Читать книгу The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller - Dilly Court, Dilly Court - Страница 8

The chill outside hit Clara like a slap in the face. Quite how she arrived on the pavement outside the alley she could not remember, but taking deep breaths of ice-laden air brought her abruptly back to her senses. She looked round, half hoping to find Luke waiting for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was only now that the impact of what had happened in the illegal gaming club hit her with full force. Eight guineas was a small fortune and she had about as much chance of raising such a sum in three days as she had of flying to the moon. She wrapped her shawl around her slender body and set off for home, ignoring lewd suggestions from the few men who were about on such a night, and the shrill threats from the women who braved the winter weather to solicit from doorways or open windows. She was numbed not only by the cold and the fact that Luke had abandoned her, but by the sheer impossibility of her situation. Patches Bragg was not like any other woman she had ever met and Clara felt completely out of her depth. Miss Silver might have been a martinet at times, but she was a saint by comparison.

Clara arrived home to find Betsy waiting for her in a state of considerable agitation. ‘Where’ve you been? I thought something terrible must have happened to you. Where’s Luke?’

‘He abandoned me, if you must know.’ Clara sank down onto a chair by the fire, which had burned down to a few desultory embers. A loud snore from the truckle bed made her glance over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he can sleep after what he’s done.’

‘What happened? You’re scaring me, Clara.’

‘Pa owes Patches Bragg eight guineas and she’s given me three days to find the money.’

Betsy’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a fortune. How are we to raise such a sum?’

‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth.’

‘What will happen if Pa doesn’t pay up?’

‘He’ll end up a cripple or worse. Luke was right about Patches. She’s a bad woman, but Pa is to blame too. His gambling has led us to this.’

A loud knock on the door made Clara jump to her feet. ‘They can’t have come for him already.’

‘I told you we should have left Pa and gone to your shop.’

‘Clara, are you there?’ Luke’s anxious voice was followed by another rap on the door.

She hurried to open it. ‘Where were you when I needed you? I had to walk home on my own—’ She broke off at the sight of his bloodied face. ‘What happened to you?’

He closed the door and leaned against it. ‘You might say that I had an argument with a lamppost.’

‘You’ve been fighting again, Luke Foyle. When is all this going to stop?’ Clara guided him to the chair she had just vacated and pressed him down on its seat. ‘Sit still and I’ll bathe your face.’ She plucked a towel from the rail and handed it to him. ‘There should be some warm water in the kettle.’ She turned to Betsy, who was standing by the bedroom door, pale-faced and trembling. ‘You look exhausted. You should get some sleep.’

‘I don’t want to be murdered in my bed. We’ve got to get out of here, Clara.’

Luke staunched his bleeding nose with the scrap of towelling. ‘You’re safe for tonight. I saw to that, but I can’t be here to protect you girls all the time. You need to leave this place and Alfred must get as far away from here as he can, if he wants remain in one piece.’

Clara’s hands trembled as she filled a bowl with tepid water. ‘Pa has to leave London, and when he sobers up I’ll tell him so.’ She took the towel and tore off a strip, using it to bathe the gash on Luke’s forehead. ‘How did you get this?’

‘I told you that Patches Bragg and the Skinners don’t get along. They’ve been fighting for control of Seven Dials for years, and I decided to go back to the club to make sure you were all right when I happened to bump into Patches’ son, Dagobert.’

‘You bumped into his fist, by the look of you,’ Clara said crossly. ‘You’ll have a black eye in the morning and I wouldn’t be surprised if your nose is broken. Why couldn’t you just walk away?’

‘You don’t know Bert Bragg.’

Momentarily diverted, Clara paused with the bloodied cloth in her hand. ‘If he’s anything like his mother I’d prefer to keep it that way.’

‘You’re right, he’s a nasty piece of work and you must keep clear of him.’

‘Maybe you should take your own advice. Just look at the state of you.’

‘If you think I’ll walk away from a fight, you don’t really know me, Clara.’ Luke snatched the damp cloth from her and held it to his bleeding nose. ‘He came off worst, if you’re interested. I left him lying in the snow in White Hart Court. Patches won’t like that, but it will take her mind of your father’s debts for a while.’

‘And if this man is as bad as you say he is, you’ll be the next one who has to leave London.’ Clara emptied the contents of the bowl into the stone sink.

‘Not me, sweetheart.’ Luke rose to his feet. ‘I’m going to marry you and raise a family of boys who’ll keep the streets free from Bert Bragg and his mother.’

‘That’s not what I want for myself.’ Clara pushed him away as he moved to embrace her. ‘I want to be free from gamblers and gangsters altogether, and I intend to make a better life for myself and any children I might have in the future.’

Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘I want a wife who’ll pay attention when I give her good advice.’

‘Then I am not the right woman for you, Luke Foyle.’

His expression lightened, and his lips twitched. ‘You’ll change your mind, sweetheart. You’ve had a bad time and you’re tired so I’ll leave and let you get some rest.’ He took her hands in his. ‘I might be able to find the money to get Alfred out of harm’s way, so sleep easy, my darling.’ He leaned over to brush her lips with a kiss and was gone before she had a chance to argue.

‘There you are,’ Betsy said triumphantly. ‘You should be nicer to Luke. He’s going to take care of us.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ Clara set about clearing spatters of blood from the table. ‘I won’t have anything to do with money gained from crime. I wish I’d never met Luke Foyle.’

‘You don’t mean that, Clara.’

‘Yes, I do. I’ve had enough of living like this, and I’m going to do something about it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Miss Silver left the shop to me. I intend to build up the business and expand when the time is right.’

‘That’s just a dream.’

‘Maybe, but sometimes dreams come true, especially if you’re prepared to work hard. If everything goes to plan I’ll take you on as head of the millinery department.’

‘And maybe one day we’ll go to bed with a full belly. I’m starving, Clara.’

‘So am I, but we have the money Luke loaned us, and first thing I’ll go to the bakery and get some fresh bread, and a pot of jam from Mr Sainsbury’s shop in Drury Lane.’

‘Could we run to a pat of butter?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Now go to bed and I’ll just make sure that Pa is all right, and then I’ll be in. Don’t wake Jane; she needs her sleep, poor child.’

Alfred lay groaning and calling for water when Clara entered the kitchen next morning. It was still dark outside but the snow made it seem that dawn had come early. Clara lit a candle and went over to the truckle bed.

‘I suppose you’re feeling very ill this morning, Pa. It really does serve you right.’

He covered his eyes with his hand. ‘My head hurts and my throat is parched. A cup of tea would go down well, Clara.’

‘I’m sure it would, Pa. But we have no coal, so I can’t boil the kettle. You’ll have to make do with melted snow because the pump is frozen solid.’

Alfred raised his head only to fall back against the pillow. ‘What have we come to?’

‘What indeed, Pa. And whose fault is it that we’re penniless and in debt?’

‘Don’t go on, girl. I’m a sick man.’

‘You’re suffering from the effects of drink, so don’t expect sympathy from any of us.’

‘What have I done to have such ungrateful children?’

‘You’ve run up gaming debts of eight guineas, Pa. That’s why we’re in this state.’

He sat up and this time he remained upright. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I went to see Patches Bragg last evening and she’s given you three days to find the money, or else …’ Clara did not need to finish the sentence. She could see by her father’s expression that he understood only too well. ‘You have to get away from London, Pa. I agree with Luke on that.’

‘Luke? Where is the boy? He can help me.’

‘No, Pa. He can’t. You have to go somewhere the Braggs won’t find you.’

‘But I can’t leave my girls. Who would look after you?’ Alfred’s once-handsome face creased into lines of distress, adding ten years to his age.

‘We will be safer if you aren’t here,’ Clara said, moderating her tone. Despite his failings he was still her father and she could remember the time when he had been her hero. ‘I can take care of Betsy and Jane, and Lizzie is all right where she is now. Is there anywhere you can go?’

Alfred clutched his forehead, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I can’t think. I don’t know what to do …’

‘It’s all right, Pa.’ She patted his hand. ‘I have to go out and get food and a bag of coal so that we can light the fire. We have three days to find a way out of this – three days, that’s all.’

She put on her outdoor things, picked up a basket and set off for the bakery.

When she returned she found to her surprise that Betsy had cleaned the grate and laid twists of newspaper and the last of the kindling ready to light to fire. Alfred had raised himself from his bed and had attempted to shave in cold water, but had cut himself and was holding the towel to his cheek.

Clara gave the shop boy a farthing for carrying the coal and she set the basket on the table. She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘I’ll get the fire going and make a pot of tea. We’ll talk after we’ve eaten, Pa. But we have to come to a decision soon.’

‘I’ve filled the kettle with snow,’ Betsy volunteered. She peered into the basket. ‘Did you get butter and jam?’

‘It was a choice between the two, so I bought jam.’ Clara set to and lit the fire before placing the kettle on the hob.

Betsy was already slicing the loaf and Jane emerged from the bedroom, yawning and blinking as a ray of sunlight filtered through the window. ‘Bread and jam – how lovely.’ She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘Are you quite recovered now, Pa?’

Alfred bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry, girls. You deserve a better father. I’ve let you all down and I’m ashamed of myself.’

‘That’s as may be.’ Betsy slapped a slice of bread onto a plate and thrust it in front of him. ‘Being sorry isn’t going to help us out of this tangle.’

Clara shot her a warning glance. ‘Pa knows what he’s done, Betsy. Give him a chance to put things right.’

‘I have a cousin who lives on the Dorset coast,’ Alfred said slowly. ‘Is the tea ready yet, Clara? My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak.’

‘Be patient. It will take a while longer. What were you going to tell us about your cousin?’

‘I haven’t seen Jim since we were boys. I doubt if we would recognise each other now, but we were friends once.’

‘Where is Dorset?’ Betsy gave the kettle a shake as if encouraging it to come to the boil. ‘I have to leave for work in a few minutes. I need a hot drink to ward off the cold.’

‘Never mind that now.’ Clara took a seat next to her father. ‘Dorset is a long way from here. You’d be safe there, Pa.’

Alfred gazed at her, his bloodshot eyes swimming with tears. ‘But what would I do there, Clara? Jim is a fisherman and he lives in a tiny thatched cottage. Can you see me in such a place?’

She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I can see you alive and well, living by the sea. You know what will happen to you if you remain here.’

‘You have to go, Pa,’ Betsy said firmly. ‘You haven’t any choice in the matter.’

‘I haven’t got the fare, girls.’

‘Then you’ll just have to walk.’ Betsy snatched her bonnet off the peg and rammed it on her head. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go now, and I haven’t had my cup of tea.’ She picked up her shawl and hurried from the room, muttering beneath her breath.

‘What have I done?’ Alfred held his head in his hands. ‘What have I brought you all to?’

‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ Clara rose to her feet. ‘Betsy’s right, though. You have to leave London and the sooner the better. The week’s takings have yet to be paid into the bank. I’ll borrow enough to buy you a railway ticket to Dorset but you must leave today.’

‘I can’t have you stealing money from Miss Silver. I’m a lot of things, Clara, but I won’t allow my daughter to take what doesn’t belong to her.’

Clara was tempted to tell him that she had inherited the shop and its entire contents, but she knew that would be fatal. The gleam would return to her father’s eyes and he would see the opportunity to double or treble his stake at the gaming table. It was a disease that was eating him away, for which there was no apparent cure. ‘I’ll work twice as hard to pay the money back, so you mustn’t worry.’

‘But, darling girl, if you have the money to send me to Dorset, wouldn’t it be better to give it to Patches? Then I’d be a free man and I could find work and support my family.’

‘It’s no good, Pa. Patches wants the money in full. I think you know her well enough to realise that she means business.’

‘All right, I’ll go to Dorset, Clara. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never go near Patches Bragg’s place again.’ Alfred reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Promise.’

Clara crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘All right, I promise. Now pack your things and I’ll go to the shop. The sooner you’re away from London the safer we’ll all be.’

Clara kept the shop closed for another day, ostensibly out of respect for Miss Silver, but in reality to accompany her father to Waterloo Bridge station. Even though he had promised to leave London, she was only too well aware of his erratic tendencies. When he was in a sorry state and riddled with guilt he would act and think rationally, but as the effects of drinking too much wore off and his optimistic spirit returned, he was likely to head for the nearest gaming club with his ticket money in his pocket.

Having made sure that he was on the train when it pulled out of the station, Clara set off to walk back to Wych Street. The sun shone palely on the snow-covered rooftops but the icy pavements were still slippery underfoot. The River Thames was swollen with snow melt on the ebb tide as it snaked its way towards the sea, swirling around the stanchions of Waterloo Bridge, playing with the vessels tied up at the wharfs so that they bobbed up and down like toy boats.

Clara made her way as quickly as possible in the icy conditions, intent on getting her sisters to the relative safety of Miss Silver’s shop. A wry smile curved her cold lips and she reminded herself that it belonged to her now, but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what Patches Bragg might do if she discovered that Alfred Carter’s daughter owned such a property. She quickened her pace, calling in first at the milliner’s in the Strand where Betsy was at work in the backroom.

Miss Lavelle did not welcome such intrusions, nor did she encourage visits from ladies whom she considered to be unsuitably dressed for a high-class establishment, and from the pained expression on her face when Clara entered the premises, that obviously included her. Tall and painfully thin, Miss Lavelle was able to look down her nose at someone who barely came up to her shoulder. Clara had never considered herself to be short, but Miss Lavelle made her feel small and insignificant.

‘You know the rules, Miss Carter,’ Miss Lavelle said icily. ‘No visitors during working hours.’

‘I do know, and I apologise, but this is something of an emergency. Might I have a quick word with my sister, please?’

‘She is busy. We have an order for a titled lady that must be completed today.’

‘Then would you be kind enough to pass on a message?’ Clara said firmly. ‘Betsy is not to go home tonight. Please tell her to go to the shop in Drury Lane. She’ll know what I mean.’

‘That sounds ominous, Miss Carter. If your family is in trouble I would like to know. I have to be very careful whom I employ. I am patronised by the carriage trade, and any taint of scandal would ruin me.’

‘Your reputation is quite safe, Miss Lavelle, but I would be grateful if you would give my sister the message.’ Clara swept out of the shop, head held high. She could only hope that Miss Lavelle’s notorious love of tittle-tattle would lead her to pass on the information in the hope of discovering a new scandal. One thing was certain – Betsy could stand up for herself. Sometimes she was too forthright for her own good, but she would not allow Miss Lavelle or anyone to browbeat her, and she would not breathe a word of their father’s fall from grace.

It was Jane who was now Clara’s main concern. Jane and Betsy were complete opposites. Betsy had the face of an angel and a core of tempered steel. No one got the better of Betsy Carter, but Jane was sensitive and easily hurt, and her disability made her an easy target for mockery in Seven Dials. Clara was not looking forward to breaking the news of their father’s sudden departure, and she had no intention of telling her youngest sister about Patches Bragg. There was something important she had to do before she went home.

The pawnshop in Vere Street exuded the familiar smell of sweaty old clothes, lamp oil and mildew. Fleet emerged from the back room, wearing two military overcoats with a striped woollen muffler wrapped several times around his scrawny neck. He had to climb over several piles of books and a jumble of pots and pans in order to reach the counter.

‘What you got to pawn this time, miss?’

‘Nothing, Mr Fleet. I’ve come to redeem my button box.’ Clara took the money from her reticule. She had taken the week’s takings from the strong box in Drury Lane, intending to use the money for her father’s railway ticket, but she could not allow her treasure to remain with Fleet for another day. He would only keep it for a specified amount of time before placing it for sale, and then it might be lost to her for ever, and with it the precious memories attached to each of her tiny treasures. There was little or no loveliness in the dark and dirty streets she knew, but one day she would escape the squalor of Seven Dials and create a place where colour and beauty could be shared by all. It was a dream, but to her the button box represented hope over despair, and success over failure. She placed the coins on the counter and Fleet reached up to retrieve the box from the top shelf.

‘Here you are, but I expect you’ll be back with it before the month is out.’

She shook her head. ‘I hope not, Mr Fleet. I sincerely hope not.’

Jane was seated at the kitchen table, finishing off a spray of silk flowers for Betsy. She looked up and a slow smile transformed her pale face. ‘Things must be looking up, Clara. You’ve got it back.’

‘Yes, I called in at the pawnshop on my way home. I couldn’t leave it there another moment.’

‘And we have jam,’ Jane said happily. ‘I had some on my bread, although I only took one slice. I didn’t want to be greedy.’

‘Having enough to eat isn’t being greedy.’ Clara felt the teapot and it was still warm. She filled a cup with the weak, straw-coloured liquid. ‘Jane, I have something to tell you. Pa has had to go away for a while. He’s gone to stay with his cousin in the country.’

‘Are those people after him for money, Clara?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, but he’ll be safe in Dorset with his cousin Jim.’

‘But you look sad, Clara. That’s not all, is it?’

‘No, dear. We have to move out of here today. I need you to help me pack our things, such as they are. We’re going to live above the shop in Drury Lane.’

‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it, Clara?’ Jane said, smiling. ‘I mean this isn’t what we are used to. I can remember when we owned the whole house and we had a cook and a maid, and Pa was a different person when Mama was alive. He used to kiss me goodbye every morning before he left for the City, and he dressed smartly and smelled of cologne.’

Clara put her cup down with a sigh. ‘You’re right, Jane. Things were better then but we have a chance to make a new life for ourselves, and you can play your part.’

‘What can I do? I’m a cripple and always will be.’

‘Don’t say things like that. You might not be able to walk very far, but you’re a bright girl and you have a good head for figures. You can help me in the shop.’

‘Can I really?’ Jane’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘I’d love that.’

‘But first we have to move our things to Drury Lane. Let’s make a start. The sooner we leave here, the better.’

It was not far from Wych Street to the shop in Drury Lane, but the snow on the pavements was rapidly turning to slush. Clara had hoped that Luke might turn up and offer to help, but there was no sign of him and she had no intention of going to his lodgings to beg for assistance.

As soon as they had sorted out what to take and what might be left until another day, Clara took Jane to the shop. It was slow going, but Jane was determined to walk and the distance hardly merited spending precious funds on a cab. Clara lit the fire in the back parlour and left Jane to settle in while she went home to collect as much as she could carry. She lost count of how many trips she made, but darkness was falling as she left the house in Wych Street for the last time, and under a cloudless sky the temperature plummeted.

Slipping and sliding on the frozen slush, she was close to exhaustion and every muscle in her body ached. Her fingers were clawed around the handles of a valise and a carpet bag, and she had lost all feeling in her toes. A man, walking head down against the bitter wind, almost collided with her and she lost her footing, saving herself from falling by clutching a lamppost.

‘Clara, is that you?’ The young man she had met at Miss Silver’s funeral hurried to her side.

‘Mr Silver?’ Clara managed to regain her balance and salvage her dignity.

He bent down to retrieve the carpet bag and valise. ‘Did you hurt yourself? I saw that fellow barge into you. He didn’t even stop to see if you were all right.’

‘My feet went from under me.’ She leaned against the lamppost, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to bring back the feeling in them. ‘I’m not hurt.’

‘Where are you going? May I help you? These bags are very heavy.’

‘I’m going to the shop in Drury Lane.’ Clara eyed him warily. He was hatless and his wildly curling auburn hair reached almost to the shoulders of his jacket, which was little protection on such a cold night. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, an unconscious gesture she recognised from the time they met at Miss Silver’s graveside. She had a sudden desire to laugh. ‘We do seem to meet in the oddest places, Mr Silver.’

‘Nathaniel, please.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Did you say you were going to the shop?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I have no choice but to move in. Do you mind?’

‘No, of course not. I told you before that I have no moral claim on my aunt’s estate. Let me prove my good intentions by helping you with your luggage.’

Clara was too tired to argue, but she realised that he had his violin case slung over one shoulder. ‘May I carry that? You have your hands full.’

He unhooked it and handed it to her. ‘I’ve just come from the audition I told you and Jane about at the Gaiety Theatre.’

‘Did you get the job?’ She started walking in the direction of Drury Lane.

‘Yes, it will do until something better turns up.’

She came to a halt, turning her head to give him a questioning look. ‘I don’t understand. If you have to take any work that comes along, why are you allowing me to take your inheritance? You could challenge the will, if you chose, and I don’t want to think of the shop as my own and then have it taken away from me.’

‘That won’t happen, I promise you.’

‘But you might need the money.’

‘I can assure you that is not the case.’

‘You told me that you play on street corners in order to buy food or to pay your rent. That doesn’t sound like the action of a man of means.’

‘Might we continue this conversation somewhere out of the cold? My hands are turning blue and I’ve lost the feeling in my feet.’

Clara nodded. ‘Me, too. Let’s get to the shop and sort this out once and for all.’