with regret of her warm home with Miss Edith and the little treats she’d been promised. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she thrust the disappointment and hurt from her mind. She knew she was not guilty of theft and she was sure she knew who had taken Miss Edith’s money. Malcolm had resented Eliza from the moment he saw her and it was a certain way of getting rid of her, because Miss Edith would never suspect her own cousin.
Sometimes at night, when the rats rustled around her feet and she shivered with cold, Eliza had considered returning to the shop and asking Miss Edith to listen to her story, but she knew it was useless. Why would Miss Edith believe her? She was convinced it was Eliza that had stolen from her.
Brushing the tears from her cheeks fiercely that morning, Eliza walked towards the market. At least during the day she could hang around in the hope that someone would need an errand or perhaps give her a stale bun or a piece of fruit that was on the turn. Many of the stalls were groaning with food baked ready for Christmas; rich fruit cakes waiting for someone to carry them home and ice them, jars of mincemeat, big pork pies with bright red cranberries on the top, and almond comfits wrapped in thin tissue, chocolates and mint creams sitting in dishes alongside silver-covered almonds, waiting to be weighed and packed in little boxes tied with ribbons. On other stalls there were chickens hanging upside down, a larger bird that Eliza hadn’t ever seen cooked but thought someone had called a turkey, geese and big joints of beef and pork.
She watched as ladies wearing dresses with full skirts that trailed behind them, fur tippets and lined bonnets, expensive rings on their fingers, bought these things, some taking them with them in their baskets, others giving an order for the provisions to be delivered. Just thinking about the kitchens where all this food would be cooked made Eliza’s stomach rumble.
She considered asking if one of the ladies needed a kitchen girl, but once or twice when she tried to speak the rich ladies pulled their skirts aside and looked down their noses at her. Her throat tight with tears, Eliza wandered from stall to stall, looking for someone with a kind face – someone who would give her work or food.
She was standing looking at a stall selling freshly-baked bread, cakes and pies when someone grabbed her by the arm. Thinking she’d been caught by the constable for loitering, Eliza tried to pull away.
‘Eliza, it’s me – Joe,’ a voice said and her heart stood still. She turned to look at him, eyes brimming as she saw the gypsy lad she’d known so briefly in the workhouse, but would never forget. ‘I’ve been watchin’ yer. I wasn’t sure it was you, Eliza.’
‘Oh, Joe!’ Eliza cried, her joy at seeing him again making her cry at the same time as she hugged him. ‘They told me you were dead, but I knew you’d run away.’
Joe grinned and nodded. ‘I hid in the cellar and only came out at night to steal food from the kitchen. There was a way under the wall at the back of the cellar. I think it was a kind of chute that had been used to pour coal or wood down when they stored fuel there years before; the rats had been using it for ages, making their tunnels in and out, and I found it. It had become silted up with dust and debris so I dug my way through and then I scrambled out and I was at the other side of the workhouse – at the back where all the deliveries used to be made when it was a grand house centuries ago.’
‘Oh, Joe, I’m so glad,’ Eliza said and brushed the tears from her face. Her hands left dirty marks on her cheeks and Joe laughed. He took out a red kerchief, spat on it and then rubbed at her cheek. ‘No wonder you can’t find work. They won’t take yer on if they think yer a vagrant or a thief. Come on, I’ve got work fer today. Yer can help me and I’ll give yer something to eat and yer can sleep where I do. It’s above a stable and it’s warm in the hay.’
‘Do you work in a stable?’
‘Aye, for ’tis honest work,’ Joe said and took hold of her arm, pulling her with him as he headed down one of the lanes adjacent to the market. ‘’Tis no use tryin’ for work on the market, for they think you mean to steal from them. I found work with a decent bloke who runs the ostler’s on the corner of Friar’s Court. They’re always busy and people leave their ’orses to be cared for when they have business in town. I sweep the stables out in the mornin’ and then I spread clean straw, groom the ’orses, feed ’em and water ’em.’
‘I never thought to try the stables,’ Eliza said trotting happily by his side. ‘I tried the inns and the shops and the pie stall but they all said I was too young.’
‘I’m a lad and bigger than you,’ Joe told her with a grin, ‘and I’m used to ’orses. At first I was turned down and told to clear orf, but I’ve a way with wild ’uns and they had trouble with one what was left there one mornin’. I was the only one that could calm it and so they give me a job.’
‘You’re so clever,’ Eliza said looking at him
admiringly. ‘I wish I’d found work like you.’
‘Well, you can help me sweep the stable and carry water,’ he said. ‘I’ll share my bed with you, though ’tis only the straw and a blanket in the hayloft, and we’ll share the food. I can buy food for us when I’m paid.’
‘I should earn my keep.’ Eliza looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You spoke of travellin’ and workin’ in the fields, digging potatoes and binding the hay – I could help with that …’
‘Aye, you could when we leave town,’ Joe said and looked sad. ‘My pa is serving a year in prison for a fight he never started – but that’s ’cos there ain’t no justice fer us. Folks don’t like the travellin’ people; they say we’re dirty thieves and we steal children – but that’s all lies. I’m waitin’ fer me pa to be freed and then we’re off to the country.’
‘How much longer must you wait?’
‘It will be next spring afore he’s free. I managed to see him once. I lied and told ’em I was sixteen and they let me in, but I’m only allowed to visit once in two months. Still, me pa knows I be here waitin fer ’im and told me we shan’t come back to Lun’un no more.’
‘Oh, Joe, I’ll be sorry when you go,’ Eliza said, trying not to cry.
‘Don’t yer fret, my Eliza. I told yer we was meant and so it is – you’m ter come with us when we go.’
‘Will your father let me come with you – won’t I be in the way?’
‘’Course not,’ Joe said and grinned. ‘He knows I’ve got the sight, and when I tell him we be meant, he will agree. You’ll like the way we live, Eliza. Out in the fields and riding the ’orses bare-backed. We don’t need no saddles, me and pa. We’ve both got the way with ’em yer see. Pa breaks ’em from the wild and sells ’em but we keep some fer ourselves. In Ireland we have a place where we leave the young ‘uns when we travel – and we breed from the best mares.’ His eyes lit up. ‘’Tis a fine life, Eliza. Better than any you’ve known.’