Mary Nichols - Rags-to-Riches Bride

‘Do you enjoy working for Harecroft’s?’ Richard asked her, breaking in on her thoughts.

‘Very much.’

‘It is a strange occupation for a woman,’ he said, as they turned down the Strand. ‘How did you manage to persuade my father to take you on?’

‘If you are implying that I—’ She started angrily, remembering the disapproving expression on his face when he had entered her office and seen his father’s hand on her arm.

‘Heavens, no!’ He lifted one hand from the reins in a defensive gesture. ‘There was no hidden implication in my question, do not be so quick to rise. I was simply commenting on the fact that I have never heard of a female clerk and I am sure the idea never entered my father’s head of its own accord.’

‘I saw the advertisement for a clerk and applied.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘I do not think he would have even considered me but for your great-grandmother, who arrived while I was talking to him. She told him to give me a trial.’

‘That sounds like Great-Grandmama. How long ago was that?’

‘A year.’

‘And now you are an indispensable adjunct to the business.’

‘Of course not. No one is indispensable, but I pride myself that I have justified Lady Harecroft’s faith in me.’

‘She has rather taken to you, you know. I gather she has invited you to her party.’

‘Yes, it was kind of her, but of course I cannot go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Saturday is a working day, besides, I cannot leave my father for long. He is an invalid.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She died fourteen months ago.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. Is that why you must work?’

‘Only the rich can afford not to work.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘But could you not have found something more suitable than becoming a clerk?’

‘What’s wrong with being a clerk?’ she asked defensively.

‘Nothing at all, for a man, but it is evident you have had an education, you could perhaps have become a teacher or a lady’s companion.’

‘I think, sir, that a companion’s lot is harder than a clerk’s. At least with Mr Harecroft my work is clearly laid out and I do have regular hours and can live at home.’

‘Except when you decide to work late.’

‘Sometimes it is necessary. It is best to be flexible.’

‘And what do you like to do when you are not working?’ Having stopped to pay the toll, he steered the tilbury on to the bridge, but she would have known where they were even with her eyes shut; the overpowering smell of the river assaulted her nostrils, a mixture of stale fish, sewerage, damp coal, rotting vegetation and goodness knew what else.

‘I read to Papa and we go for walks in the park on a Sunday afternoon if he is not too tired.’

‘He is your constant companion?’

‘Yes. He needs me.’

‘But you leave him to go to work.’

‘He is used to that and our housekeeper keeps an eye on him for me. When I am late she cooks him supper.’ Housekeeper was an euphemism; Mrs Beales, their landlady, lived on the ground floor and did as little as possible for them and then only if she was paid.

‘Will he be concerned that you are so late home tonight?’

‘He knows I sometimes work late to finish a particular task.’

‘My goodness, how conscientious you are! No wonder my father sings your praises.’

‘Does he?’

‘Oh, yes. I have heard him using you as an example to the others.’

‘Oh. I wish he would not. I do not like to be singled out.’

He laughed. ‘Too late, you have been. Stephen thinks you are a paragon of virtue and industry and Great-Grandmama has a mischievous gleam in her eye whenever your name is mentioned. She is up to something, I know it.’

‘I cannot think what it could be.’

Neither could he. He did not think it was simply concern that Stephen should not make a mistake in marrying her. ‘Now we are over the bridge, which direction shall I take?’

‘You can let me down here. I am not far from home and can walk the rest.’

‘Certainly not. I am going to take you to your door. What do you think my father would say if I admitted to him I had left you short of your destination?’ He looked about him at the people in the street. Working men and women trudging home, seamen, dockers, costermongers with their empty carts, a brewer’s dray with its heavy horses, a stray dog worrying something it had found in the gutter. It was not the place to leave a young lady on her own and it was obvious that if she was not a lady in the accepted sense, she had been brought up genteelly. She had said she did not want to stand out, but she did. She was well spoken, educated and neatly if not fashionably dressed, so why was she living in an area that was only one degree above a slum? ‘Come, direct me.’

Short of jumping out of a moving vehicle she could do nothing and reluctantly directed him to turn left into the next street, which had a row of tenements on one side and warehouses fronting the river on the other. A hundred yards farther down she asked him to stop. ‘This will do, thank you.’

He looked up at the row of tenements. ‘Which one?’

‘It is round the corner, but the way is narrow and it is difficult to turn a vehicle there.’

‘Very well.’ He drew to a stop and jumped out to hand her down.

She bade him goodnight and turned swiftly to cross the road, hoping he would not follow. A speeding hackney pulled out to overtake the stationary tilbury just as she emerged from behind it, almost under the horse’s hooves. Richard, in one quick stride, grabbed her and pulled her to safety, while the cab driver shook his fist but did not stop.

‘You little fool!’ Richard exclaimed, pulling her against his broad chest. She was shaking like an aspen, unsure whether it was because of the close call she had had or the fact that he still held her in his arms. ‘Is my company so disagreeable you must run away from it?’

‘No, of course not.’ She leaned into him, shutting her eyes, saw again the bulk of the horse rearing over her, heard again the yell of the cab driver and the frightened neighing of the horse and shuddered at what might have happened. ‘I did not see the cab. He was driving much too fast.’

‘Indeed hewas. Areyou hurt?’ He held her away from him to look down on her. Her bonnet and the silly cap she wore under it had come off, revealing a head of shining red-gold hair that reminded him of someone else with tresses like that, but he could not think who it might be. Surely if he had met her before he would have remembered the occasion? She was too beautiful to forget.

‘No, just a little shaken.’ She pulled herself away. ‘Thank you, I can manage now.’

‘I do not know why you are so determined I should not see you home. Is your father an ogre? Will he suppose I have designs on your person?’

‘He is not an ogre. He is kind and loving. As for having designs…’ She turned to look directly into his face. ‘Have you?’

He was taken aback by her forthrightness and then laughed. ‘Certainly not. Let us go to him. I shall explain why I felt it necessary to escort you home. And how right I was, considering you nearly got yourself killed.’

She gave a huge sigh of resignation and led the way down the side street. Here the tenements were huddled together, grimy and dilapidated, built years before to house the dockers and those working on the river and in the warehouses. Oh, how she wished she could be going home to the villa in Islington, which had been their home four years before. It had not been grand, not up to the standard of the Harecrofts’ residence in Grosvenor Square, which she had taken a look at out of curiosity when she first joined the company, but even so it had been solid and well maintained and her mother had made it comfortable and welcoming. She would not have been ashamed to take him there. And this was what she had come down to: two rooms in a slum, which all the cleaning in the world could not improve.

Two ragged urchins, a girl of about seven and a boy a little younger, stood on the pavement and watched them approach. Suddenly they smiled and two grimy hands were outstretched, palms uppermost. ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

‘I do not know, but they often appear as I am coming home. I usually give them a penny each. I think they spend it on bread.’

She went to open her purse, but he put his hand over hers to stop her, then delved into his pocket and produced a sixpence. ‘Here,’ he said, offering it to the girl. ‘Go and buy a meat pie and potatoes for your suppers.’

The waif broke into a wide smile, grabbed the coin in one hand and the boy with the other and they scuttled off up the street.

‘Poor little devils,’ he said, as they resumed walking. ‘Where do they live?’

‘I have no idea, but they seem to have adopted me.’

‘No doubt because you give them money.’

‘Perhaps, but it is little enough. The government should do something for the poor and I do not mean build more unions where they can be conveniently forgotten. They are no better than prisons and most people would rather beg and steal than enter one.’

He agreed wholeheartedly but, until something was done officially, it was up to individuals to make their plight known. He had no voice except through his writing. He did not see himself as a novelist, like Charles Dickens, who was also concerned with highlighting poverty, but he could write books and pamphlets pointing out the facts. And the facts made horrifying reading. It was a pity too few people troubled themselves with them. Something else had to be done to make the government pay attention. His visits to the Commons to listen to debates had made him realise that although most of its members paid lip service to the need for action, few were prepared to do it. It was one of the reasons he wanted to join them. ‘You evidently feel strongly on the subject,’ he said.

‘I have seen what poverty can do.’ She opened the door of one of the houses, slightly better than the rest for the curtains were relatively clean, the step scrubbed and the door knocker polished. He followed her inside, as she knew he would. ‘I live on the first floor,’ she said, turning to thank him again and hoping he would take it as a dismissal, although the damage was already done.

‘There you are!’ A woman came out from the back regions of the hallway. She was very fat, wore a black skirt, pink blouse and an apron that had seen better days. Her greying hair was pulled back so tightly into a bun at the back of her head it seemed to stretch the skin on her face, making her dark eyes look narrow. ‘About time, too. I never did undertake to be his warder, you know. I can’t keep him in if he is determined to go out.’

‘Oh, dear, I am sorry, Mrs Beales. Has he not come back?’

‘No, you know he won’t shift until they throw him out. I gave him a luvverly plate of stew for his dinner, luvverly it were, and he just looked at it and grunted that he needed food, not pigswill, and slammed outa the house. If you think I’m goin’ to put up with that sort of treatment, miss, you can think again. I c’n find plenty of tenants who’d be more appreciative.’

‘I am sorry, Mrs Beales. He can be a little difficult about his food sometimes.’

‘Don’t I know it! You shouldn’be so late home. You know it sets him off.’

‘I’m afraid I had to work late.’

‘Hmm.’ The comment was one of derisory disbelief.

‘Thank you, Mrs Beales,’ she said levelly, aware that the woman was looking Richard up and down, summing him up and probably coming to quite the wrong conclusion. ‘I’ll go and look for him.’