The Orphan's Dream

by Dilly Court

  The meal itself was a triumph, everyone said so, and Edric proposed a toast to the cooks. The older children raised their glasses of watered-down wine and the younger ones were treated to lime cordial sweetened with sugar. Looking round at their flushed, happy faces, Mirabel felt a glow of pride but also a degree of sadness. This was her family and she loved them all but there was a void in her heart and an ache that would never go away. She finished her wine and stood up. ‘I think it’s time we opened the presents.’

  On the coldest day of January, Alf and Edric came across a vessel high and dry in a boatyard at Limehouse Hole. It had been abandoned by the owner, who had gone bankrupt, and no one had come forward with the money to purchase what appeared to be little more than a wreck. Edric took Mirabel to see the boat, promising her that with a bit of hard work it could be made seaworthy within weeks. The asking price was much less than she had expected, and after some shrewd bargaining she became the proud owner of a sea-going barge, capable of shipping cargo to the continent if required. Even with the cost of the refurbishment, which she decided to have done by the professionals at the boatyard, it was still a good buy, and Edric was delighted.

  ‘It will be like the old days,’ he said, looking up from the shipbuilder’s plans. ‘It’s not exactly like the brig Jack and I used to own, but it’s a start, and we can ship anything from hay to coal.’

  Mirabel eyed him thoughtfully. ‘We need an office close to the docks, Edric. Working from home was all very well at the beginning, but now we’re expanding we should have premises of our own, and once the new boat is up and running I think we could afford to employ a clerk, so that I can spend more time visiting prospective clients.’

  ‘You’re right of course, Mirabel. You’re the one with the business head. Do what you think best.’ He straightened up, running his hand through his hair, which he always did when he was not sure of himself. ‘What’s happening about Wiley? If he’s bothering you just tell me.’

  ‘I saw him in court, but we didn’t speak. He wasn’t too pleased when the judge ordered him to leave Cutler’s Castle. If looks could kill I’d have been dead on the spot.’

  ‘Will he go of his own accord?’

  ‘He was given two weeks to pack up and find alternative accommodation and he’s supposed to pay back all the money he’s taken. He can’t draw any more from the bank,’ Mirabel hesitated, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I suppose some of it should go to Ernestine as Pa’s widow.’

  ‘I’d be damned if I’d give that woman a penny. Anyway, I thought Wiley had her locked away in a lunatic asylum.’

  Mirabel had almost forgotten about Ernestine until Wiley mentioned her in such a vindictive manner. She had suffered at her stepmother’s hands, but Ernestine had paid a high price for her cruelty. ‘I think I should go and see her, or at least speak to the doctors to find out if she really is insane. Wiley had her committed but I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone, even Ernestine.’

  Edric reached for his cap and jammed it on his head. ‘From what you’ve told me about her I think she deserved all she got.’ He opened the study door. ‘Leave her to rot, that’s what I say. She turned you out on the street without a thought.’

  ‘But if Jack hadn’t taken me to Zilla’s none of this would have happened. I’d never have met Hubert or travelled to America. I wouldn’t have met you and Beatrice, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.’ She smiled. ‘All this happened because Ernestine hated me, and without her I might still be sitting in the attic at St Catherine Court, dreaming my life away.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be as forgiving. I’m going to the boat builders to see how they’re getting on with the Mudlark.’

  ‘The Mudlark?’

  ‘It’s Alf’s boys’ choice of name for the boat. What do you think?’

  ‘I like it. The Mudlark it shall be.’

  Mirabel knew that she would not rest until she had seen for herself how Ernestine was progressing. For all her faults Ernestine had been her stepmother and Pa had been fond of her at the outset. Without telling anyone where she was going, she set off one morning for Colney Hatch.

  From the approach along a wide drive lined with trees, the lunatic asylum with its Moorish arches and tall cupola looked like a palace from the Arabian Nights, but inside the atmosphere was one of distress and despair. Mirabel was conducted along a corridor where the strong odour of disinfectant barely masked the stench of urine and the sound of wailing and high-pitched screams filled her ears. She was left to wait in an anteroom outside the superintendent’s office, where she sat wishing that she had not come, but her conscience had been plaguing her ever since the judge ruled against Wiley. It was Wiley who had either sent Ernestine mad, or had made everyone believe that she was deranged, and he now sat in Cutler’s Castle, refusing to leave. Yardley had applied to the court for an eviction notice but this, like every due process of the law, would take time.

  Mirabel jumped to her feet as the door to the office opened. ‘I believe you wish to see me, Mrs Kettle.’ The superintendent ushered her into the inner sanctum. ‘Please take a seat.’

  ‘I’ve come about my stepmother, Mrs Ernestine Cutler.’ Mirabel perched on the edge of the chair. ‘Can you tell me anything about her condition?’

  ‘You obviously don’t know.’ The superintendent sat down at his desk, adjusting his silver-rimmed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mrs Cutler passed away two weeks ago.’

  Mirabel stared at him in disbelief. ‘She’s dead? But she was a relatively young woman. How did she die?’

  ‘Mrs Cutler had contracted a disease, quite probably in her youth, which sadly ends in general debilitation and insanity.’ He cleared his throat, avoiding meeting her curious gaze. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, ma’am? Bad blood is a term often used.’

  ‘I see.’ Mirabel was familiar with the expression, having heard it bandied about by the girls at Zilla’s. ‘Have her daughters been informed?’

  ‘They attended her funeral with their grandmother, who I believe has been looking after them since their mother was admitted here. Is there any other information I can give you, Mrs Kettle?’

  ‘No. Thank you, sir. I’m glad the girls are being cared for, and I’m truly sorry to hear of Ernestine’s sad end.’

  ‘I’ll ring for someone to take you to the gate. For their own protection we don’t allow visitors to wander in the grounds unaccompanied.’

  All the way back to London seated in the swaying omnibus, which jolted its passengers around mercilessly each time the wheels hit a rut or a bump in the road, Mirabel was haunted by visions of the lunatic asylum. Ernestine was dead. She tried to feel sorry, but instead she felt numb. The last link with her old life had been severed.

  Throwing herself into the business with even more enthusiasm, Mirabelle secured a lease on a small office in the wharfinger’s house at the bottom of Darkhouse Lane. Situated next to Billingsgate market the smell of fish permeated the whole building and boats lined up at the wharves waiting to unload their slippery silver cargo. Day and night the clatter of the boxes being hauled up onto the quay wall and the shouts of the men at work competed with the general noise of the river traffic, and the slapping of the water on the wooden stanchions at high tide.

  The wainscoted room was small and draughty, and even when a fire was lit in the grate the chill from the river seemed to rise from the floorboards. Mirabel put on extra clothing and sat with a hot brick at her feet when she was working at her desk. She had to keep stopping to warm her mittened hands around the glass bowl of the paraffin lamp, and by the time she finished in the evening her toes were numbed with cold. Business was brisk but hard won. Her days were occupied with visits to prospective clients, which often made it necessary for her to do her bookkeeping in the evenings. She could not justify paying a clerk, but that would come. In the meantime it was easier to occupy her thoughts with work than to dwell on personal matters. At home Gertie made a habit of keeping Mirabel’s s
upper warm on the range, and she enjoyed a peaceful meal in the cosy heat of the kitchen instead of sitting in lonely state in the dining room. The younger children were always tucked up in bed by the time Mirabelle finished her long day at work, and the older boys were usually occupied with their books, studying the strict rules that bound both apprentices and barge owners as set out by the Watermen’s Company. Although she suspected that Ned was reading the book by Captain Marryat that she had given him for Christmas. Masterman Ready, or the Wreck of the Pacific had been one of her favourites as a child, second only to The Children of the New Forest. Alf would not approve of such an indulgence: he was a practical man who saw little use in filling children’s heads with book-reading. He spent all his spare moments doing maintenance on the Beatrice or working on the Mudlark, although sometimes he joined Edric in the pub for a pint or two of ale.

  Edric had promised Beatrice that he would never set foot in Zilla’s establishment again, but Mirabel made a point of calling in when she was in that area. It was a relief to share her problems over a glass of Madeira or a cup of coffee, and she valued Zilla’s advice on business matters. Zilla had given her help when she most needed it, and, in their different ways, they had both loved Jack Starke. That alone gave them something in common, although his name never came up in conversation. Mirabel was resigned to a life as a single woman and the part of her life that had involved Jack was locked away in a secret compartment in her heart.

  The ever-present threat of Wiley still lingered. He had so far managed to evade the bailiffs who had been sent to evict him from Cutler’s Castle and had barricaded himself into the house. Mirabel could have done without the extra expense entailed in yet another visit to her lawyer, but she had just returned home from the solicitor’s office secure in the knowledge that a warrant had been issued for Wiley’s arrest, when to her dismay she found him waiting for her on the pavement outside her home.

  ‘You think you’re very clever, don’t you,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Well, you haven’t won yet, lady. I’ll make sure you never live in Cutler’s Castle. You’ll see.’ He strutted off without giving her a chance to respond and she stood very still, watching his lanky figure, all arms and legs like a poisonous spider, as he disappeared into the fog. She shivered. Although it was mid-afternoon the light was fading fast with the smell of soot and sulphur in the air, which felt so thick it might easily be sliced with a knife. She hurried indoors. The police would deal with Septimus Wiley; he was no longer her concern.

  She did not mention her encounter with Wiley next day when she stood with Alf on the slipway watching the launch of the recently refurbished barge. The Mudlark slid into the treacly waters of Limehouse Hole with Edric at the helm and Danny working on deck, ably assisted by Pip. Ned had begged to be allowed to work with them but Edric had told him he must wait his turn. Alf had taken pity on his son and promised to take him as an apprentice on the Beatrice, which seemed to satisfy Ned who wiped his eyes on his sleeve, ignoring the taunts of nine-year old Jim, who told him he was a baby for crying. Mirabel had grown used to their squabbles, and she put her hand in her pocket and took out a poke filled with humbugs. She gave one each to the boys, which stopped the argument before it escalated any further.

  ‘I’ve got a party of anglers wanting to go to Putney, but it looks like the fog might come down again later,’ Alf said, looking up at the sky and frowning. ‘We might get two or three hours in, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘If they’re willing to pay then it’s their problem not ours,’ Mirabel said, smiling.

  ‘They’re city swells with more money than sense.’ Alf patted his son on the head. ‘C’mon, Ned. We’ll pick our fares up and go on from there, but I’m not risking the boat or lives if the weather don’t hold.’

  Mirabel held her hand out to Jim. ‘I’ll take you home. I asked the cabby to wait for us so we’d better hurry up.’

  He slipped his small sticky hand into hers. ‘I don’t want to work the river, Mabel. I want to write stories, like Captain Marryat. Ned reads them to me when he’s in a good mood.’

  She smiled down at him, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘I think that’s a very good idea. Have another humbug.’

  Mirabel worked late at the office that evening, despite the fog which descended in a sulphurous cloud as the light faded. Thin shreds of it forced their way under the door and through the keyhole. She should have packed up much earlier but she felt compelled to balance the books and leave everything ready to commence business next day. She was still buoyed-up with the excitement of launching another vessel and she gave little thought to the walk home.

  When she finally decided to leave she went through her normal routine of checking the windows, and after making certain that the fire would not spit sparks and burn the place down she doused the lamp. As she opened the door she was enveloped in a suffocating blanket of evil-smelling fog and smoke, and she covered her nose and mouth with a scarf that Gertie had knitted for her.

  Although she knew the way blindfold, the unusual silence was disorientating and she could barely see the ground beneath her feet. She had not gone more than a few stumbling paces when she was aware that she was not alone. Her stomach clenched with fear as she sensed Wiley’s malignant presence, but before she could break into a run she was seized from behind. ‘Nice night for a swim, Miss Cutler.’ He held her in a surprisingly strong grip. His arms were like iron bands around her chest and her screams were muffled by the cloying thickness of the fog.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Can’t swim? Neither can I, for that matter, but it ain’t me who’s going for a dip. The tide is on the turn, so you’ll be swept away by the current. It will drag you under, filling your lungs and choking you slowly. Goodbye and good riddance, I say.’

  She could sense the void where the quay ended even though she could not see it, and in desperation she kicked out with her feet, catching Wiley on his shin. With a yelp of pain he lifted her off her feet and they stood poised like acrobats in the circus, but she knew if he threw her there was no chance of being caught. Then suddenly she was on the ground, gasping for breath and winded by the fall. A sharp cry was followed by a muffled splash.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ‘ARE YOU ALL right, Mabel?’ Tilda’s anxious voice pierced the veil of terror that had momentarily dulled Mirabel’s senses. She struggled to catch her breath and allowed Tilda to help her to her feet.

  ‘What happened?’

  Alf loomed over them, his face pale and anxious in the fractured light of a gas lamp. ‘Are you hurt, missis?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Mirabel peered at him dazedly. ‘What about Wiley?’

  ‘He was going to throw you into the river,’ Tilda said angrily. ‘Pa chucked him in instead. Let’s see if he can swim.’

  ‘Even if he can he’ll be no match for the current.’ Alf tucked Mirabel’s hand in the crook of his arm. ‘Come along, missis. Let’s get you home. You’ve had a nasty shock.’

  ‘But we can’t just walk away and leave him to drown.’ Mirabel looked from one to the other, noting for the first time a strong likeness between father and daughter. Alf’s set jaw and implacable expression were replicated in Tilda’s young face.

  ‘He was going to murder you, Mabel,’ Tilda said angrily.

  ‘He was swallowed up by the river and weighted down by his sins.’ Alf patted Mirabel’s hand. ‘Don’t waste your pity on him, missis. He was going to kill you the same as he finished off the boss at the warehouse where he and your pa worked. Come along. Let’s get you home.’

  With Tilda holding one arm and Alf clutching the other, Mirabel had little option but to walk between them, but her head was still reeling. ‘You’re saying that Wiley killed Cyrus Pendleton?’

  ‘That’s what I heard. I’ve been asking around the men who worked alongside Jacob in Shad Thames. They wasn’t particularly keen to talk about it, but to a man they thought that Wiley had done the boss in.’
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br />   ‘But why didn’t anyone come forward?’

  ‘There was no case to answer. Wiley was clever enough to cover up what he’d done and your pa never suspected anything was wrong.’

  ‘But Wiley was blackmailing him. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I think that came later. Wiley was no fool even if he was a villain. Anyway, he’s gone now. You might say his sins have been washed away. Justice has been done.’

  The police arrived at Cutler’s Castle ready to arrest Wiley, and finding him gone they seemed to assume that he had decided to give in peacefully. As far as the law was concerned the case was closed and Wiley was forgotten.

  Mirabel stood on the threshold, hardly able to believe that her old home was hers to do with as she pleased. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of Harriet Humble’s shrill voice. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kettle. Welcome back to the Court.’

  Mirabel turned to give the gun maker’s wife a weary smile. ‘Good morning, Mrs Humble.’

  ‘The tone of the neighbourhood suffered considerably while that man was in residence.’ Harriet scuttled across the road to join her. ‘That woman your father took up with was a vulgar harridan. I don’t blame you for running away from home.’ She puffed out her chest, putting Mirabel in mind of a pouter pigeon. ‘You’ve done well for yourself by all accounts. Not that I pay any attention to gossip, you understand.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Mirabel stifled a sudden urge to giggle. She managed a smile instead. ‘It’s nice to be home, but if you’ll excuse me I need to inspect the interior.’

  ‘There’ll be some damage, no doubt.’ Harriet peered over Mirabel’s shoulder as she unlocked the door and thrust it open. ‘The goings-on here continued until the early hours of the morning, after your pa was taken so suddenly, God rest his soul. That dreadful person he married was no better than she should be.’ She edged forward. ‘I could send my daily woman over to help clean up the mess, if needs be.’