Pauper's Child Read online

  Hiding her shivers beneath the pretence of rearranging her shawl, she nodded. ‘A hot drink would be most welcome, thank you.’

  She had walked past this place many times with her father, and often since his death, but she had never been inside. Callista hesitated as her companion walked towards the imposing entrance of the George Hotel.

  ‘Is something wrong? You do not like this hotel?’

  She had lied once today; she would not lie a second time. Looking directly into the face of the man regarding her with shrewd eyes she answered quietly. ‘Liking or not is something I cannot say, for I have never been inside. People of my station can hardly be welcome.’

  ‘Guests of Phineas Westley are welcome wherever he is welcomed.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Callista shook her head. ‘I believe a more accurate word is “tolerated”. A valued client can be allowed his foibles provided they do not infringe…’

  ‘Hah!’ An amused laugh echoed on the frost-bitten morning; he banged a malacca cane on the ground. ‘You have more than a knowledge of mythology, girl, you have a shrewd head on those young shoulders; but allow an old man his foibles and accompany me into this palace of social snobbery.’

  She had been mistaken in agreeing to his proposal; the offer of a hot drink had seemed a few moments ago something to lift her flagging spirit but now with the glances of women hurrying past she realised the folly of what she had done. Decent girls did not agree to accompany a man unknown to her family. She glanced into the watchful eyes. Had his offer been as innocent as her acceptance or was he planning a more personally rewarding way of her apologising for possibly damaging the contents of that package?

  ‘You need say no more, child. I was thoughtless in my suggestion; I only hope you will overlook my action. You have my most profound apology.’

  The smile had gone from his eyes, the curve of laughter from his mouth. Drawing her shawl closer about her shivering body Callista saw instead the look she had often caught shadowing her mother’s face, a look of longing for something gone from her life, of inner sadness, a loneliness which had words tumbling from Callista’s heart when she had meant her brain to answer. ‘You did not speak thoughtlessly. What you offered was kindness and for that I thank you.’

  ‘That is charitable of you, my dear, but I will not take advantage of it. Maybe some day I will have the privilege of meeting with your father and speaking with him. I feel he shares my passion for the lovely goddess of the chase and her fellows.’

  ‘The Artemis, I had forgotten… please!’ She ran the few steps the departing figure had already put between them. ‘Please, you must allow me to pay.’

  If his judgement were anywhere close to correct this girl could not offer a single penny were that penny to save her from a lengthy term of imprisonment! Diplomatically keeping the thought to himself Phineas Westley glanced at the string wrapped package held in one hand before replying.

  ‘How can I ask you to pay for a statue which may not be broken? That would be tantamount to robbery and that, my dear, is not a foible Phineas Westley enjoys.’

  If it were damaged… if he demanded recompense; took her before the magistrate! What of her mother? Worries noting in her mind Callista stared at the small parcel.

  ‘I can see I must agree if your mind is to be set at rest.’ Above the elegantly trimmed beard Phineas Westley’s mouth found again the curve of a smile. ‘But it is too cold for an elderly man to stand in the street. I shall examine the piece when I reach my home and if you will trust me with the address of your own I will write to you should payment prove necessary.’

  He would write to her. Callista watched as he hailed a hansom. The package had fallen to the ground when they had collided; it had to be damaged if only minutely. But minute or otherwise the result was too awful to think of; an antique of that nature, a genuine piece carved hundreds of years ago, maybe even the work of an old master… and there would be no question of its authenticity; her father had always maintained Joseph Glaze was a man of integrity and the antiques and jewellery he dealt in could be relied upon to possess the same. All of which added to the impossibility of her ever being able to repay what that figurine would be worth. Phineas Westley must know that but he had not blinked an eyelid when she gave her address. Not that she had described the huddle of tiny compressed houses each joined to the other, their brickwork encrusted with the soot of steel mill and coal mine; the yard bisected by an open drain, the privies shared by as many as four families, the women who scrubbed and cleaned in the hours they were not engaged in picking coal from the mines waste heaps to sell to a jagger who paid a pittance for each bag; no, she had not described the poverty of Trowes Court… for no one of wealth or position in Wednesbury wanted to hear.

  The hansom out of sight, Callista turned the comer into Union Street. There would be no employment for her here as there was none elsewhere in the town. She would return home and collect the gown. Delivering it would mean they had money for coal, food and to pay the rent. Thank God they would be able to pay the rent! She would be free for a few more weeks of having to submit to that flabby mouth, to the thick-fingered hands which took every opportunity of touching her…

  … tantamount to robbery…

  The words struck so suddenly she almost tripped. Wouldn’t she be doing the same? The money she had helped to earn – it would be like stealing to spend even part of it on herself when it might have to go towards a debt… but those hands, that mouth… she could not! But even as the shudder passed along her spine Callista knew that she must.

  2

  He had looked so dreadfully lonely.

  The gown on which her mother had spent days and herself long evenings was wrapped carefully in a spotlessly laundered cloth, and Callista hurried with it through the streets overhung with smoke and heavy soot, the dark blood of Wednesbury’s veins. The man who had offered her hot chocolate, his whole demeanour had changed as he had detected her sudden withdrawal. The smile had died in his eyes, the curve of a smile faded from his mouth. The picture of his face had stayed with her as she had returned home to Trowes Court, the effects of its look adding to her own dejection and refusing to lift. Had he sensed her rejection? But she had not meant it that way. It was not rejection of him as a person. He had been so kind, insisting she need have no worries for the contents of that package, and she had returned his treatment of her with rudeness.

  Skirting the stalls set in rows covering the market place, she walked quickly up the slight incline that was Spring Head. If only she had thought, given him an explanation before the hansom had driven away, but she had not and the chance might never come again.

  That same thought must have shown in her face for her mother had quickly asked was something amiss. Passing the gracious old Oakeswell Hall, its blackened timbers standing out boldly against lime washed walls, Callista felt a rush of admiration and pleasure, the pleasure her father had built in her for the skills of man’s hand, admiration for the mind which could conceive beauty then create it from clay, wood or stone. ‘Art is present in all of human creation, only a lying tongue or the blackness of an evil heart is ugly.’ Those words had often been the finish of his describing a building, a painting or a sculpture and now as the lovely old house fell away behind her they seemed even more significant.

  She had lied that morning, saying the butcher’s wife gave her breakfast, and again an hour ago when coaxing her mother to eat the egg and last remaining slice of bread. She had forced a smile to accompany the lie which said she was too full to take another bite. But what way other than that would she have got her mother to eat?

  ‘It was a lie, Father,’ the whisper trembled beneath her breath, ‘but I could think of no other way.’

  Could he have heard her whisper would he have agreed or would he have smiled as he often had at a small girl’s query why a lie was never the way to choose?

  The cloth wrapped gown warm against her body, Callista seemed to hear the voice she had loved. Deep, musical,
full of love, it filled her mind. ‘Truth is always a better way, Callista, only truth gives peace of mind… only truth eases the heart.’

  But in this case truth would not ease her mother’s heart; she would fret over taking a meal while her daughter went hungry and that she would not allow. Her mother was not well and worry proved no medicine!

  *

  ‘There be a visitor along of her, been ’ere some time her have; but come you in, wench, and take a cup of tea.’

  Accepting the offer, Callista set her parcel on a table which, though three times the size of the one at home, was swallowed by the large airy kitchen of Acacia Villa. She took the chair indicated by the smiling housekeeper. Wood Green could be on a different planet to Trowes Court! Large detached houses with spacious well tended gardens overlooked the beautiful park laid out two years ago to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, while to the further side, were wide fields which each summer saw wheat and barley spread green-gold skirts prettily with scarlet poppies. This was the beautiful world her father had envisaged; thank heaven he had never lived in Trowes Court.

  ‘Be your mother well? I must say her looked fair peaky last time her was to this house.’

  ‘My mother has a cough which is why I have brought the gown instead of her.’

  ‘Ah well, that be sensible. What with this damp weather, don’t want to take no chances of catching that there influenza. Take my tip and keep her against the fire.’

  There had been almost no fire. Callista’s mind flew back to the tiny room where her mother sat. The embers in the grate had showed patches of red beneath a covering of grey ash but they gave no heat. It could have been a description of the woman staring into them. Twin patches of scarlet glowed on the cheeks of a face grey with the spasms of coughing which racked more and more harshly while the hands clutching a piece of white cloth held no warmth.

  ‘There you be and a fresh baked scone to go with it.’

  Callista’s throat closed as a prettily flowered plate was set before her. All of this – she fought the rising tears – all of this wealth and comfort while her mother…

  ‘Now don’t let’s ’ave you being shy.’ The woman’s smile beamed as she lowered her ample frame to a chair. ‘There be plenty more where that come from.’

  Plenty more! Callista swallowed hard. But only for those who already had plenty; what of the likes of the families of Trowes Court and of every other hard pressed family where even the children worked themselves to a standstill to earn enough simply to keep them alive; where was their plenty?

  ‘I hears there was a bit of a shemozzle up along of the Bullen this mornin’, fella had a bump leaving that antique shop.’

  Fingers stiff about the china cup, Callista’s nerves quickened. News of any sort spread quickly in a town small as Wednesbury and on its travels gathered spice in the telling. This woman’s tone said as much now; had her informant also told of the butcher’s refusal to have a young woman scrub out his shop?

  ‘Not so much a shemozzle,’ she answered, lowering the cup, ‘there was no aggravation. It was simply an accident and Mr Westley was gracious enough to see it as such.’

  ‘Phineas Westley?’ The woman eased her large frame, spreading it more evenly on the chair.

  ‘That was the name he gave.’

  ‘And comin’ from the shop of Joseph Glaze! Then the package a wench knocked from his hand would ’ave something in it which cost more’n a few pennies.’ The woman had gossiped and now wormed for verification of the tale carried to her ears and would not give up until she was sure she had every last detail.

  ‘The wench you speak of was me.’ Leaving tea and scone untouched, Callista looked into the rotund face. ‘I was the one collided with Mr Westley and the contents of the package was an Artemis.’

  ‘A what?’ The housekeeper’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown.

  ‘I did not see for myself but was told the package contained an Artemis, a small statue of the Greek goddess of that name.’

  ‘A statue!’ The tone held disappointment. ‘Oh well, that can be easy replaced, one statue be like another I reckon.’

  Not if it were carved by Phidias or Praxiteles, Lycippus or Michelangelo. Works by masters such as these could never be replaced. Callista smothered the reply which had so quickly jumped to her tongue, asking instead could the mistress be informed of the delivery of her gown, adding that due to her mother’s ill health she was anxious to be home.

  ‘Would be more acceptable for you to leave it with me, the mistress won’t take kind to bein’ disturbed. You need ’ave no fears for it and you can be sure you will be notified as to when you can call for payment.’

  Her mouth set in a determined line, Callista rose, meeting the other woman’s surprised glance. She would not try to disguise the prime cause of her refusal; one look at her shabby clothes would be enough to decry it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said tightly. ‘As you can see well enough, payment for the work my mother has completed is needed now, not in a few days hence. I’m afraid I must insist I be taken to see Mrs Ramsey.’ Pushing to her feet the housekeeper smoothed her long brilliantly white apron with offended hands. ‘I don’t say I recommends it but if you insists then you insists, though I warns herself can be sharp of tongue when her words be ignored.’

  Acacia Villa was imposing from the outside but the inside was more so. The gown once more in her hands, Callista followed the dark-skirted figure across a floor set with exquisite turquoise and blue tiles. A couch and chairs of inlaid mahogany and upholstered in blue and cream Regency brocade stood against walls hung with gilt-framed paintings while at the centre a mahogany drum table stood proud on a wide central column before tapering into three carved ball-and-claw feet. How her father would have enjoyed looking, touching, exclaiming appreciation of each in turn.

  ‘This be the drawing room.’ The housekeeper had already halted before a highly polished door. ‘You best wait while I tells the mistress you be ’ere.’

  And be told I must call at a more convenient time! That was the message this woman would emerge with but it was one she could not accept. Determination settling solidly in her stomach Callista shook her head stepping quickly forward as the door was opened.

  ‘I be sorry, mum… I told her—’

  ‘Your housekeeper advised I call some other time, Mrs Ramsey.’ Callista cut across the housekeeper’s stammering apology. ‘At any other time I would have been happy to do so but not today.’

  Sitting on an elegant tapestry covered couch, the taffeta of her lilac coloured dress spilling over its cabriole legs, Emma Ramsey turned sharply towards the two stood in the doorway.

  ‘Not today!’ She raised an eyebrow it had taken a steady hand to darken with pencil.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Aware of more eyes turned her way, Callista felt a flicker of apprehension. ‘I ask your pardon but my mother is not well and I would rather not leave her any more often than is absolutely necessary. That is why I must ask, please may I be given payment for the gown I deliver to you.’

  ‘Oh, my new gown. Then you are the daughter of Ruth Sanford.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Then I…’

  ‘A new gown!’ Emma Ramsey’s visitor purred delightedly but the look she shot at her hostess was that of a tigress waiting to pounce. ‘Really, Emma, my dear, you must let me see it.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No, Emma, no buts; we are friends, aren’t we? And do not friends share their pleasures with one another?’ A waft of perfume followed the hand beckoning Callista.

  ‘No!’ A lace trimmed handkerchief lifted to dab Emma Ramsey’s thin nose. ‘My housekeeper had best open it. We don’t want dust on your hands, Sabine.’

  It was well meant but brought a quiet tut from the housekeeper and a flush of anger to Callista’s cheeks. Clenching her fingers, she waited until the gown had been draped over a matching couch and the housekeeper dismissed from the room.

  ‘It is qui
te pretty.’ Silk petticoats rustling beneath emerald cashmere, wide collar and tight cuffs caught beneath elbow length bouffant sleeves threaded with sage and gold threadwork, Emma Ramsey’s visitor crossed to where the blue silk spread like a tiny glittering lake over the couch. With a smile on her lips, she let her fingers stroke the soft material.

  Emma had seen the smile. Was it one of disdain, was her fashionable visitor laughing up her expensive sleeve at a gown made by a local woman?

  ‘Pretty.’ She sniffed disparagingly. ‘I suppose it may have been thought that twenty years ago but who wears that style any more? It’s absolutely archaic.’

  ‘The gown was made to your specific requirements, Mrs Ramsey, you drew the design yourself.’

  ‘I drew a design!’ Emma felt her visitor’s eyes upon her. ‘But the interpreting of it… this interpretation…’ She glanced at the gown glistening in the light of the gasoliere. ‘Is more the work of a fool than a seamstress.’

  ‘My mother is an excellent dressmaker, her work is never less than of the highest standard!’ Callista’s reply burst across the room like a round of pistol shot, the anger behind it blazing with the strength of living fire.

  ‘Emma, my dear, perhaps you should inspect—’

  ‘I do not need to inspect the gown to see it is not what I gave instruction for! I cannot possibly accept that… that outmoded creation. You must see that, Sabine, and you know I would not possibly have chosen that material, it is so obviously cheap, and the stitchwork…’ Rising to her feet Emma Ramsey grabbed the delicate fabric, thrusting the gown towards her visitor. ‘Look for yourself and tell me if it is not positively ghastly.’

  As she held the gown in her hand, Sabine Derry’s expertly painted mouth held its smile. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘of course the gown is not of the standard of a fashion house but then you could hardly expect otherwise.’

  It was there beneath the words: condescension! Emma felt her chest tighten. Sabine Derry thought her not wealthy enough to have her gowns made in some specialist establishment. The thought painting her cheeks with embarrassment, she snatched the gown, throwing it deliberately to the ground.