Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  “Do you wager, Miss Jennings?” I turned quickly. A man had come up behind me and I hadn’t heard him. I don’t like to be caught unawares.

  “No,” she said. “My mother’s brother made his living as a poker player. Perhaps I should say he attempted to make his living. Thus I know better than to take part in a game of chance. But I enjoy watching a good game of cards.”

  “I’m here for a game myself, and heard you ladies talking. If you’re wanting someplace to spend a while, why not join me? You can give me some luck. John Turner’s the name.”

  This gentleman didn’t look any too sanitary himself. He obviously spent some of his time around horses. It was the man who’d almost gotten into a fight with Richard Sterling the night previous.

  He grinned at Eleanor and then turned to me. His gaze was open, appraising, bordering on insolent. “Mrs. MacGillivray.” He held out his hand. The cuticles were torn, yellow nails broken, dirt trapped in the folds and crevices. I did not accept it, and he shrugged. He might have been good-looking, if he cut his hair and cleaned himself up. And let some warmth into his eyes.

  “I hope we won’t have any more trouble tonight,” I said.

  “Trouble? I don’t cause trouble. Don’t turn away from it, though.” His eyes were very dark. He stared into my face without blinking. I found myself breaking the glance.

  “Don’t care to have the Yellow Stripes looking over my shoulder.” A grin played at the edges of Turner’s mouth. His lips were plump, moist, and pink. He knew he was making me uncomfortable. He liked making me uncomfortable.

  “Plenty of other gambling halls,” I said.

  “True. But this place isn’t worse than any of the others in town. They’re all infested.” I assumed he wasn’t referring to fleas.

  Silence hung between us for a moment. I was very cold all of a sudden, as if someone had opened the door to find winter had unexpectedly arrived. Then Turner turned his attention back to Eleanor. “I hear tell you’re a photographer. Might want to have my picture taken some day.”

  “I’m taking appointments.”

  “Good. Now, let’s go play poker. You I’ll let look over my shoulder.”

  They walked away without excusing themselves. I gave my head a mental shake. Plenty of unpleasant men in this town; no need to let one spook me.

  I’d looked away when he was being insolent. I’d shown weakness. That, well I knew, was a mistake.

  15

  The orange and yellow glow of the world’s greatest city filled the sky as I approached. I’d walked for two days and nights.

  I was thirteen years old. I’d been living with a family of Travellers for the past two years, since the murder of my parents. The family patriarch, who protected me as a source of income, had died and his son demanded I move into his tent, using the end of his fist as incentive. It was, I decided, time to take my leave.

  I owned a beautiful hand-embroidered lace handkerchief, the shoes on my feet, the dress I was wearing, and the knife stuck through my belt, hidden by the folds of the dress.

  Not much with which to begin a new life in London.

  I had two things to my advantage: I spoke extremely well, having been educated in the big house alongside Euila, the only daughter among the earl’s twelve children, on the estate where my father was gamekeeper. And I had inherited my mother’s startling beauty.

  Fortunately the weather had turned warm for November and the rain stayed away. I ate nothing but windfall apples for two days and drank from slow-moving streams while uninterested sheep observed me. I spent the first night in a churchyard, curled up on a patch of soft grass beside a large tombstone.

  I have never feared the dead — it was the living I had to be on my guard against.

  I walked into the city with a sense of awe. The din was so loud I wondered that anyone could hear themselves think. People shouted and laughed and hurled abuse, horses’ hooves pounded on cobblestones, tack jangled, wagon wheels clattered, merchants shouted out the attractions of their wares and begged potential customers to come closer and sample. No one paid any attention to one wide-eyed country girl. Intent on their own business, they pushed around me as though I were a boulder in their stream. Men tapped canes or walking sticks impatiently on the sidewalks and women kept their noses in the air.

  I’d been raised on the Island of Skye, walking the barren hills alongside my father. The Travellers always pitched their tents far from cities where they were not welcome except to work. I’d been to Oxford, where I’d stood on a street corner begging for pennies with my cut-glass accent, working dress (one of Euila’s mother’s cast-offs), and the tragic story of my penniless, abandoned, invalid (although well-bred) mother. But we always returned to the Traveller’s camp outside the city at night.

  I had made a great deal of money begging for my gypsy family, and my plan was to support myself by doing much the same in London. I did not happen to be wearing the good dress when I fled, but I still had the accent, the looks, and could relate the sad story. I also had the knife stuck through my belt, and knew well how to use it.

  I set myself up on a corner in a street of neat homes surrounding a lovely park, stark in the November afternoon. Nannies came and went, pushing baby carriages or leading children in sailor suits and stiffly starched pinafores. Carriages pulled by exquisitely groomed horses rattled down the road. Ladies and the occasional gentleman regarded me with disdain. Servants hurried by intent on their business.

  The only person who approached me was a policeman. He was tall, imposing, and scowling. He lifted his fist and shouted, “Be off with you, you little wretch. Don’t let me catch you hanging about here again.”

  I fled.

  My first night in London was spent in the alley behind a pub, curled into a dark corner. The place stank. All night men staggered down the alley, often stopping to relieve themselves into the dirt a few feet from where I huddled. I fingered the blade of my knife, and knew I couldn’t survive alone. I also knew that my hair, face, and hands were getting so dirty it wouldn’t be long before no one would be impressed by my looks.

  I did not cry. I have not cried since the day my parents died.

  The second day I had eaten the last of the apples, and the water in the city gutters didn’t look fit for a beast to drink. I found myself in a rabbit-warren of buildings, crowded, dirty, reeking. It was, I later found out, Seven Dials, one of London’s worst slums.

  “Hoi, there. What you doin’?” a voice said.

  I looked down. A girl, younger than me, very small, little more than yellowing skin stretched over a bag of bones. She sat on the pavement outside a three-storey brick building that advertised itself as a livery stable. Her face was thick with grime, her nose ran, and her left eye was weeping.

  “I am taking a look around,” I replied. Her eyebrows lifted when I spoke.

  “You’re not from ’ere?” At least that’s what I thought she said. Her accent was exceedingly thick and not familiar to me.

  “I’m new to town.”

  “Get off my patch.”

  “Your patch?”

  “This is my corner, and I don’t need you scaring the punters away. Mr. Jones’ll tan my hide if I have another bad day.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I knew all about one’s corner. We Travellers were careful about not setting ourselves up to beg or sell trinkets anywhere near a spot which another gypsy had claimed.

  I began to walk away. Then I turned back, desperate perhaps for a bit of human contact. “My name’s Fiona. I’m from Scotland.”

  The girl studied me. “Maise. I’m from down the street. What’s Scotland like?”

  “Beautiful. Cold. Wet.”

  “Sounds like London. Except London ain’t ever beautiful. You talk like a lady, but you don’t look like one.”

  “I have fallen upon difficult times.”

  “Where’s your mum and da?”

  “Dead.”

  Maise nodded. “Mine too. Least ways my mum is. Don’t
know about my da.” She struggled to her feet. One leg was badly twisted making her lean considerably to one side. She used a crooked length of wood to pull herself upright. “I like you, Fiona. Will you be my friend?”

  A friend. I had only ever had one friend. Euila. I wondered what Euila was doing now. Did she think about me? Did she wonder what had happened to me? Where I’d gone? Had her brother Alistair been made to pay for the death of my parents?

  The answer to that last question was obvious. Of course not. He was the earl’s son.

  “I’m not making any money. Mr. Jones said he’ll throw me out soon. I ain’t worth nothing to him. Maybe if I bring you to him, he’ll be happy with me. Do you want to meet Mr. Jones, Fiona?”

  I did not. However, I realized I had little choice. I could wander the crooked streets of London until I starved, wrapped in my independence and pride. Or I could meet Mr. Jones. I felt my knife, secure in the depths of my clothing and said, “I’d like that, Maise.”

  We didn’t have far to go. Maise couldn’t have walked far at any rate. She leaned heavily on her stick and alternately hobbled and hopped down the street. We turned into an alley. It was full daylight, and somewhere above the smoke of the city the sun was shining, but the alley was so dim it might have been the onset of a storm. The air smelled of piss and vomit and rotting meat. A naked black tail slithered between crumbling bricks at our approach, and I shuddered. We rounded the building, and Maise opened the back door. I peered into the gloom. A set of stairs led sharply upward. I smelled old cooking and fresh urine and a sharp acrid odour I could not identify.

  I hesitated. The stairs disappeared into darkness.

  “It’ll be all right, Fiona.” Maise said. “Mr. Jones isn’t a bad man. And it’s too early for him to have been drinking yet.”

  I decided to trust her. If I did not care for this Mr. Jones I could simply leave.

  We climbed three flights of stairs, Maise labouring to move slowly and painfully.

  In later years I had occasion to read the works of Mr. Charles Dickens. Although Oliver Twist was written many years before my time with Mr. Jones, that man might well have served as the inspiration for the character of Fagan.

  Mr. Jones ran a pack of children. Beggars and thieves. The children went out begging. They handed their pathetic earnings over to Mr. Jones at the end of the day. In turn, he fed them and let them sleep in one of his flea-infested blankets on the floor of the building I now entered. In some nod to propriety, the boys and girls had separate rooms.

  The first two floors of the building served as a brothel, also owned by Mr. Jones.

  When the girls reached a suitable age, if they were unmarked and moderately pretty, they were cleaned up, given an unpatched dress, and sent downstairs to work in the brothel. The boys were kicked back out into the streets from whence they had come. I never did decide which group had it better. In the second year of my residence, Mr. Jones took delight in telling us that Tommy, a lad who’d recently left us, was going to be hanged for killing a boy in a scrap over some spilled coins. If public hangings hadn’t recently been banned, I am sure Mr. Jones would have taken us on an outing to watch the event. Instead he tut-tutted and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, boys and girls, of what happens without my tutorialage.”

  He liked to use big words, and usually employed them incorrectly. After the first blow to the side of my head, I never again corrected him.

  But I’m getting ahead of my story. On the day I met Maise, Mr. Jones was seated in the main room, which he used as an office of sorts and where the children ate. He sat at a table, scarred and pitted (the table as well as Mr. Jones’s face), counting coins and sorting them into piles.

  He had heard Maise’s stick on the stairs and was staring at the door, his face a mask of fury when we entered. “What the hell are you doing, you stupid cripple, come here at this time of day?”

  “I …” the girl’s voice broke. “I brought you someone, Mr. Jones. This girl. She needs work. I thought …”

  “I’ve enough bloody girls,” he growled. He got to his feet. Maise cowered against the door.

  I stepped forward, and the weak light that penetrated the grime of the window fell on my face. “I am Fiona MacGillivray, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  His jaw dropped open.

  “I have recently arrived in London and am looking for accommodation and employment.” I had learned to speak properly from Euila’s governess, the formidable Miss Wheatley. Miss Wheatley was a member of the minor aristocracy, forced to earn her own living when her father drank and gambled (so Euila whispered to me) the family’s money away prior to taking the coward’s way out and putting a bullet into his brain. Miss Wheatley could be counted on to order me to hold out my hand for a beating should I let slip with a “wee” or “ye ken” or speak in any way like my parents. The Travellers recognized that my accent had as much worth as a sack of gold, and punishment would be dealt out should I forget myself. I had become accustomed to using my accent as a weapon. It could be relied on to have men like Mr. Jones giving me respect I did not deserve any more than poor crippled Maise did.

  He walked up to me. I was aware of Maise holding her breath. Mr. Jones smelled of clothes that were rarely washed and cheap gin drunk too often. He studied my face for a long time. I did not blink.

  “Untie your hair.”

  I lifted my arms and pulled out the red ribbon. Long, thick black tresses fell around my shoulders and down my back. I ran my fingers through it. My hair was dirty, as was I. But I was a good bit cleaner than anyone else in this room. Or on the street outside.

  “You’ll get an extra slice of meat tonight, Maise,” he said. “Now, get back to your corner.”

  “I would like her to stay,” I said. I liked Maise, but I wasn’t about to protect her. However, I had to establish my place here and now. Let Mr. Jones know I was not going to cower against the wall, as grateful for an extra piece of meat as a starving dog. “I need her to show me around. To help me settle in.”

  Maise sucked in a breath. For a moment I thought Mr. Jones would strike me. If he had, I would have had my knife in hand and be backing out the door before the blow landed. Instead he threw back his head and laughed. His teeth were surprisingly good. “You’ve a mouth on you, girl. I like that. Come on in, sit yourself down. Maise, you can stay. For a while.”

  He took the room’s only chair. The carpet was stained and worn almost through. I gathered my skirts around me and lowered myself to the floor. I kept a distance from Mr. Jones’s foot and my eyes on his face.

  He grinned. He knew I did not trust him.

  He liked that. He lifted a stick off his desk and rapped the floor three times. Then he settled back in his chair and said, “What brings you here, Fiona?”

  “I propose a business relationship,” I said, trying to sound as though it really didn’t matter much one way or another what happened. Inside, my heart was pounding; my palms were damp with sweat. I kept my breathing level, focused my eyes on his face, and struggled not to wipe my hands on my dress.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and a woman entered. Substantially overweight with small black eyes that peered malevolently at the world from within a face the colour and texture of pudding. Her chins wobbled, and breasts the size of melons drooped toward the floor. She was barefooted, with toenails like yellow claws, but her dress was surprisingly fashionable and well-fitting, and delicate gold hoops were in her ears. She looked at Maise as if she were something found underfoot, at Mr. Jones with downcast eyes, and at me with instant hostility.

  “Mrs. Hancock,” Jones said, “bring some bread and dripping for my fledgling guest.”

  The woman’s expression changed. From antagonism to curiosity.

  “And be quick about it,” he said.

  She growled something incomprehensible in response and went back to her lair. The stairs shook at her tread.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “A small
luncheon would be acceptable.”

  “I bet it would,” he replied. “So, while we’re waiting for your luncheon, tell me what you can do for me, girl.”

  I rose to my feet. I folded my hands neatly in front of me, and cast my eyes downward. “Good sir,” I said, “I wonder if I might ask you to be so kind as to grant me a small favour. My mother has taken ill. Hers is a sad story that I will not weary you with, but I’m afraid I’ve been robbed of the coins she gave me to buy her medicine. I dare not return home to disappoint her. I need only a few shillings.”

  He gaped at me. Then he burst out laughing. “You are good. I almost reached into my pocket myself. But, my sweet young thing, you won’t be able to use that story in Seven Dials.”

  “There are better places, I am sure. With a young man to watch my back and a nice clean dress …”

  “It might well work. And work well. Okay, my girl, we’ll give you a try.”

  Footsteps on the stairs once again. Mrs. Hancock lumbered in, bearing a plate on which sat the heel of a loaf of bread and a spoonful of greasy dripping. Mr. Jones nodded and she put the food on the table. “Help yourself,” he said to me.

  I refrained from leaping forward and stuffing my mouth as fast as possible. “Maise,” I said, “would you care to join me?”

  “I’m not feeding that runt in the middle of the day,” Mrs. Hancock yelped.

  “Be quiet,” Jones said. “Let Maise eat.” The girl crept forward. When she realized this was no trick and no one would leap out and smack her, she ripped off a hunk of bread, swiped it through the dripping, and retreated as fast as her twisted leg could move to her corner. I took the plate and settled back on the floor, the food on my lap. I ate. It was dreadful, even the Travellers ate better than this. But it was food and I needed it.

  “Find a dress for the girl,” Jones said.

  “Why?”

  “Never you mind why. A neat dress, clean. Decent. One of the whores must have something she can wear, even if you have to alter it a mite.”