by Dilly Court
Dorrie covered her mouth with her hand and yawned. ‘I’m tired too, but I ain’t going up them stairs on me own. I still think there are ghosts lurking round corners in this old house. I can hear the creaks and groans when you two are asleep.’
‘It’s a very old house, that’s why it makes those noises,’ Charity said in an attempt to allay Dorrie’s fears. ‘Will you take her upstairs, Vi? I’ll see to the fire and make sure the doors are locked.’
‘I’m ready for bed too.’ Violet hesitated in the doorway. ‘Don’t forget that Jackson is still outside. I don’t suppose he’d relish sleeping in the hen house. Come on, Dorrie, we’ll go up together. If there are bogeys we’ll scare them off.’
‘Ooh, don’t say that,’ Dorrie whispered as she followed Violet out of the room.
Charity had felt the creepy atmosphere herself but she was not going to admit such a thing to either Violet or Dorrie. The old house held the secrets of the past in its lath and plaster walls, and many generations of the Bligh family had lived, loved and died there. At night when the wind whistled through the cracks in the windowpanes she could imagine that voices from the past were whispering to her, and it was as if they were pleading with her to save their beloved home.
She banked up the fire and went to the back door to call Jackson. She could see him standing outside in the moonlight with curls of smoke billowing from his pipe as he puffed on the last scraps of tobacco from his pouch. She called out to him and he turned, walking slowly towards her. ‘It’s a fine night, miss.’ He stopped and tapped the bowl of his pipe on the wall, sending a shower of sparks and dottle floating to the ground. ‘That will have to last me,’ he said, sighing, as he entered the kitchen followed by Bosun, who seemed to have adopted him as his new master.
She closed the door and locked it. ‘Bosun seems to have taken a fancy to you.’
‘Aye, he knows we’re two of a kind. Neither of us has a master or a home. We’ve lost our way.’
She reached for the teapot and poured the last drops into a mug. ‘Here, drink this. It’s not very hot and probably stewed, but it’s a pity to waste it.’
He took the cup and slumped down in Mrs Diment’s chair with Bosun curled up at his feet. ‘What shall us do, miss? Will the shop take more of the master’s books?’
‘I doubt it, but I have other plans and they include you.’ Charity pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I’m going to try the street markets. I couldn’t find a barrow or a handcart, but I thought we could carry quite a few books between us and set up somewhere, perhaps on the steps of a church. I’ll be like the barker in a fairground and hawk them round one at a time while you stand guard over the rest so that the street arabs don’t steal them.’
‘A barrow, miss? Is that all you need?’
‘Do you know where I can get one?’
He grinned, revealing broken teeth yellowed with nicotine. ‘There’s one in the coach house. It ain’t been used for donkey’s years and it’s probably worm-eaten, but I know where I can lay hands on it.’
Her expectations were dashed in a moment. ‘But you’ve been locked out of the stables.’
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a key. ‘They kicked me out but they forget to ask for this. If a barrow is what you need, a barrow you shall have.’ He downed the tea in one thirsty swig and rose to his feet. ‘Come along, Bosun, old boy. You can keep me company.’ He reached for his top hat. ‘I’ll be back soon. This won’t take long, miss.’
By moonlight the barrow looked to be in a reasonable condition, but next morning in full sunlight Charity could see that it was in a sorry state. Worm-eaten and with several spokes missing in one of its wheels, the contraption must have lain abandoned in the stables for many years. ‘Don’t worry, miss,’ Jackson said, rolling up his sleeves with a pleased grin. ‘Give me an hour or two and I’ll have this little beauty ready for the road.’
‘I’ll go and sort out the books.’ Charity did not want to discourage him, but she thought he was being over-optimistic. She went back into the house and headed for the library to sort out editions that might sell to the general public, and that meant sacrificing the stock she had brought from Liquorpond Street as these were mostly novels, school primers and a box of penny dreadfuls. Jethro had refused to have them on his shelves but she had soon realised that they were popular and sold well. She would have no difficulty in shifting them, she just needed a site where she could set up and attract customers.
With the books sorted into neat piles she returned to the yard and found Jackson standing back surveying his work. ‘All done, miss,’ he said proudly. ‘It should do the job well enough, providing we don’t overload it.’
‘You’ve worked miracles. It looks like new.’ She ran her fingers over the smooth woodwork. ‘If you’ll give me a hand we’ll load up and be off.’
Dorrie appeared in the doorway, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘May I come too, Charity? I could help you.’
‘Not today, love. Maybe tomorrow, but we’ll see how it goes.’ Charity smiled and gave her a brief hug. ‘Violet needs you to help her, but when I get back with lots of lovely money you can come with me to buy what we need for dinner, and if I do really well you can have some toffee.’
Dorrie uttered a gasp of pleasure. ‘I ain’t had a toffee since the doctor died. He kept a tin on his desk and he let me take one every evening when I brought him his cocoa.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m still sad that he’s gone.’
‘And so am I, but he would want the best for you, Dorrie. I’m going to see that you get what you deserve.’
‘Toffee?’
‘Yes, if that’s what you really want. I’ll work hard to earn enough to buy you some toffee.’
‘You won’t earn nothing unless we go now,’ Jackson said gloomily. ‘It’s no good going out at midday and expecting to find anyone with money to spare for luxuries like books. Most of them in the streets can’t read anyway.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Charity looked from Dorrie’s flushed and happy face to Jackson’s bewhiskered expression of doom. ‘I might read out loud to attract customers. Everyone loves a good yarn and I’ve got plenty of those. Come along, Jackson. We’d best hurry.’
‘That’s what I just said,’ Jackson grumbled as he followed her into the kitchen. He grabbed Bosun’s lead off its hook. ‘We’ll take the dog with us. He’ll see off anyone who tries to take advantage of you, miss.’
Charity was excited but also nervous as she set off with the laden barrow. She instructed Jackson to follow at a discreet distance, in case his tough-looking appearance put off nervous customers or encouraged others to pick a fight. Brawling in public was common enough and there were some men who only needed to take a dislike to another man’s looks to start throwing punches.
Selling books on street corners in the City was not a common practice. Charity tried to ignore the taunts of ragged street urchins and catcalls from costermongers as she searched for a suitable pitch. In the end she set up close to the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, hoping that clerks on their way to and from work in the financial institutions and counting houses might stop to browse and then make a purchase, but her hopes were dashed when a police constable told them to move on. Jackson’s lantern jaw hardened and he looked mutinous, but the last thing she wanted was for him to start arguing with an officer of the law. It was a pity, Charity thought, but perhaps they would do better in a more commercial area.
Despite a few tussles with stall holders in Leadenhall Street, she managed to find a space close to the market, and they set up once again. Encouraged by the sale of three penny dreadfuls, Charity selected a copy of Black Bess; or the Knight of the Road, and began reading excerpts of the tale romanticising the exploits of the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin. It was snatched up by a young servant girl, who had no doubt just received her quarterly wages and should have been putting the money towards a new pair of boots, judging by the state of the ones she was wearing. But Charity wa
s in business and she knew what it was like to sleep on the floor beneath the shop counter. She also knew what it was like to be hungry; her stomach rumbled for want of anything to eat since a slice of bread and scrape at breakfast, and she knew from experience that escaping into a world of fiction was sometimes the only way to deal with the harsh realities of life.
She selected another cheap edition and announced the title in a loud, clear voice, and in moments had an audience. By late afternoon the entire contents of the box of penny dreadfuls had been sold and Charity had two and fourpence in her purse, which was not far short of the half-crown she had received for two of the expensive volumes from Sir Hedley’s library.
‘That’s where the money is,’ Jackson muttered as they walked homewards. ‘But you ain’t gonna make your fortune by selling them cheap books, miss.’
‘I know that,’ Charity said, glancing nervously at the heavy rainclouds that were billowing in from the west. ‘But we can eat again tonight and we’ll stop on the way to buy a hundredweight of coal.’
‘With all due respect, miss, you can’t eat coal.’
Jackson’s lugubrious expression made her laugh for the first time that day. ‘I know, but I promised to take Dorrie out to buy our supper. I told her that she could have some toffee for staying at home and helping Violet.’
‘You spoil that nipper.’
‘She’s just a little girl with no family of her own. I know what that feels like.’
He shot her a sideways glance. ‘You look done in with all that there reading and shouting. Let me take the barrow now. We’ll get home all the quicker, and it’s going to pour down any moment now. I don’t reckon there’s much call for soggy books.’
Charity accepted his offer without a murmur. She took Bosun’s lead and they walked on in silence, but every time she heard the sound of heavy horses and the rumble of cart wheels she could not help glancing over her shoulder in case it was the brewery dray driven by Bert Chapman.
They ate well again that evening but next morning Charity awakened to the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes, and it was midday before they were able to go out. Trade was slow and she thought they might have to go home empty-handed, but at the last moment a clerical gentleman wandered over to the barrow and purchased a copy of The Bride of Lammermoor by Sir Walter Scott, and the ninepence it cost him paid for a meagre supper of bread and cheese and a marrow bone for Bosun.
Each day was a challenge but somehow they managed to exist on the few pennies that Charity managed to earn, and although she hoped the auction sale would bring a substantial sum she was not over-optimistic. She wished with all her heart that Harry had not been forced to flee the country. Despite his reputation for being a rake and a gambler, there was something about him that made her feel safe when she was in his presence. There had been no news from Bligh Park and she wondered how Daniel was coping with the responsibility that had been unexpectedly thrust upon him. She knew little of what happened when a will went to probate, but it seemed certain that Harry would be named as Sir Hedley’s heir. The estate might be virtually bankrupt but if, in Harry’s absence, Wilmot gained control of Bligh Park until Dan came of age, he would also have his eye on the house in Nevill’s Court. If that happened they would all be evicted, including Mrs Diment and Jackson. They were existing in a fragile bubble that might burst at any minute, but that was a secret she must keep to herself until such a time when it became necessary to share it with the others. It was a heavy burden to carry but they depended on her and she must not let them down.
The auction was just two days away but trade had dropped off and she was lucky if she sold a single book. She had tried all the shops in the area without success and they were down to their last crust of bread. One of the hens had ended up in the stew pot with the addition of rotten vegetables that Dorrie had plucked from the gutter outside Covent Garden market. The old boiler had kept them from starvation for the last few days, but now the pot was empty and if Charity failed to make a sale that day the remaining hen would go the way of her sister and that would leave the skinny old cockerel to crow for nothing. He would be next and, as Jackson said, there was probably more meat on a sparrow. Bosun’s ribs were showing through his thick coat and he stalked the cockerel daily, with a glint of expectation in his brown eyes. In response, the cockerel fluttered onto the roof of the hen house, crowing in a mocking way that made Jackson threaten to wring his neck before the day was out. Mrs Diment mourned the loss of her favourite hen and ran out into the yard every time she heard the cock crowing, flapping her apron and shouting at the dog. ‘Lord help us,’ she said as Charity prepared to go out on her rounds, ‘if you don’t make a sale today we’ll have to eat the old bird raw, because there’s no fuel for the fire. I can’t even make a pot of tea.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Diment,’ Charity said with more confidence than she was feeling. ‘I’ve packed the barrow with the sort of books that the university students used to buy, and I plan to stand outside University College all day if necessary. Maybe some of them will remember me from the shop.’ She did not add that she was taking a risk by returning to an area close to Liquorpond Street, doubling her chances of running into Bert Chapman. But they were all desperate and she could not bear to see Dorrie with stick-thin arms and legs, and Violet hollow-cheeked and pale in the late stages of her pregnancy.
She set off early but without her usual bodyguards. Jackson was unwell, having eaten the last of the chicken soup, which had smelled so rank even Bosun turned his nose up when it was offered to him. She could not manage the dog and the cart and she left on her own, pushing the barrow through the busy streets as she made her way to Gower Street. It was a long walk but she arrived just as most of the students were going in to attend their lectures. They hurried past her without giving her a second glance, and she could not help envying them their seemingly carefree existence.
Brisk footsteps behind her made her turn her head in the hope of seeing a prospective customer, but to her dismay the man walking purposefully towards her was none other than Wilmot. He seemed equally surprised as he came to a sudden halt. ‘By God, it’s Charity.’ His expression changed subtly as he took in her shabby appearance and the barrow laden with books. ‘So you’ve come to this, have you? You were a beggar maid when I first clapped eyes on you and you’re little better now.’
‘I’m not doing anything wrong,’ Charity protested. ‘These books are mine to sell. Jethro left them to me in his will.’
‘Have you got a street vendor’s licence?’
She eyed him doubtfully, shaking her head. ‘I didn’t know I needed one.’
‘And does the bailiff know that you helped yourself to the stock that should have gone to pay the back rent?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ Charity said angrily.
He leaned towards her with a wolfish smile. ‘But it is if you’re living rent free in my house.’
‘But the house in Nevill’s Court belongs to Harry. I’m sure that Sir Hedley would have left everything to him.’
‘Harry is a wanted man. He’s in exile abroad and that makes Daniel the legal heir.’
‘Dan gave us permission to stay in his house.’
‘Daniel has not yet reached his majority. As his stepfather I take full responsibility for him and will look after his interests until he is of age.’
‘You’re his stepfather?’
‘I wouldn’t want tongues to wag and sully the good lady’s name. We were married by special licence a week ago.’
‘You weren’t so concerned about my good name when you propositioned me,’ Charity said with feeling. ‘I suppose I don’t count.’
‘You’re no lady, Charity my dear.’
‘I was too much of a lady to be bought by you, Mr Barton.’
His eyes flashed angrily although his lips were stretched in a grim smile. ‘You’d best move on or I’ll call a constable and have you arrested for trading without a licence and for passing on stolen p
roperty.’
‘You are a despicable person,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I hope that Dan finds the Bligh Park treasure and cuts you off without a penny.’ She seized the barrow and was about to walk on when Wilmot’s hand shot out and he grabbed her by the arm.
‘What do you know about the treasure? What romantic nonsense did that boy tell you?’
‘Do you really think it’s a secret?’ She faced up to him even though she was quaking inwardly. ‘I should think the whole village knows about it by now. They also know that the Blighs have been searching for it for centuries, if it ever existed in the first place.’
He released her, wiping his hands together with an expression of disgust. ‘You are a common little slut and I’d advise you to keep your pretty mouth shut. If I discover that you’ve been spreading malicious rumours about the family I’ll see to it that you end up in prison where you belong.’
Shaken but determined not to let him see that she was upset, Charity walked away, pushing the cumbersome barrow as fast as she could over the cobblestones. Despite her vow to keep away from Liquorpond Street she found herself walking towards Jethro’s former shop. Her mind had been occupied with Wilmot’s threats, and the knowledge that she had been trading illegally had come as a total shock. It was not until she stopped to gaze into the shop window that she realised it was still open for business. The bailiffs had not closed it down and there were new books in the window. She was mortified and angry to think that the rent collector had lied to her. If someone had taken over the premises it was obvious that the building was not going to be razed to the ground. She left her barrow outside and marched into the shop.
A tall thin man of indeterminate age stood behind the counter. He had a book open in front of him and was intent on reading but he looked up when the bell jangled and peered at her through the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘Good morning, miss. May I be of assistance?’
