CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
In Which I Tell You What Followed This Astounding Moment.
For perhaps two seconds Charity and I gawped at each other with simultaneous amazedness.
“Charity!” I exclaimed and if ever an exclamation point was obligatory, it was for that moment.
“Oliver!” she gasped in turn.
It was I who recovered my wits first. Still holding on to Charity’s hand, I cried, “Run!” and fairly dragging her, plunged into the densest of crowds. In that instant we were free, but it was as if all the evils of the world were pursuing us.
And they were.
“Thief! Thief!” came cries. “Stop, thief!” rang round us like a ragged choir.
I had no doubt it was Captain Hawkes and his four friends who had given the hue and cry, seeking to enlist others to run us down and hold us. Never mind that real thieves were chasing the innocent, which is to say Charity and me; we ran as if the hounds of hell were at our heels.
I would learn the pursuit of criminals through the streets of London was a citywide sport and entertainment. As we dashed across Covent Garden market square, alarms and howls erupted all round us.
I darted a look back. A mob of people was in full chase, people who knew nothing save there was a bloodlust hunt. No fox was ere pursued by more barking hounds than we.
I was too terrified to think, but Charity saved us. She dropped my hand, stepped slightly away, and faced the mob. “There!” she cried, pointing. “He went there!”
The thrilled crowd veered off in the direction she indicated.
As the people rushed by, Charity again took up my hand and led the way, walking fast—not running, lest we attract attention—toward Southampton Street. Even though we reached it, and no longer were being chased, she continued, not talking, but striding purposefully on, until we came to the wide street known as the Strand.
As you well know by now, I had had many adventures all on my own. But by freeing us from the mob, in a stroke, Charity reclaimed her protection over me, I more than willing. She led me across a wide street—dodging horses, sedan chairs, coaches as well as many pedestrians—into a narrow alley known as Dirty Lane and shortly after, a sharp left turn onto Crois Court. There we stopped, panting, only then truly looking at each other. To be sure we hugged and hugged again, full of joy that we had found each other.
But then, in turnabout, I suddenly recalled that I had come upon Charity only because she had been attempting to pick my pocket. This is to say I had just discovered that my beloved sister was a thief.
I beg you to consider my state of confusion. To love someone greatly, to absolutely trust and depend on them, only to discover that the same person is dishonest, is an utterly confounding moment. As I looked upon my sister, my emotions moved simultaneously in opposite directions—attraction and revulsion.
The best I could stammer was, “What . . . what happened to you?”
Instead of replying, Charity said, “We need to find a safer place to talk.”
I was in too much a muddled state to do anything but follow her commands. Even so, as we went along I kept stealing glances at her. It took no sharp intelligence to observe that much had happened. Though she somehow maintained her neatness, and her dignity, her garments were torn and dirty, her face besmirched. It was as if she was in some coarse costume, but could not fully mask her true self, the one I knew.
Charity led, we rushed on, till we were on the Strand again. Once there we went to a fine church, called, I believe, St. Clements. On its south prospect was a small, domed structure, which had a place obscured by a circle of pillars where we could sit out of sight. Even better, the tumultuous noise and confusion of London seemed to melt away, leaving us in a kind of private sanctuary. Once there we both took deep breaths.
“We can talk here,” Charity whispered.
Seated close, our breath recovered, she clutched my right hand and gave it a loving kiss. “I have missed you so much,” she said only to shudder. Was the shudder one of relief or shame? The truth is, I was afraid to ask how she came to be as I found her, a pickpocket. I waited.
“Now,” she said at last, allowing me to avoid the question I didn’t wish to ask, “tell me how you came to London and Covent Garden.”
“I came for you, and Father.”
“Father?” she cried. “Is he in London? Where?”
As speedily as I could, I informed her about the great storm, the damage to our home, Father’s abrupt going to London, Mr. Bartholomew, the poorhouse, and my subsequent decision to leave Melcombe.
“But . . . why did Father come here?”
“I believe he thought you were about to be married and wished to stop you. He left me a letter but it was so damaged in the storm I couldn’t read it, making his departure a mystery. At first I was determined to wait for him—so as to warn him about Mr. Bartholomew—but then came my unfortunate stay at the poorhouse, which forced me to flee Melcombe and come to London in hopes of finding you and Father.”
I told her how I had fallen in with a Mr. Sandys and then Captain Hawkes; how I stopped the coach, how Hawkes brought me to Mr. Wild who put my name in his book. Then, finally, the plan to trap pickpockets for reward money, by which I planned to escape.
“Does this Captain Hawkes truly work for Mr. Wild?” asked Charity. She was pale enough, but had turned like chalk at the mention of Wild’s name.
“He does.”
“Oliver, nothing could be more ruinous,” she said. “Everyone in London knows Mr. Wild. He’s an affrightening man. A terrible criminal. It’s commonly said there’s no wrongdoing in this entire city or kingdom that is not arranged by him.”
“But you,” I said, finally having the courage to speak, “why are you here? I thought you went to our uncle’s home. Why do you look so poorly? Are you truly . . . a pickpocket?”
As if wanting to hide her shame, she put her hands over her face. Gently, I pulled her fingers down. “Charity,” I said, “I must know.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
It took her some moments before she spoke again. I sat there patiently.
“I did go to our uncle’s,” she began, “thinking it would be a good and comfortable place. But because of my folly, I was forced to come into great misfortune.”
“Tell me,” I said, hardly knowing which held me most, fascination or fear.
Charity closed her eyes as if her story was too painful to look upon. She opened them, gazed at me with palpable affection, sighed, and began to relate the history of her time in London.
CHAPTER Forty-Seven
In Which I Hear Charity’s Story.
“You know why I came to London: to gain some independence in life, and have some pleasures before I grew too old. I’ll concede I had dreams of finding a seemly husband since Father was not likely to accept any possible suitor I might attract. As you well know, though Father has provided a home and food for us he has given little else. How often have you heard him say, ‘I have not been a good parent. I promise to do better.’”
“Many times.”
“Our uncle, Tobias Cuttlewaith and his wife, had, by letters, offered me a home, affection, and protection. They suggested their business establishment was large and successful, and that I was welcome to live with them on the familiar terms of a daughter—since they were childless.
“I took the coach to London, where I was received civilly enough by our aunt and uncle. I learned that Uncle’s shop on Hanover Street was one that sold and repaired walking sticks for gentlemen. But only when my relations took me in did they inform me they expected me to work for them.”
“A lot of work?” I asked.
“I’ve never been chary of effort. You know how I cared for you and Father, taking pride in my orderliness and cleanness. I would have been happy and willing to do my share for my relations, but they would have it that I should be in their shop every day, all day, early morning till eve. Moreover, since I am pretty, t
hey wished me to play the coquet with their customers, so as to induce them to buy more expensive goods.”
“What do you mean, ‘play the coquet’?”
She blushed. “To act as if I found gentlemen customers attractive so as to induce them to make a purchase. Oliver, it made me uncomfortable. What had I to do with walking sticks? Promoting them made me feel toadish.”
As she spoke my emotions were increasingly peppered: How could they treat my sister so!
“I had my late evenings free, and Sunday mornings as well, though I was expected to go to their church where the sermons were insufferably long. Moreover, our uncle paid me no wages, allowing that my bed and board was all that was due me.”
“You were treated so unfairly,” I cried.
“And mistreated. Not sure what to do, I chose to bide my time before I did anything. I did have a small amount of Father’s money remaining, which I knew I must hoard.
“Alas, you cannot believe how expensive things in London are. As a result, such money as I had soon melted away on trifles till I had very little. Thus I grew completely dependent on our uncle and aunt.
“What was worse, as time went on they used me with growing harshness, treated me as a low servant, threatened to beat me with their canes, spoke coarsely to me. At the same time they left me alone in their shop while they went to pleasure gardens so as to mingle with gentlemen, ‘for business,’ they said.”
“You should have sent for me,” I said. “I would have rescued you.”
She smiled for the first time since reuniting. “I thought of it often enough, for I was very unhappy. I might have stayed in Melcombe and done better. Beyond all else, Oliver, I missed you. The things we did together. The talking. Laughing.”
“It was the same for me, too,” I said, and gave her an impulsive hug.
“I did contemplate a return to Melcombe, to you and Father, and accept my fate there. But by then I had almost no money. How was I to pay the fare for a return trip to Melcombe?
“I considered taking money from our uncle’s shop, money I truly believed I was owed for wages. But I knew such an action would be wrong, and did not do so.”
“That was wise,” I murmured, thinking on what I had done.
“The one pleasure I derived came from the other young ladies who also worked in shops and stores upon Hanover Street. When we could find time, these young women and I would chat and gossip, sharing our sense of drudgery and misfortune.”
I nodded and said, “Father once told me that ‘Nothing in the world is more generously shared than unhappiness.’ ”
“It was during this time,” Charity went on, “that I met Miss Belinda Peters. She was—in my eyes—a most clever, delightful, and prettyish person. London born, she knew the great city as well as she knew her fine hands. Her father was in trade, the candle business, where she, as I, was expected to work. Like me, Miss Peters chafed at restrictions.
“Miss Peters was acquainted with many people and knew where to find the many pleasures in this great city. Being a little older than I, and having experience of London, it was natural she became my mentor. She included me in her company when we stole out at night when business was done.
“Beyond all else she was sure the only way to get free of parental tyranny was to have a pliable husband. She had great skills in dallying so as to attract young men.”
“And did you?” I said, finding it painful to think of my sister doing such a thing.
“That’s how I met Mr. John Avitable. I am mortified to tell you about him, but for you to understand what has become of me, I must.”
“Please,” I said.
“Mr. Avitable was a watchmaker’s apprentice and had but one year of his seven years before he became a journeyman. Once done, he intended to set up his own shop.
“I found him exceedingly handsome, lively, with great wit and an honorable, prosperous future. True, he never had much ready money—apprentices rarely do—but when I could find the time away from my relations we put together our small funds and had much pleasure.
“Growing ever fonder of Mr. Avitable, I fell in love with him, and was sure he held the same sentiment for me. Of course I told him of my life in Melcombe, of you and Father.
“At the urging of Miss Peters, I exaggerated our father’s income, suggesting it was about a hundred pounds a year. I more than hinted—another of Miss Peters’s suggestions—that Father would provide a good dowry to the man who would have me as his wife.”
“But Father hates the idea of dowries,” I said.
“I put that aside, because Miss Peters’s advice proved correct: when Mr. Avitable heard me speak of Father’s wealth he soon professed an abiding affection for me, and bid me to marry him.”
“What did you say?”
“I accepted. For his part he said he would marry me as soon as his apprenticeship was over, when he would become independent. Then he urged me to write to Father and tell him of my desire to marry him, that Father needed only to state in writing the dowry he would provide to make things settled. Mr. Avitable suggested fifty pounds as a marriage settlement.
“Hoping that for once Father would be sensible, I did write him, informing him of my circumstance, and asked him to commit himself to the money.”
At this point, Charity’s narration was interrupted by the ringing of the bells of St. Clements. During this loud and rather long pause, I could only look upon my sister and realize it was not just her clothing that had aged, but her youthful face as well. I also grasped that the letter Charity wrote must have been that second letter Father received in Melcombe, the night of the storm. I had no doubt, when he learned that Charity wished to marry and requested a dowry, it was sufficient cause to set him off for London.
When the bells ceased their ringing, Charity resumed her story.
“Believing I would soon be married, and free of my aunt and uncle’s tyranny, I bridled more at their ill-usage. The result was a great row with Mrs. Cuttlewaith, who accused me of laziness and stupidity. Pushed into anger, I informed her that I’d be leaving soon to be married.
“In greater fury, she accused me of being a deceitful, lazy slattern and even blamed me for thievery, which was utterly untrue. She went to her husband, our uncle, and demanded he dismiss me immediately. I was turned out.”
“Where did you go?”
“I hurried to Mr. Avitable and told him what had happened, and urged that we be married immediately and establish a home.”
“Did you marry?”
“To my great horror, Mr. Avitable refused, saying that the world did not allow him to marry for mere love. Unless he had a proper dowry in hand—”
“The settlement?”
Charity nodded. “ ‘When your father tells you what your dowry is,’ Mr. Avitable informed me, ‘and it is sufficient, you may apply to me again.’ ”
“What an unworthy man!” I cried.
“Oliver, I fear it’s the way marriages are arranged.”
“But Father didn’t answer your letter, did he?”
“If he did, I no longer was living with our uncle and aunt, so there was no way he could reach me.”
“What did you do?”
“Brokenhearted and distressed, being without a home, having only a few coins, I took myself to Miss Peters and appealed to her for help. She would not take me in but told me of one Mrs. Fulton, a refined lady—so she claimed—who had sufficient independent means to have established a charitable home for young ladies in distress.
“Not knowing what else to do, I took myself to this Mrs. Fulton. As it turned out, I was again deceived. Though Mrs. Fulton did have a home for young ladies, she brazenly informed me that all these young ladies were employed as thieves, who used their charms to steal from men who took a fancy to them. She further informed me that her business was under the protection of Mr. Wild, and that if I did not work with her she would inform him about me, telling that vile man I stole without sharing my proceeds.
“Ag
ainst my will, she dragged me to where this Mr. Wild did his business at the King’s Head, where he enrolled me among his underlings, coldly informing me that anything I stole must be turned over to this Mrs. Fulton.
“When we left Mr. Wild, I, enraged, foolishly told Mrs. Fulton I didn’t need her permission, or anyone’s, to be a pickpocket. I could do so on my own. I did not truly mean it—I had no desire to become a thief, but spoke out of resentment. I took myself away immediately and tried to find honest employment.
“Alas, I quickly learned that a young lady with no connections, recommendations, or immediate family to speak for her cannot find honest work in London.
“I was now one of the London’s uncountable impoverished and homeless young women.
“Using the tiny amount of money that remained to me, I found a mean place where I could at least sleep in some safety.
“Altogether desperate, I made up my mind that I would become a pickpocket on my own, and steal only enough to take passage back to Melcombe.”
“Have you actually . . . picked pockets . . . besides mine?” I asked with distressed reluctance.
“Just a few,” she admitted faintly. “Oliver, otherwise, I would have starved to death. But despite having done what is wrong, it has led me to you, and now I feel saved.”
Though astonished by all Charity said, when she had finished her tale, I said, “Tell me what that Mrs. Fulton looked like.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Just tell me.”
“She’s tall with a narrow face, a double chin, and presumes to look haughty upon the world.”
“The color of her hair?”
“Black, I think.”
“I fear that this Mrs. Fulton has already informed Mr. Wild that you are working as a pickpocket without his permission. I saw her with him.”
Charity gasped. “Do you know what that means?”
I shook my head.
“Then we are both in Mr. Wild’s book and he will pursue us to the ends of the earth. Oliver, you and I have been forced to become Mr. Wild’s thieves. It’s not just the law who will pursue us. The most notorious criminal in England is seeking us even now.”