Hold On To Hope E-Book

Jean Fullerton

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The 4th novel in the East End Nolan Family series. The most talented voice since Dilly Court - an absorbing, thrilling and romantic historical saga with characters you'll fall in love with. Kate Ellis learnt the hard way that falling in love with the wrong man could be your undoing. It was nine years ago that she fell for the charms of Freddie Ellis, only to discover his criminal ways. With her husband in prison, Kate has fought hard to give her two children everything they could need. But now Freddie is back and threatens to destroy everything she has worked for. Captain Jonathan Quinn has resigned from the army after the needless death of too many of his men. But when his father disowns him and his fiancée breaks their engagement, Jonathan finds himself in desperate need of work. Accepting a friend's proposal of acting as headmaster at a local school, Jonathan is determined to leave the army behind and turn his life around. When Kate and Jonathan's paths cross, the attraction is instant. But with Kate still a married woman, they know it can never be. As Kate grows more distant, Jonathan finds solace in the arms of another woman, and Kate is left to wonder if she will ever find true love again... A sweeping historical romance perfect for fans of Bridgerton

Leseprobe

Hold on to Hope

Also by Jean Fullerton

No Cure for Love

A Glimpse at Happiness

Perhaps Tomorrow

Hold on to Hope

Hold on to Hope

JEAN FULLERTON

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books, an imprint of Hachette UK Ltd.

This edition published in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © Jean Fullerton 2012

The moral right of Jean Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 178 649 5761

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

To Hannah, Nathan, Sarah and Imogen.

Chapter One

Kate Ellis tucked the wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear and handed over the bowl of steaming stew to the next customer.

‘There you go. That’ll be threepence, please. And just take a cuppa.’ She nodded at Sally, her assistant standing beside her and pouring tea into a dozen or so mugs.

The docker handed her the money and Kate pulled out the drawer under the counter, slipped the cash into the well-worn copper section then shut the drawer. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. There might be icicles hanging from the crane arms in the docks but the chop house was steamy as a laundry.

Kate’s Kitchen sat on St George’s Highway about a mile east of Smithfield on the corner of Neptune Street and was situated at the rough end of Wapping and Shadwell’s main thoroughfare. Her eating house drew trade from the old St Katharine’s church area and the tobacco docks as well as the port offices around the Royal Mint.

The shop took up most of the downstairs part of the property and allowed Kate a small parlour, accessed from behind the counter and through the back door. The room had a fireplace and a set of narrow wooden steps leading to the two rooms above, where she and her children slept. The backyard contained the privy and the chicken coop. The derelict stable formed the back wall.

Many of the local traders were having brash new windows fitted, made up of a single sheet of glass; Kate kept her front window with its traditional small panes. She felt that they helped to give the shop a homely feel, along with the clean, bright paintwork and red-chequered curtains.

‘How’re you doing, Sally?’ Kate asked.

‘I’ll have to brew another pot in a mo’ but I’ll squeeze another couple of mugs out of this one first,’ Sally replied.

‘Good. The next batch of pies should be ready in a minute.’ Kate squeezed behind her assistant to reach the oven.

Sally’s husband, Will, was a long-time drinking pal of Kate’s brother Patrick. He had been a lighterman on the river until his boat collided with a Woolwich steam packet on its way upriver three years ago which crushed his arm. As soon as Patrick told Kate of Sally’s circumstances she had offered her work.

Although there was barely room to accommodate both women, she and Sally had developed an uncanny knack of avoiding bumping into each other as they dished up dozens of hot dinners and poured gallons of sweet tea.

‘I thought your Joe would be back by now,’ Sally said, sliding the dirty plates stacked on the end of the marble counter into the enamel sink.

‘So did I,’ Kate replied, pouring custard on to two bowls of jam pudding.

On cue, the parlour door opened and Kate turned to see her son Joe standing in the doorway.

As usual, and despite Kate combing it into order that morning, Joe’s hair now flew off in all directions. There was a smear of mud on his right cheek and both socks had lost their fight with gravity and were bunched just above the tops of his boots. Despite eating what seemed to be his own body weight in food each day, Joe remained stick thin, probably because he burnt up so much energy tearing around the streets.

‘I thought I told you to come back at noon,’ Kate said, picking up the tea towel.

Joe found space behind the counter and grabbed a wooden spoon. ‘Sorry, Mam, but me and Sammy were playing soldiers.’ He swished his improvised sword back and forth. ‘We was fighting off cannibals, like the ones Uncle Pat told us about.’

The corner of Kate’s mouth lifted. ‘And I’ll have to have a word with my brother about his tall tales.’

‘But it’s true,’ Joe protested as he parried an imaginary enemy. The spoon pinged against a mug, setting it wobbling.

‘I’ll have that,’ Kate took the spoon from him, ‘before my china ends up shattered on the floor.’

Joe surrendered his sword and lolled against the counter. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, gathering a fingerful of custard from the side of the jug and popping it into his mouth.

‘Nothing until you’ve nipped these around to the trade door at Murphy’s Wharf,’ Kate said, picking up a basket filled with wrapped pies that had been kept warm beside the stove.

Joe stuck out his lower lip. ‘Oh, Maaaam.’

‘It won’t take you a moment and I’ll have your plate ready when you get back.’ She tousled his fair hair. ‘There’ll be an extra dollop of jam if you’re quick.’

Joe grinned, showing a shadow of his father’s easy charm, before scooping up the basket and dodging between the tables.

‘And don’t drop the money on the way back!’

The bell over the door jingled as Joe dashed out, almost knocking Ruben Krowsky, one of the coffee sellers, flying.

Ruben stamped his feet on the coconut mat and unwound his scarf as clinging wisps of river fog evaporated in the warmth of the shop.

‘Afternoon, Ruben,’ Kate called over the heads of the other customers.

‘And to you, dear lady,’ the old man replied, as he reached the counter. ‘I see your Joe’s full of beans today.’

Kate laughed. ‘Isn’t he always?’

‘And how is my lovely Ella? Working hard at her lessons?’

A little bubble of pride started in Kate’s chest. ‘She’s grand! She got a special commendation from her teacher last week for her neat handwriting.’

‘Did she?’ Ruben said, approvingly.

‘She did. And of course Joe will be going to St Katharine’s after Christmas.’

‘Already?’

‘Well, he’s six in May.’

‘Six! It only seems yesterday he started walking.’

Kate laughed. ‘Joe’s long given up walking in favour of running.’

‘A truer word was never spoken.’ Ruben’s long face creased into a smile. ‘I know I’ve said it before but you don’t look old enough to be their ma.’

‘Go away with you,’ Kate replied, feeling her face grow warm.

Ruben put a fingerless-gloved hand on his chest. ‘As Jehovah is my witness! You can’t be a day older than my Sadie and she’s only twenty-four in January.’

‘Ah well then, I have a couple of years on her,’ Kate replied. ‘How’s Hester?’

He shook his head dolefully. ‘Oy. Not good. She’s been coughing all night, fit to wake the dead.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She took a plate from the stack on the end of the counter. ‘Stew or pie?’

‘Pie, I think.’

Kate picked up a tea towel, opened the oven and manoeuvred a steak and onion pie onto the plate. She scooped up a generous portion of mashed potato alongside it then ladled gravy over both. ‘That should warm your cockles,’ she said, handing it to him.

‘I hope so! It’s cold enough to freeze the blood in a poor man’s veins. I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t see ice floating on the river soon like it did back in ’49. Do you remember?’

‘How could I forget,’ Kate replied, smiling at him. ‘That’s when we first met.’

A fatherly expression stole over Ruben’s face. ‘Ah yes. I can still see you now with baby in one arm, a basket hooked over the other and selling pies at the dock gates.’

‘And you gave me a mug of coffee and let me warm Ella by your stove,’ Kate replied, softly.

Ruben looked amazed. ‘Did I?’

She smiled. ‘You know you did. Now, Ruben, I think there’s a space or two at the back. And also,’ she picked up one of the wrapped pies from the back of the hotplate, ‘put it on your stove to keep it warm for later.’

Ruben put his hand up. ‘No, I couldn’t—’

‘Sure you can, for Hester.’

He took the parcel and tucked it in his pocket. ‘Thank you and a blessing on your house.’ Picking out a knife and fork from the tub on the counter, he made his way between the tables to the rear of the shop.

The bell tinkled again and Joe dashed back in.

‘That was quick,’ Kate said, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching for a bowl.

‘That’s cos I’m the fastest runner in the street,’ Joe told her, his eyes fixed on the ladle as it filled the dish with mutton stew.

Kate took the money from him and then handed him his dinner. ‘Go and keep old Ruben company.’

Cradling his stew in his hand, Joe made his way between the men seated around the dozen tables to where the old coffee seller was eating his dinner.

Knowing that the end-of-lunch bells would soon ring, most of Kate’s customers were mopping up the last drops of gravy and preparing to go back to work. And sure enough, within half an hour the last few stragglers were gone, leaving only a couple of street traders sipping coffee at the back. Joe finished his dinner and Kate got him to help sort the cutlery to keep him occupied. As she wiped down the last table, her daughter Ella walked in.

Although she wouldn’t turn seven until April, Ella was already half a head taller than many of her classmates who were two years older. With bright blue eyes and two long blonde plaits bouncing down her back, she looked very much as Kate had done twenty years before. The cold had put a sparkle in her eyes and pink on her cheeks.

She was dressed in the uniform at St Katharine’s School, a navy button-up dress, a white pinafore and a dark blue calf-length coat. Well, the coat should have been calf-length but it, like the dress and pinafore, was almost up to her knees and would have to be replaced before the next school year.

‘You’re out early,’ Kate said, putting the last plate on top of the stack.

‘The boiler went out so Miss Wainwright called Mr Delaney in to look at it. After he played about with it for a bit, it started smoking and filled the classrooms. Mr Rudd had to close the school.’

The two teachers did their best to keep St Katharine’s going but since the old headmaster Mr Gardener died a year ago, the school seemed to be going to rack and ruin. Perhaps, instead of sending Joe there in January, she should apply for a place in the Green Coat School in Norbiton Road just off Salmon’s Lane. She had to find a good place for him as without a proper school certificate there was no hope of either of them securing an apprenticeship or an office job. She had heard that St Katharine’s school guardians were interviewing someone to replace the old headmaster so maybe she’d wait a couple of weeks before making a final decision.

‘Sally, do you think you can finish off here while I go and put my orders in for next week?’ Kate asked, untying her apron.

‘Sure thing, Mrs E,’ Sally replied.

‘In fact,’ Kate glanced at the darkening sky through the window, ‘I doubt in this weather you’ll get many more in so as soon as the last few have left, you can lock up. And take the last couple of pies yourself.’

Sally’s pale face lifted into a smile. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs E. That should do Will and the boys just right for their supper.’

‘And make sure you take one for yourself,’ Kate added, thinking Sally could do with putting a bit of meat on her bones.

Sally’s two older lads were already working on the river but they only brought home boys’ wages so Kate made sure there was always a bit of something left over.

‘I will,’ Sally replied, putting another handful of dishes in the sink. ‘And I’ll set the pot to soak before I go. What do you want me to do with the leftover bread?’

‘Just leave it. I’ll make some bread pudding with half of it and take the rest to the mission when I get back. There should be enough stew left to feed a few more poor souls.’

Kate collected her coat and bonnet from behind the parlour door. ‘Joe, Ella, do you want to come with me to Watney Market?’

‘Yes, Ma,’ Ella said, rewinding her scarf around her head.

Joe jumped off the stool behind the counter and dashed around. ‘Can we have a ha’penny to spend in the sweetshop?’

‘I think I might just find a farthing or two for you both. Now get your coat, Joe, and we’ll be off.’

As Kate had hoped, the stallholders were selling off their fresh produce cheap rather than have it spoiled by the frost overnight. After giving next week’s order to the butcher and grocer, Kate loaded up her basket and dropped in two oranges for an after-supper treat. When they started home, the lamplighters were already at the top of their long ladders, bringing to life the lamps dotted along the main thoroughfare. They could hear the faint hiss of the gas as they passed underneath.

The fog along the highway was so thick that she and the children could hardly see across the road. Taking the long way to avoid the sailors outside the seamen’s mission, Kate hurried on. She’d left a pie for their supper on the table and it wouldn’t take long to heat it while she brewed a cuppa for them all. Then, when the children were tucked into bed, she could set the meat simmering for tomorrow and darn Joe’s socks yet again.

Going around to the back of the shop, Kate lifted the gate latch and ushered the children into the yard. The chickens, snug in their coop, clucked and cooed as Kate closed the gates behind her.

She pulled her key out to open the back door but found it already unlocked. Her brows pulled together. She had been into the yard to gather eggs before dinner and was sure she’d locked it after her.

She turned the handle and, with her heart thumping in her chest, made her way along the short passageway to the parlour. She pushed open the door and gasped. There, sitting in her chair with his feet on the fender was the man she’d last seen almost four years ago: her husband, Freddie Ellis.

Standing just over five foot eight, he was taller than most local-born men, many of whom struggled to match Kate’s five foot four. He was dressed in a well-fitted houndstooth jacket and matching trousers, and his tall crowned hat was placed on the table beside him. With hazel eyes and a full head of dark brown hair combed back so that it skimmed his collar Freddie was a man women looked twice at. Kate herself had thought him the most handsome man in the world when she’d first set eyes on him.

He stood up and, with an expression she once thought endearing, said, ‘Hello, Kate.’

‘Who is it, Mam?’ Joe whispered, shaking her skirt.

The urge to scream rose up inside her but somehow Kate held it in. ‘Ella, Joe, this is your father.’

Ella took a step closer to her and stared wide-eyed at Freddie.

Joe rushed forward. ‘I’m Joe and I’m five and almost as tall as Ella and she’s six!’ He stretched up to his tiptoes.

Freddie crouched down until his face was level with Joe’s. ‘So you’re my Joe?’ His gaze ran slowly over his son’s face. ‘Why ain’t you just the replica of me when I was a lad? But are you a scrapper like me?’

Joe raised his fists in front of his face. Freddie looked impressed. He touched Joe’s small white knuckles with his scarred ones. ‘You’ve got you dabs just—’

‘Children, go to your room,’ Kate cut in.

Ella gave her a father an apprehensive look and headed for the door.

Joe’s shoulders slumped. ‘But, Mam . . .’

Kate glared him. Defiance flickered briefly across Joe’s face but then he followed his sister, dragging his feet all the way. The door clicked shut.

Kate glared at Freddie, who gave her a cocky grin and sat down again.

‘I must say you’ve got a nice little place here,’ he said, slowly looking around. ‘I ’ope you don’t mind I got myself a bite to eat.’

Kate glanced at the empty plate where their supper had been. ‘What do you want?’

‘Who says I want anything?’

Kate regarded him coolly. ‘You always do.’

‘Ain’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?’

Kate shrugged. ‘Why should I care? Millbank or Pentonville. One prison’s much the same as another.’

Freddie sneered. ‘I suppose cos I ain’t been around for a while you’d hope I was dead and buried somewhere.’

Kate didn’t answer.

Resentment flashed across Freddie’s face before he smiled and with slow deliberation rested his feet back on the fender. ‘So this your place then?’ he asked, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back.

‘No.’

‘Pity. Whose is it then?’

‘None of your business.’

Freddie jumped up and loomed over Kate who had to stop herself gagging as the stench of stale sweat and beer wafted over her. ‘Got yourself a man then, have you?’

Forcing herself not to step back, Kate met his gaze coolly. ‘I haven’t forgotten my marriage vows – even if you did the moment the ink was dry. My brother owns the shop and I run it for him. If you must know.’

Freddie laughed. ‘I should have known it. I should have guessed good old Pat would set you up. Your fucking Paddy family were always thick as thieves.’

Kate clenched her fists by her sides. ‘My brother wouldn’t see me and my children starve, if that’s what you mean. Now, I’ve no notion as to why you’ve decided to turn up after four years, and I care even less. So I’ll thank you to be on your way—’

His hand shot out and grasped her throat. His eyes ran slowly over her face. ‘You always did look your best with a temper on you,’ he said in a heavy voice.

Kate tried to twist out of his grip but he pressed his thumb into her windpipe. She let her arms fall to her sides. Looking at her husband’s half-closed eyes and loose, moist lips, a shiver of disgust ran through her. At least he wouldn’t kiss her. He never did.

Freddie pressed her back against the kitchen table and rammed his knee between her legs.

‘If you ain’t got yourself another man yet, you must be panting for it.’ He grabbed her breast and squeezed it painfully. ‘You always were a good handful.’

He pulled up her skirts and thrust his hand between her legs. ‘Let me see how much you’ve missed me.’

As his fingers poked painfully into her, Kate’s stomach heaved. She forced it down and moulded herself into him.

‘Oh, Freddie,’ she murmured.

He laughed, gripping her hair and forcing her head back. ‘I knew you wouldn’t say no to a bit of ’ow’s-your-father,’ he said, fumbling with her bodice buttons. ‘You never could.’

His hand left her throat and tore the front of her gown open. He yanked the flimsy chemise aside and ran his tongue over her breast, leaving a damp trail.

Kate reached out, grabbed the heavy metal pie dish and smashed the rim into his ear. As Freddie arched back and clutched his head, Kate jerked her knee into his crotch. He let go of her and doubled over, clutching the front of his trousers.

‘You fucking bitch,’ he croaked, then vomited over his boots.

Kate shoved him back. ‘Get out!’

Freddie staggered to his feet. ‘I’ll stay if I want. You’re my wife and what’s yours belongs to me. That’s what the law says.’

‘Call the law then! I’m sure the local coppers’ll be glad to know you’re back in the area.’ Kate strode to the back door and threw it open. ‘Go on then. If you’re quick you’ll catch Sergeant Bell on the corner of Pennington Street checking the patrols.’

Cradling his injured genitals Freddie stumbled into the shop. There was a crash as the cash drawer hit the floor. He reappeared, knocking aside a stool and trampling her knitting underfoot. As he reached the back door, he turned.

‘You may have got the drop on me this time, you cow, but right’s right and as your lawfully wedded husband, this,’ he held up his fist holding the day’s takings, ‘is mine, so don’t think you’ve seen the back of me.’

He shoved her hard-earned money into his pocket and, nearly tripping over himself, staggered out the back door.

Kate shut the door and stood frozen. Her heart was pounding and when her knees threatened to give way, she sank on to a chair. Staring blindly, she rebuttoned her bodice with shaking fingers.

Yes, she remembered the winter of ’49. In that bitter December six years ago Freddie moved out of the home she’d made for them and in with his trollop. Left alone with a hungry child and another in her belly, she spent her last shilling on a bag of flour, a knob of fat and a couple of pounds of beef, which she’d used to bake her first two dozen pies to sell at the dock gates.

The following March, six weeks before Joe came into the world, Freddie was sent down for eighteen months in Coldbath Fields for receiving stolen goods. He’d come back to bother her again just when Ella had learnt to tie her bootlaces. Shortly after, he was arrested and sentenced to another two years for aggravated burglary. When he didn’t turn up after his release a year ago, Kate implored the Virgin Mary, for her children’s sake as well as her own, that she would never have to set eyes on Freddie Ellis again. It seemed her prayers had gone unanswered.

Chapter Two

Captain Jonathan Quinn of the Coldstream Guards marched past the adjutant’s desk to the window for the third time in ten minutes. He’d been ordered to present himself to the colonel at three o’clock sharp, which he did – thirty minutes ago.

The Main Guard, the guardhouse running between the Conqueror’s White Tower and the Wakefield Tower, wasn’t the worst place he’d been summoned to for a dressing-down. If pushed, he’d say that that honour would go to the commander’s tent, shot through and splattered with gore, beside the Hariawala. On that occasion he’d been threatened with a flogging for refusing to lead his men to certain death into the guns of the Sikh army. Although this interview wasn’t to upbraid him for insubordination to an incompetent senior officer, Jonathan knew it would be just as hostile.

Pulling down the front of his red dress tunic, he clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his study of the squad being drilled on Tower Green.

The lieutenant sitting behind the desk coughed and Jonathan turned.

‘I’m certain the colonel won’t be much longer, Captain,’ the young man said.

‘I’m sure,’ Jonathan replied in a tone that implied otherwise. He tilted his head. ‘It’s Parnell, isn’t it?’

The soldier jumped to his feet and saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Stand easy.’

Parnell’s shoulders relaxed. ‘It’s good of you to remember me, sir.’

Jonathan looked him over. ‘It was a while ago, I grant you, and you’ve grown a . . .’ He pointed to his top lip. ‘But I never forget a man who has served under me.’

The lieutenant smoothed his waxed moustache. ‘Yes, sir. We’ve both changed a bit since our stint in Alexandra in ’46.’ His gaze flickered to the eyepatch covering the mangled socket of Jonathan’s left eye.

‘Just so,’ he replied, forcing himself not to adjust its position.

Parnell stood to attention again. ‘I hope you’ll pardon me for mentioning it but the regiment, every man jack of ’em, is right proud of your actions on the Heights of Alma, sir.’

‘I did no more than my duty.’

‘Maybe so, but everyone in the garrison knows there would have been a dozen more widows if you hadn’t done it so well,’ Parnell replied.

‘Lieutenant!’ bellowed a voice from the other side of the oak door.

The adjutant dashed over and opened it. He snapped to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is Captain Quinn there?’ the colonel’s gruff voice shouted from inside the room.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then send him in, God damn you. They’re expecting me at Horse Guard’s at five.’

Parnell gave another crisp salute and stood back. Jonathan pulled down the front of his jacket again, adjusted his scarlet sash and marched into his commanding officer’s study.

As he expected, the regiment’s senior officer was sitting behind the long mahogany desk studying a pile of letters with a pen in his right hand and a large brandy in his left. Framed on the wall behind him his predecessors, wearing uniforms, wigs, and shouldering arms from bygone ages, stared down at him in silent splendour. On the dresser over by the window lay unfurled maps and a pile of unread despatches with their blood-red seals still intact.

Jonathan double-stepped to attention and saluted. ‘Captain Quinn, reporting as ordered, sir.’

The colonel threw down the pen and looked up. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he grasped a letter from the top of the heap.

‘Tell me, Captain Quinn, what is this pile of horse shit?’

Jonathan regarded him coolly. ‘My resignation.’

‘Damn you,’ the colonel forced out through clenched teeth. ‘I can see that. But why?’

‘I thought I had made my reasons clear.’

‘Did you? Did you indeed?’

The colonel held his gaze for a second or two then pulled out his monocle and glanced over Jonathan’s letter again. ‘You can’t expect me to send this up to the Colonel-in-Chief.’

‘Why not, sir?’

‘Because you describe your commanding officer as an “incompetent fool”,’ he replied, as if explaining to a child.

‘He is, sir.’

‘Good God, man!’ he said, as the monocle fell from his eye. ‘He is also the Duke of Cambridge. The Queen’s cousin.’

‘Well then, he’s an incompetent royal fool, sir.’

The colonel slammed his fist down on the desk and the inkwell rattled. ‘And what of the regiment, blast you? Have you forgotten your family connection to the Guards?

‘No, sir, but my resignation stands.’

The colonel glared at Jonathan and muttered a series of unintelligible oaths from under his moustache.

‘Look,’ he said, resting his elbows on the desktop and steepling his fingers in front of him. ‘Let’s forget I’m your commanding officer for a moment and let me talk to you as your father.’

Jonathan regarded him levelly.

‘I know you’ve been though the mill losing your . . .’ he tapped under his left eye. ‘But it’s not reason enough to throw away a promising career. I mean to say, there’s hardly an officer in Horse Guard’s who hasn’t had a bit shot off in some battle somewhere.’ He laughed. ‘Look at old Dog Meat Huntley. He had a leg hacked off at Waterloo, lost three fingers to a dodgy grenade in Ghuznee and his ear bitten off by a horse at Moodkee and he’s still serving Queen and county as Provost Marshall of equipment and supplies.’

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, sir, that probably explains why the men in Sebastopol haven’t got their winter uniforms yet.’

Irritation flashed across the colonel’s face. ‘It’s that sort of impertinent quip that’s given you the reputation as an agitator.’ He fixed Jonathan with the look that had scattered Frenchmen, Hindu Kush tribesmen and junior ranks alike. ‘Our ancestor and your namesake, Sir Jonathan Quinn, marched south with General Monck two hundred years ago. We Quinns have served in this regiment ever since and now you’re going to turn your back on your obligations because you’ve had an eye shot out.’

‘Have you read my letter, Father?’

‘Of course I have. Well, the first couple of lines before my dyspepsia prevented me from reading further.’

‘Had you’d read it in full, you would know that I’m not resigning because of my eye. I’m resigning before I’m court-martialled for—’

‘Court-martialled!’

‘—for refusing to lead any more good men to their slaughter on the orders of some short-sighted buffoon of a general who can’t tell his left from his right.’

An unhealthy colour mottled his father’s cheeks. ‘That’s no way to talk about Lord Raglan. He is our most experienced and capable field marshal.’

‘Tell that to the widows of the Light Brigade.’

They glared at each other and then his father jammed his monocle back under his brow and chewed his moustache. ‘And what has Miss Davenport to say about all this? I assume you’ve told her of your crackbrained idea.’

‘I have. She was naturally a little shocked but I’m certain she’ll come around,’ Jonathan said, remembering the look of horror on Louisa’s face. ‘She and her mother are in the country visiting family at the moment, so she has time to get used to the idea.’

His father looked him over, then threw the letter into the elephant-foot waste bin beside his desk. ‘Well, she might come around but I won’t. I will not accept it. Do you hear? I won’t. You’re dismissed.’ He picked up the pen and shuffled the pile of papers in front of him.

A small pulse started in Jonathan’s temple. ‘I’m afraid you have no choice, sir,’ he said, in a flat voice. ‘Under the Queen’s army order governing the Purchase and Relinquishing of Commissions, section twenty, subsection—’

His father’s face flushed again and this time his eyes bulged, too. ‘Don’t quote army regulations to me! I was fighting under them while you were still wearing a bum-rag.’ He stood up and planted his thickset hands on the table. ‘Now hear this, Jonathan. I don’t give a hell-roasting damn about your opinion of the high command, army regulations, your poxy men or your bloody missing eye, but I will not have a my son dishonour me and the family’s name. And I’ll tell you this’ – he leant forward until his nose was just inches from Jonathan’s – ‘you can dress up your reasons for throwing away a promising career any way you like but I’ll tell you what I call it: cowardice.’

Jonathan’s jaw clenched as he fought the urge to grab his father by the lapels and haul him over the desk. Somehow, despite his pounding temper clouding his thoughts, he kept his arms by his sides. He matched his father’s enraged expression for a moment then stood to attention and saluted. He turned and marched to the door.

‘Quinn!’

Jonathan turned.

‘How dare you turn your back on your commanding officer!’ His father jabbed a finger at him. ‘This will earn you a week in the guardhouse.’

Jonathan gave him an icy look. ‘I’m not turning my back on you as my colonel. I’m turning my back on you as my father.’ He saluted again. ‘Good day, sir!’

Jonathan burst out of the office and took the stairs two at a time in order to put as much distance between him and his father as possible. He marched back through the Tower’s precinct.

He automatically returned the salutes of the guards on duty as he passed under the Byward Tower then continued to the Middle. The sergeant leading the patrol down from the residential quarters took one look at his face and brought his troop to immediate attention. Jonathan forced out a ‘very good, Sergeant’ as he stormed past. Even the captain of the soldier posted at the final guardhouse gave him a wary look as Jonathan checked himself out. He marched over the drawbridge and, leaving London’s oldest castle behind him, started up the road towards Tower Hill.

Coward! Jonathan thought. He was damn lucky I didn’t . . . He drew a deep breath and forced his mind and pulse to slow.

With his boots crunching over the flint cobbles, Jonathan passed the newly built Tower ticket office, the Inland Revenue building and the row of taverns and eating houses that were already filled with soldiers from the garrison.

His father’s flushed face loomed back into his mind as Jonathan pushed his way through a group of spotty delivery boys who jumped aside.

A woman with dirty brown hair piled haphazardly on to her head stepped in front of him. She was wearing a tatty gown, rouged lips and a willing smile.

‘Well, aren’t you the handsome captain, then.’ She swept her gaze over him and then caught sight of his expression. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she said, as she scuttled back to her friends.

The argument with his father still rolling around in his head, Jonathan continued at route-march pace for twenty minutes.

‘Wotcha self, General.’

Jonathan stepped back as a laden wagon skimmed past him. He looked around, puzzled as he tried to get his bearings. It didn’t look like Leadenhall.

The broad thoroughfare he was standing in had shops clustered together on both sides of the street. Each vied with the other to attract customers with artistically arranged window displays or gravity-defying pavement displays. The usual traders of butchers, greengrocers and drapers were interspersed with others such as rope manufactures, watch and chronometer makers and one shop with the sign ‘J. Salmon, world-famous ship’s biscuit bakers’, written in bold type across the window. Even though it was almost dark, there was still a constant stream of drays in both directions, the horses on one cart with the noses almost touching the backboard of the wagon in front. There was also a number of public houses; he counted five within view. He glanced up at the St George’s High Street sign.

He gave a short laugh. You bloody clot, you’ve walked right passed the Minories.

A gust of icy wind cut through him and Jonathan realised that in his eagerness to get away from his father, he’d left his greatcoat behind.

He looked around in the wintry light and spotted a chop house on the other side of the road. The windows were steamed up, like all the other shops, but the bright paintwork and draped curtains made it seem homely and welcoming.

Kate’s Kitchen, Jonathan mused. No doubt the coffee tastes like dirty dishwater but . . .

Dodging between the wagons and sidestepping the horse droppings and rotting vegetables, he crossed the road. Pushing open the door, he ducked to avoid knocking his head as he stepped in.

A couple of the dockers sitting around the tables gave him the once-over and then returned to their mugs of tea. Jonathan made his way to the counter.

The shop had a low beamed ceiling and a bare wooden floor but it was newly swept. The tables were of various sizes and makes yet they were all scrubbed clean. The work surface was also spotless as were the two piles of plates and the dozen china mugs stacked on it. Jonathan leant back, rested his elbows against the worktop and waited for the proprietor to appear.

He’d have a cup of whatever passed for coffee here and then head back. He had a train to Colchester to catch in the morning and no matter what his father said, once he’d handed in his equipment at the end of the week, he would be a civilian again.

Jonathan heard a door open behind him. He turned.

Standing behind the counter and looking up at him with a welcoming smile stood a young woman with cornsilk-coloured hair swept into a soft swirl on her head. She had a broad forehead, a small but defined chin and high cheekbones. Her sage-green gown showed signs of wear but it tucked into every curve of her body. ‘Good evening, Captain, what would you like?’ she asked, the smile on her full lips growing wider.

‘A coffee, if I may,’ he replied. He leant across the counter and smiled back at her. ‘With plenty of sugar.’

As the captain’s gaze ran over her, Kate’s heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t done since she first fell for Freddie. She cut the feeling short. She wasn’t foolish enough to be stopped in her tracks by a man in uniform.

That said, she couldn’t help but notice he stood a little over six feet tall and filled out the shoulders of his jacket to their full capacity. He was clean-shaven and his neatly trimmed hair was dark brown. His eyepatch drew her attention but didn’t hold it as the strong angular nose, blunt chin and square jaw demanded their fair share, as did the admiring expression in his remaining hazel eye.

Kate turned to the stack of cups and reminded herself where being dazzled by a handsome face had got her last time.

‘I’m guessing you’ll like it strong, sir,’ she said, spooning a heaped measure of coffee from the earthenware jar.

‘Please,’ he replied, behind her.

She felt her cheeks grow warm. This is ridiculous, she thought, filling the percolator with water and putting it back on the stove.

Why was she so flustered? It wasn’t as if a day went past without some docker, stevedore or porter trying to sweet-talk her as he ordered his meal. And wasn’t this soldier doing just that? He had probably done the same to every woman he’d come across since he started shaving.

She looked coolly at him. ‘It’ll just be a moment.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’

‘Would you like a slice to go with it, sir?’ she asked, nodding at the fruit cake under the glass cover.

‘Please, it looks tempting,’ he replied, not even glancing at the cake.

Kate cut a slice and eased it into a small plate. ‘That will be a penny for the coffee and ha’penny for the cake,’ she said, handing it to him.

He fished a couple of coins out of his pocket and slid them across the counter. Kate gave him his change.

‘Are you posted in the garrison?’ she asked, as she poured the coffee into one of her larger mugs.

He shook his head and a thick fringe of hair fell over his forehead. ‘I’m stationed at Colchester,’ he said, combing it back with his fingers. ‘I’m only here for today – catching the train back tomorrow.’

‘That’s a bit of a journey for one day, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Kate replied.

A wry smile spread over his face. ‘Colonel’s orders.’

Kate made a play of wiping the counter. ‘That sounds serious.’

An odd expression flitted across the captain’s face. ‘It was.’ He gripped the mug.

‘Be careful, sir. It might be a little hot still,’ Kate said.

‘I’m used to drinking it near scalding. Sometimes on patrol it was the only thing that kept me from freezing.’ He took a sip. ‘Perfect. Just like the wallah in Bangalore used to make.’ He took a bite of cake. ‘This is delicious. Did you make it?’

‘I did,’ Kate said, only just stopping herself from falling for such an obvious bit of flattery.

She turned and busied herself behind the counter. As she tidied the plates and bowls ready for the end-of-day rush, she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of his red coat out of the corner of her eye. And when she turned, she found him still studying her.

He popped the last chunk of cake into his mouth and licked his thumb. ‘That’s the best I’ve tasted since I can’t remember when.’

‘Thank you,’ Kate replied. ‘It’s a pity you won’t be here to sample tomorrow’s madeira.’

‘Who knows, maybe I’ll pass this way again sometime.’ He threw back the last mouthful of coffee and put the cup down. ‘Good day.’

He turned and strode across the shop. Kate stared after him and listened as the bell tinkled a couple of times to mark his departure.

Sally came back and put the dirty dishes on the counter. ‘Cor, it would certainly add a bit of spark to the place if he dropped by now and again,’ she said, gazing dreamily at the door.

Kate laughed. ‘Well, don’t get yourself too keen. He’s not likely to.’

Sally sighed and went back to the customers’ side of the shop. Kate picked up the captain’s empty plate and mug and thrust them into the water.

Yes, the good-looking captain would indeed add a bit of spark but she didn’t need it. Spark in a man dazzled your eyes and muddled your brain. Spark coupled with a handsome face and gravelly voice made you do things you shouldn’t ought to and that you lived to regret. She’d been fooled once before but she was older and wiser now and wouldn’t be led into that trap again, especially not by a well-spoken toff in an expensively tailored uniform.

Chapter Three

Aggie Wilcox’s gaze idly traced the patch of damp on the ceiling as the bells of Christ Church Spitalfields chimed four o’clock across the road. The attic room in Moody’s common lodging house was a far cry from the Retreat, the discreet establishment for gentlemen just off Bloomsbury Square, but a girl had to live. She turned her head and looked at the heavily built man sprawled across the bed beside her. With receding sandy hair, a pot belly and quivery jowls, Tom bore a striking resemblance to the cattle he drove to London each week for slaughter.

Carefully, without bouncing the straw-stuffed mattress, Aggie slid off the bed. Sitting on the edge of the only chair in the room, she lifted her skirt and wiped between her legs with her petticoat. She hadn’t conceived since the old crone, who looked after the girls in the brothel, hooked the last unwelcome infant out of her six years before, but she couldn’t be too careful.

Tom farted and muttered something before his breathing returned to a regular rhythm. Aggie eased herself from the chair and, avoiding the squeaky floorboard, tiptoed to his jacket hanging at the end of the bed. She fumbled through his pockets and found a tobacco pouch, a flint box and a handkerchief. There was a small T stitched in the corner, no doubt embroidered by his wife for a birthday or anniversary. It wasn’t much, but she might get a penny for it at the pawnbrokers. She opened the drawstring and took a wodge of tobacco, twisted it in the handkerchief, then tucked it inside her bodice. She put the pouch and metal box back and searched the other pocket. Pulling out a handful of coins, Aggie held them in the fading light streaming in from the window. Seventeen shillings and threepence. Not bad for half a dozen mangy cows.

Her fingers itched to take one of the crowns that sat twinkling among the dull pennies but even after a skinful of ale he would notice if one of them went missing. It had been taking a similar risk that had almost been the undoing of her and she wasn’t going to make that stupid mistake again. Besides, if she got shot of Tom soon she could probably catch herself another clodhopper or two before sunset. She selected a sixpence and a couple of coppers, tucked them in her skirt pocket and then slid the rest back.

Tom coughed and blinked awake. He sat up, ran his dirt-caked hands over his face and shook himself like a tawny mongrel. ‘I must have dropped right off.’

Aggie put her hands behind her back and swayed provocatively. ‘I ain’t surprised, you old tomcat, you.’

He got off the bed, leaving mud on the threadbare counterpane where his heels had rested.

‘I bet you say that to all the men,’ he said, rebuttoning his flies.

Aggie looked downcast and she sidled over to him, coiling her arm around his. ‘Course I do, but’ – she gave him a sideways glance – ‘I don’t always mean it.’

He laughed and rummaged in his pocket, giving her a florin. ‘For my favourite girl. I’ll be back next week.’

Aggie looked up at him and her lower lip trembled slightly. ‘I might not be here next week. Not if the landlord throws me and me poor old mother out on the streets.’

Tom’s bushy brows pulled together. ‘Now, now, duck, you know I’m happy to pay a bit more than the going rate but I gave you an extra shilling last time. I can’t keep—’

‘I know you did and,’ she forced a tear, ‘you’ve paid me fair and square for your jiggy. I ain’t asking you for more. I’ve got my pride, you know. You’ll just have to find another special girl to make you happy next time you come to market.’

Tom scratched his head. ‘Won’t the local church help? After all, your pa was a parson.’

Aggie shook her head. ‘Ma won’t allow me to go begging them for a penny. Not after the way the bishop treated her.’

‘Perhaps your landlord would let you stay if you gave him half what you owe him,’ Tom said.

‘And how would I buy my ma her medicine if I did? It’s the only thing that dulls the pain.’

‘Well I . . .’

Aggie walked her fingers up his arm. ‘He’s a terribly wicked man, is my landlord. And even if my old ma weren’t on her last breath – which I swear she is – he’d still throw us out.’ She pressed her groin into his. ‘Couldn’t you find it in your heart to spare a bob or two?’

‘I don’t kn—’

Aggie ran the palm of her hand down the front of his trousers. ‘I am your special girl, aren’t I?’

Tom swallowed and fumbled in his pocket again. ‘If you promise to be in the Ten Bells waiting for me . . .’

Aggie caught him around the neck. ‘I will and . . .’ she whispered something that the woman who’d embroidered his handkerchief would never in a thousand years consider doing.

Tom’s eyes lit up. ‘I could stay a while longer.’

Aggie picked up his coat and shoved it at him. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I only wish I could.’ She bundled him towards the door. ‘But I have to get home to Mother.’

‘But . . . but . . .’

Aggie closed the door and leant against it. There was silence for a moment then she heard the sound of his boots clomping down the stairs.

Aggie fastened her bodice, leaving the last four buttons open, and rearranged her grubby chemise over her breasts. She took out the few remaining pins in her red hair and held them in her mouth while she combed her fingers through it. Bending forward, she twirled it into a knot on the top of her head and secured it. She adjusted her cleavage and smoothed her skirt. It was her favourite gown – emerald green with a low-cut, tight-fitting top. It was just right for catching a man’s eye and keeping his mind from worrying about the cost of her company.

Dancing across the floor to the window, Aggie studied her reflection in the dirty glass. She smiled and, judging Tom would be halfway to Minories station to catch his train by now, she left the room. She trotted down the rickety stairs, past the communal rooms with the coffin-like beds and into the entrance hall.

Isaac Ketch, the bully-boy who supervised the lodgers, was sitting with his feet up on the fender cleaning his teeth with the point of his knife. He looked up and grinned as she swept over to him.

‘You made swift work of that yokel.’ His eyes drifted down to her cleavage. ‘You out for another?’

Aggie nodded. ‘Keep the room free.’ She adjusted the front of her gown again. ‘I’m popping into the Blue Coat Boy for a couple before I catch another dick.’

She stepped out into Dorset Street and shielded her eyes against the hazy December light. The closely packed houses on either side seemed to lean towards each other and the sun only illuminated the cobbles briefly at sunrise and sunset. The rest of the time the squalid thoroughfare was left in shadow. The once-fine homes were now mainly lodging houses and outside each there was the usual collection of tatty individuals waiting for the superintendent to let them in for the night. As the working day had not yet ended, it was mainly barefooted women clutching babies and children, huddled together against the biting cold. Aggie pulled the edges of her velvet jacket together, thankful she’d had the foresight to snatch that from the peg before Madame Tootle threw her out.

It had been that jealous bitch Rosie Potter’s fault, but she’d taken the smile off Rosie’s face, literally, when she’d pressed her poxy moosh to the side of the stove-pipe boiler. She’d like to see the old madam try to wring ten shillings out of a punter now for an hour of Rosie.

Side-stepping the pungent slurry of human and animal waste, Aggie started down the street. A couple of navvies on the other side of the road looked her way as she passed but she’d have to steel herself with a gin or two before taking another punter up to Moody’s loft. She’d entertained several clients a day at the Retreat but they had been gents who had appreciated her charm; now the men she had to endure hardly noticed her prettiness at all.

Shoving aside a couple of rag-tag kids who stood in her path, Aggie headed for the Blue Coat Boy. A couple of early customers propping up the bar glanced over as she sauntered in but soon returned to their drinks. At the far end of the pub in his usual place sat the man who could be the answer to her prayers: Ollie Mac, the leader of the Black Eagle Gang.

Well, in truth, the weasel-faced, balding leader of the Spitalfields gang was hardly a man to set a girl’s pulse racing but if she could snare him her position would be secure. Of course, she had to get rid of the old sow he lived with: Lilly. That shouldn’t be too difficult but if she were lucky she wouldn’t have to do a thing if the sprog Lilly had stuffed up her skirt carried her to the grave in a few weeks.

Aggie sauntered over to the bar, her skirts sweeping a path through the damp sawdust. Mary, the fat barmaid, stopped polishing the glasses and came over.

‘Gin,’ Aggie said, twisting back and forth to check herself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘And the good stuff. Not the pissing gut rot you usually serve.’

‘And a good afternoon to you, Lady Muck,’ Mary replied, uncorking a bottle from the back shelf.

Aggie threw a ha’penny on the counter and took the glass. She swallowed half the measure in one gulp, enjoying the sensation of the liquid burning as it passed down her throat and into the pit her stomach. Ollie Mac was talking with Stefan, the big Swede who acted as his muscle. They laughed and then Stefan moved away. Aggie pressed her lips together to bring the colour back and swayed over.

‘Afternoon, Mr Mac,’ she said breathily as she leant forward to show her cleavage to full advantage.

Ollie’s eyes slid down to her opened bodice. ‘Afternoon, Aggie. You’re looking perky today. Can I get you another drink?’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ She sat on the vacant chair next to him.

Ollie signalled to Mary. ‘You been out turning tricks already?’

Aggie gave a throaty laugh. ‘They’re queuing up, Mr Mac.’

He sat back. Aggie pulled a small leather wallet from the bottom of her bodice and counted out the half a crown she’d earned that morning. ‘That’s this week’s money, Mr Mac.’

Ollie chinked it in his hand a couple of times then slipped it in his pocket. ‘That’s what I like about you, Aggie. You pay on the nose and don’t give me the excuses – like some I could mention.’

Aggie drew closer and rested her hand lightly on the top of his thigh. ‘I hope that’s not the only thing you like about me, Mr Mac.’

A spark of lust flashed in Ollie’s eyes. ‘It’s not.’ He reached across and fondled her breast.

Aggie giggled as his fingers delved beneath her bodice. She allowed him a free roam for a moment or two then drew back. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t . . . not just yet,’ she said. ‘It can be dangerous to unsettle a breeding woman.’ She placed her hand on the bare flesh above her breasts. ‘And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to your Lilly.’

‘You’re all heart,’ Ollie said.

Aggie stood up, then leant forward again and ran her finger along the line of his stubbly chin. ‘And a whole lot more, for a man who treats me right.’

He chuckled then slapped her rear. ‘Off you go before Lilly finds you here.’

Aggie straightened up and blew him an exaggerated kiss. She turned and, satisfied that his eyes were glued to her bottom, ambled towards the door.

Freddie walked out of the clothing warehouse behind Leman Street and turned to look at his reflection in the shop window. He adjusted the blood-coloured cravat and smoothed the lapels of his new black jacket. If he said it himself, not bad. He fixed the angle of his new billycock hat and walked towards Aldgate.

Leman Street was one of the main roads running north from the docks, and other than the fact that the Garrick had been rebuilt and was now grandly named the Albert and Garrick Royal Amphitheatre, the rest of the street looked very much as he remembered. There were a couple of new white-stoned offices with brass plates on their walls between the old soot-blackened shops. The road was packed with wagons and people going about their mid-morning business. Delivery carts piled high with furniture, hay and crates negotiated their way between the fly-pitch barrows selling the early catch from Billingsgate market half a mile away. The icy wind fluttered the bunting on the shop awnings and whirled the smoke from the coffee sellers and the hot-chestnut men’s two-wheeled stoves. He crossed the road and, leaving the workaday bustle of Whitechapel High Street behind, entered the dark alleys at the south end of Spitalfields rookery. Within a few minutes Freddie had reached the front door of the Blue Coat Boy in Dorset Street. As the first flurry of snow settled on the shoulders of his new jacket, Freddie stepped into the warm bar.

Although there was hardly space in the bar to breathe, sitting at the back of the pub at a table in a well-defined space sat a slightly built, clean-shaven man with a large glass of brandy in his hand. He was flanked by two men; one with a mop of white-blond hair and the other with a shaven head.

At first glance you could have mistaken Ollie Mac as a clerk or a shop worker but, if you studied him more closely, you’d see that his herringbone suit was made to measure rather than from a warehouse rack, and that a diamond pin held his silk cravat in place. The brewery might own the Blue Coat Boy but it was Ollie Mac who ruled it. He looked up and studied Freddie for a second before a wide, crooked smile cut across his face, revealing a gold front tooth.

‘Well stone the crows, Freddie Ellis,’ he shouted slamming the palm of his thick-set hand on the table.

The bruiser sitting on Ollie’s left looked up from honing his blade and rose to his feet. Stefan Magson’s broad features clearly showed his Scandinavian ancestry. He had the look of a playful bull mastiff about him but the harsh glint in his ice-blue eyes warned you not to be fooled.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ he said and stomped towards Freddie.

He stopped in front of him and jabbed his fist within a hair’s breadth of Freddie’s cheek. Freddie dodged and punched back, missing Stefan’s stubbly chin by the same margin. Stefan grinned and they air-sparred for a few moments as men nearby gave them anxious looks and moved away.

Stefan slapped Freddie on the back. ‘Welcome home, you old bugger.’

‘Mary!’ Ollie bellowed as Freddie took the seat opposite him. ‘Get me a bottle of my special to welcome back my long-lost friend.’

Freddie took the seat opposite Ollie. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Mac.’

Ollie waved Freddie’s words aside and offered him a cigar from a leather holder. ‘So, when did they let you back?’

‘A couple of days ago,’ Freddie replied.

‘Where you been then?’

‘Down on the coast; Portsmouth, to be exact. I got pally with a geezer in Millbank and promised to visit his missus when I got out. See how she was getting on, you know.’