by Cathy Sharp
‘It ain’t nothin’ like that, mistress,’ Sadie said and her eyes gleamed. ‘I reckon there’s someone wants ter see yer – waitin’ in yer room.’
‘And who let this person in?’
‘He come to the side gate and used the key what that other one used ter use,’ Sadie said, her eyes narrowed in gleeful malice. Joan frowned, because she had not thought anyone knew of her schemes or the way Drake came secretly to her at night when he had some business for her. ‘Don’t worry, mistress. Sadie don’t never tell – but it helps if yer make me a supervisor.’
‘You want extra rations, is that it?’ Joan glared at her. ‘Very well, you may wear the yellow badge and oversee the basket making; it is an easy job and pays one shilling a week.’
Sadie grinned toothlessly. ‘He be the one that come the other day wiv the man from the Board.’ She went off, cackling to herself, leaving Joan uncertain as she went into her office. How could Mr Stoneham have discovered where the key to the side gate was hidden?
Seeing the large, red-cheeked man who stood looking out of her window at the courtyard, Joan checked. Not Mr Stoneham or his friend then – but the man who had sided with her against them. She assumed a sweet smile as she addressed him. ‘Good evening, major. What may I do for you, sir?’
‘Well, I think we may be able to help each other, dear lady,’ the major said and the look in his eyes held Joan mesmerised. What was he suggesting? ‘I believe a mutual friend spoke to you of some special merchandise …’
Joan held back the exclamation of surprise. It was all clear to her now. She would never in a thousand years have suspected it, because to all intents and purposes this man was respectable, upright and honest, a pillar of the community. Arthur Stoneham had picked him to help him expose her and instead of that … a gurgle of wild laughter started up inside her but she reined it back. This man was taking a chance in coming out of the shadows. She suspected that only Drake’s stubborn refusal to have any more to do with the trade in young girls had forced him to speak to her – but he had recognised a kindred spirit in her and known that she would do anything he asked for a price.
‘You know what I want,’ he said. ‘The younger the better. Those other girls were too old …’
Joan nodded, understanding that to satisfy his filthy lusts he was willing to pay. ‘I have none for the moment, but I’ll find you a girl as soon as the chance arises. Where can I contact you?’
He reached into his pocket and took out a small scrap of paper. ‘Memorise this and then destroy it. You may leave me a message there and I’ll pay once you bring the girl.’
‘How much. It’s dangerous for me to bring her – you must make it worth my while …’
‘A hundred and fifty guineas,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you fifty guineas now and the rest when you deliver – and the younger they are the more I will pay.’
Joan smiled and nodded, her delight almost too much to hide. She could see that the next few months could be very profitable for her. ‘I shall be delighted to do business with you, sir.’
He took a small purse from his pocket and gave it to her. ‘The bargain is sealed. I believe that we shall work well together, Miss Simpkins.’
Joan took the money, inclined her head and waited until he’d left to count the money. Fifty golden guineas, as much as Drake would have paid her for the three girls he wanted. The prospect of another hundred guineas the next day made her eyes gleam. She could amass a fortune in a few months, because the very young girls never lasted long. The major and his friends would use them and then get rid of them, always wanting fresh goods – which meant that Joan only had to find enough girls of the right age and in this bitter weather their parents were bringing them in every day, whole families on the brink of starvation. Sooner or later she would find a way of passing the right ones on to her new friend.
CHAPTER 22
Eliza looked at the feast Joe had got for them on Christmas Day. He’d carried an old wooden crate up to their little haven in the loft, spreading it with a red cloth that he’d bought from one of the travelling folk at the fair they’d visited on Christmas Eve. He’d bargained it for some wicker baskets he’d woven when his work was finished for the day, and now it covered their special table. On the cloth was a large pork pie, mince pies that the ostler’s wife had given them, a jar of home-made pickles bought from the market from a friendly woman, who had given Eliza a small jar of potted chicken as a goodwill gift. Joe had bought bread made fresh the previous day and carefully stored to keep it soft, two toffee apples from the fair, a handful of nuts and a little bag of sugared almonds. To wash this feast down they had a jug of lemon barley the ostler’s wife had made them, and another jug of milk that Joe had bought from the dairy along with some eggs for their breakfast.
That morning they’d built a fire in a field a few minutes’ walk from their home and cooked their eggs in a blackened pot that Joe said he took everywhere with him, boiling the eggs until they were hard and eating them with a sprinkling of salt. They’d washed the food down with a billycan of tea, drinking from battered enamel mugs.
‘This is what it will be like when we travel the roads,’ Joe told her as she bit the top off her egg and ate hungrily, the cold air sharpening her appetite. ‘When we camp, Bathsheba and my mother build a fire and they cook our meals in a big black pot hung from a tripod. Sometimes we roast a chicken on a spit over the fire, but often the women make stews in the pot – ’tis good filling food for when you’ve worked hard in the fields.’
‘What sort of work would I do?’ Eliza asked, nibbling an apple that was crisp and nutty. She recalled Edith speaking of a gypsy woman who sold her herbs.
‘When it is harvesting time you might help to gather the wheat and barley into stooks,’ Joe said. ‘We tie them with thin twine and stack them together in the fields until they are dry and then they are piled on to the farmer’s cart and taken to his yard – unless he does the threshing in the field. Sometimes, it saves losing too much wheat, for else overripe kernels fall out and the birds eat them – and when ’tis time for the potato harvesting, we each take a section and bend over the rows, picking with both hands as we go and filling our baskets. The children work in twos, because the baskets are too heavy and we carry them between us – but I am strong enough to carry my basket alone now. If we worked together, you would help me fill it. We should get down our piece quicker then, and that pleases the farmer because he can have a sharp turnaround. We’re always battling the weather, especially on the heavy ground.’ For a moment he seemed to be far away from her, as if remembering. ‘Even Bathsheba helps with the harvesting, though she is our wise woman and spends much of her time making cures and gathering wild plants.’
So Bathsheba was one of Joe’s family. Eliza remembered now the woman who had sold her lavender on the market and told her fortune – was she Bathsheba?
‘It sounds a good life.’
Eliza listened to Joe’s stories. She enjoyed being here in this field with him, which was where the fair came at midsummer and on Christmas Eve, and cooking food in the open air. Some of the fair people were still here but they stayed in their own camp and did not disturb them. It was companionable and fun, but sometimes she missed the comfort of Miss Edith’s bed and she wished she was there to help with making the medicines. It was so much for her employer to do alone and she would get very tired.
‘What are you thinking?’ Joe asked as Eliza munched a slice of the delicious pie with some pickles that evening. Joe had worked most of the day as usual, for the horses needed to be cared for even though it was a holiday and the shops were closed.
‘I was thinking of our breakfast,’ she answered truthfully. ‘It will be fun travelling with your people, Joe – but I am not one of you. Do you think your folk will accept me?’
‘You’re more like my mother than you know,’ Joe said. ‘Her hair is fair, though darker than yours when yours is washed fresh, but she speaks a bit like you. She was not one of us unti
l my pa found her and made her his wife.’
‘What do you mean “found” her?’ Eliza asked.
‘I think she was ill.’ Joe shook his head. ‘I hardly know, Eliza, for they do not speak of it – Bathsheba explained why Ma speaks differently, but it is not so different these days as I remember it was once. I think she has forgotten the life she knew.’
‘I never knew my family – except for Ruth. I suppose she was truly my mother,’ Eliza said. ‘She did not give me birth, but she cared for me all my life – and I wish I could see her again before we leave London.’
‘We must look for her,’ Joe said. ‘You do not know where she might be?’
‘Molly said she’d gone to work for Mr Stoneham. Mr Arthur Stoneham is one of the governors at the workhouse.’ She sighed. ‘I know nothing more than that.’
‘We could ask people,’ Joe said. ‘Ostler’s wife be friendly. She might ’ave ’eard of Arthur Stoneham. We’ve a while yet afore my pa be free.’
Eliza nodded and smiled. She loved Joe and sharing his life, but there was a part of her that still hankered for the life she’d known at Miss Edith’s – and she knew she always would.
Eating her lonely Christmas meal of roast chicken, Edith thought with regret of the girl she’d driven away in her distress. Lying on Eliza’s bed was the new dress she’d bought for her, though she would probably never wear it. And that was Edith’s fault. She wished that she had cut out her tongue before she said those cruel things to Eliza, for she’d known almost as soon as she spoke that it could not be she that was the thief. Eliza’s face had been so white, so stricken … and Edith ought to have known who the viper in the nest was as soon as she’d discovered the theft. In her heart she’d known he was stealing from the shop takings long before Eliza arrived.
Malcolm’s mother had been to the shop to plead for her son. She refused to believe that he had stolen so much money and in the end lost her temper and said that it was Edith’s own fault for paying him such mean wages. Her accusation had cut Edith to the quick, because she’d given the boy as much as she could afford and more than he was worth, but of course his mother did not believe that and they parted on bad terms.
So now Edith was trying to manage both the shop and the cures by herself and it meant that she had to work all hours. She never went to bed before eleven at night and was up again by five in the morning; she was tired and lonely, and her health was suffering. She had no one to share her Christmas with and the surprises she had prepared for Eliza lay on her bed unopened. Edith kept hoping that the girl would return and she could apologise for her harsh words, but with each day that passed, her hopes faded.
She might have to go to the workhouse and take another girl – and yet she knew that she could never find another Eliza. The child was quick, bright and intelligent and once taught she had gentle manners and was learning to speak well. Edith had known she was the perfect person to share her life with and to pass on her knowledge to so that she could continue Papa’s work.
A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away impatiently. Feeling sorry for herself would do no good. She must soon decide whether to return to the workhouse and take another girl or ask if one of Ruth’s ladies would like to work with her. It would not be the same – nothing could ever be the same – but she needed help or she would be ill herself.
Sighing, she pushed away her plate, the food half-eaten. For years after her father died she had managed alone, but that was before she’d known the pleasure of working and living with her dearest Eliza.
‘Oh, Eliza, come back to me,’ she said and bent her head and sobbed, giving into the wealth of feeling that overcame her.
As she wiped her tears, Edith made up her mind that she would make a will now. She did not know if she could ever find Eliza and make her her heir, as she’d planned, but she was determined that her greedy aunt and cousin would never get their hands on her home or the shop. She would much rather that it went to a charitable trust for children like her Eliza, to provide a home that was kinder than the workhouse.
Arthur had spent Christmas morning with Ruth at his and Katharine’s home for unfortunate women, and then dined at four with Toby at their club. Afterwards, Toby had gone home to spend the evening with his father and a few friends, but despite his friend’s urging, Arthur had returned to his own home to sit with a book, a bottle of good brandy and some of his favourite cigars by the fire. He wanted to think about the future. His agents were already searching for Eliza but he was uncertain what to do for the best when he found her. Arthur believed that Eliza was his daughter, though unless he could trace the woman who had taken her to the workhouse he would never have proof. Would Eliza accept his word – would she even wish to know that she was his child and that her mother’s name was Sarah York?
Grief twisted inside him. He wanted to make up to that child for all that she had suffered at the hands of others but knew that he could not just lay claim to her. He would find her and he would punish those who had hurt her – but Ruth had told him that Miss Edith loved Eliza.
‘She had Christmas gifts for the child,’ Ruth told him on his return from the country, her eyes red with weeping. ‘It was a misunderstanding, but I believe she cares for Eliza.’
Arthur had accepted her word. He wished that he could have rested, knowing she was safe with the woman who had taken her from the workhouse and that he might give her a Christmas gift. If he’d only realised sooner … and yet he’d known that woman Mistress Simpkins was mistreating her. Why had he not taken her away himself?
He felt ill at ease surrounded by the comforts of his home and the gifts he himself had been given. Some fine cigars had been Toby’s gift and the book was a book of Tennyson’s poetry, which had been Miss Katharine Ross’s gift to him.
She had signed it: To my dearest friend Arthur, with sincere affection from Katharine.
The penmanship was beautiful and Arthur held it to his nose because it smelled of her own special scent. He could not fail to know that Katharine liked him, perhaps too much for her peace of mind, and he felt more deeply for her than he could say – but to take her sweet affection would surely be to betray her. Yet it was in his mind to see her and confess his feelings and his unworthiness to offer her marriage. Would she find it in her heart to forgive him? He could not hope for more but perhaps she might be his friend.
Arthur had thought long and hard before choosing a Christmas gift for Katharine. His preference would have been to give her sapphires and diamonds to match the sparkle of her eyes, but such a gift would not be acceptable to a respectable lady – unless it was accompanied by a proposal of marriage. In the end he had settled on a rather lovely gold cameo brooch.
Pushing his fears for Eliza to the back of his mind, he opened the book of poems and began to read. How could Katharine have known that these were some of his favourites? It seemed that they had so much more in common than their desire to help others …
CHAPTER 23
‘I need a girl.’ The major looked at Joan and she felt sickened as she saw the gleam in his eyes. ‘You promised to find me one, but you have not sent word.’
‘It is not always easy to get them so young,’ she prevaricated. ‘At the moment I do not have any girls under twelve’
‘If the girl is pretty and slight she will do …’
‘I will do what I can – wait until you hear from me.’
‘I will pay more for the right one,’ the major said, and Joan watched in dreadful fascination as a dribble of saliva trickled down his chin. ‘Two hundred guineas if she looks young and has pale hair …’
‘I will do my best for you, but the only girl of that age I have at the moment is deformed and drags her leg.’ He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the offering. ‘As soon as a girl comes in that I think would suit you, I will come myself and tell you.’
‘Very well,’ he said, annoyed, ‘but if you let me down I shall have to look elsewhere. There are mothers willing to sell thei
r daughters for half what I pay you.’
As he took his leave Joan was tempted to ask him why he bothered with her if this was the case, though she knew the answer. The children he spoke of were ill-nourished and often diseased, whereas the children Joan oversaw were reasonably well fed and clean. Any illness was treated by the doctor and she knew better than to send the major an ugly child, because it was the fragile beauty of an innocent that appealed to these wretched men.
Once she was sure her visitor would not return, Joan took her savings box from her desk drawer and counted the money. She had nearly five hundred pounds. It was a small fortune and would set her up with a house and a business of her choice, and she could live at her ease. One sale to the major and she could vastly increase her haul of blood money – for that was what it was.
Men were all the same, Joan thought, her mouth tight with disgust. She vowed that she would find one last girl for Major Cartwright and his perverted friends, and then she would leave this place – but where to find a girl that would suit his purposes. All the girls were dark and that little bit older … For a moment the picture of a girl’s face came to mind and she regretted that she had sold Eliza for ten guineas to that interfering woman. Had she refused, she might have had two hundred for the girl – and she would have gladly given that particular troublemaker to the major. However, Eliza had gone beyond her reach … unless she could steal her back from Edith Richards.
Joan racked her brains to think of a way to deceive both Miss Richards and Eliza, and then the idea came to her. If she were to tell them that Eliza’s mother had come looking for her, the girl would come willingly – and Miss Richards would think it a kindness to let her.
Yes, it was worth a try, Joan thought and decided to visit the apothecary the next day. If she gave the major Eliza, she would keep him occupied for a few weeks at least and by that time Joan would already have made good her escape from London.