by Janet Woods
He shrugged and nodded at the same time, though it was more of a squirm.
‘Before she died, I promised my mother I wouldn’t enter that kind of profession. Because of you, Bessie Jones now intends to force me into it if she can. So I’m taking my baby sister to the country to see if my aunts will raise her. Then I’ll try and find decent employment so I can support us both. Lottie is in the kitchen if you want me to prove that I have a sister.’
Shame came into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry . . . I never thought. I liked you, you see, and I thought Bessie Jones would be able to discover where you lived. I meant you no harm.’
Liking for him sneaked reluctantly into her heart and lodged there; not the least because she’d discovered he had a conscience. That, she could work on. ‘That wasn’t the way Bessie put it to me. She said you offered a large amount of money for me to spend a week with you.’
‘I did . . . at her prompting. I intended to teach you a lesson for stealing from me.’
‘How . . . by forcing me to prostitute myself and live in degradation? I only stole to help feed my family. Because I’m poor, that doesn’t mean I have loose morals. Besides, I’d never have seen any of the money you were willing to pay Bessie.’
‘That wasn’t the reason.’ His eyes came alight with mischief. ‘You know, that was very good, appealing to my conscience like that. To be truthful, I found you attractive, and you have gentle hands. I still find you attractive.’ He grinned when she blushed. ‘I’m interested in the way you think, too. How large a price would you place on yourself?’
He’d seen right through her and she could have kicked herself. ‘I’m not ready to enter into such relationships. I’m not old enough.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen . . . almost sixteen.’ She didn’t know why she’d added that last bit, when it sounded more grown up, and when she’d wanted to appear younger.
‘And I’m twenty-one. What’s your name?’
‘Didn’t Bessie Jones tell you?’
‘If she had I wouldn’t be asking.’
Better that she stuck to the lie she’d created. ‘Lizzie Carter.’ She made the ultimate sacrifice to prove she was decent and reluctantly dropped the coin he’d given her on to the table. ‘You can keep this, I must go.’
‘Wait, Lizzie, I don’t want you to leave here in anger because of my stupidity. I know you need that money.’ One of his elegant hands closed around her wrist when she picked the coin up again. The smile he gave her was irresistible. ‘Let me put an alternative proposition to you. I’ll offer you one hundred pounds right now if you’ll allow me to kiss you, just once.’
She gasped, and slid him an unbelieving look. ‘That’s a fortune.’
‘There’s a condition. You must promise to come to me still intact when you think you’re old enough . . . when you’re eighteen, perhaps. One hundred pounds, Lizzie Carter.’
Her eyes widened and she gasped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He brought a pouch from inside his waistcoat and placed it on the table. ‘The money is inside. I won it on the turn of a card. Buy yourself a new gown.’
‘You would gamble on such a promise from me?’
‘You said you were honest. Prove it to me.’
‘I’m also a liar and a dip. I might prove that to you instead. Keep your money, mister. I don’t want to carry a broken promise on my conscience.’
‘Then don’t break it, else I’ll be disappointed in you.’ He gave a soft chuckle.
Taking a card from the gold case she’d just returned to him, he scribbled something on the back and handed it back to her. ‘You can leave a message for me here when you’re ready. It’s my club.’
She gazed up at him. Only a fool would be willing to part with such a large amount of money. ‘What if I don’t turn up?’
‘Then I’ve paid one hundred pounds for a kiss, so we’d better make it a good one.’
The female in her said, ‘My face is dirty,’ and when she wiped her cheeks she simply smeared what was already there, a liberal coating of dirt to help disguise her face, in case she was recognized.
‘I know,’ and he laughed. ‘It makes no difference to me.’
He was feckless where money was concerned! But if he didn’t care about her face being dirty, why should she? She reached out for the pouch.
‘I’ll have the kiss first,’ he said, his hand closing over hers. A diamond on his little finger sent out dizzying beams of light.
She gazed up at him, trying not to allow her inexperience to show as she scoffed. ‘Why would you want to kiss me?’
‘Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?’
‘I haven’t got a mirror.’
His eyes engaged hers. ‘When you do get one, you’ll know why; your mouth is like a ripe peach.’ He cupped her chin in his hands and his mouth brushed against hers, as light as a butterfly at first, then as tender as a lamb and as strong as a lion, so her heart began to pound and her breath left her body. Her mouth parted and she tasted an exploring tongue.
There was no fear in her because there was something innately gentle about Charles Curtis. Her body relaxed and she kept perfectly still. Little arrows of pleasure touched her, here and there, inside her skin, as he took his fill. Her mouth responded to his in no uncertain manner.
Just as she decided she enjoyed the caress too much to part with it, the warm, dewy and highly intimate contact became a void as cool air rushed to fill it. After a few seconds to enjoy the last shreds of fading pleasure she opened her eyes to the enigmatic darkness of his, wishing he’d kiss her again because the latent woman inside her had emerged to enjoy several breathtaking moments of desire.
‘Remember it,’ he whispered.
She tried to control the fine tremor in her limbs. How could she forget, for her first proper kiss was an introduction to sin. ‘Certainly, I’ll remember it, since it cost you so much. You’re not going to have me arrested as soon as I leave the house with the money, are you?’
‘No, and I’m willing to wait for you. It will give me something to look forward to while I complete my education. He smiled like an angel as he folded her fingers over the pouch, and then rang a bell. ‘Safe journey; I’ll look forward with pleasure to our next encounter, Lizzie Carter.’
A maid appeared. ‘Show this young woman to the kitchen, where she can collect her sister before leaving,’ he said, and he turned his back on her and left the room without giving her another glance.
Six
Thomas had recovered from his illness, except for the occasional cough, and had been allowed to dress and go downstairs.
Mrs Packer tucked a rug around his knees and Frederick leaped up to purr throatily against his stomach.
‘I’ve made you some nice chicken broth for lunch,’ she said.
‘Your chicken broth is always excellent, Mrs Packer.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Has there been any mail while I was sick?’
‘The usual bills and invitations.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘That young woman came to see you when you were ill. She said her mother had died and she was going to take her young sister to live with some relatives in the country. Dorset, she mentioned, and prattled on, mentioning a boy . . . a right rapscallion he looked with a top hat pulled down over his ears, if you ask me.’
He gazed at her in shock. ‘You said Mrs Laws had died? How . . . Was she ill?’
‘She was killed, sir, but they caught the lad who did it. The young woman wrote you a letter; it’s in her diary. I’ll fetch it for you. And I gave her enough money for her train fare from the teapot, and some food. I thought that’s what you’d want me to do.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I would have . . . the poor child.’
James arrived. ‘The doctor has allowed you out of bed, has he, Uncle? We were quite worried about you. Could you spare a cup of tea for a thirsty man, Mrs Packer?’ Settling himself on a chair round the fire, he opened his paper and
began to read.
Thomas slid Celia’s letter from the notebook and began to read it, exclaiming,
‘Oh, the poor child . . . listen to this, James. It’s from Celia Laws. Such a tragedy.’
James lowered the paper and gazed over the top at his uncle. ‘Must I?’
‘James, do please act your age and pay attention.’ Thomas ignored his nephew’s groan and began to read.
Dear Mr Hambert,
My mother, who never did any harm to anyone, was hit on the head and killed by a ferocious felon, who then stole the wages that she’d worked all week long for.
James huffed with laughter. ‘What’s that . . . one of Celia’s stories? It certainly sounds like a dramatic opening . . . definitely a tragedy. I believe she might be descended from William Shakespeare.’
‘They say that truth is stranger than fiction, James, and this is the truth, according to Mrs Packer. Celia’s mother has been killed, the poor woman. The young man who hastened her on her way has been arrested, or so Mrs Packer tells me.’
Gazing sharply at his uncle, James paid more attention to what the older man was saying. ‘Mrs Laws is dead?’ Although he’d only met her once, she couldn’t have been much older than him, and he’d liked her. It was too sudden to take in.
‘What of her children?’
His query was answered with his uncle’s next breath.
I am leaving London, where I’m no longer safe from the unwanted attention of certain people. My mother’s wish was for me to take Lottie to the country to be cared for by her sisters, if they are inclined to be charitable to their destitute nieces.
‘Celia is lucky in that she has relatives to fall back on.’
‘She will be if they’ll take her in.’
Because I wrote these stories for you, I have left them for safekeeping in the notebook you sent me. They number six in all, but they’re not very good. Writing stories was harder than I thought it would be. When Lottie is settled I intend to seek out a theatre company and try and earn my living as an actress, so I can support her.
I will write to you when I’m settled, dear Mr Hambert, then you will not have to say to your nephew, ‘Do you remember Celia Laws, the girl who snatched my watch then gave it back again? I wonder what happened to her.’
My respects to Mr James Kent.
Yours truly.
Celia Jane Laws.
James smiled at her comment. ‘It’s a nicely written letter, and I can understand why she intrigued you, but she has slipped through your fingers now. So much for your study and your address to the Anglican Philanthropic Society; you’ll have to find another subject.’
‘Not entirely, since her writing reveals much.’ Thomas fingered through the book, stopping to read now and again, often giving a faint smile or an occasional, ‘Hmmm,’ or just nodding to himself.
James raised an eyebrow when Thomas looked up at him and growled. ‘This arrived over a week ago, and Mrs Packer has only just thought to give it to me. I could have done something to help the girl.’
‘You were too sick. Besides, Celia Laws struck me as being a capable young woman with a great deal of independence to her. She reminds me of a cat that always lands on its feet. Had she needed your help, she would have asked for it, or failing that, would have helped herself to it.’ He gave a wry grin, remembering that he’d checked every pocket in his clothing after they had last met. ‘She’s obviously decided not to take up writing, though. I doubt if she’s got the scholarship for it, anyway.’
‘She has enough, and possesses a fine sense of story and a flair for drama that just needs channelling. Her characters are delightfully depicted, almost caricatures. I was looking forward to educating her a little further.’
‘Did she know of your plan?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Teaching doesn’t always have to be obvious. Often it’s better if it’s unobtrusive, because the rigid application of a set text can become a chore to the pupil rather than a pleasure. Celia was interested in everything going on around her, and her curiosity will open her to learning for the rest of her life. I wonder where she is now. It’s so cold out and they’ll have nowhere to stay.’
‘On her way to the country, I imagine. Don’t worry, Uncle. You know there is nothing you can do to help, and she said she will write as soon as she’s settled. No doubt she will tell you where she is then, so you’ll have to be patient. Surely, she doesn’t intend to walk all that way?’
‘Mrs Packer said she had her sister in a cart and there was a lad with her. The dear woman gave them some money from the teapot for the train, and had the wit to give the girl a basket of food to take with her. She seems to think they were heading for Dorset.’
‘Mrs Packer’s bark has always been worse than her bite.’
‘James, my boy, do try and stop comparing everyone to animals. I’m quite sure your vocabulary extends beyond the idiom, however apt they are to the situation. You should study zoology perhaps.’
James grinned widely at him. ‘If you’d been to the Old Bailey lately, you’d realize that it’s practically the same thing. I’ll be interested to see how the prosecution of the felon who killed Mrs Laws proceeds.’
James attended the trial a week later. The lad was twelve years old. Charged with manslaughter, he was sentenced to death by hanging. He collapsed in the dock, shivering with fright. His family was dead, he said. He’d been cast from his lodging, was starving and had no money. He didn’t mean to kill the woman . . . she’d broken her head on the wall when she fell over.
It was a tale that the judge had heard many times before. Immune to it, he had no pity to spare. The man made it clear. Hang, the boy would, if he had anything to do with it.
Luckily there was a higher power. Half of the crimes by the young were committed out of sheer desperation, and without thinking of consequence. Often it was a case of steal for a living, or die of starvation. James consulted with an acquaintance of his, and one of the reform lawyers took up the lad’s case. He applied for a pardon, placing the lad’s petition before a sympathetic minister.
Eventually, James was able to report to his uncle that the lad’s sentence was rescinded to transportation to Western Australia for life.
Thomas could only feel relieved. Much as he’d liked Mrs Laws and felt sorry for her children, the lad was only a child himself, and the death penalty was harsh. Children deserved a chance to reform and go on to lead a more useful life, he thought, wishing he had some of his own.
Thomas had learned a lot from his association with Celia Laws and her family. Poverty pulled human beings down. The outcome was destitution, prostitution, and the vilest of crimes being committed in the struggle to survive.
He hoped with all his heart that Celia would find her way out of the mire she was in. That night he included her in his prayers, and asked God to protect her and all who travelled with her on her hazardous journey. He thought to add: ‘And I’d be appreciative if you’d make your immediate priority a bellyful of food, and a warm roof over their heads.’
It was the coldest of days; the wind threw splatters of stinging sleet at them. Celia’s chest had begun to ache with every breath.
She didn’t know how long they’d been travelling, many days, but it had been by foot, since the third-class train had already gone by the time they got to the station, and the eleven o’clock one was for first-class passengers only.
The man who sold the tickets looked down his nose at them. ‘It’s not for the likes of beggars, even if you have got two pounds for the fare, which I doubt, since I can smell you from here. It would also give the company a bad name. Anyway, there’d be no room for the cart, so be off with you. Come for the third class in the morning. It will take a bit longer, about six hours, but it will be cheaper.’
Celia didn’t want to linger at the station, where Bessie was almost bound to send her thugs to look for her. The woman had a long memory, and didn’t like being thwarted, she’d heard.
She thought t
hat the seven-shilling fare to Southampton was too expensive for third class, and if the trip only took six hours, it wouldn’t take much longer if they went by foot . . . a day or two at most. She could put the fare money to better use.
However, the six hours that the train would have taken didn’t transfer well to the effort they’d spent tramping by foot, and the money she’d saved had been used up buying food. With the cart to push and the night closing in early, they were lucky to go two miles every day, before, they needed to seek food and shelter.
At night they’d slept in barns and cowsheds, sometimes in the open. The night before they’d come across a deserted cottage, and had stayed there for two whole days regaining their strength, despite the wind whistling through a hole in the roof.
Their last meal had been stale bread washed down with water. After London, with its many stalls and markets, she hadn’t been prepared to encounter such stretches of empty countryside – and she now wished she hadn’t been so miserly, and had spent the money Charles Curtis had given her on a more comfortable mode of travel.
But it had become a symbol to her, that money. She wouldn’t feel under an obligation to him unless she spent some of it, and once she’d taken a bite from it she would throw caution to the wind and spend it all. Then she’d think less of herself, as though she’d sunk below some invisible line of decency.
She had the money she’d saved from begging, and the gift from Mrs Packer on Mr Hambert’s behalf, dear, generous friend that he was. Then there was the guinea Charles Curtis had spun twinkling through the air, a reward for the return of his card case.
Celia grinned. Honesty had paid off, though in a dishonest sort of way.
She’d spent a small amount of her precious money on a pot of lamb broth at the last inn, and some milk for Lottie, because their mother had said it was good for her bones. She gazed at her sister. Lottie was still shivering, though her eyes were sleepy. Celia tucked the blanket about her head and made sure that Mrs Packer’s gift of an umbrella was pointed towards the wind before she stooped to tenderly kiss the girl. The umbrella had proved to be a godsend.
