Lady Lightfingers

‘The usual bills and invitations.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘That young woman came to see you when you were ill. She said her mother had died and she was going to take her young sister to live with some relatives in the country. Dorset, she mentioned, and prattled on, mentioning a boy . . . a right rapscallion he looked with a top hat pulled down over his ears, if you ask me.’

‘She was killed, sir, but they caught the lad who did it. The young woman wrote you a letter; it’s in her diary. I’ll fetch it for you. And I gave her enough money for her train fare from the teapot, and some food. I thought that’s what you’d want me to do.’

James arrived. ‘The doctor has allowed you out of bed, has he, Uncle? We were quite worried about you. Could you spare a cup of tea for a thirsty man, Mrs Packer?’ Settling himself on a chair round the fire, he opened his paper and began to read.

Dear Mr Hambert,

My mother, who never did any harm to anyone, was hit on the head and killed by a ferocious felon, who then stole the wages that she’d worked all week long for.

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.

I am leaving London, where I’m no longer safe from the unwanted attention of certain people. My mother’s wish was for me to take Lottie to the country to be cared for by her sisters, if they are inclined to be charitable to their destitute nieces.

Because I wrote these stories for you, I have left them for safekeeping in the notebook you sent me. They number six in all, but they’re not very good. Writing stories was harder than I thought it would be. When Lottie is settled I intend to seek out a theatre company and try and earn my living as an actress, so I can support her.

I will write to you when I’m settled, dear Mr Hambert, then you will not have to say to your nephew, ‘Do you remember Celia Laws, the girl who snatched my watch then gave it back again? I wonder what happened to her.’

My respects to Mr James Kent.

Yours truly.

Celia Jane Laws.

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.’

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.’

‘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.

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?

‘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.

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.

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.’

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.

Celia remembered her manners, though they were easy to forget these days, without her mother constantly reminding her. ‘I’m Celia Laws and this is my sister, Lottie. Johnny is our friend, and we’re travelling together.’

Busby nodded and spooned some porridge into bowls. ‘It ain’t fancy, but it will stick to your ribs, and there’s some eggs, bacon and bread for after. I’ve only got two spoons, so us men will have to wait.’

‘I’ll sup it from the bowl,’ Johnny said, his rattling stomach telling them all he was not prepared to wait. But at her bidding, he went off to wash the previous day’s dirt from his hands and face.

‘I’ll share my sister’s spoon. Are you sure you can spare this?’ Celia asked Busby politely, and even though berating herself for being a miser, she added, ‘We can’t afford to pay you.’

Lottie opened her mouth for a spoonful, and tried to grab the spoon. She wanted to eat her meals by herself, but if Celia allowed it, half of the oatmeal would be wasted on her clothes, and she was determined that Lottie was going to swallow every scrap of the nourishment on offer.

She shrugged, saying briefly, ‘Up ahead . . . I daresay our kin are waiting for us at the next inn. It’s just . . . it got dark . . . and it was cold and we got left behind, so we thought we’d better shelter here for the night. Besides, we’ve got nothing to steal apart from a few coins.’ A lie, since she had a fortune in cash hidden under her skirt.

Busby gave a faint grin. ‘I believe you, but felons aren’t always after goods, girl. I reckon you be old enough to know that.’

Celia remembered Charles Curtis with a faint blush and some amusement. Her fingers strayed to her mouth. Fancy him handing all that money over for a kiss. He was certainly adept at getting his own way, and she frowned at the thought. He’d been much too generous. Did he really think she’d go back to him and become his whore for a week? The most he’d get from her was his money refunded. After that, she would no longer be under an obligation to him.

She attacked her oatmeal before it got cold. She’d never tasted anything quite so blissfully delicious, except what followed after it – bread fried crisp in the bacon fat with an egg on top. They ate like there was no tomorrow, washing it down with hot tea.

Flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky and Celia eyed the low, heavy cloud doubtfully. She hadn’t considered it might snow.

‘Dorset’s a fair step, and the snow is going to settle. The sky is full of it. You’ll be stuck when the wind piles it into drifts, and you won’t know which way is left and which is right.’

‘Aye, but I didn’t think there were, since me and my missus own the place, and I’ve just come from there. Best you come back home with me.’

Busby shook his head. ‘Once I’ve adjusted the kiln and sealed it I won’t be back here for several days, when it’s cooled down. There’s no food, and nothing to hunt this time of year. Besides, my woman would give me an earful if I left you here by yourselves, especially if you freeze solid. Now that would be a thing!’

The thought that Busby had a wife went a long way to settle Celia’s unease of going off with a stranger. She remembered Charles Curtis and her fingers strayed to her mouth. She couldn’t trust herself to a man who made her feel . . .’ She didn’t dwell on how he’d made her feel, but moved on to Thomas Hambert, who’d been so kind to them. Not all people were bad, and Busby seemed to be kind-hearted.

‘I told the good woman about you when I went back to get something to feed you with. They’re as thin as a trio of sparrows thrown out of the nest, I told her.’

‘Now you feed them up real good, Busby, she says, and you bring them back here so I can look them over. Maybe they can help us round the place until spring stretches its feathers, then they can safely move on. Fact is, missy . . . I don’t want to come back and find you frozen to death . . . that I don’t. It would put me to too much trouble explaining it to the authorities and weigh too heavily on my conscience.’

‘That’s kind of you and your wife, Busby. I think we could all do with a warm bed for a while, and I don’t mind working for it.’

‘Good lad.’ Busby patted Johnny on the shoulder. ‘Now you’ve got some breakfast inside you, how do you feel about giving me a hand with the burner, lad?’

‘See that pile of wood there? We have to pack it nice and tight so no air gets inside to make the wood burn too fast. Then I’ll set a fire in the middle and put the lid on. When things get nice and hot we’ll seal the kiln with those sods of earth there. It will take a week or so for it to cool down.’

Celia tidied up the camp while Busby and Johnny set about fixing the kiln, and the scene was imprinted on her mind, so she began to weave a story about it. It wasn’t long before the two males were covered in dirty streaks. She wished she hadn’t left her notebook with Mr Hambert, and decided to buy one at the next town they passed through. In the meantime, the story would grow in her mind without too much effort, just like a mushroom.

Before too long the mound was covered in the sods that man and boy had pitchforked into place, which prevented them from coming loose. Busby grunted, placed his hands on his back and stretched. She grinned when Johnny did the same, leaving two dirty handprints on his waist.

‘No, Mr Busby, we’re not ready. Johnny, you look like a chimney sweep. You can brush the dust from your clothes with a leafy twig and wash your face and hands in the stream if you want to make a good first impression on Mrs Busby.’

‘My Aggie does have a bit of a sharp edge to her tongue if somebody carries the muck indoors after she’s cleaned the floors,’ Busby thought to advise.

As she tucked Lottie into the cart, Celia decided she could trust him, even if they didn’t have much choice. ‘Then you’d best tidy yourself up too, Mr Busby . . . then we will be ready.’