Lady Lightfingers (11 page)

Thomas slid Celia's letter from the notebook and began to read it, exclaiming,

‘Oh, the poor child . . . listen to this, James. It's from Celia Laws. Such a tragedy.'

James lowered the paper and gazed over the top at his uncle. ‘Must I?'

‘James, do please act your age and pay attention.' Thomas ignored his nephew's groan and began to read.

James huffed with laughter. ‘What's that . . . one of Celia's stories? It certainly sounds like a dramatic opening . . . definitely a tragedy. I believe she might be descended from William Shakespeare.'

‘They say that truth is stranger than fiction, James, and this is the truth, according to Mrs Packer. Celia's mother has been killed, the poor woman. The young man who hastened her on her way has been arrested, or so Mrs Packer tells me.'

Gazing sharply at his uncle, James paid more attention to what the older man was saying. ‘Mrs Laws is dead?' Although he'd only met her once, she couldn't have been much older than him, and he'd liked her. It was too sudden to take in.

‘What of her children?'

His query was answered with his uncle's next breath.

‘Celia is lucky in that she has relatives to fall back on.'

‘She will be if they'll take her in.'

James smiled at her comment. ‘It's a nicely written letter, and I can understand why she intrigued you, but she has slipped through your fingers now. So much for your study and your address to the Anglican Philanthropic Society; you'll have to find another subject.'

‘Not entirely, since her writing reveals much.' Thomas fingered through the book, stopping to read now and again, often giving a faint smile or an occasional, ‘Hmmm,' or just nodding to himself.

James raised an eyebrow when Thomas looked up at him and growled. ‘This arrived over a week ago, and Mrs Packer has only just thought to give it to me. I could have done something to help the girl.'

‘You were too sick. Besides, Celia Laws struck me as being a capable young woman with a great deal of independence to her. She reminds me of a cat that always lands on its feet. Had she needed your help, she would have asked for it, or failing that, would have helped herself to it.' He gave a wry grin, remembering that he'd checked every pocket in his clothing after they had last met. ‘She's obviously decided not to take up writing, though. I doubt if she's got the scholarship for it, anyway.'

‘She has enough, and possesses a fine sense of story and a flair for drama that just needs channelling. Her characters are delightfully depicted, almost caricatures. I was looking forward to educating her a little further.'

‘Did she know of your plan?'

Thomas shook his head. ‘Teaching doesn't always have to be obvious. Often it's better if it's unobtrusive, because the rigid application of a set text can become a chore to the pupil rather than a pleasure. Celia was interested in everything going on around her, and her curiosity will open her to learning for the rest of her life. I wonder where she is now. It's so cold out and they'll have nowhere to stay.'

‘On her way to the country, I imagine. Don't worry, Uncle. You know there is nothing you can do to help, and she said she will write as soon as she's settled. No doubt she will tell you where she is then, so you'll have to be patient. Surely, she doesn't intend to walk all that way?'

‘Mrs Packer said she had her sister in a cart and there was a lad with her. The dear woman gave them some money from the teapot for the train, and had the wit to give the girl a basket of food to take with her. She seems to think they were heading for Dorset.'

‘Mrs Packer's bark has always been worse than her bite.'

‘James, my boy, do try and stop comparing everyone to animals. I'm quite sure your vocabulary extends beyond the idiom, however apt they are to the situation. You should study zoology perhaps.'

James grinned widely at him. ‘If you'd been to the Old Bailey lately, you'd realize that it's practically the same thing. I'll be interested to see how the prosecution of the felon who killed Mrs Laws proceeds.'

James attended the trial a week later. The lad was twelve years old. Charged with manslaughter, he was sentenced to death by hanging. He collapsed in the dock, shivering with fright. His family was dead, he said. He'd been cast from his lodging, was starving and had no money. He didn't mean to kill the woman . . . she'd broken her head on the wall when she fell over.

It was a tale that the judge had heard many times before. Immune to it, he had no pity to spare. The man made it clear. Hang, the boy would, if
he
had anything to do with it.

Luckily there was a higher power. Half of the crimes by the young were committed out of sheer desperation, and without thinking of consequence. Often it was a case of steal for a living, or die of starvation. James consulted with an acquaintance of his, and one of the reform lawyers took up the lad's case. He applied for a pardon, placing the lad's petition before a sympathetic minister.

Eventually, James was able to report to his uncle that the lad's sentence was rescinded to transportation to Western Australia for life.

Thomas could only feel relieved. Much as he'd liked Mrs Laws and felt sorry for her children, the lad was only a child himself, and the death penalty was harsh. Children deserved a chance to reform and go on to lead a more useful life, he thought, wishing he had some of his own.

Thomas had learned a lot from his association with Celia Laws and her family. Poverty pulled human beings down. The outcome was destitution, prostitution, and the vilest of crimes being committed in the struggle to survive.

He hoped with all his heart that Celia would find her way out of the mire she was in. That night he included her in his prayers, and asked God to protect her and all who travelled with her on her hazardous journey. He thought to add: ‘And I'd be appreciative if you'd make your immediate priority a bellyful of food, and a warm roof over their heads.'

It was the coldest of days; the wind threw splatters of stinging sleet at them. Celia's chest had begun to ache with every breath.

She didn't know how long they'd been travelling, many days, but it had been by foot, since the third-class train had already gone by the time they got to the station, and the eleven o'clock one was for first-class passengers only.

The man who sold the tickets looked down his nose at them. ‘It's not for the likes of beggars, even if you have got two pounds for the fare, which I doubt, since I can smell you from here. It would also give the company a bad name. Anyway, there'd be no room for the cart, so be off with you. Come for the third class in the morning. It will take a bit longer, about six hours, but it will be cheaper.'

Celia didn't want to linger at the station, where Bessie was almost bound to send her thugs to look for her. The woman had a long memory, and didn't like being thwarted, she'd heard.

She thought that the seven-shilling fare to Southampton was too expensive for third class, and if the trip only took six hours, it wouldn't take much longer if they went by foot . . . a day or two at most. She could put the fare money to better use.

However, the six hours that the train would have taken didn't transfer well to the effort they'd spent tramping by foot, and the money she'd saved had been used up buying food. With the cart to push and the night closing in early, they were lucky to go two miles every day, before, they needed to seek food and shelter.

At night they'd slept in barns and cowsheds, sometimes in the open. The night before they'd come across a deserted cottage, and had stayed there for two whole days regaining their strength, despite the wind whistling through a hole in the roof.

Their last meal had been stale bread washed down with water. After London, with its many stalls and markets, she hadn't been prepared to encounter such stretches of empty countryside – and she now wished she hadn't been so miserly, and had spent the money Charles Curtis had given her on a more comfortable mode of travel.

But it had become a symbol to her, that money. She wouldn't feel under an obligation to him unless she spent some of it, and once she'd taken a bite from it she would throw caution to the wind and spend it all. Then she'd think less of herself, as though she'd sunk below some invisible line of decency.

She had the money she'd saved from begging, and the gift from Mrs Packer on Mr Hambert's behalf, dear, generous friend that he was. Then there was the guinea Charles Curtis had spun twinkling through the air, a reward for the return of his card case.

Celia grinned. Honesty had paid off, though in a dishonest sort of way.

She'd spent a small amount of her precious money on a pot of lamb broth at the last inn, and some milk for Lottie, because their mother had said it was good for her bones. She gazed at her sister. Lottie was still shivering, though her eyes were sleepy. Celia tucked the blanket about her head and made sure that Mrs Packer's gift of an umbrella was pointed towards the wind before she stooped to tenderly kiss the girl. The umbrella had proved to be a godsend.

‘It's getting dark. We'll have to find shelter before too long,' Johnny said, with a worried look around them. ‘We're in the New Forest. There's bound to be a cottage where we can shelter.'

‘We might have to sleep in the open tonight, and we'll have to go hungry.' And to think she'd been looking forward to the country fresh air her mother had told her about. Now there was too much, and it was too fresh!

Celia hadn't expected the journey to be so long or hazardous. She hadn't kept count of the days they'd been trudging along, and knew she'd give almost anything to have a cellar to sleep in tonight, except what people wanted her to give. She'd never go back to that life. Not ever! So what was the point of thinking about it?

Johnny pointed. ‘There's a bit of a track going into the trees. Let's look there.'

As they entered the canopy of trees the day darkened considerably.

‘What's that,' Celia cried out, pointing to a framework of sticks that supported layers of overlapping sod.

‘It's a charcoal burner's hut, I reckon. My dad told me a story about one. See, over there is where he makes the charcoal, but it's not burning at the moment.' Nearby, an axe leaned against a woodpile.

There was no answer to their shouts, so they ventured nearer.

The small, earth-smelling cave looked to be a cosy place in which to hole up. There was a curtain of sacking across the low entrance, which could be tied to pegs to keep the weather outside. Celia wished she had some milk for Lottie as she unpacked the cart. But Lottie didn't even give a whimper. She was used to going hungry.

Exhausted, they curled up together on a platform of wood, which was nailed to stakes to keep the sleeper above the damp ground. It was covered with a pile of sacks for a mattress. Celia took Lottie under her blanket and snuggled her into her body to keep her warm.

The wind came in fitful bursts, but none of them heard it.

Lottie's giggles brought Celia awake. Her eyes opened to the sight of her sister playing with a small terrier. There was a smell of cooking in the air. Johnny was still asleep. His face, usually pinched with worry, was now relaxed. Celia wished he would always look like that.

Her eyes widened as a shadow of a man passed by the opening, and she shook Johnny awake, whispering, ‘There's someone out there.'

A voice rasped, ‘Don't you youngsters be frighted, now. Old Busby won't hurt you. Likely you'll want to go and wash your faces in the stream before breakfast.'

‘Breakast?' Johnny said with some bliss, elbowing her gently in the ribs, and his eyes began to shine. ‘I haven't eaten breakfast since the day we left London.'

Neither had she. Celia's stomach grumbled emptily at the thought of being filled.

The charcoal burner was short, with a weathered face. A long grey beard decorated his chin and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. He jerked his thumb when she emerged from the den with Lottie, and she followed a path to the stream.

Johnny would allow her some privacy and wait until she was finished, she knew. She took herself and Lottie into some dense bush a short way off, where they made themselves comfortable. Breaking through a film of ice coating the surface of the stream they washed their hands and faces and returned, shivering, to the fire. A pot swung back and forth over a tripod. The terrier wagged its tail and gave a couple of yaps.

‘Quiet, Tinker, these be friends,' Busby said.