by Dilly Court
‘It won’t take a moment, sir.’
‘Very well. Make it quick.’
‘Mr Barton has a book on order. I wondered if I might deliver it myself?’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Jethro eyed her suspiciously.
‘Because he’s interested in me as a subject for one of his lectures.’
‘I never heard it called that before,’ Jethro said, curling his lip. ‘I’ll send it by messenger as usual. You keep away from men like him.’
‘It would be quite proper,’ Charity protested. ‘His nephew would be there and his housekeeper. I’ve been invited to have tea with them.’
‘I’m not paying you to socialise. You work here on my terms and if you don’t like it you know what you can do.’ He bent his head over the columns of figures, dismissing her with an impatient wave of his hand. Charity realised that it was futile to argue when he was in this sort of mood and she retreated to the shop and immersed herself in the travels of Miss Amelia Edwards.
The order arrived from the warehouse two days later but Jethro was adamant, insisting that Charity remain in the shop and that a messenger be sent to Doughty Street. She wrote a brief note explaining why she had not come in person and slipped it inside the cover, hoping that Mr Barton would understand. She handed it to the messenger with a feeling of acute disappointment. Her chance to visit another world, quite different from her own, had slipped from her grasp.
‘There is something you can do for me.’
She turned with a start to see Jethro standing behind her with a book clutched in his hand. He thrust it at her with an attempt at a smile which only served to emphasise the paralysis of one side of his face. ‘Dr Marchant’s order,’ he muttered. ‘It needs to go to Old Fish Street today. You must take it.’
‘Me? But I thought I wasn’t allowed to leave the shop.’
‘You are if I say so.’
‘I don’t understand why it’s all right for me to go all that way when you wouldn’t let me make the short trip to Doughty Street.’
‘I don’t pay you to think – I pay you to do as you’re told. Dr Marchant is a friend as well as a valued client, so put your bonnet on and take this to him now. I expect you back before closing time and I don’t want any excuses.’
‘Of course I’ll go, but it would be quicker if I had the cab fare.’
‘I’m not made of money. Selling books pays your wages. If you want to go by cab you can pay for it yourself.’ He thumped the book down on the counter and turned his back on her. ‘Go now, before I change my mind.’
Charity hooked her bonnet off its peg and picked up the book. She left the shop and started off on the long walk to the doctor’s house. The sky was overcast when she set out, and the atmosphere humid. In the distance she could hear the rumble of thunder which rolled closer as she neared the river. She quickened her pace, hoping to get to Old Fish Street before the rain clouds broke and soaked her to the skin, but large drops began to fall as she reached St Paul’s and the air was thick with a sulphurous glow. A sudden gust of wind tore at her bonnet and careered down the street like a runaway horse. The city skyline was illuminated by a sudden sheet of lightning followed by a resounding crash of thunder. She started to run, making her way across the busy street and narrowly escaped being run down by a startled horse which reared in the shafts of a hansom cab.
Blinded by the sudden downpour, she sought shelter beneath the colonnaded portico of St Paul’s Cathedral. She took off her straw bonnet which was soaked and ruined. The colours in her cotton print frock had run, and trickles of blood-red dye stained her wrists and hands. Even worse, the brown paper wrapped around the doctor’s book was soaked with rainwater. She peeled it off, uttering a heartfelt sight of relief when she saw that the leather binding was damp but undamaged. She huddled up, wrapping her arms around her knees and shivering despite the muggy heat. There was nothing she could do other than sit and wait for the storm to pass.
Mrs Rose opened the front door. ‘Well,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You look a sorry sight, Charity. I thought you were well set up with Mr Dawkins, but just look at the state of you.’
‘I brought the doctor’s book,’ Charity said through chattering teeth. She was wet through, and although the sun was now shining from a peerless blue sky she was chilled to the bone.
‘Come inside.’ Mrs Rose ushered her in and closed the door. ‘You look in a worse state than you did last winter when you turned up in a snowstorm. Go through to the kitchen.’
‘I sh-should g-give the doctor his book first.’
Mrs Rose snatched it from her. ‘He’s out on a house call, but I’ll put it on his desk. Now do as I say, and don’t argue.’
The kitchen was warm and the aroma of roasting meat made Charity’s stomach rumble with hunger. ‘It’s you. You’ve come at last.’ Dorrie abandoned the task of shelling peas and flung her arms around Charity’s neck. She stepped back, pulling a face. ‘You’re soaking wet.’
‘She is indeed.’ Mrs Rose bustled into the kitchen, carrying the now familiar missionary barrel, which spilled over with garments. She dumped it on the table. ‘Take off those wet things, my girl. I’m sure we’ve got something to fit you and that dress is all but ruined.’ She fingered the wet fabric, shaking her head. ‘Cheap material and badly made. You bought this in a dolly shop, I should imagine. Well, whatever you paid for it you were robbed, Charity my girl. Now take it off and pick something from the charity box.’ A grim smile lit her normally humourless features.
Dorrie chuckled. ‘I see the joke, Mrs Rose. The box is called a charity box and Charity needs a new frock.’ She bit her lip, blushing. ‘I’m sorry, Charity. I weren’t laughing at you.’
Charity slipped off her wet clothes and selected a clean cotton shift and a grey poplin dress. ‘It’s all right, Dorrie. No offence taken.’ She dressed quickly and immediately felt more comfortable. ‘I can pay for the clothes. I’m earning a wage at the bookshop.’
Mrs Rose picked up Charity’s discarded garments and laid them over the back of a chair. ‘There’s no need. All were given freely by people who are far better off than you or I. Dorrie will wash these and put them in the box for the poor and needy. No one will be any the wiser.
‘Ta,’ Charity said doubtfully. Mrs Rose might think she was one of the poor and needy but in her own mind she had risen above that now. She was a working girl, employed in a respectable trade. ‘When do you expect Dr Marchant to return? I have to get back to the shop.’
Dorrie clutched her hand. ‘You can stay for a while, can’t you? I wants to hear all your news. You mustn’t go just yet.’
Mrs Rose opened the oven door and a gust of fragrant steam billowed out. ‘The doctor will be home for his midday meal, especially as it’s collops of lamb with mint sauce and roast potatoes, which is his favourite. You must stay and eat with us, Charity. He would be very put out to think I’d sent you away with an empty stomach.’
Charity eyed the meat and her mouth watered in anticipation. ‘I should be getting back, but I have to collect payment. Mr Dawkins made that very clear.’
‘Then you’ll stay and eat with us.’ Mrs Rose closed the oven door. ‘Have you finished shelling the peas, Dorrie? I’ll need to get them on soon, so hurry up you stupid child.’
‘I’ll help.’ Charity took a seat at the table.
‘I think I heard the doctor’s key in the lock.’ Mrs Rose hurried from the room leaving Charity and Dorrie to finish their task.
‘How are you?’ Charity asked in a whisper. ‘She’s not working you too hard, is she?’
Dorrie’s bottom lip trembled. ‘I shouldn’t complain. I got a bed and a full belly. What more could a workhouse girl expect?’
It was mid-afternoon when Charity left the doctor’s house. She had eaten well and enjoyed every last morsel of Mrs Rose’s excellent cooking. Dr Marchant had been pleased to see her and had questioned her at length about her situation at the bookshop. She had found herself tellin
g him about Wilmot Barton’s interest in her background and his offer to pay her for helping him with his research.
‘It’s not uncommon,’ he had said at length. ‘There are men with conscience who wish to make the lives of ordinary working people better, and for that they have to understand the way they live. I don’t know Barton, but if he’s a professor at University College, then I imagine he is a respectable fellow with your best interests at heart.’
‘So you think I ought to accept his offer?’
‘It would be worth further investigation. I think Dawkins is afraid of losing you, and that is why he was so adamant in his refusal to allow you to accept Barton’s invitation.’
‘But I can’t go against him, Dr Marchant. I’d lose everything and be out on the street.’
‘I might be able to persuade him. Next time I visit the shop I’ll have a word.’ Dr Marchant had then placed two silver crowns on the table. ‘That is what I owe Jethro. Take it to him now and tell him I’ll be back very soon. Books are my one weakness, as you will realise.’
Charity quickened her pace, and the coins in her pocket clinked together, keeping time with her long strides. She hoped that the doctor would remember his promise to speak to Mr Dawkins and persuade him to change his mind. It was not simply the thought of earning sixpence an hour that made Wilmot Barton’s offer so attractive, it was the opportunity to further her education. Working all day with books crammed with information had excited her imagination and made her even more eager to learn. She had been born into a middle-class family and her father had been an educated man: it was misfortune and the frailty of her grandfather that had dragged her down to the gutter. Now she was clawing her way up and she was determined to better herself and regain her rightful situation in life. Education was the way out of an existence dominated by toil and servitude, and who better to help her than a university professor?
She walked on with her head down as she grappled with the problems that beset her. She realised that compared to young Dorrie she had an easy life, despite the restrictions placed upon her by Jethro Dawkins. Maybe sleeping beneath the counter was not ideal, but it was better than bedding down in a damp cellar or under the railway arches. She was about to cross Verulam Street when a gang of ragged boys appeared seemingly out of nowhere and surrounded her. ‘She works for the hunchback.’ The biggest of the youths, who seemed to be the leader of the gang, picked up a stone and threw it, narrowly missing Charity’s head.
‘Stop that,’ she said angrily. ‘Go away and leave me alone.’
‘Give us your money.’ He advanced on her with fists clenched and a menacing look on his face. ‘Give us your purse and you won’t get hurt.’
‘Go away. I’ve got nothing.’
‘Then what’s that clanking sound every time you take a step?’ He grabbed her by the arm, and the rest of the pack surrounded her, chanting abuse.
‘Let go of me, you young villain.’ She struggled in vain, calling for help, until a blow on the head sent her spiralling into a pit of darkness.
Chapter Five
‘CHARITY.’
She could hear her name being repeated over and over again. They don’t know who I am, she thought dazedly. She opened her eyes. ‘What happened?’ She blinked and found herself gazing up into Daniel Barton’s anxious face.
He helped her to a sitting position. ‘You were attacked by a gang of street arabs. Are you all right?’
She struggled to her feet. ‘Yes, I think so. I must have fainted.’
‘Have they taken anything?’
She put her hand in her pocket. ‘The money is gone. Mr Dawkins will go mad when he finds out. He’ll blame me and it wasn’t my fault.’
‘You’ve had a nasty shock. I’m taking you back to Doughty Street. Uncle Wilmot’s housekeeper will look after you.’
‘No. Thank you all the same, but I’ll have to face Mr Dawkins sooner or later. I’m all right now and it’s not far to Liquorpond Street.’
‘I’m coming with you. Old Dawkins won’t make too much of a fuss if I’m there.’ Daniel tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Lean on me. You look a bit groggy.’
Charity could see that it was useless to argue. Despite her brave words, she felt shaky and was glad of his supporting arm as they made their way slowly towards the shop.
Jethro was perched on the high stool behind the counter, and his expression was that of a malevolent goblin. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded. ‘It’s nearly closing time and you’ve been gone for hours.’ He glared at Daniel. ‘Why are you here?’
Charity took a deep breath. ‘I was robbed, Mr Dawkins. I was set upon by a gang of hooligans and they took your money. Daniel just happened to be passing.’
‘And it’s lucky that I was close by,’ Daniel said without giving Jethro a chance to speak. ‘I was on my way here as a matter of fact, Mr Dawkins. My uncle asked me to find out if Charity had considered his request, and I saw the youths attacking a young woman. I chased them off and then I realised it was Charity who was lying on the pavement. Luckily she wasn’t hurt.’
‘I’ve lost a lot of money, thanks to her incompetence.’ Jethro climbed down from the stool and rounded the counter in two ungainly strides. ‘You can go back to your uncle and tell him that Miss Crosse isn’t interested in his social studies. She’s got plenty to do here and I can’t spare her. I’m running a business, which is something that you academics don’t understand. You’ve done your bit so you can just sling your hook and take that message back to Mr Barton.’
‘I’m so sorry, Daniel,’ Charity said in a low voice. ‘Thank you for walking me home.’
‘I’m glad I was able to help.’ His expression hardened. ‘As to you, sir, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for treating a young girl in such a cavalier fashion. She could have been seriously hurt by those young ruffians, and all you can think of is the money you’ve lost. Had you sent Charity to Doughty Street as my uncle requested, none of this would have happened.’
Jethro’s misshapen jaw protruded at an ugly angle and he gave Daniel a shove that sent him staggering towards the door. ‘Get out and keep away from her in future. I know your sort and you’ve only got one thing on your mind when it comes to a pretty face.’
‘That’s not fair, Mr Dawkins.’ Charity stepped in between them, fearing that Daniel might retaliate, but it was Jethro who swung his fist, catching her on the side of her head and knocking her to the floor.
‘That’s what you get for insolence.’ He barred Daniel’s way as he rushed to Charity’s aid. ‘I told you to get out. Do you want me to report your behaviour to the Dean? I could blacken your name so that he would have to send you down and that would put an end to your career. You’d end up digging graves for the newly dead instead of grubbing round in the earth for ancient bones.’
Charity struggled to her feet. She staggered to the counter and leaned against it, focusing her eyes with difficulty on Daniel’s stricken face. ‘I’m all right,’ she murmured. ‘Please go. You’ll only make things worse.’
He wrenched the shop door open. ‘Get your things, Charity,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m not leaving you here with a brute like Dawkins. Only a complete coward would strike a helpless girl.’
‘I’m all right, really I am.’ Charity felt far from well, but she did not want to make the situation worse.
Jethro turned his back on Daniel. ‘Get back to work, girl. I’m hungry and I want my dinner,’
‘Don’t do it, Charity,’ Daniel said urgently. ‘Come with me. Uncle Wilmot will take you in, or at least he’ll find you another position where you’re not treated like a slave.’
Charity’s head ached and her limbs seemed to have turned to lead. Her first instinct had been to walk out of the door and go with Daniel, but experience warned her against putting her trust in impulsive pledges. Her grandfather had lived his life making promises he could not keep and she suspected that this might be the case now. Daniel meant well, of that she was sure, but he
was an impecunious student and she was by no means certain that she would be received on a permanent basis in Doughty Street. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But you’d best go now, Daniel. I can look after myself.’
He shot a look of pure loathing at Jethro. ‘I don’t want to leave you with this brute.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’ Jethro shambled towards him.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, Charity.’ Daniel stepped outside into the street. ‘I won’t rest until I know you’re all right.’
‘Good riddance.’ Jethro slammed the door and put up the Closed sign. ‘Get on with it, girl, or you’ll feel the back of my hand for a second time today.’
Charity retreated to the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Jethro had been harsh in his treatment of her but he had never lashed out with his fists as he had today. There was no one in authority to whom she could go for protection – the law would be on the side of her employer. She was a humble worker and he was entitled to chastise her as he saw fit. Men had been getting away with violence against women for centuries and there was little or nothing they could do to protect themselves. She doubted if either the doctor or Mr Barton would want to get involved. Daniel was an idealist and he was young, but she suspected that he too would realise the futility of trying to help her when he had had time to cool down. She set about preparing a meal despite her aching head and bruised body.
When she put his food in front of Jethro that evening he kept his gaze lowered as if afraid to look her in the eye. ‘You wasn’t wearing that frock when you left here this morning,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Did you spend my money on new duds and make up the story about being mugged by a street gang?’
‘I most certainly did not.’ Stung by the unfairness of this accusation, Charity forgot to be humble. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? This dress came out of the missionary barrel at the doctor’s house.’
He shot her a sideways glance. ‘And why would the doctor give you a new dress. Did you ask for less money in order to get on his good side? Have you been cheating me, miss?’
