Perhaps Tomorrow E-Book

Jean Fullerton

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The 3rd 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. Mattie Maguire is a twenty-six-year-old widow with an infant son. Since her husband, Brian, died three years before, she has struggled to keep the family's East End coal business solvent, as well as taking care of her troubled mother-in-law. But unbeknown to Mattie, life is about to get even tougher. Maguire's is in the path of the proposed Wapping to Mile End Railway extension that Amos Stebbins is trying to raise capital for, and he has his sights set on the deeds of the coal yard. Outwardly, Amos is a respectably married local benefactor. But he has a darker side and will stop at nothing to get what he wants... A sweeping historical romance perfect for fans of Bridgerton

Leseprobe

Perhaps Tomorrow

Also by Jean Fullerton

No Cure for Love

A Glimpse at Happiness

Perhaps Tomorrow

Hold on to Hope

PerhapsTomorrow

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 2011

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 isavailable from the British Library.

ISBN 978 178 649 6331

CorvusAn imprint of Atlantic Books LtdOrmond House26–27 Boswell StreetLondonWC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

To the Romantic Novelists’ Association on their 50th year and in particular to their excellent New Writers’ Scheme, which set me off on this wonderful journey.

Chapter One

Mattie Maguire, owner of Maguire & Son’s coal yard, woke to the light tap of the knocker-upper’s cane on the window and Brian, her three-year-old son, chattering to his wooden soldiers in his cot at the foot of her bed. As her mind cleared of sleep, Mattie ran through the day’s chores: see the deliveries out, order the fodder for the horses and visit Morris & Co, her wholesalers at the Limehouse Basin. Regardless of the coils of trepidation winding in her stomach, Mattie had no other choice but to negotiate the price of coal with steely-eyed Mr Morris. She would have to take her courage in both hands and go.

Brian stood up. ‘Mammy!’ he called, bouncing up and down on his straw mattress.

Mattie pushed all thoughts of coal and Mr Morris aside and raised herself onto her elbows. ‘Good morning, young man. And seeing as how you’re up with the lark I suppose I had better get myself going, too,’ she said, smiling at her son as he stretched his arms out for her.

She swung her legs from under the covers, then lifted Brian up and sat him on the china pot taken from under the bed. Leaving him to his business, Mattie padded across the floorboards and collected water from outside the door.

Kate, her younger sister, always left the pitcher there before she went to work at Hoffman’s bakery. Although they damped down the fire in the kitchen range at night, the water in the side boiler stayed hot enough for a warm wash in the morning. She poured half the water into the china basin on the stand to wash Brian before she dressed him.

‘Fasten your buttons, sweetheart,’ she told him, as she started her own wash.

Brian’s bottom lips jutted out. ‘Can’t.’

Mattie went to help him as she always did, but then stopped short. Most three year-olds had at least one, if not two younger brothers or sisters competing for their mother’s care, but Brian was her only child. She had to be careful not to turn him into a Mammy’s Boy.

‘Now, Brian, the delivery men will be here soon and I have business to see to before the market opens, so why don’t you try for Mammy?’

Brian stood with his arms at his sides, staring up at her for a few moments, then grabbed the sides of his smock and started mangling the buttons thorough their corresponding holes.

‘There’s a good boy,’ Mattie said, as she stripped off her nightdress and plunged her hands into the warm water. ‘We have a delivery from the depot today, too,’ she said, as she sponged her arms.

‘Big cart?’ Brian asked, looking very like his father as he concentrated on his task.

‘Yes, the big cart,’ she replied, drying herself off. ‘And I’ll need to keep a close eye on them. Last week they tried to charge me for best kitchen when they only delivered the standard grade. Have you finished?’

Brian dropped his hands by his sides again, this time to show off his efforts to dress himself.

Mattie smiled and beckoned him to her. ‘There’s a clever boy,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘But there’s one in the wrong hole.’ She adjusted his buttons and said, ‘Now off you go. Your gran will have your breakfast ready for you downstairs. And don’t run!’ she called after him as he clattered down the stairs.

She watched him for a moment then wrapped her corset around her bodice and fastened the steel hooks and eyes. She then stepped into her petticoat, tied the front laces and shrugged on her dark blue day dress. Looking into the speckled mirror on the wall, Mattie made sure everything was in place, then, taking the brush from the dressing table, she slipped off the rag knot holding her long night plait and brushed her ebony locks into order. With an assured twist, she whirled them into a bun at the nape of her neck and secured it with pins that she kept in the pink-and-blue china bowl on the dressing table.

Dressed and ready, she went to the window and pulled back the curtains. Only the first traces of dawn were streaking the sky yet beyond the fence an army of men wearing flat caps and roughly hewn clothes were already trudging towards the river. Casual labourers had to be at the docks before the gates opened if they were to have any chance of catching the foreman’s eye for a work ticket.

Mattie’s thoughts turned to her appointment at Morris’s. No matter which way she added up the bills and subtracted them from her earnings, it was clear that Maguire’s Coal Yard was only just scraping by. If she wanted to ensure that her son would never have to wait in line for a mean-hearted foreman to pick him out, she had to persuade Mr Morris to give her the discount that other yards in the area enjoyed. If he wouldn’t, she wondered how much longer she’d be able to stay in business.

Mattie pushed away the gnawing worry about the unpaid bills ruffling up the invoice spike in the office. Perhaps Mr Stebbins would see a way for her to turn her fortunes around.

Come on my girl, she thought, as she turned from the window. Maguire’s won’t run itself.

Queenie Maguire, Brian’s granny, had already buckled her grandson into his chair and set a boiled egg before him by the time Mattie came into the kitchen.

Queenie barely reached Mattie’s shoulder. Her face had a childlike quality that contrasted with her knotted, red knuckles, and in the early morning light her fine, almost white, hair showed a hint of the gold it used to be.

‘I thought I would make a start on the smalls,’ Queenie said, lifting her hands from the soapy water and letting the rivulets of suds meander down her wiry forearms. ‘Get them out of the way before Brian gets up.’

From the moment Queenie had looked on her dead son, Brian, her mind had shot off on a wild journey. She’d been stupefied until the day of his funeral, after which she paced the house day and night searching for him. When she couldn’t find him in her own home, Queenie would wander the streets until she was returned by either the City police, who’d find her in Cheapside, or by the Metropolitan who’d discover her under Bow Bridge. Queenie’s wandering ceased when young Brian was born. She was right enough in the house, cooking and cleaning, and could be left safely to tend to the wee one, but in her mind her dead son was always in another room, on his way home, or still out working in the yard.

‘Your sister came by, you know, the young one with blonde hair, but she went off,’ Queenie told her. Mattie gave a weary smile as she cracked an egg into the frying pan for her own breakfast. She’d given up telling Queenie that Kate had lived with them for three years and went out early to her job. The confusion was just another symptom of her mother-in-law’s jumbled brain. She tipped the frying pan up and the egg slid to one side. She plopped a slice of bread into the sizzling fat, and when it was brown on both sides she lifted it out with a fork and slid her egg on top.

The back door opened and Mattie’s brother Patrick strolled in. ‘Morning sis,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Morning, Mrs M.’

Queenie smiled across at him by way of acknowledgement.

‘Patrick?’ Mattie replied, wondering why he was standing in her back door and not at the rudder of his barge, The Smiling Girl. ‘Is Josie alright?’ Although her sister-in-law’s last pregnancy had been uneventful you couldn’t be too careful.

‘She was when I left her half-an-hour ago.’

Queenie dropped a wet towel into the tin pail beside her. ‘Have you seen Brian, Patrick? He should be in the yard.’

Pain tightened around Patrick’s eyes. ‘No, Mrs M, I must have missed him.’

‘Well, no matter.’ Queenie gave him her boys-will-be-boys look. ‘You’ll catch him at the bar in the Town later, no doubt.’ She turned back to the washboard.

‘Can I get you a bite of breakfast?’ Mattie asked.

Patrick rubbed his hands together. ‘That would be grand.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. ‘And how’s my favourite nephew?’ he asked, ruffling Brian’s hair.

‘Me fine, Uncle Pat,’ Brian replied, through a mouthful of bread soldiers.

‘That’s my boy,’ Patrick tousled the child’s hair again. ‘Eat all your egg and you’ll grow up to be as tall as your father, won’t he, Mammy?’ he said looking at Mattie.

Mattie nodded and cracked another egg in the pan. She poured them both a mug of tea then sat next to Brian with her own breakfast.

‘I thought I’d drop by today as, well, you know true enough what this week is, Matt.’

Of course! What with worrying about seeing old man Morris in an hour, and having to get her books in order before Mr Stebbins came by, she’d forgotten that it was her wedding anniversary on Friday. Well, it would have been had her husband still been alive.

‘That’s good of you, Patrick,’ she said, trying not to feel guilty that it hadn’t been the foremost thing on her mind.

Patrick put down his knife and fork. ‘I wish I could.’

‘What?’ Mattie asked, spooning sugar into her brother’s mug.

‘Catch Brian at the bar later,’ he replied in a flat tone.

Patrick and Brian had been friends since they were bare-footed youngsters sitting on the kerb. They still would be if it weren’t for Harry Tugman and his fellow thugs who rampaged through the town of Ramsgate just six weeks after Mattie and Brian were married. Brian had bled to death in Patrick’s arms and even now, three years later, whenever Patrick said his friend’s name, pain and guilt still echoed in his voice.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It seems like only yesterday me and Brian were strutting around in Moses Brothers buying our suits for the wedding. I still can’t believe he’s been gone almost three years.’ He picked up his cutlery again. ‘Forgive me, Mattie. I’m sorry. I know it’s worse for you.’

It had been worse, but somewhere in the passing of time the pain had almost slipped away.

‘Well, it’s not as if I haven’t had things to keep me occupied,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘What with running Maguire’s and raising Brian.’ She glanced at her son licking the butter off his fingers. ‘That’s enough to keep me from fretting.’

Patrick squeezed her hand. ‘You’re so brave, Mattie, facing life alone.’

It was true. She was alone but, for the moment, content to be so. She was only twenty-eight, hardly an old woman, and she hoped Patrick didn’t have the notion that she wouldn’t marry again if the right man came by. But then she hadn’t met anyone to take Brian’s place so it wasn’t worth arguing the point.

She swallowed the last of her tea. ‘It’s been grand of you to drop by but I have to go,’ she said, squeezing her brother’s hand. ‘I have to see Mr Morris and then get back in time to log in the deliveries. After which I need to go over the accounts again before Mr Stebbins visits at the end of the week!’

Queenie turned from the sink. ‘I don’t know what my Brian will say when he hears you’ve let the Fatman look over the books.’ She pulled a sour face. ‘His eyes have a mean, tight-fisted look about them.’

‘Oh, Queenie.’ Mattie laughed. ‘How can you say such a thing after he paid for the Sunday school’s summer tea?’

Queenie tutted and, lifting one of Mattie’s shifts from the tub, wrung it between her hands. ‘I wouldn’t trust Mr Fatman as far as I could throw him. And at his poundage that wouldn’t be too far.’

Mattie stood up. ‘You finish your breakfast, Pat, and tell Josie I’ll pop around as usual on Tuesday,’ she said, fetching her bonnet from the peg behind the door. ‘And give your three a kiss from me.’

‘Alright, Matt. I’ll keep this fellow company for a bit.’ He grinned at Brian, who grinned back.

‘I’ll be back in a while, Queenie, and we’ll go to Watney Street to get a bit of something for tea,’ Mattie said, setting her bonnet on squarely and tying the ribbon to one side.

‘Perhaps we can find ourselves a nice bit of fish,’ Queenie replied, throwing another piece of washing in the rinsing bucket. ‘You know how Brian likes a bit of poached haddock.’

Pain flitted across Patrick’s face again at the mention of his best friend and Mattie wondered if it wasn’t time for her brother to let the grief of Brian’s death slip away, too.

Mattie headed off towards the Highway, the main thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river. From before dawn until well into the night a constant stream of drays carried goods from the docks to the city, their iron-rimmed wheels churning the horse droppings and rotting vegetation into pungent slurry as they went.

Both sides of the road were lined with shops selling all kinds of wares from spades, rope and hard tack in Petersen & Sons, ship’s chandlers, to African masks, strutting ostriches and roaring lions in Jamrach’s Animal Emporium.

Mattie joined the throng of women with children clutching their skirts and baskets on their hips, making their way to the early markets. She squeezed past deep coils of rope and barrels of pitch outside shipwrights and only just avoided becoming tangled in clothes hanging from the awnings of the second-hand clothes merchant.

As she turned into Medland Street, she could see Morris’s large front gate. Although her bonnet hadn’t budged an inch during her fifteen minute walk, Mattie patted it in place, squared her shoulders and continued into the yard. The tarry smell of a thousand tonnes of coal tingled in her nose as she crunched her way over the grit on the path between the mountains of black heaped either side.

As she drew near to the yard office at the far end of the enclosure, she caught sight of Ginger Conner, Sam Wooten and Taffy Roberts, three of Morris’s drivers, who were well known in the local pubs, mainly for being thrown out of them. They were dressed in baggy-kneed, coal-stained trousers and heavy canvas sleeveless jerkins, with half-opened jute sacks on their heads to protect their necks and shoulders from the razor-sharp coal they hauled all day. They had yet to start work but their faces were already black as minstrels.

She had hoped that by now the delivery men would be out on their rounds. As she approached, they turned and ran their eyes slowly over her. Resisting the urge to fiddle with her bonnet again, Mattie fixed her eyes on the office door and walked across the yard.

Ginger stood away from the wall he’d been lounging against and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘You’re a bit of an early bird ain’t you, sweet’art?’ he said, with a leer creeping across his face.

‘And a very pretty one, too,’ Taffy added, stepping closer so that he loomed over her and fixed his eyes on her breasts.

‘I’ve come to see Mr Morris,’ she told them, hoping none of them could hear the quiver in her voice or the pounding of her heart.

Sam Wooten placed a coal-blackened hand on his chest and glanced at his fellow drivers. ‘Oh, Bejebus, and there I was thinking that the darling girly had come down because she’d been dreaming of me, lads,’ he said, in an exaggerated Irish accent. Taffy and Ginger snorted. Sam lent forward, his breath floating across Mattie’s cheek in the cold morning air. ‘I’ll tell you this, Mrs M, I’ve had one or two dreams about you meself.’ He adjusted the front of his trousers.

Despite the queasy feeling in her stomach Mattie held Sam’s gaze. ‘Will you step aside, please?’

He blew a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘You can squeeze by,’ he winked. ‘Give me something else to dream about.’

The door behind them opened and Mr Morris stepped out. The owner of the yard was a squat man with a cigar clenched in his teeth, a shiny bald head and a beard as thick as a hedge. He was dressed in a smart brown suit but, unfortunately, like his drivers and the rest of the yard it too was covered in a fine coating of dark dust.

He gave the men a sharp look and their leering expressions vanished. They stood up straight.

‘There’s today’s rounds,’ he said, thrusting several sheets of paper into their hands. ‘Get a bloody shift on. I don’t pay you to stand around yapping.’

The three men touched their foreheads and left.

Mr Morris snatched the cigar from his mouth. ‘I hope they weren’t annoying you, Mrs Maguire.’

‘Not at all,’ Mattie replied, knowing that any complaint would only result in her getting a late or wrong delivery.

‘Come in,’ Mr Morris stood back to let her pass. ‘Take a seat.’

His office was a larger version of her own, with a desk at one end, shelves full of accounts books, empty sacks against the wall and, in the far corner, a set of weights and a large brass weighing-scale that was probably as tall she was.

She glanced down at the dirty cushion on the chair as she sat, knowing her gown would be ruined for the rest of the day. Her hand shook very slightly as she undid the drawstring bag on her wrist and took out Maguire’s weekly order. She handed it to Mr Morris who’d returned to his leather chair on the other side of the desk.

‘You didn’t have to bring next week’s order down so early,’ he said, placing it in a brown folder.

‘I thought I would bring it with me as I’ve come to talk to you about something else, Mr Morris.’ Mattie drew a deep breath, ‘I would like to ask you if I can have the same discount you give to the other yards you supply,’ she said in a rush.

An irritated look replaced Mr Morris’s jolly smile and he folded his arms across his barrel chest. ‘I don’t negotiate this early in the day.’

‘I quite understand,’ Mattie replied, trying to maintain a level tone. ‘But I’m sure you’ll see that it is impossible for me to meet you in the Admiral with the other coal merchants.’

‘Mmm. I suppose it is.’

‘And that’s why I hoped, as Maguire’s is such a long-standing customer, that you would make an exception and discuss the matter with me now.’

‘Discount. Eh?’

Mattie nodded and gave him an encouraging smile.

The chair creaked as he shifted his position. ‘It’s not as easy as that . . . there are things to be considered.’

‘I always have my order in in good time and I settle my end-of-month account,’ Mattie said as her pulse galloped on. ‘You tell me, Mr Morris, when have you ever had to chase Maguire’s for money?’

‘I can’t think of—’

‘Never,’ Mattie cut in as her need overrode her caution. ‘Maguire’s always pay promptly.’

Mr Morris nodded. ‘I know but, as I say, there are other things to take into account. Complications, you might say.’ The chair leg banged on the floor as he sat forward. ‘Can I be frank with you, Mrs Maguire?’

Mattie nodded.

‘It’s you being a woman that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons. Some of the other merchants are uneasy having a woman competing with them. To them it don’t seem natural, somehow, to have a woman running a coal business.’

‘I wouldn’t have to if my husband were alive but, as I do, its only fair that I be given the same discount as my competitors.’

Mr Morris’s jovial expression returned. ‘Mrs Maguire, I would like to but I can’t afford to upset my other customers.’ He shrugged and gave her a helpless look. ‘You understand, I’m sure. Now, if you’d excuse me, I am a busy man.’ He looked down at the papers on his desk.

The column of figures from last week’s balance sheet flashed into Mattie’s mind. She could not afford for him to say no to giving her a discount.

‘Mr Morris.’ He looked up. ‘If the Chamber of Commerce were to hear that one merchant was denied the same trading terms as their competitors, they . . . they might consider it to be unfair practice.’

Mr Morris’s cheeks mottled purple above his beard and Mattie wondered if she’d gone too far. She had come to negotiate with, not antagonise, her supplier, but what choice had she left? And it was only fair.

‘I do understand your position, Mr Morris, but you must understand mine. I have a coal yard employing four men and I support myself, my mother-in-law and, most importantly, my son.’

Mr Morris chewed the inside of his mouth and studied her under his heavy eyebrows. The sound of blood rushing through her ears threatened to deafen her as she waited for him to reply.

‘Your husband was a good man, Mrs Maguire, and a sad loss.’ Mr Morris leant across his desk. ‘I’ll give you sixpence in the pound discount on all your bills if Maguire’s continues to pay promptly and if,’ he tapped the side of his nose, ‘we keep the matter hush.’

A bubble of laughter rose up in Mattie. Sixpence in the pound! Just by a quick reckoning she knew that would give her at least an extra five shillings a week. The weight that she’d been carrying around for weeks suddenly lifted from her shoulders.

‘Thank you. Thank you so very much, Mr Morris,’ she said, standing up and offering him her hand.

Mr Morris regarded her for a few moments, then rose and took her hand. ‘Well then,’ he growled, with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes. He walked her to the door and opened it for her. ‘But Mrs Maguire. This arrangement is strictly between us. Do you understand? Strictly!’

‘Thank you, Mr Morris, I do,’ Mattie replied, resisting the urge to hug him.

Morris went back into his office and Mattie retraced her steps across the empty yard. The Highway would be packed by now so she turned into Butcher’s Row to take a short cut home. In front of St James’s Church she noticed that children had chalked out the squares of a hopscotch grid. She looked up and down the street and, seeing it deserted, grabbed her skirts in one hand and her bonnet in the other to hop and skip to the end of the game. Laughing, she smoothed her skirts back into place. Of course it was not the sort of behaviour a respectable widow should indulge in, but: sixpence in the pound!

Chapter Two

Nathaniel Tate clambered down from the Colchester ‘Thunder’ and put his hands in the small of his back. After a thirty-mile journey over unmade roads there wasn’t a part of his six-foot frame that didn’t ache. Outside the Golden Lion Inn at the east end of Romford High Street, two ostlers coaxed and cajoled the sweating horses out from between the shafts while another two brought a fresh team from the stables.

Through the low, dimpled windows of the coaching inn, local farmers in their smocks and battered hats sat eating their midday meal and enjoying a tankard or two. As he couldn’t afford the first and thought it too early in the day for the second, Nathaniel turned and walked into Romford’s wide, cobbled market square. The old shops were still as he remembered but every now and then a brash new stone building thrust up between them like a gold tooth amongst old molars.

As today was Wednesday, farmers from as far away as Orset and Brentwood had set up stall on either side of the central thoroughfare and leant on the temporary wooden pens which held the cattle offered for sale. A couple of dairy maids selling fresh milk from a brown-and-white cow looked Nathaniel’s way. They nudged each other and glanced at him shyly as he passed by.

He stopped in front of St Edward’s church, then ducked his head to pass under the porch and walked down the line of gravestones. Just before he reached the end he spotted the upright stone he was searching for. Removing his hat, he stared down at the finely chiselled lettering on the granite tombstone.

MARJORIE TATE

14th September 1817 to 9th January 1843

Beloved daughter and devoted mother

Asleep with her daughters

Lillian aged five and Rosina aged three

Until the final trumpet call

All he’d ever loved summed up in a few words on a cold stone.

He’d mourned them for nigh on two years but now, standing by the neat plot with the sun warming his face, he felt the wound afresh.

He raised his head and stared at the church’s oak doors, remembering how he had strolled between them with Marjorie on his arm and both their families laughing behind them. Nathaniel’s mind moved to the small cottage, not half a mile from where he stood, and how he’d scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold. He remembered how shy she had been on their wedding night and how careful he’d been not to hurt her. Then the image changed into Marjorie’s heart-shaped face the last time he’d seen it: across the courtroom, drained of colour and screaming his name as her father dragged her from the public gallery. Nathaniel had gripped the iron edge of the dock until his knuckles cracked, resisting the rough hands that pulled him back to the filth and cloying stench of a prison cell.

The gravel on the path behind him crunched under a heavy foot. ‘May I be of assistance, sir?’

Nathaniel turned. Behind him, curled up like a dry leaf in autumn and with a battered hat shading his eyes stood the sexton, Toby Atrill.

The aged attendant had been sexton for as long as most could remember. He would rest on his shovel as Nathaniel and his fellow pupils from St Edward’s school marched past every Wednesday for the midweek service. Nathaniel had been one of the few scholarship boys but his father had still had to scrimp and save to equip him with his books and pencils for what he called Nathaniel’s ‘chance of betterment’. He had been right, too. He’d walked out of the school gates at fourteen and straight into the town’s largest corn suppliers, Fairhead & Co, as a clerk, something almost unheard of for a farm-worker’s son.

Nathaniel looked back at the headstone.

Toby’s opaque eyes blinked in the bright spring sunlight. ‘I see this memorial has caught your attention. Did ’e know the family?’

‘Once,’ he replied.

Toby shook his head. ‘The saw bones said poor Miss Marjorie and her daughters died of the influenza but there be many around these parts that do say she died of shame.’

‘Do they?’

The old graveyard attendant sized up Nathaniel’s ill-fitting jacket. His second-hand clothes didn’t sit at all well and strained the stitching across the shoulders to their limits.

Toby jabbed his pipe towards the stone. ‘Yes, sir, they do. Miss Marjorie married where her father, God rest him, wouldn’t have wanted her to, but she would have the lad and her father gave in.’ Toby’s face creased into a dozen crisscross lines. ‘You know how fathers are with their girls.’

A lump formed itself in Nathaniel’s throat.

‘Anyhows, they were married in this very church. Happy they were, too, until greed reared its ugly head.’

‘How so?’

The old man drew on the pipe again. ‘Now, the particulars escape me just at the moment but the lad she married got mixed up in some money business. They caught him though. The case went right up to the county judge at Chelmsford. The lad argued it was the senior clerk, one Amos Stebbins, who took the money but no one who knew Amos believed it. Not with him being a gospel churchgoer. When they found the evidence against Miss Marjorie’s young husband – black-and-white evidence at that – it were an open and shut case and he got himself a one way ticket to Botany Bay.’ Toby tilted his head and looked him over again. ‘Are you from the Old Church end of town, then?’

‘A long while back.’

Old Toby studied his face. ‘You do have a familiar look about you.’

‘Do I?’ Nathaniel replied, looking down steadily at the old man.

The sexton shrugged. ‘Ah, well, I must be mistaken. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be,’ he raised the shovel. ‘I must get on. There was a young ’un fished out of the Rom three days ago. He’s set to be buried before the day’s end.’ He started to pick his way towards the back of the graveyard.

‘This Amos Stebbins,’ Nathaniel called after him. The sexton turned. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He moved to London.’

‘Do you happen to know where?’

Toby lifted his hat and scratched his head. ‘Now let me think . . . Let me . . .’ His rheumy old eyes lit up. ‘Whitechapel! That’s where ’e went. Whitechapel. Just this side of the city.’

Nathaniel fished in his pocket and gave the old man tuppence. ‘I’m obliged to you. I shouldn’t keep you from your task any longer.’ He turned up his collar then retraced his steps back to the lintel gate.

‘Hey there, fellow,’ Toby’s voice called after him. ‘Wait a moment! Aren’t you—’

Nathaniel didn’t respond. He just pulled down the front of his hat and pressed himself into the thick of the market day crowd.

Nathaniel waited until the night coach to Chelmsford disappeared around the corner and then stood and dusted the grass from his trousers. Pulling his hat low over his face he slipped out from the shadows and glanced down the dusty lane.

He crossed the road, slipped behind the hedgerow then, keeping close to the bush, he made his way towards the small cottage at the far end of the field. Stepping quietly back into the lane, he went to a side door half hidden by a crab-apple tree.

He knocked lightly and heard the inside bolt slide back.

Nathaniel’s vision clouded for a second as his sister, Emma, opened the door. She was just shy of forty now and had thickened around the middle. Grey streaks cut through her dark-chestnut hair but the kindness in her hazel eyes remained unchanged.

‘I’m sorry we don’t give at the door,’ she said, starting to close it.

‘Emmy!’ he whispered.

The colour drained from her face. ‘Nathaniel?’

He glanced up and down the empty lane again then stepped inside, closing the door behind him. ‘Is Jacob here?’

She shook her head. ‘Master’s best cow’s in calf and he’s playing midwife ’til it’s born. But . . .’ She looked him over again and tears welled up in her eyes.

They stared at each other for a moment then she threw herself in to his arms.

‘Oh. Nat, thank God you’re alive!’ she sobbed.

Nathaniel rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes.

He couldn’t remember his mother; she’d died in childbirth when he was only three. Emma, seven years his senior and the eldest girl in the family, had brought him up. It was she who had sewn his shirts, kissed him better when he grazed his knees and tucked him in each night.

‘Praise the Lord. I feared I’d never see you again in this life.’ She dabbed the corner of her eyes with her apron. ‘When were you pardoned? I knew them lawyer types would see senses and—’

‘I wasn’t.’

Emma clamped her hands over her mouth and her eyes widened with fear.

Nathaniel went to the small window and glanced out again ‘I daren’t stay more than a moment or two but I couldn’t leave for London without seeing you.’

She grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the fireside chair. ‘You’ll stay until I’ve fed you, that’s for sure. Before you goes up there to London or any other such fancy place.’

‘I can’t. It’s not safe.’

Emma pushed him into the chair. ‘Well, that ain’t no mind to me, how you’re here; you’re still my sweet old Nat.’

Nathaniel smiled. He doubted that, after four years as a convict in Botany Bay, there was any of the sweet old Nat left.

‘Now you rest your bones while I fetch you some vittels.’

He was about to argue, but suddenly his limbs seemed to lose their strength and he slumped into the wheel-back chair by the warm chimney breast.

A satisfied smile lit Emma’s rounded face. ‘That’s better,’ she said, getting a bowl from the wood dresser.

Nathaniel let the peace of his sister’s cottage soothe his soul. The main room was no more than three spread arms’ length in both directions and with a beaten-earth floor. The open hearth was similar to the one he’d played beside as a child. On one side sat a kettle with a wisp of steam escaping from its spout and, on the other, flames licked around a blackened belly-pot. The smell of fresh bread and something meaty made his stomach rumble.

‘Look at you!’ Emma poured a ladle of stew into the bowl. ‘I’ll tell you straight, I hardly recognise you, what with that beard. And your hair! I remember how it used to curl around your ears. What in the Lord’s name happened to it?’

Nathaniel brushed his hand over his closely cropped head. ‘I stopped shaving it about a month ago when I got to Hamburg. That’s why I look like a yard brush.’

‘But why did ’e shave your head?’ she asked, handing him the bowl and a chunk of bread.

‘To keep the lice from living in it.’

Emma gave him a bleak look. ‘Do it be as terrible as them newspapers say?’

Nathaniel studied her round face. How could he explain to Emma, who would never have travelled more than ten miles from her place of birth, what Botany Bay was truly like?

‘I can’t describe it,’ he replied, pressing his lips together firmly.

She ran her work-worn hand down the side of his face. ‘My poor Nat,’ she said in her old loving tone. ‘I suppose you skipped off when you got the parson’s letter.’

‘I did.’

She handed him a spoon. ‘I didn’t want you to learn about Marjorie and the girls like that but there was no other way. That’s why I asked him to pen it for me.’

‘I understand.’ Nathaniel swallowed the lump in his throat as the image of Marjorie and the children’s headstone flashed into his mind. ‘What exactly happened?’

Emma drew up the stool and sat down. ‘Marjorie managed to support herself and the girls for a year but then the rents went up. So they moved to one of the East House cottages, them along by Mowbray’s Farm.’

Cottages! Cowsheds more like. His lovely wife and precious daughters forced to live in one of those ramshackle hovels!

‘Why in God’s name didn’t her father offer her a home?’

‘He did, but on the condition that Marjorie stopped calling herself Mrs Tate,’ Emma’s face softened. ‘You know yourself what she would have said to that. He did pay for the headstone.’

Well, that explains the omission of ‘much loved wife.’

‘I heard he paid over eight pounds for the stone,’ Emma continued. ‘Eight pounds! More than the likes of us sees in a year but, as folks said at the time, it would take more than eight pounds to ease his guilt at letting his only daughter and grandchildren perish for ’is pride.’

Nathaniel used the bread to mop up the last of his stew and set his bowl down. ‘How did they die?’ Emma rested her hand on his arm. ‘There ’ad been a wet autumn that year and the influenza started in the bottom end of the town. A body would feel chilly in the morning then burn with the fever by nightfall. There wasn’t a day that passed without a man carrying a small coffin to the churchyard. Rosy caught it first, on the first Monday of the New Year, then Lilly came down with it four days later. I went up to help Marjorie. She was ill herself by then, coughing until she was red in the face and hot to the touch but she wouldn’t rest. We nursed the children day and night. For two weeks we tried to get barley water between their lips and sponged their little bodies to keep them from burning. The doctor gave us some syrup to ease their breathing but it were no good. Rosy died on the twenty-fourth and Lilly left us two days later. We buried them together the following Monday. After that Marjorie took to her bed and never left it again.’

Nathaniel let out a roar of pain and buried his face in his hands.

‘Oh, Marjorie, my darling. How can you be gone?’ he sobbed.

‘My poor, poor Nat,’ Emma said, enveloping him in her strong arms. Nathaniel buried his head in the soft folds of her lap and cried until his ribs ached. He untangled himself from her embrace and looked up.

‘And my girls. My darling girls. Do you remember Rosina’s dimples as she smiled and how she’d called her sister Lele because she couldn’t say her name?’ Emma nodded. ‘And the way Lillian used to stick her tongue out when she was concentrating and how proud she was when she finally managed to write her name without getting her ‘a’s facing the wrong way.’ A bitter smile spread across his face. ‘I remember the day she was born as if it were yesterday. It was midsummer and I sat up all night in the garden, gnawing my nails to the quick with worrying if Marjorie and the baby would survive. Then just before dawn I heard the cry. Do you know, Emmy, even now I can still smell the morning grass as I made my way across the garden back to the house. And when I held Lillian for the first time, all red and wrinkled, I thought I would die from the sheer joy of it.’ The hollow ache that had started in the churchyard welled up again. ‘And now that small baby I held on that summer morning is lying in a cold grave. And I should be alongside them.’

Emma stroked his hair. ‘Hush, lad. It ain’t your time yet,’ she answered.

‘And it shouldn’t have been theirs,’ he whispered. ‘How can I live without them, Emma? How?’ he wiped his face with the heel of his hand. ‘I blame myself.’

‘It weren’t your fault. It were that daft judge who couldn’t see the truth under his nose. But even if you’d been here, Nat, there was nothing you could have done to stop the influenza sweeping through.’

‘Maybe not, but I could have done something to save them. They were my responsibility and I should have been with them.’ An unbending expression hardened his face. ‘I should have realised the sort of man Amos Stebbins, my trusted friend and my children’s godfather, truly was. I blame myself but I also blame him.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go, Emma. I’ve things to do.’

Her mouth pulled tightly together. ‘Is that why you’re off to London? To get Amos for what he did to ’e?’

Nathaniel didn’t answer. Emma grabbed his arm ‘You’re all in, Nat. Why don’t you stay here the night? We’re right off the beaten track and no one comes near or by. You’ll be safe enough, and tomorrow . . .’ She looked at him, willing him to agree.

‘Old Toby saw me in the graveyard.’

‘Did he know you?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe. But if he told the police then this is the first place they’ll look. I can’t have you or Jacob arrested for harbouring a felon.’

He opened the door a crack and peered out. It was almost dark, and five miles to the White Horse on the Romford Road, but if he stretched his legs he could be there before ten. With a bit of luck he’d be able to bribe the driver of the night coach to let him on board and he’d be in London before dawn.

He gripped his sister’s upper arms. ‘I love you, Emmy, and, God willing, I’ll see you again.’ He hugged her to him and kissed her on the forehead before gently letting her go. ‘But Amos Stebbins destroyed everything I held dear and I’ll not rest until I’ve done the same to him.’

Chapter Three

Amos Stebbins stepped through the door of his warehouse on St Katherine’s dock and took a long, deep breath. A smell reminiscent of rotten eggs told him that the tide was out. He struck a match on the wall to light his cigar then turned in the direction of river. It was a fine day so he decided to take a stroll by the Tower on his way to his solicitor in Aldgate.

The tide was indeed out and the banks of the Thames were alive with scavengers gleaning what they could from the malodorous silt before the water of the Thames flowed back again. The hollow-eyed children and scrawny women who foraged for metal and bone were barely kept alive by the work but at least it stopped them applying to the parish for relief. When the superintendent of the workhouse gave his annual report to St George’s vestry a few months ago, a number of Amos’s fellow church elders had almost been persuaded to slacken the rules for admittance. Even Mr Garrett, the vicar, had wavered. That was until Amos drew them back to St Paul’s second epistle to the Thessalonians – if any would not work, neither should he eat – and that put an end to such philanthropic thoughts.

After a brisk walk in the summer sun Amos stopped outside the door of 49 Goulston Street, just off Whitechapel High Street and a hundred yards from the public baths and washhouse.

You could be forgiven for passing the front door of Glasson, Glasson & Webb, Solicitors at Law without giving it a second glance. The unobtrusive brass plate beside the front door was the only indication that behind the faded paint and upswept steps a successful law firm operated. The door opened before Amos could grasp the curved brass handle.

‘Mr Stebbins,’ greeted David Kimber, the office boy as he ushered Amos in. ‘What a pleasure to see you.’

In keeping with his lowly status in the firm, David was dressed in an ill-fitting suit and a frayed, overwashed shirt. He was no more than thirteen and struck with the unfortunate combination of an unbroken voice and a face covered with angry pustules at various stages of gestation.

‘Thank you. How are you settling in?’

‘Very well, sir,’ David replied, as he took Amos’s coat and hat.

‘I hope you are diligent about your work,’ Amos said, puffing a stream of cigar smoke into the boy’s face.

The boy coughed. ‘I am, sir, and I hope to be a credit to you for recommending me.’

David’s mother was a member of St George’s congregation. Amos always made it clear to the ragged element of the fellowship that he would not give their petty troubles any attention but, as Mrs Kimber had curtsied so prettily, he had made an exception. She was known to be respectable so there was no danger to his reputation in showing her favour.

‘Make sure you are.’ He fixed the lad with a hard stare. ‘I haven’t seen you at church these past weeks.’

‘No, Mr Stebbins,’ the young clerk said, looking suitably shamefaced.

Amos’s thick brows pulled together. ‘The man who kneels in gratitude before the Lord will prosper,’ he said, in the tone he used to address the parish council.

‘I’ll make s . . . sure I’m there on Sunday, Mr Stebbins,’ David said, touching his forehead deferentially.

Amos favoured him with a benevolent gaze. ‘Very well. Now, young man, take me to Mr Glasson.’

David led him through to the office of Ebenezer Glasson, the first Glasson on the firm’s brass plate. He opened the half-glazed door and Amos marched in. The office was no more than twelve feet by twelve and set at the back of the house. It was dominated by a dark oak desk that seemed to be as old as its owner. There was an inkwell to one side, next to a rhino horn pen holder that sprouted a dozen or so quills. Bookcases lined three walls and were filled with law books of all sizes and, by the look of their faded leather covers, dating back several decades. The sunlight from the large window cut across the space, capturing particles of dust in its beams.

Ebenezer Glasson pushed his spectacles up his nose and rose to his feet. ‘Mr Stebbins.’ He extended his hand.

Amos stepped forward, accidentally crushing a taper of sealing wax under his boot. He took the solicitor’s bony hand. ‘Sir.’

‘Take a seat,’ Glasson indicated the visitor’s chair. ‘How is business? Flourishing I hope.’

‘Middling,’ Amos replied, knocking the wax from his shoe onto the carpet. ‘I’d be happier if the warehouse was a little fuller but the Maisy Rose docked with a full cargo of rubber last week and I sold that for a good profit.’

‘So you do still prosper.’

A sombre expression settled on Amos’ face. ‘It pleases the Lord to show me favour.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you got the deeds?’

‘I have them here,’ Glasson said, shuffling through the papers in front of him. He drew a sheet out from under several others and held it aloft. ‘Here we are. The freehold to Kratz’s pickled-herring factory signed and sealed.’ He handed it across to Amos. ‘And if I can just get our map,’ the old man said, stretching up to retrieve a scroll from a high shelf behind him, ‘we can see where we are.’ He plopped the rolled-up sheet of paper on a small side table, sending up a puff of dust.

Amos unfurled it across the desk and a deep sense of satisfaction spread through him as he cast his eyes over the chart showing the area from the City boundary to the river Lea three miles away. The cartographer had done an excellent job, drawing the sweep of the Thames at the bottom and the Commercial and Mile End Roads running parallel above. Amos studied the line of blocked-out properties running from Wapping Basin across the map to Bow Bridge. A smile curled across his lips.

Mr Glasson resumed his seat and peered at the map. ‘Now let me see . . .’ he picked up a pen and jabbed it in the ink. ‘With Kratz’s in your possession,’ he said, scratching ink over the square that represented the pickle yard, ‘you are almost ready to set up the Wapping to Stratford Railway Company. Once you have the deeds to Maguire’s you will own every plot of land over which the railway will travel.’ A rare smile creased his face. ‘Except, of course, the two plots of land in Bow you were kind enough to put my way. But are you sure you can acquire the coal yard for the price you want?’

‘Of course. I’ve been hearing whispers for months now that it’s struggling. Frankly, I don’t know how the Maguire woman has kept it going for this long – but she won’t be able to for much longer.’ He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘I plan to make her an offer soon, but I thought perhaps I’d call on Mr Tucker and his associates first. Nothing too dramatic,’ he continued as alarm flashed across his solicitor’s face. ‘Just enough to drive the price down and encourage Mrs Maguire to sell sooner rather than later.’

Mr Glasson chewed the end of his quill. ‘I hope you’re right, Stebbins, because if she gets wind that she owns the last property needed to build the railway she’ll demand at least ten times the market price.’

Ten times! Twenty-fold more like, thought Amos. Kratz’s had taken him deep into his credit at the City & County. If he were forced to pay more than a hundred and fifty for Maguire’s he’d be bankrupt.

He’d sailed close to the wind before, especially at Fairhead’s, the feed merchants where he had been senior clerk. The opportunity to fill his pockets with their quarterly taking had been too much to resist. But then he was young and impetuous and hadn’t laid his plans properly. He’d learnt his lesson. Thankfully, his godly reputation had kept the local dullard of a constable from investigating, but Amos knew that he had to act fast once the county court officer was sent from the Chelmsford Assizes. Luckily, Amos had befriended Nathaniel Tate, the junior clerk, and had surreptitiously buried a couple of the money sacks in Tate’s back garden. He put the authorities on to it to head them off his tail and it worked. Providentially. They believed that they had their man, as did the judge and jury.

But Amos was older and wiser now and nothing, certainly not a ha’penny coal yard like Maguire’s, was going to stand between him and a large fortune.

He stubbed out his cigar in Glasson’s crystal ashtray and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

The solicitor rose. ‘Would you care to join me for lunch, Mr Stebbins?’

Amos shook his head. ‘Perhaps another time. I’m dining at the Three Tons with a few of the Middlesex Deserving-Poor Committee.’ His lips curled. ‘They probably want a donation although I take the view that, since it’s the Almighty who has ordered the estate of the poor, I am reluctant to oppose His will in the matter; but there is no harm in sharing a convivial meal with them.’ He took out another cigar and bit off the end. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll have the deeds to Maguire’s sitting alongside the others within the month.’

Amos ground the cigar butt under his heel and burped loudly as the beef and onion pie settled. Tucking his cane under his arm he walked into Tucker’s slaughterhouse at the back of St Mary’s Church. Crammed into the pens in the cobbled yard stood a dozen or so muddy cows. Through the open door of the barn, the slaughter men could be seen poking and prodding a handful of unhappy beasts into position over the drainage channel. In the other storage shed pig’s carcasses, some still twitching, hung upside down on hooks as the blood drained and slowly meandered toward the central grill. The metallic smell of fresh blood wafted over Amos as he picked his way between the piles of manure and rivulets of urine towards the office door.

Inside he found Ernie Tucker, a thick-set man who always seemed to be on the point of bursting out of his clothes, sitting behind his desk. Dicky Dutton, his foreman, stood behind him. They looked up as Amos entered.

‘Mr Stebbins,’ Tucker said, standing up and wiping his sweaty bald pate with a handkerchief. ‘What brings you down to our neck of the woods? I ’ope you ain’t asking for a donation towards the Fallen Women Society or some such, because we already gave.’

Dicky, whose angelic-looking white blond hair, freckled nose and blue eyes were quite at odds with his blood-splattered forearms, winked. ‘Yer, every night to the dollies in Paddy’s Goose.’

They laughed heartily.

Amos mustered a smile. ‘No, I’m not here on church business but my own.’

Dicky flicked the chair on the other side of the desk with a bloody rag. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off your plates of meat?’

‘I’ll stand if it’s all the same,’ Amos replied, noting the damp patch on the seat. He pulled his leather cigar holder from his inside pocket. ‘Smoke?’

‘Ta, very much,’ Tucker said, tucking it behind his ear. ‘So, Mr Stebbins, what is it we can do for you?’

Amos struck a match and drew on his cigar. ‘I was very pleased with the service you did me in regards to the pickle factory and wondered if you and your associates might be amenable to assisting me again.’

Dicky clenched the cigar in the side of his mouth and grinned. ‘Who?’

Amos blew a series of rings upwards towards the dusty rafters. ‘Maguire & Son’s, the coal yard on Cannon Street Road.’

‘That’s run by a woman, ain’t it?’ Tucker said.

‘Yes, Mattie Maguire. She’s a widow, so there’s no man to worry about. I want her business nobbled.’

‘I knows her,’ Dicky said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘She’s a nice bit of how’s-yer-father and no mistake.’ He grabbed his crotch and the long blade hanging from his belt flashed. ‘I shall have a bit of fun with her, I can tell you.’

Amos’ eyes narrowed as he looked at the man behind the desk. ‘I can’t afford to raise suspicions. Do you understand? I don’t think either of us wants the police poking their noses into our businesses now, do we?’

Tucker cuffed Dicky’s head with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t you take no notice of him, Mr Stebbins. We’ll be in and out without her noticing a thing, won’t we?’

Dicky’s jovial countenance fell. ‘So you don’t want me to rough her up a bit?’ he asked in a disappointed tone.

‘Not yet,’ Amos replied. ‘But if she doesn’t get the hint . . .’

Dicky brightened instantly.

‘Well, I must press on,’ Amos said, stubbing out his cigar in the overflowing hoof ashtray on the desk. ‘If I hurry I’ll be in time for evening prayers in the Lady chapel.’

Tucker rose to his feet and offered a chubby, black-nailed hand. ‘Always a pleasure to do business with you, Mr Stebbins. And don’t worry, we can keep mum.’

Mattie yawned as she opened the back gate and walked into the coal yard from the house. Three of the four wagons were already loaded, with the drivers at various stages of harnessing the horses. The fourth wagon driven by Freddie Ellis, her deceased husband’s cousin, still sat by the fence.

The horses stood patiently as their harnesses were secured, their breath billowing out from their nostrils in the early morning chill. Every now and then the crack of a large hoof on the yard cobbles would echo around. Flossy, Brian’s old horse, nudged at the canvas nosebags with her muzzle as they stood ready to be secured over her whiskery lips.