by Janet Woods
‘Stop showing off.’ Celia grinned at James, and at Harriet’s bewilderment over her guests. ‘I shall have to behave myself from now on, then, I suppose.’
Aunt Harriet looked even more bewildered by that, for Celia had never told her the details of her former profession. ‘My aunt was worried because she thought you might be fire-eaters or acrobats from a travelling show, so you must prove that you’re respectable.’
James kissed Harriet’s hand and smiled. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that I have yet to master the art of flame throwing, and if I tried acrobatics of any type I would probably do myself an injury. But how nice to meet you, Miss Price. I do hope you don’t mind us coming unannounced. I had some business over this way, and my uncle had a gift he wished to deliver to Celia.’
And indeed, he had a book-shaped parcel tied with string in his hand.
‘You’re welcome, Mr Kent, and you also, Mr Hambert. Goodness, I had no idea that Celia was so well connected.’
Thomas made a humming sound in his throat. ‘Thank you, Miss Price. I’m pleased that my little ragamuffin friend has found herself a good home.’ He gazed around him. ‘Is Lottie not here with you, Celia? Is she well? I have a gift for her too.’
‘She’s in the kitchen helping to make some scones. I’ll fetch her. Would you like some refreshment?’
‘We can’t stay long, with the afternoons drawing in so early. However, a cup of tea before we return to Poole would be welcome.’
A little while later, Lottie was handing round scones with plum jam to spread on top, a smile on her face because, although she didn’t remember the guests, they had taken an interest in her. There had been a gift, a jigsaw puzzle of a map of the world. She’d never played with a jigsaw before and Aunt Harriet had said she’d help her and tell her the names of all the countries on it.
Celia grandly poured the tea and played the part of hostess to perfection, though she caught a grin being exchanged between her gentlemen callers now and again.
‘My uncle has been worried about you,’ James said, when they were seated.
Celia sent a smile towards her former mentor. ‘You shouldn’t have worried, Mr . . . Reverend Hambert. Didn’t you receive my letter?’
‘I did, but that arrived a long time ago. You omitted to inform me of your new address. I knew it was Dorset, and James tracked you down on my behalf. Are you still writing?’
‘I’ve written several stories, plus an account of my escape from London, and events rising from it.’
‘Good; then you’ve given up thoughts of being an entertainer.’
Celia sent a swift glance towards her aunt, who was conversing with James and wore a delicate pink blush on her face. She lowered her voice, gazed at the parcel again and knew she could wait no more. ‘Not entirely, but I do have Lottie to consider, and she’s settled and happy here. What’s in the parcel? Is it for me?’
‘Aha! I wondered when your curiosity would be aroused. I had a wager with James on how long it would take you to try and ferret it out of me. He now owes me a shilling.’
An imp of mischief rose in Celia. ‘I see you have tied it with literal string.’
He laughed as he handed it to her. ‘And I see you have learned the meaning of the word in the meantime.’
‘You should have corrected me at the time.’
‘It would have been mean to do. Besides, I knew you would figure it out eventually, and I enjoyed your puzzlement. Half the fun of knowledge is in the method used to gain it. The joy in the journey of discovery can never be underestimated.’ He clapped his hands, drawing attention to them. ‘Everyone, please pay attention while Celia opens my gift to her, since it’s a moment not to be missed.’
She teased at the knots with her fingernails, loosening them, aware of all eyes on her. She glanced up after she pulled the string free. James wore a secretive smile. Her aunt’s face was puzzled, and Thomas Hambert looked like a cat who’d swallowed the cream. She wanted to giggle, because he was enjoying this little scene as much as she.
Lottie was running a finger over her own gift with a pleased smile on her face. She was enjoying her time at school, and although she was an average student, she was quiet and well behaved.
Celia lifted the paper off and uncovered three leather-bound books. The breath she drew in was a gasp of delight. On the ruby cover impressed in gold lettering was written, Famous Fictional Tales of the London Slums, written by T. Hambert & C. Laws.
Tears welled to her eyes and she felt choked up, a feeling swiftly overturned by elation. ‘I don’t know what to say, Mr . . . Reverend Hambert,’ and she found herself laughing and crying at the same time. ‘See what you’ve done . . . mixed me up, and I don’t know what to call you now. She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly, knocking his spectacles sideways on his nose. ‘You’re so kind and thoughtful, and I wish you were my uncle instead of belonging to James. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’
‘Dear me . . . dear me . . . this is most unseemly, Celia my dear,’ he said, and extricated himself in a flurry of embarrassment from her embrace.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen my uncle in such a pother,’ James informed them, his laughter ringing out. Thomas straightened himself up, his efforts to hide his grin at her display woefully inadequate.
She hugged the books against her. ‘It’s such a lovely surprise; I’ll treasure them always.’
Thomas Hambert vigorously polished his spectacles, and placed them back on his nose again. ‘The leather-bound ones are limited special editions. I thought you might like one for yourself and another two to sign and gift to someone special. The bulk of the volumes are cloth bound, which makes them more affordable to the public.’
Tears in her eyes Celia ran a fingertip over the lettering. ‘My own stories in print; how wonderful a surprise this is. I can’t wait to read them, and yours, of course.’
‘I’m better known for my poetry, which is what I contributed to this volume.’
‘I’m so proud that you considered my work good enough to share a book with yours.’
Thomas cleared his throat. ‘We’ve already earned a small amount of royalties from sales, and can expect more in time. I’ve placed it in an envelope inside the book with the accounting so far. Some readings have been arranged. My sister Abigail . . . James’ mother, that is, is hosting a social dinner and evening on Saturday. I thought you might like to come and read some of your work. I have a friend passing through, who will collect you, bring you to Poole and return you home the next morning.’
Celia gazed at her aunt, who seemed quite bemused by the turn of events. The thought of reading to Thomas Hambert’s friends was awe inspiring, though thrilling; they were bound to be serious-minded and learned people.
‘Am I good enough to read my work, or are you just being kind to me? I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’
‘You’re every bit good enough, Celia. They are just people, and you should have more faith in yourself, and in my judgement.’
It was just the boost she needed in her moment of doubt, and she turned to her aunt. ‘May I?’
‘Of course you may accept the invitation, Celia. I consider the reverend to be an excellent chaperone.’
James smiled broadly at Harriet. ‘Perhaps you’d like to attend as well, Miss Price. You will be my guest.’
‘Are you sure your mother won’t mind?’
‘I’m quite certain she would enjoy meeting you.’
Harriet appeared pleased by the invitation. ‘Well yes, I could come. Millie will look after Charlotte. She’s a sweet child and they get along so well together.’
Thomas turned to James. ‘I’ve forgotten something . . . what is it James?’
‘Richard Parkinson.’
‘Ah yes . . . Celia, I know a gentleman who edits a London magazine. He’s eager to publish some tales of the London slums, such as those you’ve written for our book; a dozen in all, since the magazine is a monthly one. Or if you prefer you could write a s
erial – one continuous story in twelve sections. I’ll leave a copy of the magazine so you can read it for yourself. They have their own artist to illustrate it, and you will be paid a fee – one I negotiated myself, so you can be assured you will receive a fair recompense for your efforts.’
Celia felt dubious, even though eager to accept. She was filled with awe that someone liked her writing enough to actually buy it.
‘Everything seems to be happening at once. Having my name on a book is one thing, but writing tales for a magazine is another. There are things I’d rather not write about because it wouldn’t be seemly, and the truth might reflect badly on me, or my family.’ Her eyes slid towards Harriet, who now knew a lot more about her previous life, but not everything.
James leaned forward. ‘They needn’t be the actual truth, but rather the truth as seen and recorded through the eyes of a fictional person.’
‘I’m not a professional writer, Mr Kent, and I’m sure Reverend Hambert must have heavily edited my work for the book.’
‘Ah yes.’ Cocking his head to one side Thomas gazed at her with bird-bright eyes. ‘Your writing actually needed very little editing, as a matter of fact, and the moment you were paid for your work you became a professional author. You could, of course, write the stories under a pseudonym.’
‘A pen name?’ She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know what to call myself. How can it be true tales if I make the stories up and use a false name?’
Thomas gazed with approval upon her. ‘I see you haven’t neglected your education, or your need to query everything. Your mind reaches out in all directions. The truth is often exaggerated or sacrificed in publishing, as the title of our book was. Famous, the stories were not.’
‘But they will be when everybody buys our book, won’t they?’
Thomas laughed. ‘Exactly, and people will buy the books because they’re given to understand that the stories are famous. But Celia, we have had this conversation before. The magazine publishes original fiction, therefore the stories must appear in fictional form.’
Celia grinned and tut-tutted. ‘You mean the editor tells lies. I’m surprised you would condone such a concept, Reverend.’
‘I doubt if anything would surprise you, young lady.’
‘You certainly have. Why didn’t you tell me about your profession?’
‘Celia!’ Harriet admonished faintly.
Hearing her, James, who was examining the contents of the jigsaw box with Lottie pressed against his knee, whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘It’s obvious you haven’t observed the two of them argue the point before, Miss Price. I’ll be interested to see who wins this round. My money is on my uncle.’
‘If I had any money to waste it would be on my niece,’ she came back with.
‘You never asked me what my profession was,’ Thomas reminded Celia. ‘Let’s get back to the point. To be offered a contract for twelve stories is a testament to your talent. If you turn it down it will be an opportunity wasted, and most likely it will never be offered again.’
The truth of that statement filled her with confidence. ‘That’s true, but I never had any intention of refusing, and I shall accept with my aunt’s permission.’ Not that she needed it, but her aunt liked the niceties of life to be observed, and it was a courtesy.
‘Checkmate,’ Harriet whispered, and when James grinned at her she turned to Celia. ‘You must decide for yourself, Celia.’
‘What shall I use as a pen name?’
‘Lightfingers?’ James suggested without thinking, barely able to hide his chuckle.
Harriet gazed at James, puzzled. ‘What a very odd name.’
His brow furrowed in a frown when Celia sent him a warning look, for she hadn’t revealed that part of her life to Harriet. There were so many secrets to keep hidden, and she had to be careful not to allow them to escape, lest they scandalize people.
‘Ah yes, but your niece is an odd person, and she has a fine sense of humour.’
And indeed, Celia was laughing inside, firstly because the name was so apt, but mostly because of the interest James was taking in her aunt. He seemed to be intrigued by her.
After tea, he stood, as tall and straight as an arrow. He was soberly dressed in grey trousers, a darker grey jacket and a blue waistcoat of satin brocade. Celia watched him bow over her aunt’s hand, then look directly up at her with a quirky smile. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Price; I so enjoyed meeting you.’
Once again, a delicate blush suffused her aunt’s cheeks. Goodness, Celia thought, grinning. A relationship between them might be worth encouraging.
James’ head slanted to one side. ‘Celia, I’m glad to see you looking so well, and so grown-up. I’ve enjoyed your company.’ He slanted a smile towards Harriet. ‘I’m sorry we can’t stay longer and I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.’
‘Please visit any time you’re passing,’ Celia dared to say. ‘I’m sure my aunt won’t mind.’ Celia kissed James’ cheek, then Thomas Hambert’s. ‘I’m so pleased to see you both again. Thank you for coming, and for the gift, Reverend. I’ll treasure it.’
‘The gift is inside it, Celia, in our words and thoughts, and for all to share.’ Thomas gazed at her for a moment, suspicion filling his eyes. When he patted his pockets she offered him her most cherubic smile and shook her head in a gentle reproof. ‘How could you think such an awful thing of me?’
Behind her, James slanted Harriet a look and laughed. ‘Match to Celia, I believe,’ a remark that left her looking puzzled.
After their guests had gone, Harriet looked her directly in the eyes. ‘Explain, Lightfingers to me.’
‘Ah, yes, I imagined you’d ask. Brace yourself, Aunt, because you are not going to like this. As well as beg, I used to pick pockets in London. I stole Reverend Hambert’s watch. Then I returned it to him. That’s how we met.’
Harriet gasped. ‘Is there anything illegal you haven’t done?’
‘Yes there is, Aunt, and it’s because you gave me shelter and unconditional friendship when I needed it . . . otherwise I’d be lost now. Reverend Hambert was kind to me and we became friends. If he’d had me arrested, which was his right, I would have been transported, or worse. He’s more than I deserve.’
‘He certainly is,’ she said tartly. ‘While he was visiting I remembered who he was. The man is a respected poet, and well known in reform circles.’
‘Then he must have reformed me, for I’ve done hardly anything illegal since I met him, and you have my promise that I never will, if it can be avoided.’
She turned her mind to the one hundred pounds she’d taken from somebody on false pretences . . . though it wasn’t really false pretences, since she’d given Charles Curtis the kiss he’d paid for. The imprint of it was still on her mouth, to remind her at odd times of the debt she still owed. She still had the money hidden away, and one day she’d hand it back to him – the man who’d tried to buy the use of her body to satisfy his lust.
She turned her aunt’s mind aside with, ‘I’ve never been to a social dinner. What will we wear?’
‘Oh Lord, it’s been years . . . It will be dinner suits and evening gowns with lace or frills. Let’s go upstairs and see what we can find in the wardrobes. Luckily, my sister and mother were fashion conscious.’
When Saturday came Harriet looked elegant in a dark-rose taffeta gown that had belonged to her mother and had never been worn.
Celia’s gown was the colour of bluebells. They’d shopped in Dorchester, buying a layered lace collar and matching trim for the sleeves. Celia paid for it herself, with the royalty money that had been left by Thomas. She bought some matching ribbons for her hair.
Between them they dressed each other’s hair in the fashionable style, parted in the middle and drawn into the side, giggling like children all the while, in case they singed each other’s ringlets with the curling tongs.
Lottie smiled when she saw them. ‘You both look so pretty, like princesses.’
Celia bent to kiss her sister when she heard the carriage. It was late afternoon, the shadows long when they left. Evening would soon be upon them. But it promised to be a clear night with a three-quarter moon to light their way. ‘Be good for Millie. We’ll be home tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Cloaks around them, for it was going to be a cold night, Celia picked up the bag that contained their overnight necessities. She’d been reading out loud all week, and was word perfect, though she admitted she was a little nervous.
They were handed into the carriage, where an elderly man and his wife were comfortably ensconced. A blanket was tucked over their knees for warmth, something they were grateful for. The couple introduced themselves as Reverend and Mrs Emery. After a few pleasantries they promptly fell asleep, one in each corner, and began to snore.
Soon the daylight faded and they were passing through the busy town of Poole. The quay was crowded with seamen and labourers going about their business in the dusky light, and the dark, tangled, swaying masts of the ships were outlined against the darkening sky. Seagulls shrieked overhead as they headed back to their nests.
Abigail Kent’s house was situated halfway up a hill, with a fine view over the harbour. Their companions woke with a start when the carriage stopped, yawning behind their hands.
Some of the guests had already arrived. Thomas called his sister over. After introductions, a maid showed Celia and Harriet to a dimly lit room on the second floor, where two beds waited. A fire burned in the grate and shadows danced upon the walls. The maid turned the gaslights up, revealing a room prettily decorated with wallpaper of delicate blue stripes on cream, and colourful patchwork quilts.
There was a note on one of the beds.
Dear Harriet . . . You will not mind if I call you by your given name, I hope. I was detained, so late arriving home. Only now am I dressing for dinner . . . now being 6.45p.m. My abject apologies for not being there to greet you on arrival, as planned. I promise to escort you both down at 7.15 on the dot, so you can properly meet the other guests before dinner. Sincerely, James.
