Читать книгу Unbuttoning Miss Matilda - Lucy Ashford - Страница 10

Jack Rutherford hauled himself up from the mattress on the floor, poured water into a bowl and began to wash. The water was ice cold, but he scrubbed his face and chest all the harder because he damned well deserved the discomfort. For the third morning in a row, he’d left it till nine o’clock to struggle out of bed—and what was more, he had a hangover clanging like a set of church bells inside his head.

You, he told himself, are an almighty fool.

He looked around the cramped attic room. Now, where on earth were his clothes? Lying in a heap on the floor, of course, exactly where he’d flung them before falling asleep at past three this morning. He began putting them on. Buckskin breeches and a frequently mended linen shirt. An old leather waistcoat and a pair of scuffed riding boots. After glancing at the mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall he ran one hand through his tousled black hair, noting that his jaw was dark with stubble.

He looked like a ruffian. Felt like a ruffian. The morning sun pouring in through the high window was hurting his eyes and his head—and it was all his own stupid fault, because he’d drunk far too much brandy last night at Denny’s gaming parlour.

He was twenty-six years old and his life was going precisely nowhere. Yes, he’d made some money at the card tables, but he needed to make a lot more and fast.

He clattered down two flights of twisting steps to emerge in a ground-floor room that was crammed with relics of the past, all set out on dusty shelves and counters. Then after pulling open the shutters and unlocking the front door, he stepped out into the cobbled lane and gazed back at the building from which he’d just emerged. A faded sign painted with the words Mr Percival’s Antiques hung over the door, although ‘Antiques’ was, in this case, a polite way to describe utter junk.

As for the rest of the street, it was crammed on both sides with terraces of three-storeyed shops and eating houses in various states of disrepair. His abode was distinguished by a window displaying just a sample of the wares inside—chipped chinaware, clocks that didn’t work and dog-eared books. Yet when Jack had taken on the lease two months ago, he’d been assured by Mr Percival himself that the business was a gold mine.

Jack had been dubious. ‘It’s a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it? Paddington?’

‘On the contrary! You’ll find, my dear Mr Rutherford, that the fashionable set from Mayfair and Westminster simply love to drive out to west London in their carriages, so eager are they for historic rarities with which to embellish their town mansions! Now, we decided on a six-month lease, did we not? And you are to pay me twenty guineas for all contents and fittings—are we agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Jack had said warily, shaking Mr Percival’s hand. He’d had a splitting headache that day as well—again, the result of too much brandy and too little sleep the night before. He hadn’t a clue about antiques—still hadn’t. But he’d known he had to do something to earn his living, something other than winning at cards, because winning made you enemies.

So Jack became an antiques dealer and he had tried to make a success of it, he really had. For the first two weeks he’d opened every morning at eight without fail, dusting the displays of bric-a-brac and cheap jewellery, making valiant attempts to impose some kind of order. Prices? He hadn’t a clue, but he took a guess and stuck on labels galore. He slept on a mattress in the attic, he bought lunch from the nearby pie shop at midday and drank his ale in the local public house.

He also acquainted himself with his neighbours. To his left was a furniture maker, though Jack saw him only rarely, since he appeared to spend his days drinking gin in a back room. To the right was the pie shop run by two lively girls called Margery and Sue, and they did rather better business, as did the noisy alehouse just beyond, which served the boatmen from the canal wharf close by.

All in all there were certainly plenty of people around, but as for the carriages of the rich rolling up, for the first two weeks there wasn’t one—in fact, to begin with, Jack’s only visitors were other dealers, all of whom glanced around and said something like, ‘You’ve a heap of worthless stuff here, haven’t you? I’ll take it all off your hands for a few pounds and believe me, I’ll be doing you a favour.’

Jack shook his head. But at the same time he was noticing that their rather greedy eyes always alighted on the items that actually were starting to sell. War relics.

It was almost a year since the long war with the French had come to an end and, in London, many unemployed ex-soldiers drifted around on the streets. Though they had little enough money in their pockets, quite a few still possessed relics of their soldiering days: items such as belts and knives, brass buttons from old army jackets, pistols and spurs.

Jack got talking to some of them one night in an alehouse. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll see if I can sell these things for you.’ So he paid for a small advertisement in The Times.

For Sale at Mr Percival’s Antiques Repository in Paddington.

Military Mementoes of Wellington’s Campaigns

The day after that advertisement appeared, a smart carriage rolled up outside Jack’s premises and an exceedingly well-dressed man entered. ‘I’ve come,’ he announced pompously, ‘to see these military mementoes of yours, young fellow.’

* * *

Half an hour later, another rich man arrived, then another. ‘Ah, the heroes of Salamanca and Waterloo!’ they would declare as they gloated over the pistols and spurs. Each time, Jack nodded politely. Each time Jack concealed his silent contempt for their fascination for these relics of war, guessing that they’d faint on the spot were they to get one glimpse of the horrors of a battlefield. And he made them pay—oh, yes—in hard cash.

But his calculations told him he was making just about enough to cover the rent, no more, which meant that some time soon he’d have to make a major decision about his future. As for now, it was surely time for a belated breakfast—and just down the road he could see a girl selling fresh-baked bread from a laden basket. He went to buy a couple of warm rolls, then strolled on, eating as he walked, to where the narrow street opened out to offer a completely different view.

For here, in front of him, was the newly built canal basin—Paddington Wharf. Thanks to this fresh waterway link with the north, the whole area heaved with industry and commerce. Jack walked on almost to the water’s edge, where boat after boat were moored.

This busy scene fascinated him. The canal was busy from dawn till dusk with boats arriving from the Midlands, mostly laden with coal which was rapidly—noisily—transferred on to the waiting carts and taken to be stored in the nearby brick warehouses. The bargees, he’d noticed, scarcely paused to draw breath because the minute their loads were delivered they set to work again—the men, their wives, their children—to scrub down their boats, refill the holds with timber or grain, then once more head north.

It was mighty hard work for the boatmen—hard work, too, for the horses who hauled the laden vessels, although those horses, he’d noticed, were tended with as much care as a cavalryman would lavish on his mount. As it happened, just then Jack’s eyes were caught by a big grey horse that was being led right past him, its halter firmly held by a youth in a long coat and battered, wide-brimmed hat.

The horse stopped to look at Jack inquisitively and he reached out to stroke his neck. ‘Hello there, old fellow,’ he murmured. ‘I’d guess you have some stories to tell.’

‘Best watch yourself, mister,’ the youth in the battered hat warned him. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

‘Doesn’t he, now?’ Jack tickled the animal behind one ear until it gave a soft whicker of pleasure.

The lad’s face was shadowed by that big hat, but Jack was pretty sure he looked irritated by the horse’s evident delight. The lad tugged at his horse’s leading rein and moved on, but called back over his shoulder, ‘Hear that noise? You won’t find those tar barrels quite as friendly as my horse.’

Indeed, there was an ominous rumbling sound getting louder and Jack spun round, jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by some huge barrels that were being rolled along the quayside. Damn! That was close. Breathing rather hard, he took one last look at the grey horse and its slim owner both heading for the blacksmith’s forge, from which came the clanging of hammers on hot iron.

The noise and clamour reminded him that everyone around here was busy except for him and slowly he set off back to his shop, but he was sorry to leave the wharf with all its bustle and energy. More than once he’d found himself envying the sense of community these people who lived around the wharf seemed to enjoy, the sense of belonging. They were also a watchful set and it hadn’t taken long for the regulars to get to know where Jack lived—they called him Mr Percival, or sometimes just Mr Percy, the antiques man. Right now, a bunch of young women from the boats were walking back with full baskets from the local food market.

‘All right there, Mr Percy?’ one of them called. ‘D’you need a hand with anything today?’

They were casting eyes of approval over his curly black hair, his leather waistcoat and breeches and boots. He smiled back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Letting himself into the dust and disarray of his shop, he lit a couple of candles to highlight the debris and wondered what on earth to do next. For several years he’d served with the British army in Spain—in fact, he’d been an officer and Lord Wellington himself had valued him highly. ‘You’re my man for tactics, Rutherford,’ Wellington used to say to him. ‘You’re my man for digging out the enemy’s secret plans.’

And what were Jack’s plans now? He was aiming to get back his inheritance, that was what. He was plotting revenge against the man who’d robbed him, while he’d been away, of his home, his heritage and his pride.

Who’d robbed him, in other words, of pretty much everything.