Born to Trouble (27 page)

‘I see. Well, thank you.’

The lad nodded at her, evidently pleased to have been able to help. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. On impulse, Pearl fetched out her purse and gave him a thrupenny bit. It fitted the occasion somehow. The beginning of a new order.

‘What’s that for?’ The dirty little paw had closed over the coin immediately and he clearly couldn’t believe his luck. It was probably the first time in his life he’d been the recipient of such wealth.

‘For taking the time to come and tell me what had happened to – to Ma Potts.’

He stared at her a moment longer before grinning and darting off to his pals who were standing in a group waiting for him, the old pig’s bladder they’d been using as a football in the middle of them. Pearl didn’t hang about. As a native of the East End she was fully aware that all the children would be badgering her for pennies, given half a chance.

When she reached Fawcett Street she found she had to summon up all her courage to enter the impressive facade of number 42. Once inside the foyer, however, she discovered that the building housed various businesses. There were plaques on the wall for a writing academy, an architect, a shipowner and an iron merchant besides Charlton & Son, who were situated on the first floor.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her heart thudding. Suddenly it seemed horribly presumptuous to imagine she could make a success of forming her own business. She was just a ragamuffin from the East End, the lowest of the low in polite society. What had she been thinking of? Nevertheless, on reaching the first floor she found the door inscribed
Charlton & Son
and after gathering her courage, knocked twice.

It was opened by a portly barrel of a man with rosy red cheeks and a bald head. Pearl took one look at his immaculate clothes and gold pocket-watch and almost turned tail and ran. Instead she managed to stutter, ‘Mr – Mr Charlton?’

‘I’m afraid not, ma’am. Mr Mortimer Mallard, assistant to Mr Charlton – the young Mr Charlton – at your disposal.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded. ‘I’m – I’m here to enquire about a property, a shop in Zion Street.’

‘I know the very one. Come in, come in.’ If she had been royalty he couldn’t have treated her with more respect. Ushering her into a somewhat cluttered room which had two desks either end of a number of filing cabinets and bookcases crammed with papers and cardboard boxes, he led her to a well-padded leather chair in front of one of the desks. Once she was seated he walked across to a filing cabinet and extracted a folder which he then placed on the desk in front of him before sitting down. ‘Zion Street, you say? Desirable property. Very desirable.’ He opened the folder, studying the papers within before he raised his head, surveying her with bright blue eyes. ‘And you’re interested in it, you say?’

‘Aye, yes. I’m – I’m thinking of opening a shop.’

‘Admirable, admirable.’ There was a pause, a distinct pause. ‘You and . . .?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Who would be joining you in this venture?’

‘No one. At least, there are my brothers but they’re still at school. They’d help in the evenings and weekends though.’

‘Good, good.’ The pause was longer this time. Pearl was conscious that although Mr Mallard was examining the papers in front of him he had taken in every inch of her appearance. Suddenly she was very aware that her clothes had been bought secondhand at the Old Market and her boots needed mending. She could feel herself shrinking into the leather chair, and even the feel of the package rough and scratchy against her skin didn’t help. She had a strong desire to make some excuse and leave, but the memory of Seth’s face when he’d asked her to accept the money was uppermost. She’d be letting him down if she left now.

Mr Mallard cleared his throat and looked at her again. ‘Would you be looking to rent or buy the property?’

‘How much is it?’

‘The rent would be eight shillings a week. To buy we’d be looking at a hundred pounds or more. The property has six rooms.’

Pearl swallowed. ‘I see. I’d definitely be renting for the time being, in that case.’

The blue eyes moved over her hot face. Suddenly Mr Mallard’s professional manner softened. ‘Lass, I have to ask. Can you afford to look at such a property? You need some capital behind you if you’re thinking of running a shop.’

‘I know.’ She had thought about what she was going to say to explain her wealth. ‘And I do have some capital. I’ve been left a sum of money. More money than I ever thought I’d have in the whole of my life,’ she added candidly, glad that in this she could speak the truth. ‘I want to open a pie and soup shop. I’m very good at cooking.’

Mortimer Mallard smiled kindly. ‘There’s a lot more to running a business, and that’s what we’re talking about here, than being good at cooking. What if – and I’m not saying it will, of course, no, heaven forbid – but what if you can’t make a go of it and you lose all your money?’ His gaze took in the beautiful young face and unworldliness of the girl in front of him. ‘What would you think then?’

‘That I had tried.’

He blinked. ‘But, m’dear—’

‘My parents are dead, Mr Mallard, and my two brothers only have me.’ She made a mental apology to Seth and Walter and Fred. ‘We – we come from the East End and I feel this is our one chance to make something of ourselves. I won’t let it fail.’

He sat back in his chair. ‘How much have you got?’ he asked baldly.

Pearl thought swiftly. It wouldn’t be wise to state the full amount. No one from her background would come into such a sum. ‘Twenty-five pounds.’

He nodded slowly. ‘And you think that would be enough to set yourself up? You will need to buy equipment, don’t forget, and raw materials.’

‘I shan’t buy new equipment if I can get secondhand. And I know how to make a penny stretch to two.’

Their conversation was interrupted by the door opening. A younger, sharp-faced man came into the room, his gaze going from Pearl to Mr Mallard. It was the latter who said, ‘This is a new client, Mr Charlton. She has her eye on Zion Street.’

‘Excellent.’ Mr Charlton gave a smile which didn’t touch his eyes. ‘I trust you are taking the young lady to view?’

Half an hour later Mr Mallard opened the front door of the property and stood aside for Pearl to precede him. She stepped directly into a large room that had obviously been the main shop premises from the bits and pieces still scattered about. The stone floor was filthy and there was a smell of damp, but it was when Mr Mallard led the way into the back of the shop that Pearl realised old Ma Potts had clearly been struggling for a long time. She was standing in what once might have been a nice kitchen, but now was coated with the grime and dirt of years. Even as she glanced around, a couple of cockroaches scuttled out of sight. The range was encrusted with a decade of food and hadn’t been black-leaded for at least that long, the curtains at the window were ragged strips of wasted cloth, and as she stepped down into what was a storage room or scullery she had to swallow hard against the smell. Worse was to come. When they walked out into the small backyard, the stink from the privy was such that Pearl asked Mr Mallard not to open the door.

Stairs from the kitchen led on to a landing, and the first door Mr Mallard opened revealed a sitting room. Besides this there were two bedrooms. The rooms were every bit as bad as the ones below.

Mr Mallard hadn’t said a word as he had showed her round. Once they were standing in the main room of the shop again, he cleared his throat. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, lass, but in properties like this one it isn’t unusual for a lower offer to be made to the owner, who in this case is a cousin down South. For someone who wants to take it on I’d say a rent of six shillings a week would be reasonable. And if you were buying, maybe, eighty pounds. The owner might say no, of course, but a client doesn’t lose anything by asking.’

Pearl stared at him.

‘It looks bad now, but the building is sound enough,’ he went on. ‘Plenty of elbow grease and a whitewash brush’d work wonders – that and some fumigation pellets from Skelton’s store. The privy . . .’ He shook his head. ‘That’ll need a strong stomach for sure.’

‘I’ve got a strong stomach, Mr Mallard.’

He smiled at her. ‘Aye, I don’t doubt it. But it’ll be a job and a half to start with, lass.’

‘My brothers will help.’ Six shillings a week. And six rooms. ‘It’s a large property, isn’t it, Mr Mallard?’

‘Two houses knocked into one, apparently. Miss Potts was worth a bit once – her father was a wealthy man, I understand – but she had a love affair that ended badly and she went a bit . . . doolally for a while. Her father died and she inherited and came here to live, and it was then she bought both houses and made one property out of them. But she was never quite right, by all accounts. Sad business. Anyway, she left everything to this cousin who she hadn’t seen in fifty years and who has no intention of visiting the North. Very well off herself, I understand. But like I said, you didn’t hear any of this from me.’

‘Of course not.’

He was nice. He was really nice. ‘So if I ask you to put in an offer of six shillings . . .’

‘I’ll do that.’ He grinned at her. ‘Mr Charlton prices the properties. He’s a little . . . ambitious on occasion.’

At the end of the week Pearl was notified by Mr Mallard that the cousin would accept a rent of six shillings and sixpence a week, take it or leave it. She took it.

Christopher sat quietly beside his mother as the coach bowled between the iron gates the lodgekeeper had opened at their approach. The journey home from Italy had been a frosty one, mainly due to what his mother called his ‘ingratitude’ in insisting they return to England rather than see the winter out in Europe. When he had pointed out that he’d had no wish to leave England in the first place, and it had only been the fact that he had been as helpless as a kitten that had enabled her to whisk him away, she hadn’t spoken to him for a full twenty-four hours.

When the carriage stopped, a footman was there to help his mother descend, but Christopher waved the man’s hand away when he tried to assist him in turn. He was feeling tired, deathly tired and ill, but he held himself straight as he followed his mother into the house. He wasn’t about to give her more ammunition to fire at him. Not that she ever shouted or even raised her voice, she didn’t have to. The icy silences and reproachful looks were more than enough to contend with. Until the last few weeks when he had been in her presence all his waking hours, he hadn’t realised he actually disliked the woman who had borne him. He wasn’t proud of himself for feeling that way, but he could do nothing about it.

The housekeeper and Parker the butler were waiting for them in the hall, along with a little maid who took their coats and hats. His mother merely inclined her head as the butler expressed his hope that the journey had been a tolerable one before she walked regally into the drawing room. Christopher hesitated for a moment and then followed her. He was very aware that he was going to have a battle on his hands over the next weeks, but if it could be deferred until he was feeling stronger, so much the better.

The doctor who had attended him in Italy had been first class but blunt. He was lucky, very lucky to be alive, Signor Rotondo had said gravely. One knife wound had damaged the muscles and ligaments in his left shoulder, which might cause problems with his power to grip in that hand, but it was the wound which had missed his heart by a millimetre which would take some recovering from. And you couldn’t rush such things. But then, why would he want to? The Italian doctor had smiled at Clarissa, who had inclined her head graciously. He was in Florence, was he not? With its wonderful churches and architecture. If they were still here at Easter they mustn’t miss the celebrations in the Cathedral square when a great cart, bearing a large wooden edifice encircled with fireworks, was drawn by four huge white oxen before coming to rest between the main portal of the Cathedral and the Porta del Paradiso of the Baptistry. On the stroke of midday, the doctor told them, a mechanical dove began a journey down a wire from the high altar to the edifice, and as it reached the first firework, it set off a display that was truly
magnifico.

Christopher had made some polite comment to the worthy doctor, but the thought of remaining in Florence to the end of the month, let alone until the following Easter, had been completely insupportable. He had to see Pearl. He
must
see her. Thoughts of her and what she might be going through at the hands of the madman who had attacked him tormented him day and night. He had written to Nathaniel, expressing his fears, and his brother had written back to say he mustn’t worry. He had it on good authority that the gypsy had fled to distant climes on the night of the attack. Christopher had felt a little better after that, but he knew he wouldn’t be at peace until he held Pearl in his arms again. He intended to make her his wife at the earliest opportunity. Nothing else would do.

Twice he had compromised his recovery by attempting to show his mother he was well enough to make the journey to England. The second time, when he was confined to bed for a week, convinced him that Signor Rotondo had a point. Nature wouldn’t be rushed, and the healing process would dictate the time he could leave. When that time came, he would be ready.

It was now early November. Turning his head, he looked out of the drawing-room windows. There had been sleet in the rain which had accompanied them ever since they had set foot on English soil. But he was home. He had done it. Now he could track down the gypsy camp, which Nathaniel had written had moved on. And when he found Pearl, they would never be separated again. His thoughts continued in this vein until exhaustion caused him to lean his head against the winged back of the chair and shut his eyes.

Clarissa sipped the tea the maid had brought her and watched her son as he slept. Wind and rain buffeted the windows and the late-afternoon sky was black with thunder-clouds. By contrast, the roaring fire in the great hearth and the mellow light from the lamp behind her made the vast room almost cosy. None of this impinged on Clarissa’s thoughts, however. She was angry. So angry she found herself wishing Christopher had died from his wounds in Italy, where some excuse could be made for his demise once she’d returned home. As it was, the problem of her son consorting with that creature still existed, because she knew Christopher well enough to gauge that he didn’t intend to give the girl up. And it wasn’t as though he was prepared to be discreet about the matter. If he had set the girl up in a house somewhere quiet and visited her on occasion, that would have been one thing. But to talk of marriage – that was indefensible.