The Beggar Maid

by Dilly Court

  ‘Is this where you live, miss?’ Dorrie looked round, wide-eyed. ‘Are these books yours?’

  Despite the seriousness of their position, Charity had to smile. ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose they are.’

  ‘You must be very rich, and very clever if you’ve read all them words.’

  Violet leaned against the counter. ‘I can’t face the family,’ she murmured. ‘I’m done for, Charity.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that, Vi. We’ll find a way.’

  ‘There’s no escaping from this.’

  ‘What’s up with her, miss?’ Dorrie peered up at Violet, her small face creased in a puzzled frown. ‘Are you sick, lady?’

  Violet uttered a derisive snort. ‘She called me lady. That’s the last thing I am.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Violet. She’s just a bit tired.’

  ‘You should tell her the truth,’ Violet said angrily. ‘It’ll be obvious to everyone soon enough.’

  ‘You’d best go home, Vi. We’ll sort this out, I promise.’ Charity lit a candle and the shop was suddenly filled with shifting shadows. She took Dorrie by the hand. ‘Come through to the kitchen. We’ll both feel better with a hot drink inside us and a bite to eat.’

  Violet followed them, dragging her feet. ‘If Pa don’t kill me he’ll throw me out, and I’ll end up on the streets.’

  ‘I won’t let that happen,’ Charity said firmly. ‘Us girls will stick together, won’t we, Dorrie?’

  ‘I hope so, miss.’

  Charity barely slept that night. Grief for the doctor’s untimely demise was compounded by worries about her inability to pay Woods the amount he had demanded. Violet’s problems also weighed heavily upon her, and without the doctor’s wisdom and advice she was at a loss to know how best to help her hapless friend. Then there was Dorrie. The child slept soundly on the floor beside Charity’s bed, curled up on a pile of sacks with the old horse blanket wrapped around her. Her wispy hair stuck up around her head like a dandelion clock, and she looked so peaceful that Charity had not the heart to wake her when she rose from her bed next morning. It was still dark and the fire had burned down so that there was barely a glimmer amongst the embers, but with the aid of a pair of bellows and a few sticks of kindling she soon had a blaze roaring up the chimney. She made a pot of tea and took her cup into the shop, sipping it while she counted the money in the cash box.

  She sighed. Taking a cab to the doctor’s house had been an extravagance, but a necessary one, and now she had Dorrie to feed as well as herself, and the poor child had only the clothes she had been wearing when Marchant threw her out. Charity suspected that Mrs Rose had dressed Dorrie from the missionary barrel, and then only when she had outgrown the garments she was wearing. Young slaveys were rarely treated generously, and were considered to be at the very bottom of the pile in the hierarchy of servants’ halls. Charity had often spoken to girls who had run away from intolerable conditions in service, only to find themselves worse off and close to starvation in the gutter. She had seen dead bodies pulled out of the Thames or huddled in doorways having died of cold and hunger during a winter’s night. Whatever happened, she was determined that neither she, Violet nor Dorrie would share that fate.

  She looked up with a start at the sound of a childish voice calling her name. Dorrie presented an odd figure, standing in the doorway, wrapped in the horse blanket with just her head showing above the coarse folds. ‘I thought you’d gone and left me,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t know where I was when I opened me eyes, and then I remembered.’

  Charity abandoned the cash box and went to comfort her. ‘This is your home now, Dorrie. I’ll look after you. That’s what the doctor would have wanted.’

  ‘I’m hungry, miss.’

  ‘Of course you are, and so am I.’ Charity gave her a quick hug. ‘There’s some tea left in the pot and bread in the crock. It’s stale but I’m sure you know how to make toast.’

  Dorrie brightened visibly. ‘I makes the best toast in London. Dr Marchant always said so.’ Her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘He was a good ’un.’

  ‘And we’ll always remember that.’ Charity swallowed a lump in her throat. She must not cry in front of the child. She had to be strong. ‘When you’ve had breakfast we’ll go out and get some food. I’ll show you where the shops are so that you can run errands. It will be lovely to have someone to help me.’

  ‘I’ll work hard for you, miss. I’m good at scrubbing floors and polishing furniture.’

  ‘We’ll do very nicely together, and you must stop calling me miss. My name is Charity.’

  ‘I dunno, it don’t seem proper.’ Dorrie plugged her thumb in her mouth, looking suddenly much younger and more vulnerable than ever.

  Charity’s heart swelled with sympathy for the unwanted orphan. She dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘It’s what I want, so you’ll just have to get used to it.’ She tempered her words with a smile. ‘Now, have your breakfast and we’ll go out before I open the shop.’

  Despite having qualms about spending yet more of the rent money on food, there was no alternative unless they were to go hungry. Charity took Dorrie to the dairy and the bakery, and on the way back they were about to walk past the second-hand clothes shop when she came to a sudden decision. Dorrie’s needs were uppermost in her mind. The thin woollen dress the child wore beneath a cotton pinafore was no protection against the bitter winter weather, and Charity hurried her into the shop. The smell of stale sweat and mothballs made her wrinkle her nose as she sorted through a pile of grubby garments, but she forced herself to sound positive. ‘What you need is a warm jacket and some mittens. You can’t run errands for me if you’re not properly dressed.’

  They emerged from the fusty interior of the shop with Dorrie warmly clad in a red woollen coat, albeit a size too large and threadbare at the elbows and cuffs, and a knitted woollen hat, which was slightly moth-eaten, but the holes were barely noticeable if it was put on with care. A pair of purple mittens completed the outfit and Dorrie beamed with pride. ‘I never been so warm,’ she declared, jumping over an icy puddle. ‘I could walk miles in the snow and not feel the cold. Thank you, miss – I mean thank you, Charity. It’s all lovely.’

  ‘You look very smart, Dorrie.’ Charity’s smile faded as they approached the bookshop. Someone was hammering on the shop door. ‘Oh, dear Lord. It’s Woods. He’s early.’ She took Dorrie by the hand. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t tell him that we’ve been shopping for clothes.’ She quickened her pace. ‘Good morning, Mr Woods. You’re up bright and early.’

  He turned to her, scowling ominously. ‘The shop should have been open by now. How do you expect to pay the rent if you don’t open up?’

  ‘I’m here now,’ Charity said, unlocking the door. ‘We had to go out to buy food. I can’t work on an empty stomach.’

  He grabbed the handle of the shopping basket and peered in. ‘Bread, milk, butter and jam. If I find out that you’ve squandered the rent money on jam I’ll be forced to tell the landlord.’

  Charity might have laughed at the ridiculousness of his accusation had it not been serious, and too close to the truth for comfort. ‘A small pot of jam is hardly an extravagance, Mr Woods. It’s all we’ll have to eat today.’

  He followed them into the shop, glowering at Dorrie, who took refuge behind Charity. ‘Who is that?’ he demanded. ‘Are you taking in waifs and strays and feeding them on jam?’

  ‘This is my little sister.’ The lie tripped off her tongue so easily that Charity almost believed it herself. ‘She’s come to stay for a couple of days.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, leaning over her so that his face was close to hers. His breath stank of stale beer, onions and tobacco smoke. ‘Where’s the rent money? Give it here now.’

  She hurried round the counter and picked up the cash box. She knew exactly how much there was in it, but she made a show of counting out the coins and feigned surprise when she found it was not enough. ‘I must have miscal
culated,’ she said airily. ‘No matter. I’m sure I can make up the difference in a day or two.’

  He slammed his hand down on the counter top. ‘You’re a liar, Miss Crosse. You knew damned well that you hadn’t got the rent. You’ve been stringing me along, you little bitch.’

  Dorrie emerged from behind Charity, fisting her small hands. ‘Don’t you talk to her like that, mister.’

  Woods raised his hand to her. ‘Come near me and I’ll knock your block off, kid.’

  ‘There’s no need to speak to her like that.’ Charity moved swiftly, placing herself in between them. ‘If the rent is a bit short I just need a little more time. Trade is good and will get better when the new term begins at the university.’

  Woods straightened up, pocketing the money. ‘No one can say I’m not a reasonable man. Sunday is New Year’s Day and so I’ll give you a few days’ grace before I send in the bailiffs. You have until Monday to find the full rent, plus ten per cent interest to cover the extra paperwork and inconvenience.’

  ‘But that’s outrageous,’ Charity said angrily. ‘You know it’s impossible.’

  His thin lips curved into a lupine snarl. ‘I’ll be back on Monday morning with the bailiffs, so you’d better be ready to move out.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Charity protested. ‘You know very well that I can’t hope to raise that sort of money in two days.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you, Miss Crosse.’ Woods uttered a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘I hear the railway arches are very cosy at this time of year.’ He marched out of the shop, leaving a trail of body odour in his wake.

  Charity stared after him, speechless and too shocked to move. She had been prepared for his wrath, and had expected the bailiffs to come in and seize goods to the value of what she owed, but she had thought they would leave her with enough stock to continue trading. She had paid scant attention to his declaration that the landlord planned to evict all the tenants so that the site could be redeveloped, but she realised now that it might not just have been an idle threat. The prospect of losing her home was terrifying.

  Dorrie tugged at her sleeve. ‘I’m hungry, miss.’

  Charity came back to earth with a start. The sight of Dorrie’s pale face looking up at her with pleading blue eyes was enough to bring her to her senses. ‘We’ll show him,’ she said, snatching the basket by its handle. ‘We’re not going to allow Mr Woods to wreck our lives, are we, Dorrie?’

  ‘No, miss. I mean, no, Charity.’ Dorrie brightened visibly. ‘Can I have some bread and jam now, please? I promise I’ll scrub every inch of the floor afterwards, and clean the windows, and . . .’

  Her desire to please brought a smile to Charity’s lips, and she thrust the basket into Dorrie’s eager hands. ‘Take this into the kitchen and help yourself. I’ll settle for a cup of tea for the moment.’

  Dorrie bounded off like an eager puppy and Charity’s smile faded into a frown. She had been a fool to imagine she could persuade Seth Woods to grant her time to pay, or that she could sell enough books to raise that amount of rent each month. She walked slowly round the shop floor, trailing her fingers on the leather book bindings. The embossed gold leaf was smooth and tactile, absorbing a little of the heat from her fingertips. She could not abandon these works of art and literature to the unfeeling hands of the bailiffs. They had been left to her care by Jethro and they were her responsibility. The characters in many of them had been her companions during lonely nights curled up beneath the shop counter when it was too cold or too hot to sleep. It was up to her to see that they went to purchasers who would love them and care for them as she did.

  ‘I made you some bread and jam.’ Dorrie appeared at her elbow, holding up a chipped china plate with jam dripping off a thick doorstep of bread. ‘You must be hungry too.’

  One look at Dorrie’s eager expression was enough to make Charity bite back any criticism of her liberal use of their meagre food supply. ‘Thank you. That was a kind thought.’ She accepted the plate with a smile, saving the lecture on economy for later. The main thing now was to make Dorrie feel wanted and that this was her home; she was too young and insecure to know how close they were to losing everything. Charity bit into the sticky treat, chewed and swallowed. ‘Delicious,’ she said appreciatively. ‘We’ll save the rest for later.’

  ‘I can go to the shops whenever you want me to,’ Dorrie said proudly. ‘I can go out in the cold now I got a new coat and hat and mittens too. I could deliver books to your customers and help you in the shop. I can do anything you need.’

  ‘That’s splendid.’ Charity finished the slice of bread and jam, knowing that Dorrie would not be satisfied until she had eaten the last crumb. She handed her the empty plate. ‘Perhaps you could start by washing up and making things tidy in the kitchen.’

  Dorrie beamed at her. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be like a new pin by the time I’ve finished.’ She raced back to the kitchen, leaving Charity to worry about their future. There had been no customers so far that morning and the people who passed by barely stopped to glance in the shop window. It would take a miracle to save them.

  A few people seemingly intent on browsing the shelves trickled in that morning, but Charity suspected that they were merely sheltering from the intermittent storms when hailstones the size of pigeon’s eggs pelted pedestrians and lay in glittering heaps on the pavements. She made one sale when a young nursemaid sheltering from a downpour bought a second-hand copy of North and South by Mrs Gaskell. It cost very little when compared with the amount owing on the rent, but the young woman had gone off with a smile on her face at the prospect of escaping into the world of romantic fiction. Others walked out without making a purchase. By mid-afternoon Charity was beginning to feel desperate, and when Violet rushed into the shop her expression was not encouraging.

  ‘What is it, Vi? Are you all right?’

  ‘Ma knows.’ Violet lowered her voice when she saw Dorrie, who was supposed to be dusting the book stands but was looking at the illustrations in a volume of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  ‘How did she find out?’ Charity asked in a whisper.

  ‘She heard me being sick in the privy this morning. She said she’d suspected for some time and she clouted me round the lughole.’ Violet nursed her reddened ear, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I begged her not to tell Pa, but it’s only a matter of time before he finds out. What am I going to do?’

  ‘You could try telling the young men you think might be the father,’ Charity suggested hopefully. ‘Maybe one of them might have a streak of decency in him.’

  Violet uttered a hollow laugh and began to sob uncontrollably. ‘You know that won’t happen. I’m done for, Charity. It’s the river for me.’

  Chapter Eleven

  CHARITY STOOD IN the shop, gazing out of the window at the deserted street. It was Sunday and it was the first day of a new year, but the future was an unfriendly place and she could see nothing ahead but destitution. She had done reasonably well as far as trading went on Saturday, but had not taken nearly enough to satisfy Seth Wood’s greed. She suspected that the extra ten per cent he had demanded would have gone into his own pocket had she been able to raise that amount, but as she had nothing like it she knew she would receive little sympathy from him or the bailiffs. With the huge rise in the rent each month it would happen again and again until there was nothing left for them to take. This was the last day she would spend in the place she had come to think of as her own. Students would have to find somewhere else to purchase the books they needed for their studies and the shop would be closed. The building would ultimately be torn down and several centuries of history would be razed to the ground.

  She had racked her brains to think of a solution, but the only one that came to mind was to pack up her belongings and move out before she had to suffer the humiliation of being evicted. She would take Dorrie and go in search of cheap accommodation in the part of the city she knew best, but that would mean leaving Violet to face
her future alone. Charity knew she was not responsible for her friend, but Violet’s plight was grim indeed and Bert Chapman was not a forgiving man. He was mean when sober and brutish when drunk.

  Charity was about to return to the kitchen, where she had left Dorrie sleeping peacefully, when she heard the rumble of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. It was unusually early for anyone to be out and about particularly if they had been revelling on New Year’s Eve. She was even more surprised when the hansom cab drew up outside and a familiar figure dressed in a caped overcoat and top hat leapt to the ground. She hurried to open the door. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see today,’ she said as Harry Elliott breezed into the shop.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Crosse. You’re up bright and early.’

  ‘I thought you were in Devon, visiting your mother and stepfather.’

  He took off his hat and tossed it onto the counter. ‘I was and I did my duty, but the countryside bores me, and I couldn’t wait to get back to London.’

  ‘And the lure of the gaming clubs, I suppose.’

  ‘You have my measure, but I came hotfoot to give you a message from Daniel. He asked me to thank you for the book.’

  ‘And you came all the way here to tell me?’ She stared at him in amazement. ‘It was his uncle who paid for it.’

  ‘Well, you have me there. As a matter of fact Daniel asked me to make sure you were all right. I told him that Wilmot had behaved badly towards you and he was concerned. My brother is a kindly fellow and a solid citizen, unlike me.’