Ragamuffin Angel (21 page)
Now it was just five days before Christmas and the hotel had never been busier, most of the fifty rooms occupied and the restaurant full each night, both with guests and Sunderland inhabitants who were enjoying festive outings. And, wouldn’t you know it, as she’d said herself to Mary the night before, half the staff were down with influenza, which necessitated the other half running round like chickens with their heads cut off.
By rights she and Mary should both have had this Saturday off, but they had worked all day before popping home for their tea – they could have eaten all their meals at the hotel but preferred the cosiness of Walworth Way, as well as the break from the frantic pace – and now the two girls were slipping and sliding along High Street West, which was frozen solid, replete after toasted muffins oozing with butter and jam.
It had been snowing heavily for days, and although the main roads were being kept clear the icy conditions made walking treacherous, but Connie and Mary giggled as they held on to each other, first one, then the other, nearly falling headlong on the glassy pavements.
‘Oh, Mary . . .’ Connie suddenly stopped dead, gazing up into the black velvet sky from which the first desultory snowflakes of the evening were beginning to whirl and dance. ‘I can’t believe how I feel right at this moment. I feel . . . I feel like a bairn on Christmas morning, like the whole world is mine and nothing can go wrong. I’d forgotten you can feel like this.’
‘Aye, lass, we both had a short childhood.’ And then, on a less sober note, ‘But as for nothin’ goin’ wrong! By, that’s temptin’ fate, that is, with the bedlam that’s goin’ to hit us when we walk through the door. Old Ma Pegg was all for me an’ Flo makin’ the beds with a broom stuck up our backsides so’s we could sweep up as we went this mornin’, I’m not funnin’.’
They were giggling unrestrainedly again now, their breath forming white clouds in the icy air, but they were both to remember the conversation before the night was out and wonder what quirk of fate had been at work.
Lucy Alridge practically jumped on Connie as the two girls walked into the hotel a minute or two later, drawing her to one side as she whispered urgently, ‘I’m so glad you’re back, it’s chaos, Connie, absolute chaos. Poor Harold is beside himself.’
Any formality between the two women had long since fallen by the wayside; Lucy Alridge held Connie in high regard, and more than that, as a close friend, and it was in that capacity that she addressed her now saying, ‘Mrs Pegg has virtually collapsed and another of the waiters is ill. This dreadful flu just won’t let up, Connie. Would you, could you, wait on tables tonight? We’ve already got two of the housemaids coming in for two of the kitchen maids who are ill as you know, because Cook can’t cope. I wouldn’t dream of asking you normally –’
‘It’s all right.’ Connie put her hand on Lucy’s arm as she said soothingly, ‘Of course I’ll help out, that’s what I’ve come back for, isn’t it.’
‘You’re an angel. And, Connie’ – Lucy now leant closer and whispered softly – ‘your efforts over the last months have not gone unnoticed by Harold and your Christmas box will reflect this, but keep it to yourself, will you?’ By this Connie rightly assumed Mrs Pegg was not going to be treated as generously and she nodded quickly. Since her daughter had been refused the position of assistant housekeeper Mrs Pegg had become something of a thorn in Lucy’s side, often declining to work any overtime and keeping rigidly to her allotted hours, as well as causing the odd spot of mischief now and again. It was unfortunate, because the woman knew her job inside out and was a very good housekeeper, but it did make Connie wonder now if Mrs Pegg’s ‘collapse’ was totally genuine. It would be just like the housekeeper to flee a sinking ship and then stand back and criticise everyone else’s efforts.
Connie was still mulling the matter over when she walked into the restaurant a few minutes later. She was wearing one of the housemaids’ aprons, hastily acquired from the linen cupboard, over the plain blue dress that was her normal garb. Due to their managerial positions she and Mrs Pegg were not required to wear the frilled apron and cap which was the additional uniform for the rest of the female staff.
The restaurant looked to be running on oiled wheels as usual. Only the staff knew of the feverish activity in the kitchen and the fact that they were two waiters short. There was an air of subdued gaiety among the diners sitting under the Christmas garlands strung across the ceiling, and for a moment, as Connie stared at the scene, it was impressed upon her how profoundly life had changed in the last year and how much she had to be thankful for. Then she was drawn into the thick of it and there was no time for further reflections.
At half past eight, having been on her feet for two and a half hectic hours, Connie had a swift cup of tea in the kitchen and washed her face and hands in the large stone-floored scullery in preparation for the second half of the evening which would continue until well after eleven o’clock. Mary was up to her elbows in suds and conversation with one of the kitchen maids, and after quickly checking that her friend would wait for her so they could walk home together, Connie made her way back into the buzzing restaurant.
What drew her eyes across all the other tables to focus on one at the far end of the room Connie didn’t know – it could only have been a sixth sense or some other inexplicable phenomenon – but there they were, the Stewart family. There was no mistaking them. She could only see their top halves, they were all seated, but the elegantly dressed figure of Edith Stewart was holding court, along with the five brothers who had come to the cottage that night and what looked to be four younger women, probably the brothers’ wives or sweethearts.
The emotion attacked her first in the chest, causing her heart to thud so hard it actually hurt, and then it flowed up into her throat, causing her face to bleach and her ears to ring. Why hadn’t she considered that this might happen? They were a wealthy family, the sort who considered it providential to be seen at all the right places, she should have known their paths might cross again one day. But no, they wouldn’t have, would they, if she hadn’t been helping out in the restaurant. Oh, what was she going to do?
And then, as if in answer to the unspoken cry, one of the heads turned. Connie recognised the young man immediately – it was the youngest son, the one who had held her the night they had attacked Jacob and then later rescued her out of the snow drift – and across the room and over the space of the intervening years their eyes met, the eyes of the smartly dressed, wealthy young man and those of the waitress.
During the time it took for her to gather her wits and move she watched Dan Stewart’s mouth fall open slightly, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, and then she had whirled round, retracing her steps out of the restaurant doors and coming to a halt outside where she took great gulps of air to quell the feeling of faintness.
He had recognised her
. She leant against the lobby wall, her head pounding. But then she was so like her mother so perhaps that wasn’t surprising? And he had hardly altered at all. A bit heavier perhaps, but then he was older. Thirteen years older.
Thirteen years
.
. She leant against the lobby wall, her head pounding. But then she was so like her mother so perhaps that wasn’t surprising? And he had hardly altered at all. A bit heavier perhaps, but then he was older. Thirteen years older.
Thirteen years
.
When she heard the doors to the restaurant open a second or two later she knew, without looking up, that he would be standing there. And when she did raise her head he was a yard away and staring at her, and then she realised he had changed. The boy was gone and it was the man who was fixing her with his gaze. And the man was tall and broad and – she felt a stab of betrayal at the thought – very handsome.
‘You’re. . .’
‘Connie Bell.’ Her head was well up now, her chin straining, and the stance was aggressive.
Dan Stewart acknowledged this and understood the reason for it, but such was his bemusement that for the moment he was at a loss as to how to deal with the situation. This was the person who had haunted his dreams for years. As a tiny elfin child she had plagued his night hours with remorse for what his family had done to hers, and even as recently as a year ago she had come to point an accusing finger in his sleep. He had suffered because of this young woman, this stunningly beautiful young woman who was so like her mother. He had suffered the torments of the damned since John had told them that the family had been killed in a fire at the cottage.
‘I heard . . . There was a fire?’ He had to pull himself together, she would think he was simple. ‘I thought there had been a fire at the house in the wood?’ he managed fairly succinctly.
‘There was.’ It was pithy.
‘We thought you had all died, your mother and your family?’
‘And of course you were devastated.’ The bitterness was tangible, and now his eyes narrowed and his voice was terse when he said, ‘Now that’s not fair, I –’
‘Fair?!’ Her voice cut him off and as she took a step towards him, her eyes flashing blue fire, the thought came from nowhere – totally inappropriate in the circumstances, he conceded in the next instant – that this young woman was quite magnificent. She knocked all the other women of his acquaintance, including those his mother paraded before him at regular intervals under the excuse of dinner parties and the like, into a cocked hat.
‘You ruined our family that night you and your brothers came for Jacob,’ Connie hissed furiously, her body bent slightly forward in her rage. ‘My mother had to –’ She stopped, choking on the words. ‘And then the fire took my granny and my brother. I hate you, I hate you all, do you hear?’
And then she saw the stricken look in his eyes and stopped speaking, and there was a long moment of silence before Dan said, ‘I was fourteen years old at the time and I had no idea what I was getting involved in. That doesn’t excuse what we did, I know that, but there hasn’t been a day gone by since, that I haven’t regretted it.’ There was a longer pause. ‘I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry for years, Miss Bell. Please believe me.’
It was the ‘Miss Bell’, that and the way the broad shoulders were hunched, that enabled Connie to take hold of herself and check further hot words. She nodded tightly, drawing herself up straight. She vaguely remembered, that night he had been holding her back from the fray, that he had been shouting for them to stop hurting Jacob. And it had been this Stewart who had lifted her out of the snow and gone for the doctor for her mam. She supposed she owed her life to this man. There was a feeling inside her that made her want to press her hand to her chest bone to ease its ache. The feeling was filling her, confusing her with the myriad emotions contained in it, and it was to check what she perceived as weakness that she said, her voice flat now, ‘You had better get back before they come looking for you. You might be sorry but I doubt if any of the others are.’
‘Art is,’ said Dan quickly. ‘He’s always felt bad about that night.’
‘As well he might.’
‘Aye, yes.’ There was an awkward silence before Dan said, ‘You. . . you work here then?’ as he glanced at the apron.
‘I’m the assistant housekeeper.’ It was very quick and very sharp. ‘I’m only helping out waitressing because a number of the staff are off with flu.’
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t think . . .’ His voice trailed away. ‘How long have you worked here?’ he asked quietly after a full ten seconds had ticked by without either of them saying a word to relieve the tense atmosphere.
‘Nearly a year.’
He made a small movement with his head as he said, ‘You’ve a very responsible job for such a young lass. Not that I don’t think you’re capable of it,’ he added hastily, before she could say anything, ‘it’s just that most girls are more interested in enjoying themselves, having fun, than . . .’ He was making a right pig’s ear of this, by, he was. Her face would have told him that if nothing else.
‘I had to grow up quickly.’ It was said without any vestige of self-pity. ‘I was employed in the laundry at the workhouse before this for eight years.’
‘Eight years?’ He whistled softly. ‘You couldn’t have been more than a child.’
Connie shrugged slender shoulders. She had seen the house where he had been brought up and it was a world apart from how she had lived. No doubt he had been spoilt and cossetted from when he was a babby, mollycoddled and overindulged. Her mother had said that Jacob’s in-laws came from ordinary working stock originally, but the Stewart children would have been taken everywhere by horse and carriage when they were bairns for sure, escorted by their mother or maybe a nursery maid.
Connie had seen such children dressed in their bonny little white suits and shining shoes, who, on dismounting from the carriage, would have been hurried past ragged, snotty-nosed urchins huddled on the pavement. The grown-ups would invariably ignore the ragamuffins especially if they were begging, putting a scented linen handkerchief to their noses as though to protect themselves from something contagious. But sometimes their precious charges would peer at the dirty gamins in much the same way they would stare at an oddity on view at the fair, or some strange apparition that wasn’t quite human, their plump, well-fed faces displaying curiosity oftentimes flavoured with childish distaste. How could she explain to someone like Dan Stewart that at twelve years of age she had been far from being a child?
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