The Beggar Maid

by Dilly Court

  ‘I’m really glad for you, Daniel.’ Charity managed a smile but inwardly she was crying. He had been her one true friend and now he was going away. He would become immersed in his new life and forget all about her. She would have no excuse to visit Doughty Street, and Wilmot would have no need for her now that her contribution to his studies was complete. She felt more alone than she had since her grandfather’s sudden death.

  ‘Are you all right, Charity?’ Daniel grasped her by the hand. ‘You’re shivering. I hope you didn’t take a chill at the cemetery. The weather was foul yesterday.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ She squeezed his fingers gently. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m much tougher than I look.’

  ‘I should hope so. A puff of wind would blow you away. You must take better care of yourself.’ He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Just look at the time. I have an appointment with my tailor. He’ll have to work fast if he’s to make me a hacking jacket and a new pair of jodhpurs before I leave. I’ve no idea what one wears for such work.’ He headed for the doorway. ‘I’ll see you before I go, of course. You must come to dinner in Doughty Street. I’ll ask Mrs Bragg to make something special.’ He opened the door and stepped outside. A gust of ice-cold wind rushed in like a customer who had arrived at closing time desperate to make a purchase. It rustled the leaves of books and lifted a pile of leaflets off the counter, scattering them on the floor. The door closed again leaving a chill in the air and silence.

  Charity stooped to pick up the papers but as she stacked them tidily on the counter the full realisation of her situation hit her. The book-filled shelves seemed to close in on her, each edition thrusting itself forward and demanding to be sold. The shop and all the stock were now her responsibility, and its success or failure depended upon her efforts and hers alone. She picked up a cloth and dusted the books one at a time, wiping the spines and the covers, giving them a gentle shake to dislodge the city smuts and grit that blew in from the street. She worked patiently and lovingly, treating each volume with the same amount of care. They were precious objects and their pages were filled with knowledge. She loved each and every one of them and the simple repetition of a mundane task was comforting, and brought with it a sense of normality even though events seemed to have been spiralling out of her control.

  Business was slack that morning. Perhaps it was the weather that was putting people off venturing out, or maybe it was the fact that Christmas was only a few short weeks away and people were saving their money in order to buy gifts and food for the feast day. Outside the rain had turned to sleet and when Charity looked out of the window she could see ominous fat-bellied clouds hovering above the workhouse, heavy with the promise of snow. Her stomach rumbled and she realised that she had not eaten that day.

  She had so far avoided spending much time in the kitchen where the memory of finding Jethro’s inert body was still fresh in her mind. She had slept under the counter that night and would probably continue to do so as the thought of lying on Jethro’s bed made her feel sick. She had had to brace herself to enter the room that morning in order to make up the fire and boil a kettle, and at midday she made her way outside not daring to look to her right. She had seen Jethro laid to rest in the cold dark earth, but some primitive instinct made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she scuttled past the bed where he had endured so much pain and suffering. She covered her head with her shawl and made her way to the privy, treading carefully to avoid the puddles that were skimmed with a thin layer of ice. When she stepped outside again it had started sleeting and she hurried across the yard with her head down, and almost collided with Violet who had just emptied a bucket of rubbish into the communal dustbin.

  ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ Violet demanded, shielding her eyes against the sleety rain. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s Jethro,’ Charity murmured, glancing nervously over her shoulder. ‘It’s as if he’s still there. I can’t get him out of my head.’

  Violet clutched her ragged shawl around her, shivering. ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’

  ‘I’ve been in the shop all morning, and all last night for that matter.’

  ‘You got to eat, even if it’s just a crust of bread. Anyway, you’re in charge now. You’ve got the old geezer’s money. You can do what you like.’ She took Charity by the arm. ‘Come inside. I ain’t afraid of ghosts and you shouldn’t be either. You did what you could for him and he might have been a mean old miser but he was no fool. He knew when he was well off.’

  Somewhat reluctantly Charity allowed Violet to have her way. ‘There,’ Violet said triumphantly as they stood in the kitchen. ‘It’s just the same as it ever was.’

  ‘But I can still see him in his bed, Vi. I can’t bear to look at it, let alone sleep in it.’

  Standing arms akimbo, Violet stared at her aghast. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you’re still sleeping under that blooming counter in a freezing cold shop?’

  ‘I can’t face the thought of sleeping in his bed.’

  Violet strode across the floor and began ripping the bedding off and tossing it onto the floor. ‘This will fetch a couple of bob in the pawnshop, and it’s a perfectly good bed. I wish I had such a one. I sleep on the floor top to toe with Emmie, Gertie and Flossie.’

  ‘You can have it,’ Charity said recklessly. ‘Get someone to take it upstairs and it’s yours. I can’t bear to look at it.’

  Violet pummelled the mattress. ‘Lucky I ain’t as squeamish as you, love. This is luxury compared to a couple of bags of straw nicked from the brewery stables. I’ll get me dad to heft it upstairs.’

  ‘Must you?’ Charity struggled to find a way to refuse without hurting Violet’s feelings. ‘I mean, you know how he is, Vi. Is there someone else who could do it?’

  Violet stared at the bed, frowning. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I know. I’ll get Maisie and her ma to help me with the mattress. Mrs Spinks spends all day lifting heavy pans in the workhouse kitchen and she’s got muscles like a bare knuckle fighter; she’ll do anything if the price is right.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘She drinks. She thinks no one knows but I seen all the empty gin bottles left out for the dustcart. Anyway, you’ve got an excuse to visit the second-hand furniture shop in Leather Lane and buy yourself a new bed.’

  Charity blinked hard, staring at Violet and seeing a different person from the scatterbrain who crept out at night to meet her latest beau. ‘I haven’t slept in a proper bed since I was a nipper,’ she said slowly. ‘Grandpa and I dossed down anywhere we could lay our heads, and I’ve slept under the counter for so long it seems natural.’

  ‘You’re a shopkeeper now, Miss Crosse. I suggest you put the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea.’ Violet gazed round at the empty shelves. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any food in, would you? I gave the last slice of bread to young Flossie, and we’re broke until Pa brings his wages home tonight. That’s if there’s any left after he’s been to the pub.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I wasn’t hungry yesterday, but I can make a pot of tea. Jethro always had to have his tea, strong and sweet with a dash of milk.’ Suddenly she was crying and she could not stop.

  Violet took her by the shoulders and propelled her to the chair, pressing her down on the seat. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and if you’ll give me a few coppers I’ll go out and get us something to eat. You’ll feel better with a full belly.’

  Half an hour later, having eaten a hot meat pie and drunk several cups of sweet tea, Charity was beginning to feel better and Violet was triumphant. ‘You’ve got a bit of colour in your cheeks now, girl. You’ve got to look after yourself or you’ll fall sick.’ She licked each finger in turn. ‘That was a bloody good pie and it was a treat. I’d have had to share mine with the kids if I’d been at home.’ She rose from the bed where she had perched while they shared the meal. ‘I should feel guilty for eating like a queen and leav
ing them upstairs with bread and scrape, but I don’t. I go without often enough so that the little ’uns can eat.’ She bent down to pick up the soiled sheets. ‘Can I have these too? I’ll take them to the laundry when Ma does her monthly wash and they’ll come up like new.’

  ‘Take them,’ Charity said with a wave of her hand. ‘And the rest of the bedding. I’ll sort something out for myself, but I’ll have to wait until I can close the shop before I go out.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Violet said firmly. ‘I know you, Charity. If I leave now you’ll get your head stuck in a book and end up sleeping under the counter again. I’ll watch the store for an hour or so. I left Emmie in charge and she’ll come and get me if the kids play up or do something stupid. Go and get what you need, afore I change my mind.’

  The bed was delivered by two strong youths who carried it through the shop leaving a trail of melting snow in their wake. Charity took the opportunity to offer them an extra large tip if they took Jethro’s bed and mattress up to the second floor, and they obliged willingly enough when she handed over the money. She suspected that she had been overgenerous but at least it saved her from having nosey Mrs Spinks poking around the kitchen, or even worse having Bert Chapman using it as an excuse to leer at her and make suggestive remarks. He seemed to have forgotten their previous encounter but she had not, and she did her best to keep out of his way.

  The brass bedstead, bought in the second-hand furniture shop together with a flock-filled mattress and feather pillow, looked strangely out of place in its new surroundings. Charity had thought long and hard before spending money on sheets and a pillowcase in the pawnshop, but she had eased her conscience by resisting the temptation to purchase a colourful patchwork coverlet. She made up the bed and fetched the old horse blanket from beneath the counter. The smell of the stables still lingered in the coarse fabric, but that was preferable to the stench of the sickroom.

  That night she settled down in unaccustomed luxury. Outside the snow was falling steadily and a pale grey light filtered through the window, but the fire in the range radiated heat and, for the first time since she had moved into the shop, Charity was warm and comfortable. She had eaten the scrap of meat pie she had saved from her midday meal, washed down with a cup of cocoa. Her belly was full and she was able to stretch out her limbs without cracking her shins on the wooden counter. She slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  She awoke early next morning filled with energy and the determination to make the most of her unexpected inheritance, but even as she entered the shop she realised that she must do something to attract custom. It was dark and dingy and the brightness of the snow-covered street made even more of a contrast. It was hardly welcoming and they were not in a prime selling position. The Holborn Union Workhouse opposite and Reid’s Brewery next door did nothing to encourage passing trade, and it was possible to walk past Dawkins’ bookshop without noticing it was there. She went to the window and took down the black drapes. Jethro was gone and he wanted her to carry on his work. If she was to attract business she must make the premises look more inviting.

  It was still early and she put on her bonnet and shawl, picked up a rush basket and braved the cold. The snow was crisp beneath her feet but the pristine covering on the road surface had been churned up by cart wheels and horses’ hooves. Soon the pavements would be a slushy mess, but for the moment the world looked clean and beautiful. She made her way to the nearest street market and filled her basket with rosy-cheeked apples, a handful of wrinkly walnuts and two bunches of holly. The stallholder tried to sell her some mistletoe, holding a sprig over her head and planting a kiss on her cheek, but although it made her laugh she declined his offer.

  The heady aroma of hot coffee led her to a stall close to the entrance and she treated herself to a drink and a currant bun, which she ate hungrily. The cold air and exercise had given her an appetite and the hot coffee was just what she needed. On the way home she bought a loaf of bread, a pat of butter and a thick wedge of cheese, but she had spent far more than she intended and she knew that she would have to be extra careful from now on. The rent man called on the last Friday of the month and that was in two days’ time. She hurried back to the shop with her purchases, and before she had even taken off her bonnet and shawl she sat down to count her money. She was shocked to realise just how much she had spent, but she had just enough left to keep the rent collector happy. There was little enough for necessities, but she was used to being frugal, and she hoped that her idea of a cheerful window display would entice new customers into the shop.

  She opened up on time and spent the morning decorating the window with bunches of holly interspersed with small pyramids of fruit and nuts. She decided to put children’s books in the most prominent position, starting with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. She added the Adventures of Tom Sawyer and a copy of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She had found several volumes of Grimms’ Fairy Tales on one of the back shelves and slipped these in behind a leather-bound edition of Treasure Island. That, she thought, as she stood on the snowy pavement surveying her work, should give well-off parents something to think about when they chose a Christmas present for their sons and daughters.

  But sadly the well-off parents did not seem to frequent Liquorpond Street, and if they did travel that way it was probably in a hansom cab or a hackney carriage. Charity sold two children’s books that week. The first was to the workhouse master, who bought a copy of Treasure Island for his son, and the second was to the brewmaster at Reid’s Brewery who purchased Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for his youngest daughter. By the time Friday came Charity had been forced to eat the fruit and nuts or starve. The holly berries had shrivelled and fallen off leaving the window display sadly denuded, but she had just enough money to pay the rent.

  She sat shivering behind the counter with the exact sum in the cash box, and she was not in the happiest of moods. Daniel had rushed in to say goodbye, apologising profusely for having neglected her all week and the fact that he had not arranged the celebration dinner. He had been busy getting things together and had had to finish his thesis in record time or he would have been in trouble with his tutor. Wilmot had sent his regards, which Charity took as meaning that she had served her purpose, and since she had refused his offer to take her under his wing he had lost interest, and she was of no further use to him.

  Daniel had hugged her, promising to write and to return as soon as he had some spare time. When she had asked him if he would be in London for Christmas he had admitted that he would be spending it with his family in Devon. ‘I’d ask you to join us, Charity, but my parents are a bit old-fashioned. They wouldn’t approve of me inviting a young, attractive, unattached female to stay. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Charity had understood only too well. She was not the sort of girl that Daniel’s mother and father would wish their only son to associate with. She had tried to appear unconcerned and cheerful, but she had wept a few tears after he left, and now she was waiting for Seth Woods, the rent collector. She had disliked him at their first meeting and liked him even less now. Jethro had always dealt with him in the past, but now it was her responsibility. She looked up with a start as the door opened and Woods strolled in. He looks as though he owns the place, Charity thought dismally. He thinks I won’t be able to pay, but I can. She forced her lips into a smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Woods. I have the rent ready for you.’

  He marched up to the counter, his boots leaving wet footprints on the scrubbed floorboards. He glanced round at the full shelves with raised eyebrows. ‘Trade is good, is it, miss?’

  ‘Good enough to pay the bills, Mr Woods.’ She opened the cash box and counted out the coins. ‘The exact amount, I think.’

  He took them one by one, counting them as they dropped into a leather pouch. ‘That’s correct for this month, but it’s going up by five shillings at the end of December.’

  ‘Five shillings?’ Charity stared at h
im aghast. ‘That’s a huge jump, Mr Woods.’

  ‘It’s in line with all the other properties round here, miss. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you so. If you can’t pay, my employer will have to send the bailiffs in and seize goods to that value, as I’m sure you are aware.’

  ‘But it’s the middle of winter, sir. Trade will be slack after Christmas. Surely the landlord will allow me a month’s grace if I can’t raise the exact amount?’

  He smiled, revealing two missing front teeth and two rows of rotting stumps. ‘Not a chance, girl. Pay up on the dot or face the bailiffs.’ He leaned closer and she recoiled at the smell of his breath. ‘You might have thought you was well off when Jethro left the shop to you. Well, I’m telling you that he was having a laugh at your expense. The old codger knew that you wouldn’t be able to make a go of it. You’ll be out on your ear before you know it, and even if you do scrape up the money, you won’t be able to afford to renew the lease.’ He tightened the strings on the pouch and headed for the doorway. He paused, looking over his shoulder. ‘The landlord has had an offer for all the buildings in the block. This time next year you’ll all be out on the streets anyway.’

  Chapter Eight

  CHARITY COULD HAVE gone to Wilmot for help, but her pride would not allow her to beg for money from a man she had once thought of as a friend. She had not heard from him since Daniel’s departure, and now it seemed obvious that Wilmot had only wanted her while she was of some use to him. Dr Marchant’s warning words had made her suspect the motive behind Wilmot’s seemingly generous offer to pay for her university education, and had she accepted she would have been forever in his debt. Business might be slow, but at least she had her pride. Not that it was much comfort when she went to bed hungry every night and could not afford to buy coal or candles. Trade had not picked up as she had hoped, and the students on whom they depended so much would not return until the start of the spring term.