by Dilly Court
‘Tom!’ Jane shrieked, hurrying to his side. ‘Don’t go like this. Please don’t abandon us.’
Chapter Eleven
Tom hesitated for a moment and then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Janey. You won’t get rid of me so easily. I’ll be back.’ He strode out through the gate and left it swinging and groaning on its rusty hinges.
‘Gee! I’m sorry if I upset your friend,’ Charles said apologetically. ‘It was not my intention.’
Hetty shot a warning glance at Jane. ‘Of course not, Mr Wyndham – I mean, Charles. You’ll have to excuse Tom, he’s a bit quick-tempered, but he’ll come round.’
‘You’ll say that once too often, Hetty,’ Jane said, turning on her heel and stamping back into the scullery.
Hetty covered her embarrassment by rearranging things on her stall and Charles wandered over to observe her efforts. ‘This looks fascinating, Miss Hetty. You must tell me all about your work. Maybe I can include it in one of my articles.’
She looked up at him and she knew she was lost. The unthinkable really had happened – she had fallen in love.
In the days that followed Hetty’s time was fully occupied with running her coffee stall and settling into the house in Princelet Street, but her thoughts turned constantly to Charles and their deepening friendship. Her life seemed to have taken on a new meaning, and nothing could mar the joy she felt when she was in his company. They were rarely alone together, and Charles never betrayed his innermost feelings, but Hetty was certain that he was not indifferent to her. She set about her daily routine with renewed hope and enthusiasm.
Nora had put the large attic room at her disposal and had given them two smaller rooms on the floor below. Jane and Natalia took the larger of the two, and Hetty, for the first time in her life, had a room all to herself. It was simply furnished with a cast-iron bedstead, a deal washstand and a chest of drawers, but it was spotlessly clean and free from bugs. Having use of the attic enabled Hetty to store greater quantities of tea, coffee, sugar and flour. With her eye on a second stall, she picked up oddments of china and cutlery in the market, and stored them in a tea chest under the eaves.
As the weeks went by, although she was careful to keep her expenditure down to the minimum, she added her own personal touches to her room with a patchwork coverlet and a multicoloured rag rug purchased from Petticoat Lane market. Her window overlooked Princelet Street, and, when she had time, she loved to look down on the bustling, polyglot crowds as they went about their daily business. At night, when the lamplighter had done his rounds, a totally different class of person sidled out of the shadows to be caught momentarily in the pools of yellow gaslight. Opium addicts sought oblivion in foul-smelling dens hidden away in narrow alleys and courts, and prostitutes still traded their favours, despite the lurking threat of the Ripper. Early in December, Rose Mylett’s body had been found in Clarke’s Yard and now neither Hetty nor Jane ever ventured out alone at night. They knew that they were safe enough in Nora’s house, but in the hours of darkness this part of London belonged to the denizens of the criminal underworld.
Nora seemed to enjoy having young people living with her, and she taught Jane the rudiments of cooking. A surprisingly apt pupil, Jane showed unexpected enthusiasm for leaning the new skill. Hetty thought privately that this was largely because the gentlemen lodgers, who took meals in their rooms, were always very generous in their compliments when Jane managed to produce a roast that was not burnt beyond recognition, or a pie that did not require the use of an axe to break through its crust.
Nora allowed Hetty unlimited use of the kitchen, and it was a relief to be able to boil eggs and ham without anyone complaining about the smell. The black-leaded range was enormous compared to the small hob in Granny’s parlour, and Hetty managed to persuade Jane to try her hand at baking currant cake for the stall. Her first efforts were a complete disaster and even the sparrows and pigeons could not dig their beaks into the brick-hard end product, but Jane persevered, with much encouragement from Charles, who took to sitting at the kitchen table to write up his notes in the evenings, watching them while they worked.
Natalia had taken an instant liking to him, and he would dandle her on his knee or rock her to sleep in her cradle while he edited his copious output. Hetty grew to love this part of the day, when she escaped from the hurly-burly of the marketplace to the relative peace and quiet of the old house. She and Jane worked in more or less perfect harmony, apart from the odd sisterly skirmish when things went wrong. In the glow of paraffin lamps which cast smoky shadows on the kitchen walls, and with Charles scribbling away at the table, Hetty felt almost absurdly content. Her coffee stall was prospering. If trade improved still further she would soon have saved enough money to rent a permanent stall in the market place, and this would enable her to find another pitch for her barrow. She would not stop there, since she intended to expand further and eventually to rent premises in a better location and open up her own coffee shop.
When work was done for the day, she would sit and discuss the seemingly endless possibilities with Charles, who was as enthusiastic about her prospects as if he were actively involved in her business. Even though he had never spoken to her of romance, she was convinced that he returned her love. Whether it was a shared moment of laughter, a meeting of eyes or the touch of a hand, she sensed that his feelings for her were growing deeper with every passing day. She knew that George suspected that she harboured a passion for Charles, and he often teased her mercilessly but without any hint of jealousy. Hetty was secure in the knowledge that she and George were the best of friends, with no shadow of physical desire to complicate matters.
Tom still called in to see them at least twice a week and sometimes more, if he was not doing overtime at the gasworks. Friendly relations were restored although Hetty realised that things would never be quite the same between them. It seemed that the silken thread which had bound them since childhood had been stretched to breaking point. She knew now that she had never felt anything other than sisterly affection for Tom. She had given her heart to Charles and if she could not have him, then she wanted no other. One day, in the foreseeable future, Charles would have to return to America, but somehow she managed to push that inescapable fact to the back of her mind. She lived in the here and now. The future was a distant place, and Hetty lived for the moment, savouring every minute she spent with Charles.
The months flew by, but in her blissful state of newly-found love Hetty barely noticed the passing of the seasons. Suddenly it was summer and the weather grew hot and humid with flies tormenting the working horses and pedestrians alike. The stench of putrefaction hung heavy in the still air, but Hetty was still living in paradise. She sang as she worked on her stall, and she was oblivious to the pain of sore feet or the burns on her fingers. Clench was a dim and distant memory and she knew she was safe in the market with George and the other costermongers watching over her like guard dogs. George had started walking out with Poppy, a girl who sold jellied eels, winkles and cockles. She was pretty, in a flamboyant way, but rather loud and vulgar. Her laugh was like the cackle of a goose, and she did not seem to know the meaning of the word modesty, but she kept George happy, or so it seemed.
Charles was still gathering material for his newspaper, although Hetty wondered sometimes at the generosity of his editor, who allowed him to stay on in London when danger from the Ripper appeared to be a thing of the past. Then, on 17 July, another body of a young woman was found in Castle Alley, Whitechapel, and it appeared that the Ripper was up to his old tricks again. Hetty was terribly sorry for Alice McKenzie, or Clay Pipe Alice as the victim was commonly known, but she was secretly overjoyed that another Whitechapel murder would make it necessary for Charles to extend his stay.
The following Sunday, Hetty was packing up a picnic luncheon to take to Victoria Park when Charles came into the kitchen. He was not normally an early riser and she stared at him in surprise.
‘Hetty.’ He paused in the
doorway, clutching a straw boater in his hand and looking unusually serious. ‘May I ask you something?’
She smiled as she wrapped up a parcel of ham sandwiches. ‘Of course, Charles. What is it?’
‘I know you and Jane take the children to Victoria Park every Sunday, but do you think you could make an exception just this once?’
Her heart made a strange movement inside her chest, as if it had flipped over and then stood still for a moment. Hetty was suddenly breathless. ‘I might,’ she said cautiously. ‘What is it, Charles? Is there anything wrong?’
‘I thought we might take an omnibus to Hyde Park and go for a stroll by the Serpentine. I believe it will be much cooler there, by the water . . .’ He broke off, seeming to struggle for words.
A shaft of fear stabbed through Hetty’s whole body and her hands were shaking as she automatically packed the sandwiches in her wicker basket. ‘There’s something wrong, I can tell. You don’t have to take me all the way to Hyde Park to tell me that you’re leaving.’ The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them, and when he did not correct her, her knees gave way beneath her and she sank down on the nearest chair. She had known that this moment would come, but not like this. She closed her eyes, gripping her hands to her breast. ‘Say something, Charles.’
He strode across the room to grasp both her hands in his. ‘Hetty, you’re right in a way. I wanted to take you somewhere pleasant to break the news, but it isn’t quite like that.’
She raised her eyes to his face and her lips trembled. She would not cry. She must not cry. He had never promised her anything or even spoken words of love. ‘What is it? Please tell me.’
He drew her to her feet, clasping her hands to his chest, and when she looked into his eyes she saw only a mirror image of herself. His lips were curved into a tender smile. ‘I wanted you to sit on the grass beneath the trees, with birds singing overhead and the sunlight playing on your hair. I wanted to get you away from this stinking, crime-ridden part of London to a place where decent folks take their leisure. This isn’t the proper setting for a girl like you, Hetty. I’ve wanted to tell you that for months – ever since I first set eyes on you, in fact.’
‘I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Charles. Has your editor called you back to Philadelphia? Are you leaving me?’
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them softly, first one and then the other. He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘You must know how I feel about you, Hetty. But it’s complicated. I . . .’ He released his grip and turned away, running his hand through his hair in a gesture of desperation. ‘I can’t talk to you here. Come with me now. Let me explain things in my own good time, in a better place than this.’ He turned back to her, holding out his hand. ‘Will you trust me this once, Hetty? Please?’
There was a slight relief from the blistering heat as they strolled by the Serpentine. A hint of a breeze ruffled the glassy surface of the lake, and the air smelt clean and fresh. The grass was baked brown by long days of uninterrupted sunshine, but there was a blissful absence of the flies and wasps that plagued the East End. The heady scent from the rose garden was so delicious that Hetty could taste the perfume. She pushed all thoughts of home and family to the back of her mind, hoping that Jane would find the hastily scribbled note of apology she had left on the kitchen table, and that the boys would not be too disappointed at missing their outing to Victoria Park. It was sheer heaven to be alone with Charles in this part of London, which was as unfamiliar to her as a foreign country, and Hetty was determined to make the most of every single minute.
She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, gazing in awe at the middle-class merchants, bank clerks and lawyers strolling with their families, all of them done up to the nines in their Sunday best. Then there were the toffee-nosed upper-class gentlemen, impeccably suited in black with silky top hats on their heads, escorting their ladies who wore gowns straight out of the pages of fashion magazines, and such hats – hats to die for, Hetty thought, sighing enviously. Even Granny would be impressed by those creations of flowers, fruit, feathers and even a dead bird or two. Hetty knew that her simple muslin gown, bought in a dolly shop near Farringdon Station, was not in the latest mode, but her straw bonnet was one of Granny’s finest, even if it did pale into insignificance compared to those worn by the rich women. Glancing rather shyly up at Charles, she saw nothing but admiration in his smile and her heart swelled with happiness. Charles was a gentleman, even if he was an American, and he didn’t seem to think she looked too bad. ‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Charles?’
He guided her to a bench in the shade of a London plane tree. ‘Let’s sit for a while, Hetty. This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’m afraid I have a confession to make.’
She sank down onto the hard wooden bench, shivering in spite of the heat. ‘You’re – married?’
He threw back his head and laughed, sending a host of sparrows twittering up into the leafy branches. ‘No, honey. That’s not the problem.’
Honey! Hetty savoured the word as if she were tasting the real thing. Charles had never used any term of endearment before; she wanted him to repeat it again and again. ‘What is it then?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Please tell me.’
He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. ‘For a start, Hetty, I’ve misled all of you, including Nora. I’m not a reporter. At least, I did come to London to write about the Ripper, and it’s true that I sent some of the facts to a newspaper in Philadelphia, although I have no idea if they were accepted.’ He paused, staring down at their entwined fingers. ‘Hell, this is hard to explain. You’ll think I’m a real mountebank.’
‘I won’t,’ Hetty said earnestly. ‘For one thing I don’t know what that is.’
He looked up, a ready laugh springing to his lips. ‘That’s one thing I love about you, Hetty. You are so honest. You never pretend to be what you are not.’
‘I know, I’m a common girl and you are a gent. There’s no getting away from it.’
‘Don’t ever say that.’ He raised her hand to his lips, kissing each of her fingers in turn. ‘You are a wonderful girl, and I love you just as you are.’
Her breath hitched in her throat and she gazed into his eyes, trying to decide whether or not he was teasing her. ‘Y-you love me?’
‘From the first moment I saw you, Hetty. That’s what makes this so hard for me to do. You see, honey, I’ve been living a lie all these months. I’m not a journalist but I am a writer, or maybe I should say an aspiring one. I have been writing about the Ripper, that is true, and I’ve been following up the idea that he might be an American quack doctor named Francis J. Tumblety.’
‘I still don’t understand. You’re writing about the Ripper, so I don’t see the difference.’ Hetty felt a shiver run down her spine. Charles was not laughing now, in fact he looked deadly serious and she knew that there was worse to come.
‘I’m not a published author, honey. I’m the no-good son of a wealthy Philadelphia banker. My father sends me an allowance every month, hoping that I will “find myself” as he calls it while I am here in London. He sent me to the best schools and on to Harvard, where I failed to shine at anything except having a good time. Now he’s grown impatient with me and he’s threatened to cut off my allowance unless I return home straight away and take a job in his bank.’
‘Oh, Charles. How dreadful! Couldn’t you explain that you really are working hard on your book? You might get it published after all.’
‘Honey, I’ve just got pages and pages of scribbled notes. I’ve no more idea of putting a story together than I have of flying. I’ve just been procrastinating all this time, pretending to work so that I could stay close to you. There never will be a book by Charles James Wyndham the third: he’s a phoney and a fraud.’
Hetty snatched her hand free and she jumped to her feet. ‘I don’t care about any of that, Charles. I love you with all my heart. I wouldn’t care if you was a costermonger or a chimney s
weep, I’d still think you was the best of men and the most dear to me.’
‘Oh, my darling girl.’ Charles rose to his feet, taking her in his arms in one fluid movement.
His kiss robbed her of what little breath was left in her body, and she slid her arms around his neck, responding with all the emotion that she had suppressed for so many months. When they finally drew apart she laid her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of the man she adored. ‘Don’t leave me, Charles. Don’t go back to America.’
Her bonnet had fallen off and her hair had tumbled free of its pins during their passionate embrace. Charles smoothed it back from her forehead, smiling tenderly. ‘This is why I couldn’t break the news to you in Princelet Street, honey. I had to get you away from there, if only for an hour or two. I have to return to Philadelphia, and I can’t put it off any longer. I wasn’t raised to earn a living. I wouldn’t know where to begin, let alone how to keep a wife and family.’
Hetty drew away from him as anger replaced despair. ‘I ain’t asking you to keep me, Charles. I never thought of marriage, not to a toff like you.’
‘And I never thought of anything else, my darling. I’m going home, but only in order to do what my father has wanted me to do all along. I’ll take a junior position in his bank, and I’ll work my way up as quickly as the devil knows how, so that I can send for you. Will you wait for me, Hetty? Will you promise to come to me when I am able to do the honourable thing and ask you to be my wife?’
‘I will,’ Hetty breathed. ‘I’ll swim across the ocean if I have to.’
Charles brushed her lips with a tender kiss. ‘I guess that won’t be necessary, sugar. I think we can scrape the fare together – first class, of course.’
‘Now you’re teasing me.’
‘No, my darling, I’ve never been more serious in my life. Will you trust me, Hetty? I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to make myself worthy of you.’
