by Lucy Wild
She had tried to sleep, but despite her exhaustion, she was unable to rest, every noise a threat, every movement a warning. Several times, people walked past and she shrank away from them, praying no one would notice her there. At some point she drifted off, though she had no idea when. All she knew was that she woke up to a grey dawn with rain soaking into her clothes as she struggled to her feet.
“Oh, would you look at you,” a voice said, causing her to look up. Out in the street was a middle aged woman wrapped up in a thick black woollen coat, her hat somehow staying on her head despite the wind, though the rain had caused it to sag about her ears. She took a step towards Lizzie, holding out her hands, clad in warm looking black leather gloves. “You look as if you’re half frozen.”
“I am,” Lizzie was able to reply through chattering teeth. “Very much so.”
“You poor thing. Come with me, I know a place you’ll be able to get dry.”
If she’d had more sleep, Lizzie might have been more suspicious but she was too exhausted, chilled to the bone, her guard down. So it was, she stepped out into the rain, the woman putting an arm round her shoulder. “What’s your name, littlun?”
“Elizabeth Wilkinson.”
“Oh, your teeth are chattering so. Come on, let’s get moving to mine. I’ve a hot stove and far too much cake for one old woman.”
They walked through the rookery, Lizzie’s eyes half closed as the wind sent the rain horizontally to attack her, whipping her breath from her as soon as it was out of her mouth. The sky darkened, as if the day was already over, the clouds growing above her head, not that she looked up more than once, preferring to fix her gaze on the ground, the only way she could keep her leaden legs moving, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, allowing herself to be led down one street after another, the noise of the hawkers shrill and sharp in her ears.
“Is that your new one?” someone shouted and Lizzie looked up to see an enormous man standing in a doorway, pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Looks fresh.”
“Shut it,” the woman hissed across at him. “Ignore him,” she added, smiling down at Lizzie. “He talks nonsense to everyone.”
Her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder grew tighter as they turned another corner, a row of houses either side of the street leaning towards each other, as if about to kiss above their heads. “Here we are,” the woman said, pushing open a door. “Come on in.”
Lizzie took a single step into the hallway before stopping. The place was full of people though that wasn’t what made her pause. A man and woman walked past her, hand in hand, heading upstairs. In the distance, a piano was being played. Something sparked in her mind, something that made her realise what was happening just in time. “This is a brothel, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to the woman whose smile didn’t fade, though it did flicker for a moment.
“Now how would you know a word like that at such a tender age?”
“It is, isn’t it?” She thought about the word her mother had taught her, the hints of what it meant, degrading yourself for money, dying of some god-awful disease given to you by the rich society gents who frequented such places.
“Come on through here and sit by the fire and we’ll talk about it.”
“I’m not going to work in a brothel.”
The woman laughed. “You sound so certain but for my mind, you don’t look like you have many options.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Is it? There’s food on the table every night, a roof over your head and it’s a lot warmer than out there. Why not have something to eat before you rush to judgment?”
“I couldn’t. I…I can’t.”
“You’d be surprised what people will do when they’re desperate.”
“That? I would never do that.”
“Have I got my first nun here? Tell you what, Miss Wilkinson, no one forces you here, not like some places you might end up. You know where we are now. You spend a few more days out there in the rain with nothing to eat and then make your mind up.”
“I already have.”
“We’ll see then, won’t we? The door’s open, you can see yourself out. I’m going to go get warm. Unlike you.”
Lizzie made her way outside to a chorus of laughter behind her. Just as she stepped out into the rain, a man caught her hand. “I’ll pay you a guinea if no one’s been with you before,” he said, leering down at her, his watery eyes devoid of life.
“Get off me!” she replied, yanking her hand free.
“I’d rather get on you,” he said, reaching out to grab her.
Lizzie ran, not looking back until she had put several streets between her and that place of sin. She slowed only when her legs refused to keep moving, too weak to run anymore, barely able to walk. She shivered uncontrollably as she realised she had no idea where she was. Looking around her for any kind of a landmark, all she could see was one identical street after another. She had left the rookery. Here the houses were in better shape. There were no cracks or peeling plaster in the walls, the windows were complete, the frames not rotten.
Not a tile was out of place on any of the roofs. Even the people walking looked more respectable, their clothing designed for the cold, thick coats, big hats, carriages moving at haste along the busy streets. Not a single person so much as looked as her as she leaned back against a length of iron railing, wondering what on earth she was going to do.
It was then that she observed a figure on the far side of the road. It was a girl no older than twelve. She was approaching every person that passed by, getting as close to them as possible, ignoring their disgust. Words were exchanged, though what they were was lost on the wind. What fascinated Lizzie was the fact that every now and then one of the people she accosted would reach into their pocket and hand her a coin or two. In the ten minutes she watched, it happened eight times. Even if it was only a ha’penny per person, that was four pence more than Lizzie had in the world. Could she do that? Could she do what that girl was doing?
She had seen beggars before but in the rookery they were usually men, their methods far more aggressive than that girl. She was using their disgust of her to her advantage, almost as if they were paying her to leave them alone. Begging was illegal, that was something to consider of course. If a constable should happen to see her, or if one was called, that would be the end of her enterprise. Was it worth the risk?
She thought about the brothel. Surely the risk of arrest for begging was better than that, better than having one man after another pay for her time, for her body. The thought made her shudder with disgust and she made a decision, a decision that though she didn’t know it at the time, would change her life forever.
She stepped out onto the pavement as a couple passed by, their heads hunched as they did their best to avoid the worst of the rain and wind. “Excuse me,” Lizzie said, holding out a shaking hand towards them. “I wondered if perhaps…”
They neatly sidestepped her and walked on, as if she were a tree or a cart, an inanimate object to be avoided, not a person at all, not a human being like them. It hurt to be ignored like that, but as she glanced over the road and saw the girl approach someone else, she vowed not to give up at the first failure. Give it chance, she told herself, approaching the next man as he marched along, his cane swinging before him. “I say,” she said, stepping out in front of him. “Would you be able to…”
“Oi!”
She heard the screeching voice before she saw who it belonged to. Storming over the road from the other pavement was the girl, and as she approached, Lizzie realised it wasn’t a girl at all. It was a woman, a shrivelled woman with dark skin and rotten teeth. The man was glad of the distraction, moving on down the street as the woman shoved Lizzie backwards.
“This is my bleedin’ patch,” she screeched at the top of her voice, shoving Lizzie again, her hands forming into fists. “Oo the ‘ell do you fink you are?”
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie said, pressed back against th
e railings. “Please, don’t hit me.”
“I’ll do more than that if I see you again. I’ll bleedin’ knife you.” The woman brought a dagger out from under her shawl, waving it towards Lizzie. “Get out of ‘ere and don’t come back, you ‘ear?”
“Yes, yes,” Lizzie said, stumbling away. “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry.”
“You will be,” the woman yelled after her. “Go on, faster!”
Lizzie couldn’t run anymore; she was too tired. She walked as fast as she could though, glancing back over her shoulder a minute later to see if the woman was following her. It was whilst looking backwards that she bumped into the solid figure of someone she didn’t see. Turning round, she mumbled an apology, finding herself looking up into the eyes of someone she recognised. It took her a moment to realise who it was. He looked different, the drunken manner was gone, replaced by a cold anger as he looked down at her.
“Could you spare any change,” she blurted out, holding out her hand as he recoiled away from her. “Please.”
Chapter 4
Charles climbed out of the carriage, his stomach churning at the thought of the conversation he was about to have. It would be difficult enough to convince Glossop to let the matter drop, but it would be far more difficult to pay him, almost impossible, in fact. His mind was so fixed on the matter that he didn’t notice the beggar until she had thumped into his side as he crossed the pavement.
He turned to admonish the blundering fool who should watch where he was going. No words came out when he saw who it was. “Could you spare any change?” she asked, her hand outstretched towards him. “Please.”
Before he even heard her voice, he’d realised who it was, the memory of the previous night coming flooding back to him. He recognised that voice, it belonged to the girl in the pub, not to this beggar. Was she the same person? It couldn’t be and yet what other explanation was there? Was she here to blackmail him? Was this her way of showing him the damage she could do, tell his friends in the club about the class of woman he was drawn to? But she didn’t recognise him, she just saw a rich man who might have money to throw away.
He had no money to throw away, not anymore, not if the calling card in his pocket was accurate anyway, and there was only one way to find out if that were the case.
He realised he was still staring at the beggar in front of him. Her hand was trembling as she held it out, her skin pale and wet. She looked soaked to the skin, in fact, her clothes clinging to her, her hair stuck to her forehead. She looked a mess. But then she looked into his eyes and he was taken aback. It was her. They were the same eyes he had seen in the pub. They were filled with a mixture of fear and innocence. She did not look like she had known the life of a beggar for long, there was no coldness there, only a misery and humiliation but it was mingled with a spark of something pure and good, something that had drawn him to her last night and that drew him to her again.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the doorman said, descending the steps and taking the girl by the arm, dragging her off. “Come on, you, there’s nothing for you here.”
Charles watched her being led away, his mouth still open. He blinked, coming back to himself as he did so. Whoever she was, she was still a beggar. His parents had taught him all about beggars. “Give them money and you only encourage them,” his father had said. His mother nodded sagely along. “They’ll become dependent on what you give. Mark my words, Charlie, it is far kinder to give those people nothing. That way, you help them become self-sufficient, stand up for themselves, go out and do an honest day’s work like the rest of us.”
Still, Charles thought as he turned towards the club, it would have been nice to give her a coin or two. She had looked hungry. He frowned, wondering where the thought had come from. That wasn’t like him, he was normally in alignment with the thoughts of his parents on all things. It was not handing out money to beggars that he should be thinking about anyway, it should be how to handle Roderick Glossop.
The doorman rushed back, meeting Charles at the top of the steps. “Good morning, Sir Doyle,” he said, pulling open the door. “Allow me to apologise on behalf of the club for what happened just now.”
“Huh?” Charles grunted, looking back at the street and seeing the girl a few yards away. “Oh, that’s all right. No harm done.” He crossed the threshold, leaving the door to close on the doorman and the girl and the awful weather. In the heat and light of the club, it was easy enough to forget her. His coat dripped as a butler removed it from him, also taking his hat and cane in the efficient manner he had come to love about this place.
The Compassion Club had been set up in 1695, the work of Sir Tobias Flynn, a philanthropist who wanted somewhere to meet likeminded men to discuss ways in which city life could be improved for the poor. In time, it had become known as the premier place to gather, morphing slowly into a club for people like Charles, people who enjoyed spending their time in the club playing billiards or cribbage, dozing in a fug of cigar smoke whilst the world outside could go to the devil. The annual membership fees ensured the riffraff were kept at arm’s length, and to be ensured of a place, it helped to have ancestors like the Doyle’s, who had first appeared in the membership rolls in the early 1700s, the Doyle name not leaving the list ever since. The biggest controversy in its near two hundred years of life came in 1860 when women were admitted for the first time, though only to one small room on the ground floor, and only on Fridays until three in the afternoon.
Charles liked the club and he liked spending time there, away from the cares of the world. His brow was furrowed on this particular visit as he walked up the marble stairs to the smoking room, the cares of the world had come with him this time, weighing heavily in his pocket, solidified into a calling card made of lead and iron, dragging him down towards the depths of a conversation he did not want to have. Curse Glossop for taking his pleasure away from him. He wanted to sit and smoke a cigar, perhaps knock a ball around the baize for a while. Instead he was going to have to work out a way to get that debt cancelled.
“Good morning, Charles,” a man’s voice said at the top of the stairs.
Charles looked up to find Glossop waiting there. “Good morning, Roderick,” he replied, stepping up onto the landing. “I got your card.”
“Oh, good, I’m glad. Have you got my money?”
“About that, I was hoping to have a word with you.”
“I have no doubt you were. Come, I have reserved us a room. I thought you might prefer to talk in private.”
The room was one of a number that lined the first floor overlooking the entrance hall. Charles often wondered just how many deals had been made in them, how many decisions had been reached by politicians and bankers, decisions that would affect thousands if not millions of people. His deal would affect only him. Somehow, that made it worse.
He took the chair nearest the window, Glossop oozing down into the red leather armchair opposite him, sighing as he did so. “These are good seats,” he said, running his hand along the arm. “Why we can’t have them in the smoking room, I’ll never know.”
Charles reached into his pocket and brought out the calling card, lying it down on the low table that separated the two chairs. Before he could say anything, a waiter opened the door and looked imperiously in at them both. “Drinks, Sirs?”
“A brandy for me,” Glossop said. “Put it on Charley Boy’s bill.”
“Just coffee,” Charles said, waving the man away. “How can you drink brandy at ten in the morning?”
“Because I did not drink my bodyweight of the stuff last night, that’s how.”
“You were as drunk as me.”
“Not so drunk as to bet almost my entire fortune on a round of backgammon.”
“I don’t recall doing anything of the sort.”
“Oh, but I do. I have a very clear memory of it.”
“I must respectfully disagree with you, Roderick. I would not bet that much.”
“Really?”
“
Really.”
“Then I suppose this isn’t your signature on this betting slip?” Roderick said, bringing a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolding it and holding it out for Charles to see. “Ah, ah, no touching. I wouldn’t put it past you to try and tear it up, accidentally of course.” He slid it back into his pocket as Charles leaned back in his chair, dejected. “Don’t worry, Charles, I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“I can pay you this afternoon.”
“Of course you can. I wondered if perhaps you’ll have the money for me after the 3:30 race?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I tell you what. I will give you until after the race, that’s how good I am to you. If, for any reason, your horse doesn’t come in, I have a proposal I think you’ll like.”
“Meaning what?”
“Oh, don’t let it trouble you. If you have a dead cert, who am I to question you? Tell the man to bring my brandy to the billiard table, the air in here grows a little thin for me. Unlike my wallet!” He barked out a laugh, continuing with his merriment as he left, Charles remaining in his chair.
With a long sigh, Charles put his head in his hands, oblivious to his surroundings until he looked up to see his coffee had appeared on the table. There was a betting slip. How had he been so stupid as to agree to sign it? The figure was there in black ink at the top of the slip, his name and Glossop’s below. There was no getting away from it.
Despite his despair at the situation, he couldn’t help but let his mind go back to the beggar outside. It was strange to think how desperate she had been to receive a penny or two when he was about to lose many thousands of pounds. Unless his horse came in of course.
He had made two stops on the way to the club. The first was to his bank to draw out every available pound he had, leaving his balance mere pennies, the look on the bank manager’s face enough to warn him this had better work. The man looked pale at the thought of so much leaving his vault in one go.