Lady Lightfingers

by Janet Woods

  Charles looked utterly repentant. ‘It was entirely my fault and I can’t apologize enough. I forgot that my own study of the criminal underclass is not to the taste of everyone, especially someone ignorant of their ways.’

  Ignorant of their ways . . . Hah! It was Charles Curtis who was ignorant of their ways. Wasn’t she one of the people he studied, the unfortunate underclass!

  ‘I’ll go and find Mrs Packer and see if she has any smelling salts,’ Thomas murmured.

  She did feel rather drained at this moment, but struggled against it. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment or two.’

  But Thomas had gone. Charles took his place. He slid his arm around her and supported her head in the crook of his shoulder while he gently stroked her hair.

  Celia enjoyed the closeness for all of ten seconds while her trembling eased, then said, ‘I feel stronger, so you may release me now.’

  ‘Such a miraculous cure. Perhaps I should have taken up doctoring instead of the law,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘Does my proximity disturb you?’

  ‘Yes . . . no you don’t . . . why should you think that?’

  ‘No reason at all. Look at me, Celia dear, allow me to see if the colour has returned to your face.’

  She looked into his melting eyes and was lost because she knew exactly what he was going to do next, and said on her next outward breath, but not very convincingly, ‘No, Charles . . .’

  ‘Yes, my sweet Celia.’ His mouth touched a tender kiss against her mouth, as soft as a butterfly. When she closed her eyes he placed a kiss against each lid, then her mouth again, firmer this time, leaving his claim there because she hadn’t repulsed him that first time.

  She wanted to cry even more because that kiss told her she’d fallen in love, but it was a love that could never be. No matter how much she tried, she wasn’t good enough for someone like him, and he’d spurn her once he learned of her past – break her heart.

  When they heard a footfall, Charles laid her gently back against the cushions. A smile played around his mouth as he said with complete disregard of Thomas Hambert’s sensibilities, ‘My diagnosis is that your corselette is too tight. There . . . that’s brought colour to your face.’

  His words certainly had. She did feel better, and when the smelling salts were passed under her nose her eyes widened and her head cleared with a sudden jolt. She felt skittish afterwards, as though the salts had blown the cobwebs from her brain in all directions with one mighty puff. It left her mind so sharply honed that she wanted to leap from the sofa, stamp her feet, and box his ears all at the same time, for taking such liberties with her.

  She had a sudden urge to laugh at the thought, and only just stifled it.

  Charles smiled, as if he knew her thoughts exactly. ‘Perhaps you’d both be my guests at the theatre while you’re in London,’ he said. ‘There’s a new play on at the Adelphi by Boucicoult which I think might pander to Celia’s taste of the dramatic. It’s titled Janet Pride.’

  ‘I’d heard it has a rather long prologue.’

  ‘Oh . . . a real play . . . that would be wonderful. I’ve never been to one, at least, not a professional one on a proper stage. Please may we go and see it, Reverend?’ she said, and her eyes began to shine.

  Thomas gazed from one to the other and sighed. He was not immune to what was going on under his nose. Charles Curtis was a personable and charming young man, Celia, incandescent in his presence. She would be vulnerable as well as susceptible, having spent her childhood absorbing a standard of moral behaviour lower than now expected of her.

  It was a complication he’d rather not have. He reminded himself that although Celia was not his responsibility, he’d assumed the role of mentor to her. She was in London at his behest, and it was his duty to look after her, though he had to admit that she probably knew the dangers of London better than he did.

  But she was a young woman, and her eyes were brimming over with such excitement at the thought of going to the theatre that he didn’t have the heart to refuse. What had she done to raise this protective fatherly feeling inside him? Nothing he’d observed to be untoward, except her smile was too bright when she looked at Charles, her cheeks too pink, and her manner too self-conscious.

  He was not her father, but, Thomas wondered, should he have a word with her? But with what words did fathers caution young ladies about gentlemen like Charles? Indeed, he knew hardly anything about his guest and might do him an injustice.

  His glance flicked to Charles and he smiled. Perhaps it would be better if he had a word with the young man, instead.

  Sixteen

  After Celia had retired for the night, Thomas said to Charles, ‘I do believe you’re trying to turn the child’s head.’

  Charles didn’t bother to deny it. ‘Celia is hardly a child, but a beautiful young woman with a lively mind, whose company I enjoy. It’s she who is turning mine.’

  ‘Celia is only beginning to venture into society, and it’s very different to the one she grew up in. She’s susceptible to flattery.’

  ‘From what I see of her family background, it’s sound.’

  Thomas had forgotten that Charles knew nothing of Celia’s background except what he saw and assumed. He remembered it now, and told himself he’d have to be careful. ‘Which is why I’d rather not see her encouraged to attach her affections to a man whose intentions are spurious, to say the least.’

  ‘An assumption in itself, Reverend. May I enquire; what motivates your own interest in Celia?’

  ‘My interest in her is purely academic. She has skills I’ve been encouraging.’

  ‘For whose benefit, hers or yours?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Come, come, Reverend, I’ve been to one of two of your gatherings. While Celia seems unaffected by the fuss – indeed she’s unassuming where her own creative talent is concerned – you bask in her reflected glory, and as her mentor take credit.’

  Thomas was horrified by such a notion. ‘You think so? I’m immensely proud of her, you know. Oh, dear . . . I’m mortified to think that I should appear prideful on my own account, and for my own small contribution. If you’d known her when—’ Aware of his slip of the tongue, he shrugged. ‘I will not excuse my behaviour, but rather I’ll try and change it. Celia has such a thirst for knowledge, and her welfare is dear to my heart.’

  ‘I apologize, Reverend; I spoke out of turn, and as a reaction to your accusation that my own interest in her is spurious. As a matter of curiosity, why do you feel you must nurture her mind?’

  ‘Some things come about without reason, Charles, as though God meant them to be, but with Celia it’s different.’

  ‘Like love?’

  ‘In one of its many forms. If you’re asking if I hold a great affection for Celia Laws, the answer is, yes, I do. My own daughter bore the same name, and would be about the same age had she lived. That’s why I asked you not to try and turn Celia’s head. She’s already had enough problems in her life. How well do you love her, Charles?’

  The man spoke without thinking that Thomas’ phrasing was odd. ‘How . . . with my body and my heart. She is rapidly becoming an addiction, like opium is to the soul, or like one more glass of wine intoxicates the brain.’

  Thomas hummed softly in his throat. ‘Love is not to be found in the gratification of one’s appetite, however strong the turmoil of that feeling, or the instant, but temporary relief brought by satiation of the flesh.’ Thomas smiled when his guest appeared a little uncomfortable. ‘Would you like a glass of port?’

  Charles rose. ‘It’s about time I left, so I think not, Reverend. My ears are already glowing. You’re skilled in verbal sparring and would make a fine legal advocate if you didn’t allow your heart to rule your head.’

  Thomas followed him into the hall and, when Charles shrugged into his coat, said, ‘And Celia Laws . . . what of her?’

  ‘Neither of us can profess to be experts in the art of love . . . you taking a
spiritual approach while I’m at the opposite end, by needing to express it in a more ungodly manner.’

  ‘Ah yes . . . The blood runs hotly when one is young.’

  ‘In deference to yours, I was not going to mention age, Reverend. Be reassured though, your words have not fallen on deaf ears.’

  ‘Then you’ll no longer pursue Celia?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Reverend – I didn’t say that, at all. I imagine I’ll simply change my tactics. Like that glass of good wine, it’s become obvious that Celia needs to be allowed to breathe for a short time before being savoured. Goodnight, sir.’

  Placing his hat on his head Charles gave him a grin, picked up a silver-topped cane and went out into the night – leaving Thomas with a broad smile on his face.

  Celia donned her favourite blue dress with the lace collar for the theatre and Mrs Packer dressed her hair, using the tongs to create side ringlets.

  Charles had taken a box at the Adelphi Theatre and had invited his family to join them. Celia received a shock when she was introduced to his mother and stepfather.

  Like all the men, Joshua Harris was elegant in his evening suit. Charles’ mother, Imogene, was beautifully and finely gowned in pale lilac. Her eyes flared in a moment of uncertain recognition when they were introduced. ‘Miss Laws . . . I feel as though I’ve already met you. Have we been introduced before?’

  Celia blessed the dim light, and not only because it hid the fact that her gown was a little shabby. She didn’t want to lie; she’d told so many to conceal her past, and they now seemed to be expanding with every breath, she thought, as she twisted her answer in a way designed to avoid being entirely untruthful. ‘I think you’re the first people I’ve met with the surname of Harris. It’s a Scottish name isn’t it?’

  Joshua smiled and said in a perfectly modulated English, ‘I think my family may have originated in Scotland, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs Harris. Charles has told us he has a baby sister. He seems to be very fond of her.’

  ‘My son has always liked children. I understand you’ve made yourself responsible for your late mother’s ward.’

  ‘Lottie is six, and I love her dearly. I rarely think of her in terms any less than my sister.’

  ‘You’re young to have responsibility for a child of that age.’

  Celia vaguely remembered that this woman had been susceptible to flattery on the previous occasion they’d met. ‘You must have been extremely young when Charles was born.’

  Her mouth curved in a smile – a smile so like Charles’ that it nearly robbed Celia of breath. ‘I was barely seventeen. I’m truly blessed with my children. Charles is so clever and well mannered. He never gave me a moment of unease when he was growing up, and I’m so proud of him. As for Adelaide, she’s a joy.’

  ‘She certainly is.’ Charles lifted an eyebrow and gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘There are problems attached to being the only son of a devoted mother. The motherly praise is quite unwarranted if you did but know it, Celia. I’m far from perfect.’

  Celia offered him a faint grin. ‘As you say . . . and I imagine that both you and your mother know you better than I do. Which version to accept could prove to be the problem.’

  He chuckled. ‘I stand willing to be convinced to the contrary.’

  ‘You mean you were hinting to be complimented? What a conceited creature you are, Charles Curtis . . . there, that is my opinion. By the way, thank you for the Christmas gifts. Lottie adores her doll.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I love my little bird, though I prefer to see them flying free than penned in a cage.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I bought you a metal bird. However, if you think you can make it fly . . .?’

  His mother laughed.

  Thomas gave one of his behave-yourself reminder coughs and stated to nobody in particular, ‘I have a theory that parental praise from an early age imbues a lad with self-confidence. Alas, I’ve never had the chance to put the idea into practice.’ He held the back of a chair. ‘Will you sit here next to Celia, Mrs Harris? You’ll have an excellent view of the stage.’

  Joshua took the seat next to his wife. Charles and Thomas seated themselves behind.

  Celia immersed herself in the programme, familiarizing herself with the characters.

  When the curtain began to rise, Charles leaned forward and breathed against her ear, ‘I hope you’ll enjoy the play.’

  ‘I will . . . I know I will. Thank you so much for inviting us, Charles; you’re so kind, and I’m looking forward to it so much.’

  Her words filled Charles with such tender pleasure that he could hardly breathe. Odd that something so commonplace as going to the theatre could raise such interest in her, and right from the beginning.

  As soon as the scenery depicting Paris was revealed she gave a quiet little gasp of delight, and during the long prologue she leaned forward, as though determined to catch every word, and oblivious to those around her.

  She cried over the fate of Richard Pride, and whispered under her breath, ‘Oh, no, that’s not fair,’ when his daughter, Janet Pride, was convicted of the crime.

  Charles watched the emotions come and go on her face, heard her sigh with relief when Richard Pride confessed to the crime, and heard her trying to stifle a sob when he died.

  He handed over his handkerchief for her to mop her eyes with.

  When the play was over, she asked him, ‘Does the Bailey courtroom really look like that inside?’

  ‘It’s a fairly accurate depiction. I’d say the scene painter had been inside, or at least had a sketch to work from.’

  They paused at the top of the staircase, the other three going ahead.

  ‘And do barristers and judges wear those wigs?’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘Do you wear one?’

  ‘During a court trial, yes, just a short one. It’s a tradition.’

  She nodded. ‘I really enjoyed the play. The scenery was very good. It made me feel as though I was there. I should like to go to Paris one day, and also to the wilds of Australia. I know someone whose father was sent there for stealing a pair of boots from a dead man. I thought that was unfair, because the dead man didn’t need them, and his young son was forced on to the streets and left all alone to fend for himself.’

  ‘Stealing is a crime that shouldn’t go unpunished,’ he said.

  She knew that to be untrue, for he’d made an exception in her case. But that had been a long time ago and his thinking would have since been influenced by others. ‘What if a friend stole something from you, then confessed and gave it back somehow . . . would you have them arrested and charged?’

  He gazed at her, his glance intent on her face then coming up to her eyes, where they held her trapped in their darkness. He appeared interested in the conversation, his head slanting a little to one side as he gave a faint smile and made a little murmur deep in his throat before saying, ‘I don’t imagine my friends would ever steal from me. They’re trustworthy.’

  Guilt swallowed most of her breath, and although she tried to shift her eyes away, she couldn’t. She would hate to be prosecuted by Charles Curtis, she thought. ‘What if they were hungry and had no choice?’

  ‘Then they’d only have to ask me, and I’d share with them what I had, including money, which they could repay when their circumstances had improved.’ He tucked her arm through his. ‘Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. No, she thought, for he’d never regard her as trustworthy now, even if she repaid that large amount of cash he’d given her. But she’d feel better about herself when she did, she mused, especially since its presence still tempted her sorely at the times she remembered it.

  ‘What happened to the friend of yours who was left alone to fend for himself?’

  She didn’t want to tell him anything of her background. ‘Johnny was taken in by a couple who’d lost their own son.’

>   ‘A little like your sister Lottie.’

  ‘Johnnny was older, about twelve. The couple had an inn so he was able to offer them his services in return for his home. I was pleased to find him so settled, when I visited recently.’

  ‘So you see, there are people who do care about the welfare of abandoned children. That couple at the inn, your mother . . . you . . . Reverend Hambert. And there are church committees and boards that support and run workhouses. Where did you say the inn was?’

  ‘Oh, in the New Forest,’ she said carelessly, and returned to the conversation. ‘Despite that, people still die on the streets from starvation and cold, and they have to steal to stay alive. And women are forced into selling—’ She bit down on her lip. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice faltering a little. ‘I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize, Celia. The simple fact is that there are too many disadvantaged on the streets now, and that’s partly because the rail network gives easy access to London, and the unemployed swarm here looking for work. If law and order isn’t maintained there will be more crime. At the same time, the innocent are going to suffer along with the guilty. That’s why I thought this play would interest you.’

  ‘Instead, it made me cry and fired my anger,’ she said ruefully.

  ‘You’re sensitive to the plight of the needy. I found it interesting. Have you had much to do with them? Your stories, the settings in particular, seem to have an edge of truth to them.’

  She folded up his handkerchief and handed it back to him, attempting to distract his train of thought away from herself. ‘I’m afraid it’s a little damp.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’