A Mother's Secret

by Dilly Court

  ‘No!’ Cassy and Lottie spoke in unison.

  ‘Have you gone quite mad, Cassy?’ Flora stood in the tiny living room behind the tailor’s shop, arms akimbo, glaring at Mrs Wilkins and Freddie as if they had suddenly sprouted two heads apiece. ‘What were you thinking of? We’ve problems enough without you collecting beggars along the way.’

  ‘Hold on, missis,’ Mrs Wilkins protested. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m a respectable widow. My husband was in Colonel Phillips’ regiment.’

  Belinda stopped slicing the pie. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkins, isn’t it? I remember you well. You used to give me toffees when my ayah wasn’t looking.’ She turned to Flora with an anxious smile. ‘I know this woman, and it was through Mahdu that I arranged for her to take the boy and bring him up as her own.’ She hesitated, her smile fading. ‘Poor Mahdu. I miss her terribly.’

  ‘The Indian lady used to bring money once a month but it stopped suddenly,’ Mrs Wilkins said, ruffling Freddie’s blond hair. ‘I love me boy as if he was me own, but I can’t take in sewing like I used to, what with the rheumatics knotting me poor fingers so that I can’t hold a needle. We struggled on, but in the end I couldn’t pay the rent and the landlord threw us out on the streets.’

  Flora sniffed the air like a gun dog scenting a kill. ‘And you drink to drown your sorrows. You smell like a distillery, madam.’

  ‘I don’t think you are in a position to criticise,’ Belinda said with unusual asperity. ‘We might all be driven to drink if we can’t find a way out of this mess.’

  Cassy moved to her mother’s side. ‘You won’t throw them out, will you, Ma? There must be something we can do.’

  ‘It will be up to Mr Solomon, Cassy,’ Belinda said gently. ‘This is his house and we are already greatly in debt to him for giving us a roof over our heads.’

  ‘My pa is the best-hearted man in all of London,’ Lottie said, spooning pease pudding onto the plates. ‘He’s never turned anyone from the door or walked past a beggar on the streets.’

  ‘You exaggerate, my dear.’

  Conversation ceased as everyone turned to stare at Eli who was standing in the doorway, holding his hat in his hands. Lottie dropped the spoon and ran to him, giving him a hug. ‘Naughty Pa. You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.’

  ‘I wasn’t. On my life, I swear it.’ Eli’s walnut face cracked into lines as he smiled down at his daughter. ‘I see we’ve got more guests,’ he added, bowing to Mrs Wilkins. ‘Are you part of the family, ma’am?’

  ‘No indeed.’ Mrs Wilkins bristled like an angry hedgehog. ‘I should have more manners than her.’ She jerked her head in Flora’s direction.

  ‘Insolent creature.’ Flora drew herself up to her full height. ‘I think I should like to lie down, Mr Solomon, if your daughter would be so good as to show me to my bedchamber.’

  Lottie glanced at Cassy, her delicate winged eyebrows raised. ‘It’s my room, Mrs Brown. I’m afraid you’ll have to share it with Cassy and Lady Davenport. We’ve only two bedrooms; the attics are filled with bolts of material.’

  ‘You can have the bed, Flora,’ Belinda said hastily. ‘Cassy and I will sleep anywhere. On the floor if necessary.’

  ‘And I won’t stay where I ain’t wanted.’ Mrs Wilkins dragged Freddie away from the table where he was tucking ravenously into a plate of pie and pease pudding. ‘We’ve been sleeping in shop doorways for a fortnight or more; another night won’t kill us.’

  ‘Madam, I don’t know who you are, but no one in this room will sleep rough tonight. Mrs Brown may take my bed, and the attic is clean and dry. You are welcome to make yourself and the boy as comfortable as you can up there.’

  Mrs Wilkins eyed the pie. ‘Maybe I will take a little sustenance before I retire for the night.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake sit down and stop complaining,’ Flora said, taking a seat at the table and reaching for a plate of food. ‘Think yourself lucky that Mr Solomon is a generous man.’

  Ignoring Flora’s sudden change of heart, Belinda turned to Eli with a smile. ‘You will join us in our meal, I hope, Mr Solomon?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my lady.’

  ‘Belle, please. I’m to be plain Belinda Lawson from now on.’

  Mrs Wilkins paused with a forkful of food halfway to her lips. ‘I recall a handsome young officer by the name of Lawson. I’m sure he was my Albert’s superior officer. He was the handsomest man I ever saw: a touch of the tarbrush maybe, but a gent all the same. You must remember him, ma’am.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Mrs Wilkins,’ Belinda said, blushing. She handed a plateful of food to Eli who took it with a beatific smile on his face.

  ‘You could never be described as being plain, ma’am. No one would ever call you anything but beautiful.’

  ‘Never mind the flattery,’ Flora said impatiently. ‘Did you find us alternative accommodation, Mr Solomon?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll go out tomorrow and look,’ Cassy said, helping Freddie to another slice of pie even though it meant that there would be only a small piece left for her.

  ‘You will not.’ Flora put her plate down with a decisive thud. ‘That was ghastly, but at least it was food. Cassy, I have plans for tomorrow and they include you. I intend to visit my solicitor and I want you to accompany me as my maid.’ She held up her hand as Belinda seemed about to protest. ‘No, Belle. I won’t allow my standards to drop, and I don’t want to give a mere lawyer the impression that I am desperate for money.’

  ‘But we are, and I don’t want my daughter to be treated like a servant.’

  ‘You were happy enough to do so when it suited you,’ Flora said acidly. ‘I’m not asking the girl to scrub floors, although if we don’t get money from somewhere it may come to that.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Ma.’ Cassy gave the last piece of pie to Freddie. ‘I’ll do anything to help get us out of this tangle.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Lottie said, clapping her on the shoulder. ‘I’d love to stay and chat, Cassy, but I’ve got to go to the hospital to begin my shift. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  The living room with its dark painted walls and bare window overlooking the back yard seemed even smaller and gloomier without Lottie’s cheerful presence. The black marble clock on the mantelshelf had a loud tick when it could be heard above Flora’s complaining tones, and the shop bell called Eli away several times before he had finished his meal. It was a comfortless room, Cassy thought, as she cleared the supper things off the table. Lottie’s attempts at making it more homely, which she had proudly shown Cassy before the meal, included a crimson satin cushion on the saggy old chair by the hearth, and several cheap china ornaments vying for position on the shelves with bolts of cloth and reels of thread. These feminine touches did little to relieve the stark masculinity of the room, which Cassy found depressing, and there were too few chairs to seat everyone.

  It was a relief when night fell and they made their way upstairs. Eli elected to sleep in his chair by the fire, and although Flora complained bitterly that the bed he had given up for her was hard and the sheets coarse and not very clean, she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Cassy could hear her aunt’s snores reverberating throughout the house, while she herself tried to make the best of sleeping on the bare floorboards covered by a thin blanket, with Lottie’s crimson cushion for a pillow. She knew by the way the iron bedstead creaked and groaned that sleep was not coming easily to her mother, and the darkness gave Cassy the courage to voice the question that had been burning on her lips. She had sensed her mother’s discomfort when Mrs Wilkins recalled the handsome young officer whose surname she bore, and she could hold back no longer. ‘Ma, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course, Cassy. What is it?’

  ‘Who was the man that Mrs Wilkins spoke of and why did you choose his name for me?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Next day during the cab ride to Linc
oln’s Inn Fields, Cassy was still pondering over her mother’s reluctance to talk about the young officer, whose name she had discovered was George Lawson. That was the only fact that she could elicit. Ma had been vague to the point of mysterious when questioned further. He was one of the officers in her father’s regiment, she said. A brave man, killed in action. There was little else to say about him. Why had she given Cassy his name? Why not? It was as good as any other, and the first that had come to mind. It was late, time to go to sleep, but as Cassy lay on her makeshift bed on the floor she could tell by her mother’s breathing that she too was still wide awake.

  It had taken Cassy a long time to doze off, and she had dreamt that she had found her father. She could not see his face clearly but she knew that he was tall and handsome, dashing and brave. He was calling her name and holding out his arms as she ran towards him. She tripped and stumbled and she was falling, falling . . . She had awakened to find daylight streaming through the window and her mother’s bed empty.

  ‘Did you hear me, girl? I don’t want you to say a word when we’re in the solicitor’s office,’ Flora said, snapping Cassy out of her reverie.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘You’ve been trained as a servant, so just remember your place.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Flora peered out of the window. ‘We’re nearly there. Thank goodness for that. I hope I’ve enough money to pay the fare.’

  ‘If you haven’t I’ll keep him talking while you go inside, and then I’ll make a run for it.’

  ‘I hope you’re joking.’ Flora eyed her suspiciously. ‘But should the necessity arise, I think it best if I give you my purse. Ladies of quality do not handle money. I’ll walk on ahead, and if there isn’t enough to pay the fare you know what to do, but don’t look to me to get you out of prison if the law catches up with you. I’ll deny all knowledge of you.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I rather thought you would.’

  The cab drew to a halt outside the solicitor’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Flora alighted and stalked off, mounting the steps as though, Cassy thought, she owned the place. It was left to her to pay the cabby, who was quite plainly not in the best of moods and kept blowing his nose into a rather dirty red handkerchief. He glowered at her when she did not give him a tip, but she closed her fingers tightly around the remaining coins and followed Flora into the building.

  The waiting room appeared to be crowded with people, and to Cassy’s astonishment one of them, a rustic-looking man wearing a billycock hat and gaiters, had a large calf tethered to his wrist by a rope. The animal wore a desultory expression as if it had detached itself from the proceedings, but the agitated persons surrounding the farmer were anything but calm. ‘He’s ours and you stole him.’ A thin woman with the hint of a dark moustache and a mop of thick black hair shook a bony finger at the man holding the animal.

  ‘I never did. He’d got loose from the pen in Smithfield, ’tis true, but he’s mine all the same.’

  ‘He was one of ours,’ the woman argued. ‘I’d know him anywhere.’

  The calf began to roll its eyes and prance about, but the farmer jerked on the rope and with a swift movement pulled the animal onto its haunches, holding it between his knees. It relaxed instantly, staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. ‘See how it is?’ the farmer said. ‘He knows who’s master here.’

  ‘We shall see what the man of the law says about that, mister.’ A tall rangy man standing just behind the woman made a move to grab the calf but his action seemed to startle the animal and it struggled to free itself, scrabbling to its feet, bucking and shaking its head as it tried to slip free of the noose tied around its neck. The farmer threw himself on the calf and the tall man fell upon the farmer.

  ‘Good gracious, what is the world coming to?’ Flora demanded, holding up her skirts and backing towards the door. ‘This is a madhouse. Where is Mr Nixon? I want to see my solicitor.’ She spun round as a worried-looking clerk entered the room clutching a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ he murmured, waving his hand ineffectually. ‘This is a law office, not a farmyard. I beg of you to take the animal outside.’

  Cassy leapt sideways as the calf made a break for the open door dragging the farmer along behind it. The irate woman and her companions hurried after them, shouting and demanding that the animal be brought back to face justice.

  The clerk mopped his brow with a spotless white handkerchief. ‘My apologies, madam. A most unfortunate incident.’

  Flora dusted her skirts as if expecting them to be covered in mud, although Cassy could see that it was an unnecessary piece of theatre.

  ‘What makes the yeoman stock think they can mingle with their betters?’ Flora glared at the unfortunate man as though the whole episode was his doing. ‘Have you no control over who comes into your rooms?’

  ‘Farmer Mullins is a very wealthy man, ma’am. He may smell of the farmyard but he’s been a client here ever since I can remember, and he pays his bills on the nose.’

  ‘How vulgar. But that is no concern of mine. I wish to see Mr Nixon right away.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am. He’s waiting for you. Please follow me.’

  ‘I’ll think seriously about changing my lawyer,’ Flora said in a loud whisper as she left the waiting room. ‘Come, Lawson. Don’t dawdle.’

  Cassy would much rather have gone outside onto the green to witness the struggle to gain control of the calf, but she knew better than to disobey Flora. She followed them down a long dark passageway to the back of the building, where the clerk ushered them into a large room which was more like a gentleman’s study than an office. A mahogany breakfront bookcase was crammed with tomes bound in leather and a large aspidistra occupied pride of place on the windowsill. A strong smell of Macassar oil and bay rum wafted gently in the warm air and a coal fire blazed in the grate. In one corner, standing like a naughty child doing penance, a long-case clock struck eleven.

  The solicitor rose slowly from his seat behind a mahogany pedestal desk to acknowledge Flora with a courteous bow and an ingratiating smile. ‘My dear Signora Montessori, it is always a pleasure to see you. Won’t you take a seat?’

  Flora remained standing. ‘I’ve reverted to my former name of Fulford-Browne,’ she said stiffly. ‘I want nothing to do with the libertine who ruined me.’

  Mr Nixon rubbed his hands together vigorously, as if washing them with soap and water. ‘I understand your feelings, ma’am. A most regrettable outcome to what should have been a happy union.’

  He pulled up an ornately carved chair, and, somewhat reluctantly, Flora lowered herself onto the seat. Cassy stood to attention by the door. She would have liked to move closer to the fire as the damp chill of early autumn still clung to her clothes, but she had been well trained by Mahdu and knew how to melt into the background so that she became almost invisible.

  ‘It was a damnable outcome, Nixon,’ Flora said with feeling. ‘The Italian rat has sold my house and apparently run off back to his native land so that he can avoid supporting me. He has left me with nothing.’

  Mr Nixon resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. ‘It’s true that your fortune became the property of your husband on your marriage, but thanks to the Married Women’s Property Act, which was passed a few years ago, you are entitled to keep the house in Duke Street which was left to you by your previous husband.’

  Flora shot a triumphant look at Cassy. ‘I can keep my home.’

  Mr Nixon shook his head. ‘Not exactly. Unfortunately, Signor Montessori sold the property apparently with your blessing, as you signed the deeds over to him.’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ Flora protested. ‘The question never arose.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mrs Fulford-Browne, you did sign the document. I have seen it myself and verified that it is indeed your signature.’

  ‘You’re all in it together,’ Flora cried angrily. ‘You lawyers are all the same.’
/>   ‘I resent that, ma’am. But I can understand why you are upset. Perhaps you signed the document unknowingly?’

  Flora frowned thoughtfully. ‘I did put my name to some business transaction that Leonardo said would make us a fortune, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off and her mouth drooped at the corners. ‘The bastard duped me.’

  ‘Precisely so, ma’am. An easy mistake to make when one trusts the perpetrator of such a dastardly deception. Anyway, I believe that the proceeds from the sale went to your husband’s creditors, and that bankruptcy proceedings have been initiated against him for the remainder of the monies owed.’

  ‘So I am completely without funds?’

  A slow smile spread across Nixon’s urbane countenance. ‘Not entirely, ma’am. Your former husband left a sum of money in trust for you, which cannot be touched by your present husband’s creditors.’

  ‘God bless Fulford-Browne. How much did he leave me? Tell me, man. How much have I to live on?’

  ‘Fifty pounds a year.’

  ‘Fifty pounds!’ Flora sat back in her chair, staring at him aghast. ‘I can’t live on fifty pounds a year. I spend as much as that on gloves and shoes.’

  ‘Nevertheless it is quite a respectable sum, ma’am. My clerk has raised a family of ten children on less than half that amount.’

  Flora rose to her feet. ‘When do I get this princely sum, Nixon?’

  ‘It will, according to the terms of your late husband’s will, be paid to you quarterly. I can advance the first payment right away, but there is a little matter of my fees.’

  ‘Send the account to me,’ Flora said airily. ‘I’m residing temporarily in Whitechapel, but I’m looking for more suitable accommodation. I don’t suppose you know of anywhere that might be acceptable?’

  Nixon reached for a wicker filing basket and rifled through a sheaf of documents. ‘I think I might have just the place, ma’am. A client of mine has taken up a position as estate manager on a sugar plantation in Jamaica. He wanted me to find a respectable person to rent his former home for an indefinite period.’