Finch’s Gold
(an excerpt)

by Lucy Watson

~

 Prologue

London, 1851

Oscar brought his collar up high, bracing his face against the chill. Snow fell, soft and fragile; white drifts gilded by the low-burning street lamps. The lane was silent and still. A perpetual darkness cloaked these streets, even in daylight. The buildings, like the people, forgotten. Decayed. Streaked with grime and blanketed in soot. As though the wind blew the acrid smoke of all chimneys east - towards the shadowy underbelly of the city. Tonight though, under a veil of snow, Spitalfields glowed; the cobbles a pale gold, unblemished and clean. A frozen, fleeting moment. Pure and fresh. Untrampled by the blackened heel of London.

  Breaking the icy silence, Charlie emerged, his laugh echoing down the empty street. Their father followed, smiling conspiratorially with his eldest son. They appeared to be cast from the same mould; straightening each other’s ties, placing top hats over their near identical brown curls, mists of breath catching the light in unison. Oscar straightened his own tie and ran his hands through his straight, blonde hair, before placing on his flat cap. He felt warm and full in the belly from the Christmas pudding flavoured with brandy, and the tea they had shared in the drawing room beneath the tree. Tomorrow would be Christmas morning. His mother would sing and they would give presents. There would be a goose and more pudding, and his little sister Charlotte would climb into his lap and tell him all about what Saint Nicholas had brought her. How fitting it should snow on such a night.

  Charlie laughed again, their joke in Latin. Oscar wished he could understand them. His mother told him he was smart in other ways. That was true enough. Although Charlie was two years older, Oscar could beat him at cards and dice. Oscar had the more accomplished singing voice and could play piano. Oscar could win a laugh with ease and strike a bargain. Though he was not yet twelve years old, he could best his older brother at almost anything. Anything but books.

  He plunged his hands into the pockets of his black woollen coat to keep them warm and was surprised when his fingers caught the hard edge of an envelope. “Pa. A letter come for you.”

  Will turned towards his younger son with surprise. “A letter came for me,” he corrected, before further considering the revelation. “On Christmas Eve?”

  “It were deliv— was delivered a couple of days ago. But I forgot.”

  Will trepidatiously took the letter from Oscar’s hand, recognising the handwriting and seal. Slowly opening it he chewed his lip, eyebrows pulling into a deep furrow.

  “Who is it from, Pa?” Charlie enquired, seemingly oblivious to his father’s change in countenance.

  Will cleared his throat with effort, “Your uncle.”

  “Come Charlotte, enough ribbons, we’ll be late.” A French accent followed six year old Charlotte as she trotted out the door, rugged up in her best hat and coat, tying a pink ribbon to the bottom of her braid. Moments later their mother followed with baby Tommy on her hip. Will quickly folded the letter but not soon enough to avoid Josephine’s attention. “From whom is this, mon cheri?”

  Will paused before reluctantly confessing. “My brother, dearest.”

  “Charles? What does he want?” When he did not respond she cursed gently in French and implored him. “Will? Tell me.”

 “My darling. It is nothing. He sends us best wishes for Christmas, nothing more.”

  Oscar, determined to hold onto the festive joy of moments ago, gestured to a poster he had noticed a few days ago, nailed to the wall across the street. The advertisement, posted by the local shipping office, fluttered gently in the night breeze; black letters blazoned across the top of the parchment.

  Gold.

  “Seen this, Pa?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Over there. Gold!” He kept pointing until his father looked at the posted bill.

  “Heavens.” Will looked distracted as he spoke, avoiding his wife’s intent eyes. “‘Tis said it is coming out of the rivers. Can you imagine? Popping down to the Thames and returning with a lump of gold? What a thought.”

  “They call ‘em nuggets, Pa. Nuggets of gold. It’s coal what comes in lumps!”

  “That comes,” Will corrected again, laughing, “Well, I should never wish to argue with an expert.”

  Oscar knew it was flattery but glowed at the praise nonetheless. Josephine took Charlotte’s hand impatiently. “Mon Dieu. Come now, we shall miss the service.” She pulled the little girl down the road towards Christ Church, followed closely by Charlie who seemed not at all interested in the discovery of gold in the colonies, and was preoccupied with the Latin riddle his father had set him. Only Oscar and Will remained behind.

  “I hear it takes three months to get there. Three months on a smelly ship with nothing to eat but mouldy bread and stale ale. And the rats! They’re as big as cats.” Will smirked as he teased his son. “Not to mention it’s full of criminals. Rob you soon as look at you.”

  “Not so different to Spitalfields then!” Oscar quipped.

  “A bit warmer, perhaps.”

  “It would be somethin’, though. Wouldn’t it?”

  Will looked thoughtful, genuinely considering the prospect. “It would.” Their eyes met and they shared a look that spoke of adventure and the particular thrill of rolling the dice on life and seeing what number came up.

  “Pa! I’ve worked out the answer. It’s the letter ‘M’.”

  Turning abruptly from Oscar, Will started towards his older son. “Very good, my boy! You must tell me your workings.”

  “Well, the beginning of the world, that’s mundo. With an ‘M’ at the beginning. And the end of ages is saeculorum, with an ‘M’ at the end.”

  Gradually they drifted into the darkness and Oscar was alone in the silence once more; his eyes fixed on the poster, white against the dark green door. The laughter of his family was fading into the cold night air as the bells started to ring out; a cacophonous harmony as familiar as the soot which turned all to black. Not tonight though, thought Oscar. Tonight the streets looked as though they were paved with gold. With a wistful smile, he pulled the poster down and folding it carefully, stowed it in the warmth of his pocket.

PART ONE

London, 1856

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

 ROBERT FROST

CHAPTER ONE

Discovery

Oscar kept watch from behind the red velvet curtains covering the mouldy walls of the foyer. The aroma of beer and tobacco assaulted him. He was neglecting his backstage duties but he brushed aside the momentary guilt with ease. As the final straggler dashed through the double doors to the stalls, the heavy oak door swinging to, he raced from his hiding place and began to turn over the strewn playbills, discarded flowers and other debris. Beneath a particularly crumpled bill - celebrating the buxom Delilah Jones about to take the stage - he uncovered a shiny tuppence. Pocketing the find, he continued to turn, sweep and search for buried treasure. Consumed with his task, he did not notice a young man hurry down the stairs from the circle.

  “You, lad!” the man called, a little more urgently than Oscar would have supposed from a gent simply needing to relieve himself. Standing to look at the anxious, young man, Oscar noticed he had voluminous, blonde curls and mutton chops which he rather admired. Perhaps, when his facial hair started to grow better, he would fashion some equally abundant sideburns.

  “Aye, sir?” Oscar replied with casual politeness, hoping there would be a few coins in it for him.

  “Lad,” the man tried to catch his breath and compose himself, “I would ask that you do me a small boon.”

  “A boon? Oh, favour! Aye, can do.”

  The man, a wistful look appearing on his face, reached into his inner coat pocket. “There is a lady, of great beauty and grace. I need you to deliver a message to her.”

  “Of course. sir. But can you not give it to ‘er yourself?”

  “She is with another gentleman, lad, and she is beholden to him. For the evening, at least. Please, find her in the interval and give her this.” He pressed a crumpled note, slightly damp from his palms, into Oscar’s hand. “Do not let him see you, boy. Do not let him even suspect. This is of the utmost importance.”

  Oscar chewed back a smirk at the apparent gravity of such a frivolous request but cleared his throat quickly and decided to play the role of willing servant. “At your service, sir.” He held the note against his chest and gave the man his most sincere, earnest face. “Describe the lady for me and I assure you, this most important of tasks will be undertaken with the greatest of —” He struggled for another fancy word. “Import.”

  “Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.”

  The man went on to describe a lady with hair of gold, and the most worthy and amiable of qualities. Oscar frankly couldn’t wait to see her with his own eyes. If growing up in the theatre had taught him anything, it was that if an act appeared too magical, too perfect, it was generally a trick of the eye. A product of pure theatrics. He had little doubt this lady would be any exception.

~

The bell rang for interval and the wealthier guests poured out into the circle foyer. Waiters poured champagne. Local girls in shabby dresses wandered about selling oranges and watercress, and whatever else they could get their hands on to make a few bob. Oscar darted between skirts and tails, making his way towards a tall, middle aged man. He was lean and angular, but in a striking, commanding way; his features sharp, his hair slicked and restrained. His moustache was thin and trimmed, as though he controlled all, right down to the last follicle. He was clutching a top hat with one white glove, while the other was protectively placed on the waist of a diminutive blonde. She was pretty certainly, almost too pretty for the plunging neckline and slightly excessive rouge. Then again, the way her bust pressed against her bodice, and bobbed up and down as she laughed, perhaps the intended visage was just so. Why leave to the imagination what could be served up ravishingly on a plate?

  With effort, Oscar pulled his eyes away from the buffet she was displaying and attempted to keep his mind on the task at hand. As he neared the pair, he began to shout. “Mr Dickens! Mr Dickens!” Rounding on the gentleman, the boy reached for his languid, white-gloved hand. “So pleased to meet you, Mr Dickens.”

  “What is the meaning of this affront, boy?”

  “My apologies, Mr Dickens. Tis such a privilege to make your acquaintance though, sir.”

  “Dickens?” The man hissed, and as he spoke Oscar was captivated by the gentleman’s moustache, bobbing up and down like a thin black caterpillar on his lip. “If you mean to suggest that I am the purveyor of that penny-a-page dross with which every dolt in London seems besotted, then you are sorely mistaken. Now I suggest you crawl back to the workhouse from whence you have clearly escaped.”

  Oscar apologised to the man without any conviction whatsoever and disappeared back into the crowd. The man turned back to his lady but did not notice her stuff a small piece of paper into her cleavage. “My dear,” she whispered, in the breathless, squeaking manner of ladies who get their way by being almost unbearably coquettish, “I must powder my nose. Shall I meet you back at our seats?”

  “Very well.” He grunted before abruptly departing. As soon as he was gone the lady made a beeline for Oscar, who had retreated to the wall, across the room.

  “Boy, I thank you.” Suddenly her coquettishness was gone, and the voice of an East London girl came out. “Where is ‘e? Where is Robbie?”

  “Ain’t sure. Saw him in the foyer before the show.” Oscar glanced around and saw a familiar mop of golden curls spilling from behind a nearby potted plant. “Just a tick, missus. Found him.” He cocked his head towards the man’s hiding place.

  Pulling a coin out of her purse, she pressed it into his palm and spoke on. “Bradbury has associates everywhere this evening. I cannot go over there. In fact, take this note back so Bradbury cannot find it, and give him a message for me.” She pulled the note from her cleavage and handed it over. “I will be at the Lansdowne Club later. In the Haymarket. Bradbury will be as drunk as a pickled onion before the clock strikes one, I guarantee. If Robbie can wait across the street, at the Chequers Tavern, I will come to him.” Oscar nodded and moved to deliver his message. “Wait, boy. I have a better idea.” She smiled with such mischief that Oscar delightedly realised tonight might actually be interesting after all.

~

With ink stained fingers, Charlie reached across the weathered wood of his desk and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Burned to a stub, the candle flickered and threatened to gut out, before resuming its feeble glow. As he pressed the pen nib to the parchment and saw the words begin to flow beneath the metal tip, he quickly said a somewhat sacrilegious prayer that the meagre light would last until he completed his final paragraphs.

  He heard little Tommy stir in his sleep and turned towards his younger brother; flaxen hair askew, deceptively angelic face relaxed in slumber and streaked with grime. A repressed smile came to Charlie’s lips as he wondered, not for the first time, how God could have given so innocent a face to such a rogue? He had made Tommy wash his face and hands before supper, and yet somehow, in the hour or so before bed, the lad had managed to make himself dirty once again. How? He was a conjurer. Only instead of magic, he made dirt. Shaking his head, Charlie resumed writing.

  As he began his final paragraph, the front door opened, slammed shut, and moments later Oscar appeared in the room. He flung his coat and hat onto the bed, partially covering the face of their sleeping brother.

  “Alright there C,” he chirped. “Wasting our wax again are you?”

  “Keep your voice down, will you?”

  Oscar laughed, sat roughly on the end of the bed, and began unlacing his boots. “Tommy’s alright. He’ll be fast asleep by now. I could dunk him in a horse trough and he’d not wake up!” He tossed his left boot into the corner with a thud. “So you think they’re gonna publish you this time?”

  “That’s what Mr Southey said.”

  “He’s said it before though, ain’t he?”

  “Aye, but I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

  “Like when you had a feeling Molly O’Brien was going to accept your invitation to the May Day dance and she went with that bleedin’ Tim Driscoll?” Oscar punctuated his jibe with a careless toss of his right boot and flopped back on the bed. Charlie breathed deeply with an effort not to spit a retort at his brother, then turned back to finish his last few sentences.

  “T’was jolly funny. You standing on Molly’s step with that pitiful bunch of daisies in your hand, trying to spit out the words while your face went redder than beet!”

  “Want to dredge up memories, do you?” Charlie replied, taking the bait, “Shall we recall the night you decided to nick Old Bailey’s gin while he was on stage, and when you came on with the chorus at the end, you fell off the edge into the ample bosom of Delilah Jones! As I remember it, Pa had to carry you home, while you lolled in his arms like a sack of potatoes, still gurgling the damn song!”

  Oscar laughed, spreading out on the bed. “I was only a kid when that happened. Didn’t know how to handle me gin!”

  “Oh, and now you’re a veritable docker in constitution, eh?” Charlie teased.

  “A very-what-a? Keep your big words in your fancy articles and talk like us regular folks, will you?”

  “You don’t fancy broadening your horizons a little, Oscar?”

  “Tonight brother, I saw Miss Florence Flanagan remove her corset and drink a glass of champagne in her knickers and a feather boa! Now that’s as broad as I need my horizons for one night!”

  Charlie laughed despite himself as he noticed a full moon high in the sky outside their small grubby window. “Wait on, you’re back rather late, aren’t you? And why are you wearing that footman’s suit?”

  “Picked up a bit of extra coin tonight. Ran some errands for these two secret lovebirds. Regular cupid, me. Ended up at some fancy toff do in the Haymarket. Even had to put on this get up from wardrobe, play the part of the bleedin’ servant boy all night. You’d not believe how these people live, C! Throwing money around, gambling on cards, drinking wine and sherry and brandy from crystal glasses. I tell you, I could get used to that kind of life.”

  “Better not tell Mama about it. She’ll say they’ve corrupted your good honest values.”

  “Too late for that!” Oscar snorted. They both laughed, though they knew their mother was unlikely to say anything at all.

  “You nearly finished that then?” Oscar asked making himself comfortable, taking up a lion’s share of the bed the three of them shared. He liberally covered himself with two of the three grey woollen blankets, leaving Tom’s long john covered feet uncovered. Charlie regretting leaving it so late to stake his place.

  “Aye, almost there.”

  Charlie dipped his pen in the ink again and scratched the final words of his article onto the paper. As he did so he imagined himself the following morning as he strolled by St Paul’s, through the crisp morning, scattering pigeons and humming to himself. He saw himself stopping by the offices of The Compass and dropping off his newest piece of work. This time, surely, they would print it.

CHAPTER TWO

Fever

Meg was collecting the empty pewter tankards and pie plates with little enthusiasm. Long communal tables were filled with evening revellers drinking ale, smoking tobacco, and heartily devouring the simple tavern fare. Smoke hung thickly in the air. The hubbub of male chatter was slowly building, in step with their intoxication. Her long shift at the King & Keys might have been drawing to a close but she was not counting the minutes until her freedom. Home simply meant more chores and possibly her uncle returning home after four or five too many ales.

  Besides which, Meg felt like a bit of fun herself tonight. Unfortunately the selection of companions on offer was meagre. Teddy - who could use a wash and always smelled of tar - sat at the bar. He would smile at her and give her a wink but she preferred to imagine herself whiling away an hour or two in the company of one of the press boys. Or even the young lawyers and clerks who had a little more change in their pockets and a lot less body odour. Tonight though, all the gents were greying, and while they had wallets fat enough to match their paunches, Meg did not exchange pleasantries for money. That was for the whores in Whitechapel, or the courtesans in Haymarket, of which she was neither. She simply liked to have a bit of fun and flirt with a handsome young man who could buy her a drink or two. Soon enough she would have to marry one of them. Then she would be popping out little ones and the fun would be over.

  Resigning herself to an evening without company she picked up several more tankards, placing a finger through each handle until she had five mugs in her left hand and four in her right. As she was awkwardly hooking the tenth mug with her pinkie she saw handsome, young Charlie Finch walk through the heavy oak door with a grin from one ear to the other. Exuberantly, he bounded to the bar and ordered an ale. Swiftly putting the cups down on the bar with a clatter, she arranged her deep auburn hair, sweeping back the curls straying from her bun. Her hair was forever unruly, as though constantly dissatisfied with its incarceration. “What are you all smiles about then, eh?” she asked softly in his ear as she passed behind him.

  “A fine evening to you, Meg,” he removed his top hat and with an exaggerated flourish waved it in greeting as he turned towards her. “It is my pleasure to inform you, my dear, that you are in the presence of a published writer.”

  “Where?” She joked, looking around the tavern. “Can’t see nothing but hacks and has-beens in this place.”

  “Look closer, perhaps.” He leaned in.

  “I daresay there is one handsome young chap who has caught my eye.” She smiled as beguilingly as she could muster in a beer-stained apron. “I’m to finish any moment now. Perhaps if I stay for a drink, this young man can tell me all about his debut into the world of publishing.”

  She pronounced ‘debut’ clearly and deliberately, hoping he would notice. Although a mere barmaid, she had always been bright, and enjoyed the company of intelligent people. It was the very reason she had chosen to work on Fleet Street - an alehouse the only option there for a country girl with no family or connections. She could have been a shopgirl selling gloves and ribbons to rich ladies on Regent Street, she supposed. That seemed so dull though. At the King & Keys she might have had to deal with drunks and dirty tankards, but all manner of intellectual and educated gentleman came in too - and they loved a chat. Usually she was happy to play the simple barmaid with them. Did not care if they thought her clever. But Charlie was different. She had noticed him before. Drinking with the other clerks. He always appeared thoughtful. A little serious but kind too. The fact he was undeniably handsome did not hurt either. Her prospects for the evening were certainly improving.

  “I would be delighted.” He replied and turned back to the bar to order a second tankard.

  Several drinks later they were bundled up in a small booth at the back of the pub. Charlie radiated pride. Meg found she was intoxicated not just by the beer but by his youthful, masculine confidence. He spoke with enthusiasm and ambition; a combination so rare in those of her acquaintance. “I had heard Mr Southey, the editor of The Compass, liked to frequent the Old Mitre coffeehouse, so I would go there after work and drink cup after cup of sludgy coffee. I daresay they have not cleaned their brewing apparatus since before Waterloo!”

  Meg laughed, for she knew the Old Mitre. It was a remnant of a bygone time; smoky, dingy but still beloved by men of a certain age, who fondly remembered the days of vibrant debate and scurrilous gossip which embodied the once lively coffeehouses. Much amused, she imagined Charlie awkwardly sitting there amongst the aging Georgian elite, choking down undrinkable coffee.

  “Eventually, after many evenings of trying, I managed to lure Mr Southey into a debate about the rights of factory workers - a topic I knew would draw ire, for men of his station are ever-vigilant that the natural order remain intact. Heaven forbid the working man get any ideas and decide to stop slaving for a pittance!” A dimple appeared in his cheek as a smile crossed his face, remembering the intellectual tussle. He had evidently enjoyed the encounter. “Although we did not see eye-to-eye on the issue, Mr Southey at least conceded I was bold, and in possession of some wit and fortitude, so he agreed to accept my submissions. Much good it did me, for he summarily rejected all my articles for the three months which followed!” He paused to take a sip of his beer with one ink-stained hand, running the other through his dark curls. “I knew he would print this one.” As he placed his tankard back on the table, his hands clenched into gentle fists, the joy perceptibly running through him.

  “What’s it about?”

  “You shall have to wait for tomorrow’s Compass, I’m afraid,” he teased, then laughed heartily. “Well, as you are a particular acquaintance of the author, I suppose I could give you an early edition.” He then told her about Eliza, a local girl who had found her way into the service of the Burleigh family. Meg already knew the story. Everyone did. London gossip had a way of reaching all ears in a matter of hours. However, she let him tell it all the same. He described how one night the maid had crept out of the big Mayfair house where she worked to meet her beau and the pair had spent a warm summer evening together in the park. By the time Eliza had returned home though, the household had arisen for breakfast, only to discover several pieces of silver were missing. The absent maid became the prime suspect.

  “I am fortunate my brother knows Eliza. Her family is from Stepney and Oscar, who somehow seems to know everyone, managed to convince her to talk to me. I was, at least, able to tell her side of the story. I can tell you, visiting that cell was frightful.”

  “Will they release her, do you think?” Meg instinctively reached for him and touched the wool on the arm of his coat. How could he be wearing a coat? It was so warm.

  “I do not know. It was certainly not in her favour to run when she saw the bobbies and a crowd milling about outside the house. If she had returned of her own volition and protested her innocence, they may have believed her.”

  “But she ran and that only makes her look guilty. Oh, poor Eliza,” Meg genuinely felt for the girl, as it was all too easy to imagine befalling the same fate. She remembered her own father’s fortune turning overnight, evicted from the little farm where he had lived and worked all his life. They had packed up all their belongings and left for London and an uncertain future. She had been but a child. In the years since it seemed fortune had not brought Meg to great heights, but nor was she in a cell, friendless and alone.

  “Yes, perchance I should feel a degree of guilt.” Charlie bit his lower lip and Meg found herself following its journey beneath his top one. “After all, Eliza’s misfortune has directly resulted in my good fortune.”

  “Oh hush. Your article may help her. You did say she was innocent.”

  “With any luck it will help the judge to find her so too.”

  “Charlie Finch - famous writer. Sounds smashing if you ask me. Imagine, one day you could write fantastic novels. The new Mr Thackeray.” She hoped he would be impressed that she knew the name of a novelist. She read as many books as she could afford. One of her few windows into the world outside her dark corner of London.

  “I can only hope. I do long to live by my pen. Leave my job at Abbott and Sons. One day perhaps.”

  “One day soon, I am sure of it.” She touched him again, leaving her hand on his arm for a moment longer. As their eyes met she felt her cheeks burning.

  “And what of you, Miss Megs?” His leg shifted to lay so close to hers she could feel the warmth of it through her skirts. “I have been speaking all of me and not a bit of you.”

  “Not sure I’ve a story to match yours.” What could she tell him? Her life seemed very mundane compared to his. “I work in this glamorous place with quite clearly the cream of London.” They both laughed as they looked about the Kings & Keys. The drunken tumult was nearing its nightly peak; men singing, arguing loudly about the very same things they would debate over again on the morrow. Teddy tried to stand up, fell down in a heap, and incited a drunken cheer. “When I’m not living the high life here, I look after my uncle. That is to say, I look after the apartment. I’m ashamed to say I do my best to avoid Uncle Walter. Sounds terribly uncharitable, I know. I should be grateful to him. He took me in when my Pa took off. In fairness to him, he was prevailed upon to take me in as a lodger. I daresay he was given very little choice in the matter. One day my pa just came home and said, ‘I’m off to America’. Just like that. He was offered a place on a merchant ship and the lure of the open seas was too enticing for him. I cannot truly blame him. ‘I’ll find my fortune Megsy’, he said, ‘And then I’ll send for you’. Perhaps he will. And perhaps pigs will sprout wings and fly!”

  They laughed again but hers had a hollow edge. Their eyes met once more. She found it odd that she had disclosed so much. She never spoke of her uncle or her father to anyone. Mostly kept herself to herself. Let people tell their secrets while she kept hers close to her chest. In all honesty, there were very few people she was close to. Not anymore. The other barmaids were fun but they were silly girls. Not a wit between them. The customers told her their troubles but never asked much of her beyond a sympathetic sigh or well-timed laugh. Now here she was, in this cosy corner, with a boy she hardly knew, confiding in him. More than that, he seemed interested in her story. In her. He made her feel oddly comfortable too. Enough to let her guard down. As though they had been more than mere acquaintances before this evening. Or maybe it was the beer making her feel this way. Yes. The beer.

  She looked into his brown eyes, dark like stout ale. His leg pressed closer. Exploring the features of his face, she noticed it was still soft with youth. His chocolate hair was long enough to curl in all directions, yet somehow it sat just right. She guessed he was seventeen or eighteen. A little older but only by a year or so. He was so close now, she could feel the heat of his body, could smell him too; the scent of beer, wool, ink and something distinctly his own. It was delicious. She found herself wanting to press her face against his chest just to have it envelope her.

  “I should be getting you home, Miss Megs.” His voice caught in his throat, and her name growled from his lips with a husky gruffness.

  She didn’t want this night to end but she did long to be alone with him, away from the prying eyes of the men in the pub. She knew she would never hear the end of it if she put on a show for them all. So she agreed and collected her shawl from the bench as they stood up to leave. Within minutes they were cloaked in the darkness of an alleyway, walking slowly, the evening mild and the warmth of the alcohol washing through them. As they strolled Meg was so aware of his closeness that she could feel her skin tingle, all her senses acute. Alive. Was he feeling this? Did his heart pound in his ears too? As if in response to the questions she was almost sure she had not said aloud, he stopped walking and rested his hand on her arm, drawing her to face him. His pulse raced through his hand. Or was that her own?

  “So, Miss Megs.”

  “So.” She breathed.

  He kissed her. Softly at first. His lips felt good. Right. She had kissed boys before but their mouths had felt foreign. Wet and awkward. She had pushed them away before they tried their luck further. Now she began to understand why young girls got themselves into trouble. And she did not care. She reached for his hair, knocking his top hat to the cobblestones, running her fingers through the curls, as she had been longing to do all night. Oblivious to his hat, encouraged by her enthusiasm, he pressed towards her. She stumbled back against the cool brick wall of the alley. Gently his hand came to her face as he eagerly claimed her lips with his own. His other hand was on her waist but drifted down slowly until it was gripping the softness of her buttock, and a baser animal instinct seemed to take hold of him. He pulled her towards him, pushing his hips against her.

  Meg knew she should stop things, should calm him down. Perhaps he would come to the tavern again. They might start courting. He would take her walking, bring her flowers, write her little love notes. I should stop him, she thought. But his lips felt so warm and soft. His hands so strong and yet gentle. His smell, oh his smell. She kissed him back with equal intensity, and as his hands began to lift her skirt, she did not stop him.

  His fingers reached the top of her stockings, grazing the naked skin of her thigh. She sighed; the sound louder than she has anticipated, stirred even more warmth through her body.

  A drunken voice broke the spell, a familiar bawdy tune echoing down the damp brick walls of the alley. Meg knew the song which drifted towards them and appeared to be getting closer. The words, about a wanton, fallen woman.

  “Charlie. Please. We shouldn’t.”

  It took a moment for Charlie to reign himself in. “I’m sorry Meg, I got carried away.”

  “We both did, but I… I don’t….”

  “I know.” He reached down to fetch his hat, “Let me get you home.”

~

Charlie strolled down his dimly lit street, the smell of the gas streetlights in his nostrils, a lazy smile on his face. He had been so close to discovering the secrets beneath a woman’s skirt. Yet he was pleased some mystery would still remain. At least for now. He had certainly sampled more than he had been fortunate enough to try before. He found himself laughing at his own luck.

  As he approached the door to his apartment, however, his stomach dropped. The door stood open, creaking ominously in the breeze. The air seemed to chill instantly and the darkness beyond the doorway throb with dread. He raced inside thinking of his mother and little Tom, afraid of what he would find in the shadows.

  In the kitchen, he fumbled in the dark for a candle and matches. As he struck and the match burst into flickering flame, catching the wick, he called out to his mother. Then to his brother. No response. He thrust the pale, shadowing light into the two bedrooms. Empty.

  In his mother’s room a chair was overturned. Her precious make up, the powder she applied when she used to perform, had spilled. The jar was upturned, and the contents scattered across the wooden floorboards, his mother’s footprints pressed into the chalk.

  “Mama!” Charlie cried to the darkness. Silence. Fear thudded in his ears.

  “She’s gone.” A voice cut through the emptiness and Charlie’s heart leapt in fright. He turned to see his neighbour, Mr Green, standing in the doorway; a silhouette against the light of the street and the almost full moon. “Sorry to startle you lad. Don’t panic.” The spell of fear broke. Mr Green’s wiry mane of hair jutted from his head at a ridiculous angle, like a wild Amadeus in a halo of moonlight. “We have little Tom in our parlour. He’s eaten near a loaf of bread, so my guess is he’s content enough. Worried for your mother, of course, but he’s such an agreeable lad. Could eat more than a whole workhouse―”

  “Mr Green!” Charlie lost patience with the man’s rambling. “What of our mother!”

  “Blimey. Apologies, lad. I do get so easily distracted. Been out looking for her. So far we’ve found nary a trace. Tried the tavern first, and although I had wee drink it were a quick one for certes. Then quick as lightning I readily galloped to the marketplace. You see, I thought that perhaps she was confused and believed it were daytime. I’ve heard said your mother does get a tad confused at times, and perhaps an empty coster wagon to her would seem full, if shadowed by the cloak of night. I cannot assume I understand the workings of your ma’s mind, after what she’s been through.”

  “Mr Green.” Charlie lead his neighbour into the kitchen, putting his hands on the older man’s shoulders and looking in his eyes. “My mother.”

  “My heaven, I do digress. You see, I’ve only just returned to the house myself and heard you calling. I was hoping you may have a better idea of where she might have gone.”

  Charlie looked back at the powder on the floor of his mother’s room.

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I know.”

Charlie raced towards Brick Lane, down Fournier Street and past the big chapel on the corner. He turned onto the Lane past the overflowing taverns, where the unfortunate souls, drunk on gin, were passed out on the footpath. The whores called to him, or any man standing who looked likely to have a few bob in their purses. He ran past the bakeries, and the seamstress houses still alive with the light and sound of the hardworking women within, toiling by candlelight into the night. He turned onto Whitechapel Road and kept running, though his lungs burned and his legs ached. He ran past the remnants of cabbage and onion skins, left over from the market, leapt over empty crates and ran on. Finally he reached the music hall where Oscar worked. The hall where one night a young lawyer had gone to get an evening of bawdy entertainment, caught a glimpse of a young French actress, dressed in lace and silk, and had instantly fallen in love.

  There, out the front, dressed in her stage dress was his mother. She was looking desperately at the faces of the people passing as they spilled from the theatre on their way to the nearest tavern or hansom cab. Her long hair, still pale blonde and lustrous, tumbled down her back, and though her eyes were red and wild, she still looked so very beautiful; her face powdered, her figure, although now too slim, still moved with such grace in her silken gown. For just a moment Charlie saw the woman his father had seen that night on the stage. Then he saw the fear in her eyes, the lost panic on her face. He pushed past the crowds to her, gently grabbing her arm and turning her to face him. She looked confused, then her face softened.

  “William.” She whispered. “Will, I have been looking for you, where have you been?”

  “Mama, it’s me. It’s Charlie. Let’s go home now. Come away.”

  “Will, did you see the show? Did you see me dancing?”

  “Come Mama. Come.” He coaxed her gently, leading her away from the milling throng.

  As they passed the side of the theatre, Charlie caught sight of Oscar, laughing with his pal Simon Badger. They were swilling the last of a bottle of champagne, which Charlie imagined they had scavenged from the emptying theatre and were polishing off in the shadows, away from the eyes of the management.

  “Oscar! Oscar!” Charlie shouted to his brother, who took one look at the situation, knew instantly what was happening and ran over to help.

  “Madame Josephine,” Oscar proclaimed as he reached them, “That was quite a performance this evening! You truly are the French Nightingale!”

  “Sir!” She cried, her face softening with the compliment but showing no recognition of her second son. “You saw me dancing?”

  “Dancing, singing! You were an angel. Now, your handsome beau here is going to take you home. We cannot have that beautiful voice damaged by the night air, can we?”

  “Tres bien. You are most wise, sir.” She purred, traces of her French accent remaining. “I should retire from this evening chill. Many thanks, and a good night to you.”

  “Perhaps I will join you both for a stroll.” Oscar countered, winking subtly at Charlie. “The night is so fine. You can tell me all about how you two met.”

  Oscar then took his mother’s other arm and the three of them walked back to Spitalfields, as Josephine, the lady who had once been the French Nightingale, told them both a tale they already knew by heart. Of the night a charming, young lawyer had stood by the stage door with a white rose, and stolen her heart.

~

Oscar boiled the kettle while Charlie took Josephine to her room and put her into bed. The long walk and the talking had calmed her. She now seemed weary and pliant, content to do as her son was bidding. Charlie wasn’t sure whether the fog had lifted from his mother’s mind and she knew him to be her son once again. He was simply pleased to have her safe at home.

  Once Josephine had her head laid upon the pillow, her eyelids lowering towards sleep, her eldest son began to tidy the room. He turned the chair back the right way and began to scoop as much of the powdered make-up as his hands could gather back into the jar. The chalk coated his fingers, working its way into the grooves of his palms. He clapped his hands together, a cloud forming briefly in the air, before the tiny white particles drifted towards the floor and disappeared; as though they had never been there at all. Then standing once more, he joined his brother in the next room.

  He watched Oscar make tea in their little kitchen - a simple iron stove, an open fireplace and an old weathered wooden table. He remembered how it used to be. They had lived in a bigger apartment then. The kitchen well appointed and filled with light and feminine touches; flowers on the table, lace curtains hanging from the windows. Their mother would bustle around making supper while Charlotte sat on her father’s knee. Oscar would be entertaining Tommy, little more than a baby, making coins disappear and reappear to his little brother’s delight. Charlie could hear the laughter, smell the sausages and mash. Then he blinked and he was back in this dark empty kitchen, his brother sombrely pouring the hot water into their old, stained teapot.

  They sat at their small kitchen table in silence for a few minutes, pouring tea into chipped teacups; Charlie, his head in his hands, Oscar, playing with candle wax he had broken off and was now rubbing between his forefinger and thumb.

  “I’m worried, Os.” Charlie finally broke the silence.

  “Nothing new there then, C.” Oscar tried to joke but his brother was too tired to manage a smile.

  “We need help with her. We cannot leave Tommy here alone with her all day. He should be off to school, and she needs someone here to keep an eye on her. One of these days she’ll run off and we’ll not be able to find her in time.”

  “How can we afford to get someone to come and look after her? We barely cover the rent as it is, let alone clothes, and food, and firewood, and candles.” Oscar looked guiltily at the candlewax he was fondling and tried to stick it back onto the candle which sat between them on the table.

  Charlie sighed. “I know.”

  “Perhaps we could take her to one of them hospital places.”

  “An asylum?” As Charlie said the word, both he and Oscar shuddered. They had all heard tales of conditions within Bedlam. The only place as feared as such an institution was the workhouse, and all prayed they would never see the inside of either.

  “No. I could never leave her there.”

  “I know she ain’t got no family left but what about Pa’s kin?”

  “We’ve never even met them, Os. Why should they give us money? I do not even know if they know Pa’s dead.”

  “They got money though, ain’t they? It’s worth a try”.

  “I cannot countenance going to kin we do not even know grovelling for money. Besides, they disowned Pa when he married Mama, why would they give us money to help her?”

  Oscar considered Charlie’s point. “Aye. True.”

  “We shall simply have to find a way to save some money.” Charlie resolved. “I’ll write more articles, and you’re resourceful little brother. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  Oscar’s brow was creasing with thoughtfulness when an idea gleamed in his eye.

  “Something legal.” Charlie added swiftly.

  A laugh that was little more than air escaped Oscar’s lips. “Back to the chalkboard then.”

CHAPTER THREE

Specks

Sir Charles Finch sat in his office reading the paper. He had been in Paris all week and had returned this day to a stack of news and letters which had accumulated in his absence. While he knew his staff could run much of his business without him, there was always mail. Dinners, balls, charity functions, invitations to the country; a hundred letters which required his imminent reply. Unwilling to face that pile, and the inevitable guilt he would feel when he turned half of them down, Charles settled into his leather chair, and began reading the news from several days ago. He was drawn to an interesting article about the young maid accused of stealing the Burleigh silver. It would seem that some enterprising young journalist had thought to speak to her. Had even managed to gain access to her cell. He wished that many of his own staff were that tenacious and showed so much initiative.

  Charles could tell the writer was young by his enthusiastic style and progressive thinking. It was unusual for anyone in the establishment to take the side of a woman of besmirched name, whether her reputation was deserved or not. Curious, he took a glance at the by-line, and was surprised to see his own name staring back at him. The sudden flicker of a long gone memory shot through his mind. Could it be?

  Charles thought back to that rainy day four years ago, when he had stood at the back of the little Spitalfields church while a few dearly beloved bid farewell to his estranged brother. He had found out about the funeral by chance, an acquaintance of his a client of Will’s. He had gone, desperately remorseful that he would never be able to restore his brother to the family, or to say goodbye.

  Approaching his brother’s widow that day, he had tried to offer her his condolences, with a mind to extending financial aid. He could not penetrate her grief though, and she had looked at him blankly, before drifting past as though he had not been there at all.

  He remembered the tall, dark, solemn boy standing in front of his father’s coffin. Immovable. Inscrutable. Charlie. His brother’s first son. While he was still alive, Will had occasionally written to his older brother, a last remaining connection to his wealthy past and distant family. From his scant letters, he knew young Charlie was a great scholar and promising writer. Will had been so proud of his boy, and Charles knew that his brother had worked even harder to ensure Charlie got the best education his father could afford.

  Charles had once replied to one of his brother’s letters and offered to help financially. Could he pay for school fees? Send Charlie to a good school - Stowe, perhaps? As his father and uncle had done. Could he send gifts for the children, or some luxuries? It had been just before Christmas. The last one before his brother passed away. Of course, proud, stubborn Will had refused. Then he had died and left the children with only their mother.

  Charles often berated himself for not trying harder to help that day, at the funeral. Or for not seeking the family out and insisting they accept his help. The thought of them struggling crept into his mind in the dark moments of the night and kept him from slumber. But in the morning, he would somehow convince himself that all was well. That Will would have provided for his family. That Josephine’s family would have looked after them. That they would not have accepted his help anyway.

  Charles looked back at the article. Could this young, idealistic writer be his nephew?

  He picked up a quill and began to write a letter to Mr Southey at The Compass.

~

Meg entered her apartment after a long, tiring shift. Her feet ached and she felt exhaustion right through to her bones. She longed for nothing more than to splash water on her face to rinse off the grime of the day’s work and tuck herself up in bed.

  As she passed her Uncle Walter’s bedroom she could smell the stale beer wafting from his gaping, snoring mouth. Passed out in his clothes and boots, a candle still blazing by the bedside, she was relieved he was asleep. Creeping in silently, she removed his boots and blew out the candle.

  How she longed for the day she would marry and no longer have to live with him. Though the idea of bearing children and domestic humdrum did not hold much allure for her, she did long for escape. Yet it was ironic that in searching for love, for someone who cared about her, she would have to exchange one set of obligations for another. Meg spent more time looking after her uncle than he had ever spent looking to her needs. Most nights he stumbled in drunk and abrasively demanded to know what was for supper. She wished her father had never left, though she knew working in a Clerkenwell factory had broken his heart. After spending his whole life running a farm and working the land, the darkness, the punishing futility of factory life had all but destroyed him. When she remembered him as he had been before they had come to London - his skin bronzed from the sun, his clothes the smell of hay and apples - her heart filled with a melancholy beyond merely missing her father. It was a piercing nostalgia which pricked like a needle and bled into the walls she tried to build around her heart. Though she tried to pragmatically accept that London, damp and lonely, was her life now, memories of her Kent childhood always broke through; an apricot sunset, scented with blossoms. She could still see her friend Katherine down by the pond, her dark hair and beautiful dresses. She would gently remove her silk stockings so she could paddle in the shallows, giving not a care that she was a young lady and her friend was a farmer’s daughter. She seemed to revel in it. Sneaking Meg into the big house, the pair would hide beneath a table laid with a rich tablecloth, peeping out at the lords and ladies who had come for tea or luncheon. Now, in her dark room in Clerkenwell, it seemed strange - as though her childhood belonged to someone else. A dream another had lived. The scent of hay and blossom had been replaced by the constant odour of burning coal and stale beer. The soft pink light turned to grey. No, she could not blame her father. He had not left because he did not love her but because he would have died if he had stayed. Crushed by the heavy machinery in soul and body. So when he was offered passage and work on a ship, she could understand the temptation of open seas. Freedom. What did concern her was that it had been two years since he’d gone and she had not received even a letter from him.

  Meanwhile, she was stuck with her drunk uncle, who had come to London many years earlier in the wake of ‘the riots’ - a time that had left a scar which always simmered, the unspoken cause of so many troubles. As a child, her village had seemed eternally in the shadow of what had come before. Forever rebuilding. She wondered what it must have been like on those nights. Farms ablaze. Her father had tried to explain it to her, in his gruff, short manner. Machines had come, powered by coal and steam. They could do the work of a dozen farmers. Her father had resigned himself to the fact they were the future, but many had struggled to accept their new reality. Refused to, in fact. Not without a fight. They saw their livelihoods, their family legacy, slipping away in a furrow of iron and fire, and they burned the farms, broke the machines. Her father had proudly told her how he had stayed loyal to the estate. The Fletchers had lived on the Mantell land for three hundred years and they would continue to do so while he drew breath. His brother Walter though, always hotheaded, had rioted. Hauled in front of the magistrate, he had been given a choice; leave Kent for somewhere else in England, or take free passage to Australia. It was not just her uncle either, this was the response across the county - local families who had lived on their farms for hundreds of years disappeared, whispered about by those left behind in pubs and marketplaces.

  “The Watson’s run a farm in the colonies now. Perhaps we should have gone when we had the chance.”

  “I hear Appleton has a pub in Birmingham. His wife is still a shrew but I’d wager it’s worth the journey for a free tankard or two.”

  “Still no word on Fred Miller? Some say he got a ship for America. But I heard he was stabbed in Plymouth over a lass. Ever had a thing for blondes.”

  Perhaps it was growing up in the shadow of a failed revolt but rebelling against the inevitable seemed futile to Meg. Why rail against what you cannot change? One had to adapt to survive. A farm girl became a barmaid. A farmer a merchant sailor. Walter had chosen to come to London and build the railroads. The brutal work in rough masculine company had not evened his temperament. At first she had tried to justify his moods. He had never married. He was used the company of men. It was the drink that made him that way. Somewhere deep down inside he must have cared about her a little. A single grain is a feast to a starving man.

  All she could do was work as much as she could, save every penny she could spare, and look for a way out. She would either marry a decent young man, or jump on a ship and go and find her father. For now though, she would remain here, in her uncle’s damp Clerkenwell apartment. He was dead to the world tonight at least, and Meg was grateful for that mercy. She left the room and closed the door, the tension relaxing in her shoulders as the wood locked into place in the doorframe. In her own room - a blessing for which she knew she should also be grateful - she was about to remove her shawl and boots when she heard a faint knock on the front door. Her heart leapt with both surprise at the possibility of a visitor and fear the knocking would wake her uncle. She quickly made her way to the door and cautiously whispered. “Who is it?”

  “Charlie Finch.”

  Meg froze. Had she heard that correctly? Or had she just imagined the very name she most wanted to hear. She ran her hands across her face and through her hair, cursing that she had not had a chance to clean herself up. Although she knew she must look a state, there was nothing for it. She had to open the door and face him. The first thing that struck her was how careworn he looked, circles under his eyes to match her own and a face which shadowed the heaviness of his heart. He had looked so different the last time she had seen him. Was it a week ago? Somehow in the space of a few days he had gone from brimming with enthusiasm and life to burdened with the weight of responsibility.

  “Charlie— ” was all she could manage to say before he spoke, the words tumbling like water from a dam which had burst its banks.

  “My apologies Meg, for the intrusion. Perhaps I should not have come. Or sent word first. I went to the bar to see you but Betsy told me you had gone home. And since I had walked you here, when we… the other night.” He flushed a little at the memory.

  Meg felt a little butterfly flap its delicate wings in the pit of her stomach. “I confess, I am much surprised to see you, Charlie. Pleasantly so, of course. Is something amiss? You look positively ill.” Instinctively she reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

  “I do not wish to unload my troubles on you, but I wondered if you would care to take a walk. I know the hour is late. Do you think your uncle will mind? I give you my assurances that I will act as a gentleman. This time.”

  Meg wanted to pinch herself to check she was awake. Was handsome Charlie Finch standing on her doorstep asking her to go walking? She had been so very worried that, after what happened last time, he would never want to see her again. She knew what most boys thought of girls who behaved as she had done, and her joy at knowing she was to be given another chance banished all feelings of exhaustion. “I’d love to go walking with you, Charlie Finch.”

  Strolling down Cheapside in the direction of St Paul’s, it was warm; the moon low in the sky. Meg linked her arm in Charlie’s, waiting for him to speak. One block. Two. The silence was companionable and yet she longed to hear what weighed on his mind.

  “I am sorry I did not come to see you earlier. I had a most agreeable time with you the other night. I mean, that’s not what I mean. It was nice. Nicer than nice.”

  Meg giggled. “Charlie, you needn’t fret. I had a nice time too.”

  “It was not my intention to neglect you, I assure you. I have had a few troubles.”

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “No more than you are already doing by listening,” he assured her. He then spoke of his mother, the events of that night - after he’d left Meg at her door - and most importantly, his concerns for how to best look after his family. “I went to see Mr Southey and ask if I could write any more pieces for the paper. He told me he would not commission them, but that if I wanted to write them, he would consider them for submission and pay me if they were printed. I have spent the past few nights since writing articles on everything of which I can think; the odorous state of the Thames; the plight of those forced into overcrowded slums to make way for new housing developments; the campaign for matchmakers to use red phosphorous instead of the toxic yellow, but Southey liked none of them. He said he does not want pieces about the downtrodden and depressing, he wants scandal, he wants sauce. That’s what sells papers, he says.”

  “So, what are you gonna write about?”

  “I do not know. Not yet. My brother Oscar was telling me of a club in the Haymarket. A den of vice. Gambling, women of ill repute, wealthy men doing things they cannot tell their wives. He goes down there and poses as a servant, running clandestine messages between two secret lovers, or so he tells me. I thought perhaps tomorrow night I would see if I can gain entry into this unsavoury place and uncover a good story.”

  So, serious, thoughtful Charlie Finch has an adventurous side, Meg thought. How fun it would be to see such a place. She loved peering through windows, looking over fences, seeing how other people lived. Especially if they were rich, beautiful, decadent and played by their own rules - rather than the suffocating ones society dictated. She so longed to see the places where the lines blurred. Where social constraints dissolved. “What a lark! Think you might need an accomplice?”

  “Would it not be too ungentlemanly to take you to such a place?”

  “What could be ungentlemanly about taking a lady to a den of sin and vice?” Megs joked. When Charlie still looked concerned, she assured him, “Charlie, I work in an alehouse, there cannot be anything in your fancy club I’ve not seen before.”

  “You do not think your uncle will mind?”

  “To hell with him. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  As they reached St Paul’s Cathedral, the white marble gloriously lit by the moon, they turned left onto Peter’s Hill and headed for the river. Although it was late, several boats still drifted silently on the water, the small waves glistening in the silvery reflection.

  “Charlie.”

  “Yes, Miss Megs.”

  Emboldened by the familiarity between them she ventured, “I heard one of the boys from Abbott & Sons talking about you the other night. He had had a few too many ales and was more than a little loose-tongued. He said that you were a Finch.”

  “You know I’m a Finch.”

  “No, I mean, a Finch. One of the Finch’s. Of Finch Wharf. Finch Goods. And that your father’s mother is a Beaumont.”

  He paused for a moment. “It’s true. I am.”

  “So, if you’re a Finch and a Beaumont, and I hope you don’t mind me asking this but, well - why is it so hard to find the money to look after your mother? Why do you need to work as a clerk at Abbott & Sons?”

  Charlie looked serious, considering how to answer. The silence continued for a beat or two longer than she could bear, “I’m sorry for being so nosey, it’s none of my business.”

  “I do not know if I told you,” he began at last. “My mother used to be an actress.”

  “Gosh, on Drury Lane?”

  “Alas, no. She was a Parisian singer who found her way to the music halls of the East End. Suffice to say she was not about to be summoned before Queen Victoria! More’s the pity as I know my mother would have been something to see, in her day. Not that my father’s family - the esteemed Finch’s of London, or the Beaumont’s with their vast Yorkshire estates - cared much for her abilities, no matter how admired she was. Within certain circles, of course.”

  “I can imagine!”

  “When they heard their eldest son was adamant he would marry a French actress, well―”

  She knew. It was the very thing she despised. Prejudice against faults which the transgressor could not hope to remedy. “And he walked away? From his fortune? His family?”

  “He was the second son, so he was not to inherit the fortune. But there were privileges. Father never spoke of what happened but his silence said what he could not. There was no compromise. No reconciliation. He walked away from it all.”

  He paused, leaning against the stone wall, before continuing, “Even so, everything was good for a long time. There are blessings to being an unconventional family. There are still expectations, of course, but freedom too. And there was a great deal of music. And love.”

  A shadow crossed Charlie’s face and he turned to look out across the Thames. Silence hung between them, punctuated only by the lapping of the water against the stone walls and their own breathing. Meg began to think Charlie wasn’t going to speak, but then he did, his voice low and thick. “Have you ever been to one of those old tenement houses? Where the floorboards are ancient and rotting, threatening to give way under your feet?” She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “The night my father died, it was so sudden. We never saw it coming. It was like the floor simply fell away beneath us. There was no net, nothing to catch us.” Charlie looked into Meg’s eyes and then turned to face the river again, leaning on the old stone wall with his elbows. She imagined the damp moss seeping into the elbows of his coat. Unsure what to say, it felt better to say nothing. Let Charlie continue. If he wanted to. When he did, he spoke slowly, his eyes focused on a distance much farther than the opposite river bank. “I was fourteen. He collapsed on the street. Constables found him. Carried him home. A doctor was called, but there was nothing to be done. His heart, they said.”

  His heart. A million paths leading from one beating, relentless core. There was no guarantee where its urging might lead you. It could take away everything. Or it could open the floodgate to a new life. She moved behind him and put her arms around his waist, pressing her face against the wool of his coat. There it was again, the scent of wool. Ink. Charlie. He turned in her arms and a face of sheepish melancholy met hers. “I have depressed you with my story.”

  She shook her head ever so slightly. “Not at all.” She could tell he was on a shaking limb, vulnerable. There was so much to fear in life but this he need not fret. She would never be the cause of his sorrow. “My mother died when I was born and my father is who-knows-where. So I know how it feels to have only yourself to rely upon. You have your family to take care of too. It would be burden enough for anyone.” She stroked the hair above his ear, softly curling her fingers through the dark spirals. “Perhaps we can be a comfort to one another.”

   His arms tightened around her, and he smiled with a hint of mischief. “I believe, just possibly, we may.”

  When he kissed her, it was not like that first night. In the alley. Beer, exploration, conquest. This was different. This felt comforting. Safe. It felt like home.