‘Just make your mark,’ he said. ‘That will suffice.’
‘My sister can sign her name,’ Patrick’s voice rumbled from beside her.
The solicitor raised a grizzled brow but didn’t comment further.
From the moment she announced her intention to sell Maguire’s to force Amos’s hand, her brother had waged an unrelenting campaign to dissuade her from what he described as ludicrous folly. But, despite starting awake some nights with her heart pounding as fears and doubts screamed in her mind, Mattie had doggedly resisted him. All urged caution. In the end, Patrick had thrown his hands up and insisted on coming with her to Mr Stebbins’s solicitor. She was profoundly grateful.
‘I am just checking to make sure that you’ve included a rental clause,’ Mattie replied.
Mr Glasson jabbed an ink-stained finger at the paragraph half way down the page. ‘It states quite clearly that you are to rent the yard for the stipulated quarterly sum until Mr Stebbins sells the property.’ His long features moved into what Mattie took to be a smile. ‘Now, if there are no further questions, perhaps we can conclude our business?’
Mattie tapped her pen back in the inkwell. Patrick’s hand closed lightly around her arm and she looked up at him.
‘You don’t have to sign it, Mattie.’
Her hand froze mid-air as she studied her brother’s worried face.
It was an enormous risk, and not just for her. Eli, Pete and Billy depended on Maguire’s and if her plan failed they would suffer too. But if she didn’t force Stebbins’s hand now then it might be too late. Too late for Nathaniel, too late for them. Under her newly slackened corset a small hand or foot kicked outwards. Mattie tightened her grip on the pen and scratched her name across the bottom of the contract.
From the moment a bucket of iced water brought him back to consciousness in Wapping police station Nathaniel had never been completely warm. He’d spent his first night in the cell in his soaked clothes.
The Thames magistrate sent him on to the Old Bailey without raising his eyes from the charge sheet, and Nathaniel knew that he would be dealt with in the same perfunctory manner when he stood in number one court. The only question was how soon he would be sent back to Australia. His quest to expose Amos Stebbins and clear his own name was over. In a few short weeks, possibly sooner, he would once again be shackled below decks on a transport ship. It would be twelve years at least before he was a free man but even then, because of his double conviction, he would never qualify for an absolute pardon – the only way he could legally return to England.
The last time he would ever see Mattie would be across the court room when he was re-sentenced in a few weeks. And she would be there. He knew that. And that would have to serve him a lifetime.
The door flew open and Bice, the senior warden of the wing, stood in the doorway, his polished buttons twinkling in the gaslight in the corridor. Nathaniel snapped to attention and looked at a point just above the officer’s right shoulder. The warden’s moustache twitched. ‘All right, four seven three, make haste! Make haste!’ He tapped his baton against his leg.
Nathaniel joined the column of men trudging their way along the second-floor landing towards the washhouse. The drumming of a hundred pairs of studded boots echoed up to the vaulted roof. Pentonville Prison was only half-a-dozen years old but was already bursting at its grey stony seams. Pickpockets, thieves, swindlers and murderers rubbed shoulders with those who had fallen foul of the law for their political persuasion. The regime was designed so that each inmate was kept separate from his fellow prisoners, which was no mean feat given that the jail housed over five hundred men.
As always, the only warmth in the washroom at the end of the wing was the exhalation of the men scrubbing themselves with coal-tar soap. Putting his bowl on the stone bench in the centre of the room Nathaniel stripped off his shirt and started cleaning himself with the allotted pint of cold water. The morning ablutions were carried out in absolute silence, but as Nathaniel rubbed the corner of his flannel around his mouth to clean his teeth he caught the eye of a skinny man who rubbed his left ear. Nathaniel’s heartbeat quickened. Although forbidden to speak, the prisoners had other methods of communication. A rubbed left ear meant ‘be ready for a message’.
Nathaniel scratched his right ear in response. The man looked away and continued washing.
Nathaniel returned to his cell and began the daily chore of scrubbing the bare stone floor, his mind racing all the while.
The bell sounded just as Nathaniel polished the last water stain from his tin wear and placed it beside his precisely rolled bed linen on the wooden bench in his cell. He stepped out to the landing and, as it was Sunday, he marched to the chapel.
Although the Sunday service was supposed to be a communal act of worship, whoever designed the prison decided that their will, not God’s, should prevail. Therefore, in line with the prison’s silent regime, each prisoner was allocated a coffin-like booth in which to bow his head to his maker.
Nathaniel shuffled in and took his seat and, as the booth door closed behind him, he stared towards the high pulpit that rose above their heads at the front. The minister swept in like a great black crow with his vestments billowing out behind him. The wardens took their posts along the sides of the pews and the congregation rose to its feet as the organist blasted out the chord to the first hymn. Nathaniel sang out along with the five hundred other men.
‘And can it be that I should gain . . .’
It was an old hymn that had been a favourite with the vicar of St Edward’s in Romford and Nathaniel knew it well. The man in the booth to his left leant forward slightly and boomed out the first verse. Nathaniel also leant forward and pressed his shoulders hard against the wooden partition.
‘Died he for me-e-e, who caused his pain,’ sang the congregation.
‘Message from Boy . . . oyce, la la la,’ sang the man to Nathaniel’s left.
‘For me-e-e who him to dea-eath pursuuuued,’ belted out the men around them while the ‘messenger’ sang, ‘’e says hold on, you old bugger da da da da,’
The singers went up an octave. ‘Amazing Love!’
‘Your woman has . . .’
Male voices strained higher. ‘How ca-a-n it be?’
‘Sold her-er yard . . .’
‘That thou-ou, my God, shouldst die-i-i-e for me,’ London’s finest criminal elements sang.
‘So you-oo, old chum, ca-a-an, can soon be free,’ rumbled the voice beside him.
The men in the chapel launched into the second verse as Nathaniel fought to steady himself. Mattie had sold the yard? He shook his head as if to dislodge the fearful idea that she would gamble everything she had, just to set him free, but the thought grew louder and louder until it rang in his ears.
As those around him sang the third verse of Wesley’s rousing hymn, images of Mattie and Brian homeless and destitute threatened to overwhelm him.
The congregation gathered their voices together for the final refrain and Nathaniel fixed his eyes on the crucifix nailed to the wall behind the preacher. As those around him sang, ‘And claim the crown, through Christ my own.’ Nathaniel filled his lungs and roared, ‘God, help her!’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The flunky at the front of the City & County jumped forward as Amos stepped from the cab and looked at the grey clouds gathering above. It had rained off and on since Christmas, six weeks ago. But even the dull February weather couldn’t dampen his spirits because today was the day when God would pour out his blessings on all his good works. Today he and Fallow would set the date for the flotation of the Wapping & Stratford Railway Company.
He adjusted his silk top hat, which he’d only just collected from Lock’s in St James’s, along with several new suits and shirts from Weeks & Rollington in Savile Row. Now that all the worry and uncertainty of the past few months was gone, he felt he deserved to kit himself out as befitted the chairman of a railway company. He’d have to wait a month or two, though, b
efore really splashing out with the profits from selling his properties to the company. He had his eye on a grand terraced house at the back of Cavendish Square: near enough to the City to keep an eye on his business interests, but also cheek by jowl with the top drawer of society, of which he would soon be a member.
But he wasn’t a selfish man, and Cecily, too, should profit from his astute business acumen. She was a good wife but would be out of place in the fashionable salons to which he would soon be invited. In view of this, he’d instructed his solicitors to make a few enquiries about a small seafront house in Eastbourne or Weymouth with a long lease for her and Ruth. A long stay at the seaside would settle Cecily’s nerves and the bracing sea air would put a bit of colour back in Ruth’s cheeks and stop her carrying tales to her mother . . .
Amos visualised himself sitting – with a fat cigar in his mouth – on a sofa next to the Prime Minister, discussing trade and commerce in Lady Derby’s drawing room.
‘Good morning, Mr Stebbins,’ the doorman said, bowing low as Amos started up the steps.
Amos flipped him a half-crown. ‘It is indeed.’
Sauntering through the open door, he surveyed the room with a deep-seated sense of wellbeing. This was where he rightly belonged, where wealth and power sat side by side.
Deacon the clerk spotted him, slid out from behind his desk and shuffled over.
‘Mr Stebbins,’ he said. ‘How well you look.’
Amos handed his hat, gloves and cane to one servant while another slipped his coat from his shoulders.
‘Is Mr Fallon in?’ he asked, hoping that the light caught his diamond cravat pin.
The clerk curved to one side, deferentially. ‘Of course. If you would follow me, sir.’
Fallon jumped up from his chair as he entered. ‘Mr Stebbins!’ He gave Amos a hearty handshake.
‘I think it’s time we set a date,’ Amos replied, accepting a very generous brandy from the chief banker of the City & County.
‘Capital!’ Fallon’s pale eyes lit up with excitement.
‘I suggest the fifth of next month. It’s just a little over four weeks away.’
A flash of anxiety shot across Fallon’s thin face. ‘It’s a little tight. We would have to have a prospectus circulated. The end of April might be more in keeping with current practice.’
Amos’s jaw clenched. He’d already pledged thousands against the sale of his properties to the company. ‘But surely the sooner we set our intentions the better,’ he replied, with just a slight quaver of anxiety in his tone.
Fallon’s thin lips pressed together. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘I heard talk of someone trying to gather investors for an extension to the Fenchurch Street-to-Tilbury line.’
Fallon’s expression changed from uncertainty to alarm.
Amos rested his forearm on the table. ‘I see you take my point.’
‘Indeed. If they float their railway proposals first, they’ll take our investors and our trade.’
‘And you’ll have to explain to your board why the City & County let such an opportunity slip away.’
‘Well . . . it’s usual but if you have an assurance from Mr Hudson of his investment . . .’
Amos studied the shiny tips of his new toes. ‘Of course,’ he replied, guessing that the letter from the Railway King was probably in the post. He looked back at Fallon. ‘And of course you’re committed to taking a sizeable number of shares on the bank’s behalf?’
Fallon’s nose twitched. ‘In conjunction with Mr Hudson’s investment.’
Amos smiled coolly.
‘I suppose if we set a whisper in the City it will generate some interest,’ said Fallon at last.
Amos threw the last of his brandy down his throat and struggled to his feet. ‘Splendid!’ he grasped the banker’s hand. ‘I’ll leave you to sort out the details. Good day to you, sir.’ He ambled to the door. ‘It’s men like us, with God’s good grace, who will steer Her Majesty’s realm into a new age of prosperity.’
As Mattie stacked the last plate on the wooden draining board, the calendar from the New Year’s edition of The Mother’s Friend pinned on the wall over the sink caught her eyes. She stared at the red circle around 12 April. Today. Her heart did a double step then went into a gallop. A prickle of terror fluttered in her stomach, urging her back to the privy, although she had been not twenty minutes before.
Mattie rubbed her hands on her apron and forced herself to still the panic welling up in her again. She grabbed the kettle and dragged it back on the heat. A nice cup of tea would calm her jitters, that’s for sure. As she waited for the water to boil, she settled herself in Queenie’s old chair and, as Brian was playing contentedly on the hearth, she put her feet up on the footstool.
After tossing and turning from the moment she’d laid her head on the pillow, she’d finally given up and gone downstairs just as the knocker-upper made his first rounds at four. By four-thirty she was already washed, dressed, and on her knees scrubbing the floor. That kept her mind occupied until six when her delivery men turned up. Thankfully, the morning chores had kept her from fretting over the inaugural meeting of the Wapping & Stratford Railway Company.
According to Smyth-Hilton, investors had flooded in to take a stake in the new venture, and Mattie, Patrick and the editor had become shareholders, taking five shares apiece for the princely sum of twenty pounds in total. Mattie had used money from the sale of the yard and Patrick dipped into some of his precious savings from the United Mutual.
As her man of business, Patrick had offered to act on her behalf at the meeting but Mattie had said no. It had been Stebbins’s brutal and shameless dishonesty and lies that had brought Nathaniel low and Mattie was determined to be the one to trigger his fall and repay him in kind. She was sure she would raise a few eyebrows; women could own property, shares and businesses, but it was almost unheard of for them to attend a board meeting.
She must have drifted off to sleep because she was jolted awake by the latch on the back door clicking open. Buster jumped up and cocked his head, looking expectantly at the door. It opened, and Kate waddled in with her hand in the small of her back. ‘Cor, my bones are giving me jip, today,’ she said, pulling the straight-back chair out from the table and easing herself down.
Mattie noticed that Kate’s lump sat lower than it had been a few days ago. ‘Is it just your back?’ she asked, thinking the baby was overdue.
Kate nodded.
Mattie pressed her lips together firmly to stop her thoughts becoming words, and set about making a fresh pot of tea. Freddie and his sudden wealth had been the talk of the streets. After it had got about that Nathaniel had been dumped on the steps of Wapping police station only a day or two before, Flash Freddie had strolled down Cable Street in a new suit and billycock-hat. People quickly put two and two together. Of course, poor Kate never saw any of the money, so she was forced to continue her work at the bakery until a week ago when her ankles started to swell.
Mattie stirred two heaped teaspoons of sugar into her sister’s mug. ‘That’ll keep your strength up and, by the look of it, you’ll be needing it soon enough.’
Kate ran her hands over her stomach then took a slurp of tea. ‘You’re getting a size too,’ she retorted, glancing at Mattie’s expanding waistline. ‘Are you nervous about tonight?’
Mattie’s heart gave a hefty thump. ‘I’m terrified!’
Kate reached across the table and squeezed Mattie’s hand. ‘You’ll have Pat beside you. And you’ve got that fine new bonnet. Surely that should give you the courage of the saints.’
Mattie did have a new straw-chip bonnet with emerald ruched ribbon around the crown, and satin ties. It matched the russet-and-sage tartan gown and jacket she’d pulled off the quality second-hand rail in the Wentworth Street warehouse. It had cost two pounds but was worth it; there wasn’t a mark on the cuffs or elbows of the jacket and the lace trim around the skirt of the gown was intact. But even so . . .
S
he put her cup down. ‘Even if I had the crown of England on my head, I doubt it would stop me quivering when I stand up and say my piece. But I’ll have to – everything depends on it.’
‘I’m sure you’ll sway the meeting, Mat.’ A teasing smile Mattie hadn’t seen for a long while, lit her sister’s face. ‘After all, you always could argue the back leg off a donkey. What time’s Patrick collecting you?’
‘The meeting starts at seven but I have to be there from the start. We’re leaving here at six o’clock and meeting Smyth-Hilton at the corner of Bishopsgate at quarter to.’
Kate stretched again, winced and rubbed her stomach.
‘Are you sure you’re alright?’
Kate’s fair brows pulled together. ‘It’s just me bones creaking,’ she replied, letting out a long breath. ‘Can I have a splash more milk?’ she asked, pouring the last drop from the jug.
Mattie took it from her. ‘I’ll fetch you some,’ she said, rising to her feet and making her way across the room. She opened the pantry door and picked up the quart pot of milk. ‘Do you want me to save your legs and fetch you a bit of fish on Friday when I —’
‘Mattie!’
Mattie’s head snapped around. Her eyes fixed on Kate’s shaken face and then travelled down to the pool of water around her feet.
From his vantage point on the dais, Amos surveyed the thirty or so men sitting in neat rows in front of him in the function room above the Albion Tavern. Gas lamps illuminated the fashionably papered walls and re-plastered coving and architraves.
‘Thank you, gentlemen, for agreeing to Mr Fallon as the financial director of the company,’ he said smoothly, indicating the man in a suit so pale and grey that it almost matched his complexion.
Although he was loath to share his good fortune with anyone, Amos thought it wise to include Fallon in his scheme. You never knew when you might need a favour. The banker had taken full advantage and purchased half-a-dozen dilapidated properties along the route, only to sell them back to the company at a substantial profit in the same way that Amos had.
Perhaps Tomorrow Page 29