Millie’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘No, I’m not. It’s a wine stain. Red wine got spilt down me front.’ Eliza pulled out a chair and sank down onto the hard wooden seat. ‘I dunno what I’m going to do about it. I made the old bugger promise to pay for it, but that’s not going to help Mary.’ Now that she was safe at home, the whole horror of the evening crowded in on her and tears flowed down her cheeks. With a cry of distress, Millie flung her arms round her and they clung to each other sobbing.
Eliza found that having let go, she couldn’t stop: she was crying for the ruined gown, for letting Mary down so badly, for Bart’s death in a foreign land, for Freddie’s transportation to Australia, for Ted who had been like a father to her; for her lost youth and unfulfilled dreams. At last, exhausted by the tempest of tears, she gulped and sniffed, patting Millie’s back as if she were a baby. ‘There, there, don’t take on so. I –
I’m sure we can find a way out of this. Things will look better in the morning.’
Next morning, leaving Millie still asleep and looking touchingly young and vulnerable with her face tear-stained, and her curls matted around her forehead, Eliza got up early. She crept downstairs to the back yard where she held her head under the pump, allowing the cool water to wash away the traces of last night’s storm of emotion. Drying her hair on a scrap of towelling, she went into the living room and dressed herself in her plain, grey gown. She was about to take the mourning brooch from the mantelshelf but she hesitated, running the tips of her fingers over the glass dome and the silver mount. The pale lock of plaited hair lying on a bed of silk was now as faded as the daguerreotype of her mother, who had lived for so long in her imagination but was now just a ghostly image on a piece of tin. With one last tender touch of her finger, Eliza left the brooch where it was. The time for grieving was past and she must face up to the future on her own. Sentiment must be set aside and she must not show herself to the world as a vulnerable young woman: if she was to succeed in a society run by men like Brigham Stone and Brandon Miller then she must use her brains and never let them spot her weaknesses. Brushing her hair vigorously, Eliza scraped it
back from her face in a severe style, securing the bulk of it in a snood at the nape of her neck. She had never thought herself particularly pretty, and she was mystified why men seemed to find her attractive, but that only led to trouble. She intended to appear mature and businesslike when she met Brigham Stone’s man at the chandlery. He would probably try to haggle and do her down as to the amount of money to recompense for the ruined gown, but Mary’s job was at stake here. Eliza had no clear idea how they would repair the damage before young Miss Cynthia Wilkins arrived home from Hertfordshire, but she would think about that later.
She let herself quietly out of the house and headed in the direction of Old Gravel Lane. A cool easterly breeze tugged at her shawl and played with the ribbons on her bonnet. A pale, buttery sun was struggling to pierce the early morning autumn mist, and from the river Eliza could hear the muted moan of foghorns. Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her body, Eliza quickened her pace until she reached the chandlery. Standing on the opposite side of the street, she felt a buzz of excitement at the sight of the walls rising from the ashes. The front door and shop window were already in place, but unglazed, and the carpenters were chipping and sawing at rafters and beams for the roof. She
could just see the top of Arnold’s head and no doubt Dippy Dan was near at hand helping him in whatever task they were doing at the moment. At this rate the store would be finished well before Christmas and she would be back in business. The mere thought of regaining control over her life made her spine tingle and her pulses race.
The moment of elation passed as Eliza remembered the reason why she had come to the building site so early in the morning. She paced up and down for what seemed like an hour and was beginning to think that Brigham had either forgotten his promise or had reneged on it, when she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels on the cobblestones. Turning her head, she saw a private carriage rounding the corner of Old Gravel Lane and the coachman drew the horses to a halt outside the chandlery. Her heart sank as Brigham Stone himself stepped out onto the pavement, a cigar clenched between his teeth and an uncompromising expression on his face.
‘Miss Eliza.’ Brigham strolled across the road to stand in front of her.
He was too close for comfort and Eliza instinctively took a step backwards but she met his stern gaze, looking him in the eye and hoping that she appeared more confident than she was feeling. ‘Good morning, Mr Stone.’
‘You’ve caused me a lot of bother, miss.’ Brigham glared at her, chewing on his cigar. ‘I don’t usually deal with petty extortionists myself but when they’re young and pretty, I make an exception.’
Eliza felt her hackles rise; she didn’t like the tone of his voice or the lecherous gleam in his eyes. Making a great effort, she managed to control her desire to slap his fat face. ‘I don’t want nothing but a fair recompense for the damage you caused last night, mister.’
Moving the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, Brigham gave a derisive snort. ‘You may have looked like a young lady last night, but this morning you look like a drab and you talk like a guttersnipe. Don’t think you can compete with men of business, my dear. The only place that you’d be of interest to me is naked and in my bed.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve run my business successfully for the last few years without having to crawl to men like you.’
‘Hoity-toity!’ Brigham spat his cigar butt onto the pavement, grinding it into the ground with the heel of his boot. ‘But I like a bit of spirit in my women.’ He slipped his hand into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a leather pouch from which he extracted two golden sovereigns. ‘Here, this will pay for a new gown.’
Eliza held out her hand to receive the money
but even as Brigham offered it to her, he closed his fingers over the coins. ‘But I expect something in return.’
‘What?’ Eliza heard her voice crack with anxiety and she realised that she must have shouted when she saw Arnold’s worried face peering through the window of the chandlery. She lowered her voice. ‘What do you mean? You promised me.’
Brigham’s eyes narrowed and he pushed his face close to hers. ‘You tried to blackmail me, you little bitch.’
‘Anything wrong, missis?’ Arnold vaulted through the open window and was loping across the road towards them, balancing his ungainly gait by flailing his arms in a fair imitation of a windmill.
Eliza held up her hand. She would like nothing better than for Arnold to rip Brigham Stone into little pieces but that would not serve. ‘It’s all right, Arnold. We was just discussing business.’
Fisting his hands, Arnold let them drop to his sides, glowering at Brigham. ‘If you say so, miss.’
‘Best get back to work,’ Eliza said, making a huge effort to sound calm. She lowered her voice. ‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Stone. I can still go to your missis and snitch on you, so don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’
‘And I can tell Aaron Miller that you are a cheating little trollop who doesn’t deserve
financial backing. If my friend Aaron were to demand repayment of his loan now you would be in Queer Street, my dear.’
Eliza held out her hand. ‘I only want what’s due to me.’
‘I admire brass neck,’ Brigham said, dropping the coins into her palm and closing her fingers over the money. ‘But I think you’re wasting your obvious natural talents in trying to do a man’s work.’
The implication of his words was obvious, and Eliza tried to pull her hand away but he gripped it with surprising strength, making her wince with pain. ‘Let go of me, you’re hurting.’ She attempted to prise his fingers open with her free hand, but this only seemed to amuse him. For a moment she thought she was going to have to cry out to Arnold for help, but the sound of horses’ hooves diverted Brigham’s attention. His expression changed from amused contempt to one of annoyance. He dropped Eliza’s hand as if her flesh had burnt his fingers. She looked over her shoulder and saw that it was Brandon who was almost upon them.
He drew his horse to a halt beside them, and he dismounted with an ominous scowl contorting his handsome features. ‘What’s going on, Stone?’
‘Nothing to concern you, Brandon. Keep out of my affairs.’
‘Miss Bragg is my concern. We’re business
partners in case you hadn’t realised it, so her welfare is of great interest to me.’
Eliza stamped her foot. ‘Will you two stop talking about me as if I ain’t here?’
There was a moment of silence as they stared at her in surprise. She could see that Brigham’s mouth was working, like a landed salmon gasping for breath on the quay wall, but she ignored him, turning her attention to Brandon. ‘Mr Stone and me was discussing a business matter and now it’s settled. I’ll bid you both good day, gentlemen. I got better things to do than stand round arguing with the likes of you.’ She stalked off with her head held high, curbing the desire to break into a run. Her heart was thundering away inside her chest like a runaway horse and, although she heard Brandon calling after her and begging her to stop, she ignored his pleas, praying inwardly that he would not follow her.
At the point where Old Gravel Lane dissected Green Bank and King Street, she could not resist the temptation to glance over her shoulder and she saw Brigham and Brandon exchanging words. Judging by their aggressive stance, it was clear that they were not chatting about the weather, and, despite her agitated state, Eliza chuckled at the sight of them facing each other like a pair of angry turkeycocks. With the gold sovereigns clasped tightly in her hand she
headed home, but Brigham’s savage words kept repeating in her brain. ‘You may have looked like a young lady last night, but this morning you look like a drab and you talk like a guttersnipe.’ It was true that she spoke the cockney dialect, as did all the ordinary folk in this part of London, but last night when she was with the more gentrified merchants and their wives, Eliza had realised that the social gap between them was vast, if not unbridgeable. She might put on fine clothes and have the looks of a lady, but when she opened her mouth she knew that she immediately placed herself firmly in the lower social class. As she opened the door to the house in Hemp Yard, Eliza couldn’t help comparing it with the fine mansion owned by Aaron Miller. She knew now that if she wanted to be taken seriously by the likes of the Millers, Brigham Stone and Silas Granger, then simply knowing her trade was not enough; she would have to learn to speak and act like a lady.
‘Oh, Liza, where have you been?’ Millie came rushing towards her as soon as Eliza opened the front door. ‘Dolly’s out of her head and rambling even worse than usual and there’s no laudanum left in the bottle. I can’t calm her down and I couldn’t go to the market to buy me flowers because I daren’t leave her. Thank goodness you’ve come home.’
From upstairs, Eliza could hear Dolly wailing
and sobbing. She was calling for her mother and for Ted in a piteous, child-like voice. Uncurling her fingers, Eliza stared down at the gold coins that had left red indentations in the palm of her hand. All the gold in the world would not bring back Ted and Bart, nor could it cure the madness that was slowly taking Dolly away from them.
‘Please, Liza,’ Millie entreated, with tears running down her cheeks. ‘Do something. You got to do something to help her.’
Eliza nodded wordlessly and going to the mantelshelf she took a penny from the tin and handed it to Millie. ‘Run to the apothecary shop and get a penn’orth of laudanum. We can’t let her go on like this or she’ll do herself harm.’
Millie hesitated. ‘But Catherine Booth says we shouldn’t give her drugs. They’ll destroy her.’
‘The brain fever is destroying her. Either way we’ll lose her in the end and I’d rather she went happy than in a dreadful state.’ Wiping Millie’s tears away with the tips of her fingers, Eliza kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go on, love. I dunno what else we can do for her.’
Millie nodded and sniffed. ‘I’m going, but what about the dress that Mary borrowed from Miss Cynthia? What’ll we do about that, Liza?’
‘I’ll take it back to Mary and see if we can sort something out. Now, please, get the stuff for Dolly before she brings the whole street in.’
It was well past midday by the time Eliza arrived at the silk merchant’s house in Islington, a mid-terrace Georgian house in a square that had once been select but was beginning to look a little run-down and seedy. She glanced up at the soot-blackened façade, hoping that no one in the family had seen her arrive carrying a suspiciously fat bolster case. The tall, small-paned windows stared blindly back at her and there was no sign of movement behind them. With a sigh of relief, Eliza hurried down the area steps to the tradesmen’s entrance. A skinny child, who could not have been more than eight or nine, opened the door, staring blankly at her.
‘I’ve come to see Mary Little,’ Eliza said firmly.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Then perhaps you could ask inside?’
The girl disappeared into the depths of the kitchen and a waft of steamy air laced with the smell of boiling beef and onions caught Eliza in the face making her catch her breath. Moments later, Mary came hurrying into the narrow passage and her face lit with a smile. ‘Eliza. You’ve brought it back. Come inside.’
‘Mary, there was a bit of an accident.’ Pulling back the bolster cover, Eliza uncovered the wine stain. ‘I’m so sorry. But I got enough money to make the damage good.’
‘Oh Gawd!’ Mary’s pale skin blanched to
ashen. ‘What’ll I do? Miss Cynthia is coming home in three days’ time.’
Eliza opened her mouth to suggest that a good dressmaker might be able to fashion a copy, but someone was coming down the area steps and she hid the bolster case behind her back just as Arthur arrived in the doorway. He pushed past her without seeming to notice her presence.
‘Dad! You was told not to come here again.’ Mary barred the way as he headed for the kitchen. ‘Cook said she’d take a ladle to your skull if you come begging again.’