People of Abandoned Character

by Clare Whitfield

  PEOPLE OF

  ABANDONED

  CHARACTER

  PEOPLE OF

  ABANDONED

  CHARACTER

  Clare Whitfield

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Clare Whitfield, 2020

  The moral right of Clare Whitfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 9781838932800

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Team Riley-Whitfield

  ‘Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.’

  James 2:17 New King James Version

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One More Gone to London

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Little Lost Polly

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  The Ghost of Dark Annie

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Elizabeth the Melody

  Kate of All or Nothing

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Marie Jeanette: la Grande Blonde

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  About the Author

  Bonus Chapter

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  One More Gone to London

  Reading, 1885

  It was a bad day for a funeral: the wind was high, the sun weak and the threat of rain too strong. Impossible to dress for. Impossible. The sun came out and one wilted under all those layers – the woollen greatcoat, the sober waistcoat, the top hat – and then a breeze took up and one’s fingers turned blue. Impossible.

  Mr Radcliffe noted the sparse congregation. As the deceased’s solicitor, he was duty bound to attend, but the vicar’s wife had had to practically coerce people from the parish to pay their respects, so she’d said. St Bartholomew’s was a crumbling relic of a church, so at least the small pews didn’t appear so vacant. Mrs Alma Chapman had insisted on being buried there, in ‘the real church’, next to her husband. The church proper was now in the main village; a bigger, better church, for a bigger, better England.

  For each shovelful of earth the gravedigger attempted to throw on top of the late Mrs Chapman, a gust of wind blew most of it across the faces of the people standing around the grave willing the whole torturous event to a conclusion. A last laugh, perhaps; an indication of the old woman’s feelings towards the congregation. It was not a dignified or elegant spot; the farm was in plain view, the donkey could be heard braying, and as the wind took up the gravedigger’s earth once again, the gathering finally gave up and started to move away. Even the vicar retreated.

  Now it was only Mr Radcliffe and the Chapman granddaughter, a tall column of black, her mourning veil pressed against her cheeks by the wind. Hands clasped in pious, observant grief. She appeared young enough, though according to his records the girl was very much a woman. But then everyone looked young to him these days, and he never had had a firm grasp on how to judge a woman’s age. They did things to themselves, with hair, and feathers and hats; it could be most confusing.

  Mr Radcliffe knew Susannah Chapman the way he knew most people, through annotations in documents: records of life and death, the stuff of ink and blotting paper. The poor thing, what should a girl-woman do with herself when she had no male relatives to offer protection and no real wealth behind her? Throw herself on the mercy of those that would have her, he supposed. In his head he had already prepared what he would say to her after the funeral. A few short words of solace, inspiration, even. He had been overly preoccupied with this, for what could a man of his age have to say to a young woman? For once he wished he’d brought his wife along.

  He would start along the lines of: ‘Death, to those left behind, does not mean the end but a new beginning. We must forge a new path, over muddy tracks and hard ground…’ He was especially fond of the ‘muddy tracks’ part, but as he took the first step to deliver his monologue, the girl gathered her skirts out of the boggy ground and turned to leave, and he had to almost gallop to catch her. It was not lost on him that it was now he who was negotiating a muddy track.

  ‘Miss Chapman, won’t you wait a minute. I only want to speak with you a moment.’ Mr Radcliffe waved his hat, quite out of breath by the time he caught up with her.

  ‘Forgive me, I’m sorry to bother you so soon after your grandmother’s passing. I only mean to leave you with a thought, and that is that, for you, this is a new beginning—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Radcliffe, thank you. I understand. I’m sorry, I must hurry. I have much to do.’ And she turned like a great black obelisk, the veil making it impossible to see her features clearly.

  ‘Allow me to walk with you, Miss Chapman. I have news that could offer you some reassurance, security, even,’ he said, making strenuous efforts to keep up with the young woman’s stride.

  He explained how he had been approached by the vicar’s wife with an offer of accommodation and a small salary in exchange for domestic and educational assistance with her six girls. Now that both Miss Chapman’s grandparents were dead, the best she could do would be to rent their house to tenants and find herself a husband, quick smart.

  ‘I would ask you to thank the vicar and his wife for me formally, but I will have to decline their kind and generous offer,’ she said. ‘I’m off to London, on the first train tomorrow.’

  Well, that was quite unexpected.

  ‘Whatever for?’ he said, feeling dread at what he anticipated would be the most naive of answers.

  What was it about London that turned the heads of silly women? What could a spinster of twenty-seven from a small village know of London and its insatiable appetites? How many girls had floated to the city on clouds of dreams only to fall into bad habits with bad people? The air was yellow, the stink of the river enough to make one choke, and beggars slept in heaps in the open like flea-ridden cats. More than once he had walked a street and not heard a word of his own language. In his own country!

  It was certainly no p
lace for an unmarried woman. These young girls, they thought it would be all hats and dresses. That they would go to the races every day, pick flowers in the park and be courted by a line of enamoured dukes waiting on bended knee. If only they knew of the broken-spirited, the hungry and the homeless, they’d never set a foot on the train.

  ‘I am to become a nurse, Mr Radcliffe, at the London Hospital, in Whitechapel. Really, I am grateful for the offer, but I can’t stay, not another minute. Not now they are both gone. You must understand.’

  ‘Well then, my dear, I wish you good luck in your endeavours. I was making assumptions, but I can see you are a strategist – no, a pioneer!’

  She bid him farewell and left him sinking further into the mud. There was scant hope she would thrive. It was not the way of the city. In a village, a man could make a little money with hard work, be honest, fear God and heave himself up a rung or two. He could call himself a success. London was no place for ascension, despite all the promises. Oh, there was gold, all right: a fortune could be won and lost, or stolen, on the same day. But only the rich, the criminal or the criminally insane thrived in London.

  1

  1888

  We married in St Jude’s, Whitechapel, a tiny dilapidated church that appeared to have sprouted like a fungus between two unconcerned buildings in Commercial Street. The vicar complained that the congregation only ventured inside on Sundays if it rained, and even then expected dole money, otherwise they’d be skipping and dipping down Petticoat Lane. I wore a blue travelling dress and a straw bonnet that Sister Park had insisted on decorating with a veil and paper orange blossoms, squinting at it by candlelight in the room we shared above the hospital. I told her to save her eyes, but she wouldn’t hear of it, being the sort that finds cheer in such pointless rituals.

  Thomas’s best man was a fellow doctor, Dr Richard Lovett. I remembered him vaguely from the hospital, our paths not destined to cross, and only met him properly the day we were married. They seemed as close as two friends could be: laughing with each other, elbows into ribs and sly winks. They even resembled each other, both being dark and well groomed, tall and slender; they could have been brothers.

  As soon as we were married, I told Matron Luckes, and she fired me on the spot, as I knew she would. A married woman could only devote herself to one profession, that of wife. Nursing was too demanding a career to accept anything other than complete devotion. There ended my career, the career I’d gambled my very existence on procuring, in the process rejecting everything my grandmother had wished for me. I had moved willingly to quite possibly the worst part of London and for two years had studied until I was near blind, to attain the coveted position of ward sister. Now I’d thrown that all away with both hands in a fit of cavalier delirium. Nevertheless, I couldn’t believe my luck: a plain old maid like me marrying so well, and to a young and beautiful man who adored me. It shouldn’t have happened. For a moment I really did believe in miracles.

  I was giddy with joy and excited for our future. I felt rubber-stamped and approved by all things proper. Catapulted into another realm. Only weeks before, I had not known how I would carry on or what to do with myself, and now I had an entirely different existence and someone to make this future with. There was only one instance when I played my part badly. In the run-up to our marriage, when he suggested we honeymoon in Brighton, I hesitated. He asked if I’d ever been there before. I lied and said no. It was not a bad lie, but Brighton held memories for me and there would be no easy way to explain it.

  My new husband took me to a hotel called the Royal Albion opposite Brighton Pier. It rained constantly, but I barely noticed. Summer had trouble starting in the year of 1888; it coughed and spluttered, trying to clear its lungs of a bitter winter. Only the occasional blast of light was able to break through the ashen clouds. We locked ourselves away in our room with its huge windows up to the ceiling. The murders hadn’t started yet. I was just another June bride on her honeymoon, struck with euphoria at my novel world, unaware the newlywed glow would tarnish.

  At night, the wind would become trapped inside our hotel room and howl around the ceiling. We lay in bed and listened to its whistling with our limbs wrapped around each other, the skin of our bodies smooth and warm, like paper.

  ‘See how we fit, Chapman,’ he said. ‘We fit so perfectly together, don’t you think? As if we were chiselled from the same piece of rock. Made to match.’

  And we did fit. I was happy. It was such sudden relief from the misery I’d nearly drowned in, I almost didn’t recognise it. This new excitement at a future with someone else, after I’d given up all hope of ever feeling happiness again. We stayed in bed morning, noon and night in those first days. Thomas was building his private practice and had few patients on his books, which made it the perfect time to take a holiday. Soon he’d be far too busy to take any leave. He had grand ambitions, my wonderful husband. If we did not take a holiday now, when would we next have the chance? Anything was possible. Everything could be ours. That was the feeling I’d missed, the feeling that the future could and would be marvellous. Together we would make it so.

  We used to leave our burrow for food, and then, like children, we’d chase each other up the stairs on all fours and disappear under the bedclothes. He showed me how to put drops of laudanum in brandy, which burned my chest and made my head seem as if it would explode, like I was falling down a bottomless black hole. But when he kissed me all over, I burst into fits of laughter. We were living in a barrel of feathers.

  Thomas experienced the world through his senses, and he had an appetite for it all: food and music, art and beautiful things, architecture and adventure, liquor and laudanum. We were no angels, but we never professed to be. Thomas was drawn on impulse to whatever would give him pleasure in that moment, and, in those days, pleasing me was one such thing. It was a soft and sensory experience; all lust. As yet I was unaware the same desires would quickly become a burden. I was fascinated by him. After the dark events of the last few months, I felt I was being pushed in a different direction and that this was the right path, the life in the light I craved. This man and my role of wife would be the new terrain I could explore and conquer. I would be damn good at it.

  Thomas was often like an excitable child, skipping around, eyes always on me, bleary with a damp glaze as if spellbound. He tried to hold my hand at all times. I would wait as long as I could, then attempt to slip free, only for his fingers to search mine out again. His attention was so intense, it was embarrassing. People stared, although I don’t believe he noticed. It was as if he didn’t care about anything or anyone but us. This wasn’t driven by rudeness or a conscious aim to offend; it was simply a matter of training. Thomas had never been conditioned to consider others or to imagine he might not matter as much as other people. Thomas thought he mattered very much, and, as his wife, so did I.

  I wanted nothing more than to be like him. Now that I was married to an upper-middle-class doctor, I pictured a life free of the exhausting, ever looming fear of poverty, free of the drudgery of hard, physical labour, of never being able to earn enough money to put a bit aside. Now at last I had the opportunity to create wealth rather than merely exist. This was my chance. I only had one job: to stop myself from ruining it.

  2

  After our honeymoon, we travelled straight to the house in Chelsea. I hadn’t had time to think about what it would be like, so when our cab pulled up outside I found my knees trembling with fear that I would be found out for a fraud. I had to keep my hands together to stop the shaking being so obvious. I had never lived with servants or a housekeeper. Growing up with my grandparents, there was a charlady, and a gardener came occasionally after my grandfather died, but no one lived in. I had no clue how to manage the situation and any savvy servants would quickly sniff out my ignorance. They wouldn’t think me good enough to be the doctor’s wife, and they would be quite right. I hadn’t been trained for the role at all. I tried to steady my nerves by asking questions, but m
ostly I was consumed by how ridiculously unprepared I was. What kind of mistress was frightened of the staff?

  ‘You can rely on old Mrs Wiggs, my housekeeper,’ Thomas said, ‘above all others, including myself. She’s the most reliable, steady hand you’ll ever meet. By rights she should have been born a duchess, but fortunately she was gifted to us and she’s been with the family since my sister and I were babes-in-arms. Mrs Wiggs comes with the fittings in the Lancaster household. We are lucky to have her.’

  I was finally ready to meet Mrs Wiggs in person. After Thomas’s glowing description, I had imagined a short, squat woman with blonde curls and a bosom deep enough to suffocate a small child. She would have a warm smile and bovine eyes, always on the cusp of tears, on account of her emotional generosity.

  As we walked through the door, Mrs Wiggs was waiting in the hallway to greet us. Emotional generosity was not the immediate impression I had. The air around her was stiff and frozen. The instinctive reaction was to hold your breath, as I did then.

  ‘It truly is wonderful to welcome you to our household, Mrs Lancaster,’ she said.

  Thomas closed the door behind us and we were plunged into gloom, our eyes too used to the daylight to adjust to our new surroundings. The only illumination was a candle on a cabinet with a mirror above it that made the flame flicker in on itself continually, distracting me, demanding attention. Mrs Wiggs stepped forward into its light and I had to tell myself to loosen my grip on Thomas’s arm.

  The only part of her that moved were her eyes; they drank me in, up and down. When Thomas introduced us, she mustered a smile I recognised, the sort I used to rustle up as I reassured a patient about to go into theatre that they would not be losing a leg. It was unconvincing at best.

  ‘I said, it’s wonderful to welcome you to our household, Mrs Lancaster. Did you have a good journey? You must be tired.’