‘I ask because I was not so sure about the other one that come,’ says Nellie. ’I rather fancied the look of him.’
My mouth is suddenly dry. ‘What other one?’
‘Another fine-looking feller. You sure can pick them. Though this one was a proper gent. Shook my hand and gave me his name, all proper like, together with a whole shilling. Master Graham he said. You know him?’
I stare at the tangle of damp straw in my lap. ‘And you told him I had died?’
‘I did. Though this one looked grieved. He even asked where they had taken your body.’ Nellie looks at me and frowns. ‘I should not have done that. Should I?’
‘No, you did right.’ I compose my face. ‘Anyone who comes asking must think me underground.’
I finish the bowl of tea, down to its sour dregs, careful to avoid Nellie’s perceptive eye. Thinking that if Thomas was not lost to me before, he certainly will be now.
Chapter Seventy
When I recognise the well-groomed bay outside The Red Lion my heart lurches. Forgotten is the whole afternoon’s scrubbing promised by the tapsters. My instinct is to scurry away. If Calypso is in the street, Thomas will be nearby. Yet I find I yearn for a glimpse of him. I could surely manage that, since, from a distance, he is unlikely to recognise me as the girl he once knew. And, anyway, he thinks me long dead.
I knew this might happen from the moment they allowed me to scour their floors for a pittance and am forced to admit to myself that I hoped for more than a wage from coming here.
I duck into the doorway of a mantua makers. If I hide here, Thomas should appear soon. He may think me dead, but I need to know he is well: it gnaws at me that Chalke’s family might somehow have discovered him responsible for that beating.
Winter still lingers. Even in this shelter, the wind wraps my skirts around my legs and cuts at my ankles. My boots have holes in them and with my hose beyond repair I might as well be barefoot. It is only when you are in danger of having no stockings you realise the difference they make. How can I look employable in any respectable household when my gums bleed and my breasts leak sour milk into my bodice? And I need sleep, not just for rest, but to escape yearning for Thomasina. Somewhere outside the city she feeds at another breast. Perhaps among green fields like those surrounding Thomas’s farm.
Angry knuckles rap at the window glass and a scowling woman mouths at me to move on. She does not want her customers repelled by a bundle of rags on her doorstep. I creep back into the street, close to the wall, feeling weak as a spider’s thread. Then I give myself a shake and remind myself that although a spider’s thread is slight, it has strength. There is still no sign of Thomas. I know I should hurry round the back of the inn, but ache to stroke Calypso one final time.
The mare is harnessed to Thomas’s trap rather than to the milk cart since, of course, he has given up the round. Presumably he is here about the regular business in town that he mentioned in his letter.
I cannot resist approaching the horse for a brief, comforting contact. A reminder of the life I might have had.
She is chomping towards the bottom of a hessian nosebag while a scruffy boy sits on a nearby wall, legs dangling. He is devouring a bun I suspect has been earned in return for watching the trap. I imagine its taste: doughy and most likely made from flour spoiled with sawdust and alum, but satisfying.
I approach, gaining only an indifferent look from the boy since he will hardly think me a horse thief. The money Peg and I earn does little more than keep us alive and my stomach is hollow as a gutted fish, so the smell of oats makes it rumble. Might I sneak a handful? The well-fed Calypso, standing on three legs to rest a rear hoof, would not miss it. Crumbled with water, it would make a meal. The boy is concentrating on his food and my fingers twitch with temptation.
I warm my chapped hands on the horse’s flank, breathing in her familiar scent and remembering morning talks with her master. The big soft eyes of the mare blink at me, benevolent.
‘How is your lovely foal?’ I murmur into her swivelling ear. ‘Does she wait in your field? Or was she sold at a local horse fair?’ I am saddened that she, too, has no power over what happens to her baby.
Calypso shifts on the cobbles, long eyelashes blinking, her noisy munching reminding me of my need to get strong again. With a soothing reassurance, I slip my hand into the bag, but suddenly the boy is off the wall. Shouting.
‘Hey! Stop that thieving!’
As he scrambles towards me, fists bunching with puny menace, I suddenly see a broad-shouldered figure approaching and pull my sackcloth shawl over my head. I am too feeble to do more than scuttle back to the mantua makers. If I can avoid the shopkeeper’s notice, Thomas will probably climb into the trap and be gone in minutes. But a brindle-coloured dog bounds up to me and starts nosing at my skirts, tail thrashing. Before I can stop myself, I stoop to tousle his ears.
‘Hannah?’ Thomas’s raised voice makes people stare as he hurries across the street. Standing before me in a brown velvet jacket, cord breeches and a white shirt, he is so clean that I cringe. Close up, there is a faint air of horses, soap and good health and I edge into the doorway, burning with shame for my own sorry state.
‘Dear God.’ Rooted to the spot, he clearly thinks he has seen a ghost. Then he moves closer and removes his hat as if I were a lady, instead of a filthy beggar. ‘Hannah? Is it really you?’ There is the familiar sprig of rosemary in his buttonhole and I catch a hint of its sharp fragrance. ‘I was told you were dead.’ He twists the hat in his hands and I remember the last time he stood before me like this. There is a catch in his voice. ‘I had been searching for so long. And then to be told you had died…’
We are silent in the bustle of the street, the stolen oats turning to dust in my hand. Thomas keeps twisting the hat, staring at the dirty scrap of hessian sacking that serves me for a shawl. The wreck of what I used to be. Then, ‘Come across the road,’ he says. ‘Sit with me in the trap.’
I have not proper command of my limbs and fear I might collapse, but manage to reach the trap and slump against its wheel. In spite of the cold, my skin feels clammy. Peg and I shared some soup with Nellie last night and I think it was spoiled, for my stomach has been roiling ever since.
‘You are not well. Let me help you onto the seat.’
Then my knees give way and I expect to crumple on the cobbles, but am instead gathered up and lifted, the fabric of Thomas’s coat soft against my cheek. Mortified to be this close to his nose and eyes, I struggle.
‘Don’t fight me.’ He places me carefully on the seat and feels my hands. ‘You are frozen. Here,’ he shrugs off his coat and puts it around my shoulders. ‘This should warm you.’
I slump against the backrest, revived by the warmth in the garment. The way it smells of him. ‘You have business here.’ I say. ‘I mustn’t keep you.’
‘You are my business now, Hannah. Thank God I have found you. I was in despair when I thought you had died. Friendless and in trouble.’
I shiver and he wraps the coat more closely around me, thinking it the cold that makes me tremble. But the temptation to let him take charge of me is overpowering.
‘Are you strong enough for a short journey? We could be home in under an hour.’ Those dark eyes study me. ‘You are skin and bone. You need proper sustenance.’
He reaches under the seat, produces a stone bottle, and beckons to the boy by the wall who is watching us, big-eyed. He counts out copper coins. ‘Take this into the inn and bring it back full of hot tea, with sugar. I will give you a good tip, but only if you are quick.’
Not many minutes later I am sipping the most delicious drink I have ever tasted.
‘Forgive me,’ Thomas says, hesitant. ‘But I found out about your trouble.’ His brow puckers. ‘For Chalke to force himself on an innocent girl! Under his protection.’
This is a shameful subject and I have no words. But at least I know he did not think me a wanton.
‘Tell me, Hannah?’ His voice
is gentle again. ‘What happened to your baby?’
‘She is gone,’ I whisper.
His hand moves to rest on my shoulder. ‘That is the cruellest thing. To lose a child.’
I realise he thinks my baby died.
‘She is alive. But I had to leave her at the Foundling Hospital.’
His eyes are on my rags, the thinness of my shoulders, my dirt. I know how I look.
‘You lost your place because of the child? And then could not afford to keep her?’
‘They send them to the country, until they are weaned,’ I say. ‘Then bring them back, to learn a useful trade.’ I wipe at my eyes. ‘If they survive.’
‘I have heard of the place. At least somebody tries to help the unfortunate.’ His eyes flick to the street, but nobody is taking the least notice of us. Even the boy has disappeared, to spend his tip. ‘When you disappeared, I feared you had vanished for ever. Then to be told you had died. London is such a vast, uncaring place. Sometimes I think I hate it.’
This is all too much for me. The coat, the tea, having someone care. I sway in the seat.
‘You are safe now.’ His brow puckers. ‘But why on earth wouldn’t Peg say where you were? I could have helped you. Did you not get my letter?’
‘I made Peg promise not to tell anyone.’ I hesitate. ‘It was wonderfully kind of you to send so much money. But it was stolen… and I was afraid of what you would think.’
‘You imagined I would blame you? When it was not your fault?’
I see from the downturn of his mouth the thought disturbs him.
‘Most men would,’ I say.
‘Am I just another man, Hannah?’ He sighs. ‘In any event, I need to get you to Broad Oak, and well again.’
‘How can I go to the farm?’ I have finished the tea, but am grateful for the warmth of the bottle still clutched in my hands.
‘I ask nothing but to be your friend, Hannah. And Peg’s.’ He smiles, though there is no gladness in his eyes. ‘So, you must agree, if only for your poor friend’s sake.’
It would not be right to go back to the farm with him, but could I bring myself to beg a few shillings? As a churchwarden, he will put a generous amount in the collection plate each Sunday. But I have already had two of his guineas and have lost them. Thomas is a kind and Christian man, but can no longer be a friend. Too much has changed. The girl that I was has been done away with.
Yet pride is for people with full bellies. If I do not let him help, how will I ever get my daughter back? I realise I must do it, not just for Peg, but for Thomasina.
Hector scrambles up into the trap and squeezes in beside me, leaning his bulk against my leg and resting a bony head on my knee. I fondle one of his ears, touched that he remembers me.
‘I do not have milk today,’ Thomas says, offering me a bundle in a napkin, ‘but I have cheese and apples.’
I try not to snatch at the food Betty will have prepared for his journey and Thomas turns away, refusing to watch me hunch over it like a miser.
I devour the cheese, coveting the wrinkled pippins in the napkin as some women would gold bracelets. Even if I do not eat again today this food will give me strength to scrub those floors and perhaps get the promise of regular work. Unless, of course, I go back with Thomas to the farm.
‘Are you still lodging in that dreadful place?’
I nod.
‘Do you have things there? Or could we collect Peg and simply leave.’
I think of our possessions. Worthless, but including my precious book.
‘There are a few belongings.’
‘Then we will get them and then find Peg. She can help Betty at the farm. My housekeeper could use another pair of hands. There is nothing to keep us in the city.’
I finger the pennies in my pocket, all I have, and feel the humiliation of needing to beg. ‘We owe the landlord.’
‘Then I will settle what you owe while Hector stays with you in the trap. He will not let anyone trouble you.’
I hug the coat around me. The prospect of going somewhere safe, out of London, where I will not risk running into Jack, who believes me safely dead, is something I can no longer refuse.
Chapter Seventy-One
Only the rumble and lurch of the trap’s wheels on the road keep me from losing consciousness as Calypso trots to our lodging. My directions were muddled, but Thomas has finally found the place.
‘Our room is on the lower floor. Under the staircase.’ I think of the stinking bucket in the corner. ‘But I ought to…’
‘You are staying here. With Hector.’ He secures the reins and I see from his compressed lips he will not give way on this. ‘Just tell me how much you owe.’
I sense eyes watching from the windows as I hand over the key on its greasy string and Thomas shoulders his way through the door. Shortly afterwards there are raised voices. Then a long pause. A slamming door. Thomas strides out, his eyes flaring with temper and the old rush basket clutched under his arm. He thrusts it under my seat.
‘That rogue is lucky not to have a bloody nose.’ He climbs back beside me. ‘Now. Where can I find Peg?’
‘She is washing pots at The King’s Head. Opposite the old tannery. But if she leaves before finishing her work, she will lose her place.’
‘Let her lose it. You are both coming to Broad Oak.’
My mouth opens in protest, but no sound comes. I am getting that awful feeling again. That I will swoon.
‘Betty has had a room ready for you in her cottage for months. It is still there. She still had hope, though I had none.’ Thomas twitches the reins and studies me. ‘Though I think Peg must wait. You are deathly pale. I hope you can manage the journey.’
‘I am sure I can.’ If I keep talking, it might fend off the faintness. ‘Did you lose your whip?’ He is using one with a stitched leather top. No sign of the silver fox.
‘I broke it.’ He glances up from the road. ‘On a rat’s back.’
I look at his face. See the barely repressed anger.
‘So it was you? Who attacked Chalke?’
‘When I discovered what he had done, I forgot that I am a generally peaceable man. I considered killing him, but decided he was not worth hanging for and threw him in the gutter instead. Where he belonged.’
‘If you had been caught…’
It would have meant ruin. Prison, or worse. Thomas is not powerful enough to attack a member of the aristocracy, even a disgraced one, and escape justice.
‘I was safe enough. The London streets are dark and few would interfere with a beating. Most men are cowards at heart.’
The harness jingles. The clip-clop of iron-shod hooves echoes off the stones of the road. Yet the street noises seem curiously distant.
‘It grieves me to think of you in that pigsty,’ he says. ‘It is a miracle you survived.’
‘I have no skill in farm labour,’ I manage to say, ‘but I can learn. I owe you two guineas.’
‘You owe me nothing.’
‘Betty has her own family to think of. And we cannot pay her.’
‘Her husband oversees my cows, Hannah. And the cottage is mine. There will be nothing to pay. Besides which, she worried about you almost as much as I did. She will be overjoyed to see you.’
Wrapped in Thomas’s coat, I am cold and then hot, by turns. There is a queasy lurch in my belly from more food than I am used to. A need to take shallow breaths.
He leans across and touches my forehead.
‘You are feverish.’
The world is swimming again. ‘I am going to be sick...’
He reins in the horse and I lean over the side of the trap to spew half-digested apples and cheese down his wheel into the gutter. I am beyond even feeling humiliated.
Thomas presses a soft handkerchief into my hand, then produces a silver flask. ‘Take a sip of this. Not too much. It is brandy.’
I have never had brandy before. It tastes like liquid fire and makes me cough. I am desperate to lie flat some
where, before I collapse.
‘I need to get you home.’ He pulls me gently towards him. ‘Put your arm around my waist and lean against me. Do not worry, Hannah. I will not let you fall.’
I must have properly fainted, for I open my eyes as the trap jolts over a rut and draws up in Thomas’s yard. Calypso lets out a great snort at being home and young Tommy runs from the stables to catch her reins from his master.
‘Give her a rub down and some water. Then run to the lower field for your father. I might want him to go to the village for the doctor.’ Thomas gathers me up like an armful of twigs and strides towards the open door of Betty’s cottage. ‘Let’s get you inside.’
In a bustle the housekeeper appears in the entrance, drying her hands on a cloth.
‘She is alive! God be praised.’ She stares at me, her round face creased with anxiety. ‘Whatever happened to the poor child?’
‘It is a long story. Can I take her straight up?’ Clutched against his broad chest, I sense his impatience.
‘The room is still ready, Master. With a fire laid in the hearth.’
In moments we are through Betty’s kitchen and up narrow, winding stairs into a low-ceilinged bedroom. There is a strong, clean smell, as if someone has recently polished the furniture with linseed oil. Thomas sets me in a chair by the fireplace and pulls out a flint while Betty turns down the patchwork quilt on the bed.
‘Send for the doctor if you think it necessary,’ he says. ‘And fetch one of my mother’s old night shifts from the house, while I light this fire.’ He looks up from the task to smile at me. ‘She was about your size.’
Flames crackle and a needle of warmth reaches me as the housekeeper hurries out. I glance at the bed. A proper bed, with pillows, and the luxury of a willow-patterned chamber pot peeping from underneath.
Thomas gets awkwardly to his feet. ‘As soon as Betty returns, I will leave you in her care and go for Peg.’
I stare down my vomit-stained dress to my boots and think of the red-raw feet inside. The oozing blisters. The tattered remnants of stockings that stink. I cannot stop myself crying that every inch of me is shameful.
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