The Mistletoe Seller Read online

  ‘My sister, Mrs Adams, is also recently widowed,’ Galloway announced in a sonorous tone. ‘Rebecca owns a small house in Maddox Street and she is in need of a genteel lady to be her companion. I think it would suit your aunt admirably.’

  Angel turned to her aunt. ‘Is this what you want, Aunt Cordelia?’

  ‘My darling, what choice do I have?’ Cordelia met Angel’s gaze with a tremulous smile. ‘It’s very kind of Mr Galloway to go to so much trouble on our account, and I have met Mrs Adams on a couple of occasions. She seems a very agreeable lady.’

  ‘Am I to go with you, Aunt?’

  ‘No, Angel,’ Galloway said firmly. ‘My sister is childless and she loves to travel. It would not be appropriate for you to live with your aunt, but of course you may visit her sometimes.’

  ‘What is to become of me, Mr Galloway?’ Angel met his stern gaze squarely, without flinching.

  ‘You are fortunate to have been brought up like a young lady. Mrs Wilding has been more than generous in making sure you have had a good education, and you know how to behave in polite society.’

  ‘What Mr Galloway is trying to tell you, my love, is that he’s found a suitable place for you with a good family, where I hope you will be as happy as you have been here, with me.’ Cordelia held out her hand. ‘I hate the thought of being parted from you, Angel, but I hope and pray that this is just a temporary arrangement.’

  Angel refused to be placated. ‘Am I to be a servant like Lil?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’ Cordelia’s lips trembled. ‘I wouldn’t allow such a thing.’ She cast a beseeching look at Galloway. ‘Tell her, please. You know more about the Grimes family than I do.’

  ‘Phileas Grimes is a client of mine, known to me for many years. He is a wealthy man who’s made his fortune from buying tracts of land in the East End for building. He has a daughter about your age, and he is often away from home.’

  ‘So we are both to live with strangers,’ Angel said slowly. ‘Aunt Cordelia is going to stay with your sister, and I am going to …’ she paused. ‘Where exactly is this house? Is it in London?’

  ‘Ah, there you have spotted the best part of the plan.’ Galloway beamed at her, puffing out his chest. ‘Mr Grimes owns a lovely old house in the Essex countryside. You will have plenty of freedom and you will share lessons in art and music with his daughter. It will be an idyllic existence away from the dirt and disease of the East End.’

  Angel threw herself down on her knees beside her aunt, clutching both her hands in a desperate grip. ‘Don’t let him separate us, Aunt Cordelia. You are more important to me than anyone who might claim to be my real mama. Please tell him that you will not be parted from me.’

  Cordelia’s eyes filled with tears and she raised Angel’s hands to her lips. ‘If only I could, darling. I would do anything to keep us together, but you must see that it’s just not possible at the moment. I’m penniless, my love. The money from my jewellery has been spent on food and necessities and now everything has gone and I can’t support myself, let alone you, but Geoffrey has promised that Lil can go with you, and Mrs Adams has a place for Gilly in her household. We will all be taken care of, but I hope in the future we will be together again. This isn’t for ever, darling girl.’

  Dazed and struggling to come to terms with the sudden change in events, Angel rose slowly to her feet. ‘And if I refuse? What happens then?’

  Galloway’s lips tightened to a thin line beneath his quivering moustache. ‘You will comply with your aunt’s wishes if you know what’s good for you. You’re an orphan, Angel Winter. That isn’t even your real name, so how do you propose to manage if your aunt cannot look after you, as she has done for the last eleven years? Have you any idea how fortunate you are, little girl?’

  Angel shook her head. ‘You are not a nice man, Mr Galloway. I hope my aunt never marries you, because you have a cruel nature. A kind man wouldn’t separate us, and you are not a kind man, even though you pretend to be.’

  ‘That’s enough, Angel. You must apologise for being so rude to Mr Galloway.’ Cordelia stood up, swaying on her feet and Galloway leaped forward to support her.

  ‘You see the real nature of the child now, Cordelia,’ he said angrily. ‘You do not know her pedigree and I think it’s becoming obvious that she came from the gutter. You’ve harboured romantic fantasies as to her birth, but she’s a child of the slums and needs a firm hand.’

  Cordelia uttered a muffled cry and fainted in his arms.

  ‘You hateful man,’ Angel cried passionately. ‘You planned all this.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, child. Fetch your maid. I need her to accompany Mrs Wilding to my sister’s house. You will come with me.’

  ‘I won’t leave Aunt Cordelia.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Galloway swept the unconscious Cordelia off her feet and carried her from the room. He came to a halt at the sight of Lil, who had a valise in each hand and a bundle of clothes tucked under one arm. ‘My carriage is outside. I need you to accompany your mistress to Maddox Street.’

  Lil dropped the cases on the highly polished floorboards. ‘I ain’t going nowhere without Angel.’

  ‘It’s Miss Winter to you,’ Galloway snapped. ‘Do as you’re told. I’ll look after the young lady.’ He glanced at Gilly, who was cowering in a corner clutching a basket filled with kitchenware. ‘You, too. Get in the carriage.’

  ‘I ain’t moving until I knows what’s happening to Angel,’ Lil said angrily. ‘What’s up with the mistress, anyway? What have you done to her?’

  Galloway chose to ignore her and he left the house, staggering beneath the voluminous folds of black crepe that enveloped Cordelia like a shroud.

  Angel grasped Lil’s hand. ‘Look after Aunt Cordelia. He’s promised that you can come to me in the country. I don’t know where I’ll be but he gave his word you would be with me.’

  ‘And you believed him?’ Lil curled her lip. ‘I don’t trust that man, but for your sake I’ll see that the mistress is settled comfortably and then I’ll come and find you. It don’t matter where you are, you can trust me, Angel.’

  ‘I know I can. I wouldn’t go with him if he hadn’t promised that we’d be together.’

  Lil beckoned to Gilly. ‘Come along, nipper. Let’s get this over and done with.’ She followed Galloway out of the house.

  Seized by a feeling of panic, Angel ran after her but Cordelia was already in the carriage and Lil climbed in beside her, followed by Gilly.

  ‘Wave goodbye to your aunt, my dear,’ Galloway said loudly. He seized Angel’s arm and pumped it up and down so that from the carriage window it must have looked as though she was waving. ‘Smile,’ he said through clenched teeth as the coachman flicked the whip and the horses moved off.

  Angel tried to break free but Galloway tightened his grip on her arm. ‘No you don’t.’ He gave Angel a shove that sent her stumbling backwards. ‘My sister doesn’t want to be troubled by a brat like you.’

  ‘Aunt Cordelia.’ The words were ripped from Angel’s throat in a hoarse cry of anguish. The only mother she had ever known had been taken from her in the cruellest way, and even Lil had deserted her. She faced Galloway with tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I hate you. You pretend to be kind but you’re a monster.’

  She did not see the blow aimed at her head until too late and she crumpled to the ground, stunned and barely conscious. Then, before she had a chance to gather her wits, she was hoisted over Galloway’s shoulder like a sack of coal. In a haze of pain she heard him hail a cab and the next thing she knew she was in the vehicle and Galloway climbed in to sit beside her. Overcome by a feeling of nausea and a throbbing headache, she slumped against the leather squabs, taking deep breaths of the fetid air. The stench of the river and the manufactories on its banks was overpowering.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded angrily.

  ‘The workhouse in Bear Yard, if you must know.’

  Angel stared at him in disbeli
ef. Surely the bump on her head must have addled her brains. ‘The workhouse?’

  ‘That’s what I said. You’re a pauper now. You are the devil’s spawn and you’re going back where you belong. It’s a new building, opened only last year. You’ll be quite comfortable there.’

  ‘But you promised Aunt Cordelia that I would be taken care of. You said I was to be a companion to a girl my own age somewhere in Essex.’

  ‘I lied,’ he said complacently. ‘It comes naturally to a lawyer – you’ll learn not to believe everything you’re told. This is a valuable lesson in life.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me.’

  ‘There’s no such word as can’t. That’s what my old nanny used to tell me and she was right. You will do as I say or I’ll inform the workhouse master that you are a simpleton and must be tied to your bed for your own protection. You won’t get the better of me, Angel Winter, so don’t try.’

  Despite Angel’s protests she was admitted to the workhouse and forced to undergo the humiliation of being stripped of all her fine clothes, scrubbed down with lye soap and her hair rinsed with vinegar. It trickled into her eyes and made her yelp with pain, but a quick slap from the older inmate charged with this task made Angel catch her breath, and she bit her lip, determined not to cry. Finally, after being given a coarse huckaback towel, she dried herself as best she could and with the greatest reluctance dressed herself in a shift and a shapeless, faded blue-and-white striped dress. A calico pinafore and a white mobcap completed the outfit and a pair of boots that had seen better days pinched her toes. When she tried to protest and ask for her own shoes, she received a clout on the ear that sent her sprawling onto the flagstone floor. In all her life she had never received anything more brutal than a smack on the wrist, and that was for a misdemeanour so small that she could not remember what she had done to deserve the punishment. Now in the space of a couple of hours she had been knocked to the ground, humiliated and imprisoned amongst total strangers. The comfortable life she had led in Spital Square seemed like heaven and now she was in hell. There was only one thing left that linked her to her past, and, when the woman turned away to hang up the towel, Angel took the ring and chain from inside her cheek where she had concealed it before the undignified assault on her body. She just had time to slip the chain around her neck and tuck the ring beneath her shift, before the older woman rounded on her. She yanked Angel to her feet.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to or you’ll get another wallop.’

  Angel had no alternative but to follow the hunched figure from the communal washroom into a long dark corridor that led, eventually, to a flight of stairs. An unpleasant odour of damp and dirty laundry wafted up from the basement in clouds of steam. The large room, little more than a dank cellar, ran the length of the building, and the heat from the coppers was stifling. The red-faced women worked silently, washing the bedding, rinsing it and feeding it through giant mangles, which they operated by hand. Huge baskets were piled high with sheets and blankets and taken to the drying room. The deafening sound of hobnail boots clattering on the stone floor combined with the bubbling noise from the coppers and the rhythmic grinding of the mangles. Added to all this was the constant chorus of coughing from diseased lungs. It was a horrific place, but this was where Angel was destined to spend the rest of the day, and, as far as she knew, the rest of her life.

  Angel had missed the midday meal by a whisker and she had eaten very little at breakfast. As she worked on throughout the afternoon all she could think about was the bowl of thick, creamy porridge, sprinkled with golden sugar and slathered with thick cream that she had left barely touched. The boiled egg had fared little better, and she had only nibbled the buttered toast. Her stomach growled and by suppertime she was faint with hunger, dazed with exhaustion and could barely drag one foot after another as the inmates were marched to the dining hall. A hunk of dry bread accompanied a bowl of thin gruel, and this was eaten in silence with the matron watching every move.

  That night, trying to sleep on a hard wooden bed with just a thin flock-filled mattress, one blanket and no pillow, Angel made up her mind to escape. The other girls in her dormitory ranged in age from seven to fifteen: the younger ones cried themselves to sleep and the older girls talked in hushed voices for a while. Sobs, snores and coughing filled the night air, and a strong smell of carbolic emanated from the floorboards, which were scrubbed each morning until they were bleached white. This, Angel had learned from Lizzie, the older girl who shared her bed, was the job of those who were too young to pick oakum or work in the laundry, and too old for the schoolroom.

  Despite her aching limbs and physical exhaustion, Angel’s mind was surprisingly clear as she plotted her escape. The first thing she would need was her own clothes. She had seen them folded and placed on a shelf in the area next to the washroom. They were to be sold off to pay for her uniform, so Lizzie had said, and Angel had no reason to doubt her. Lizzie had been born in the workhouse and had never seen her brothers, who had been admitted with their mother. The unfortunate woman had died some years earlier, but what had happened to her father Lizzie could not say. The thirteen-year-old lived in hope that one day someone would come and take her from here. She smiled as she slept and Angel could only imagine what dreams her new friend must be enjoying. At least Lizzie could escape from the reality of her incarceration for a few hours each night. But it was not so for Angel; she kept her eyes open, waiting until all was quiet. She had no idea how she was going to make a break for freedom, but she was determined to try. Anything and anywhere would be better than this dire place.

  At last it seemed that everyone slept. Angel raised herself carefully from the narrow bed so as not to wake Lizzie, and crept out of the dormitory, barefoot and still in her calico nightgown. At the sound of footsteps, she dodged into a cupboard and peered through a crack in the door as the light from an oil lamp bobbed up and down, and the sound of footsteps drew nearer. She held her breath until the woman was out of earshot. She had not bargained for the night watch, but this put her on the alert and made her even more determined to get away. The long corridor ran parallel to the dormitories and moonlight streamed in through the tall windows, its benevolent rays illuminating the way to the staircase.

  She made it to the ground floor without mishap, although she had to hide from the night patrol several times. The reception area was deserted and silent and the doorkeeper had, for some reason best known to himself, deserted his post. To Angel’s intense relief she found her garments still neatly stacked on the shelf. Her fingers shook as she took off the nightgown and put on her own clothes. Her red flannel petticoat caressed her bare legs like a whisper after the coarse material of the workhouse uniform. She slipped the green silk bodice and overskirt over her head, fastening it with difficulty. Every second counted and she was about to put on her stockings when she heard approaching footsteps. She pushed her bare feet into her boots and tiptoed across the room to open the outer door. The bolts drew back with little more than a click and the door opened with just a sigh of well-oiled hinges. The night air enveloped her in a warm hug as she stepped out into Bear Yard. She picked up her skirts and ran. Where she was going she had no idea, her only aim was to get as far away from the workhouse as her legs would carry her.

  But as she emerged into Vere Street she realised that night time in this notorious area of London was not a friendly place. The workhouse might be sleeping silently, but it was not so outside its walls. Gaudily dressed women bared their charms in doorways, while others hung out of upstairs windows, calling out to the men who staggered along the pavements, some with bottles clutched in their hands and all of them the worse for drink. Skeletally thin dogs rummaged in the gutters for scraps of food and feral cats howled and fought over the carcasses of vermin, while big black rats slunk from alley to alley, on the lookout for anything they might attack and gobble up. Gangs of ragged boys h
ung about beneath the gas lamps, smoking pipes and watching out for the unwary. Angel hid in a doorway as a youth plucked a wallet from a passing stranger’s pocket, but his victim rounded on him and a fight ensued. Everyone seemed to join in and there was much shouting and flailing of arms and legs. Angel took the opportunity to make a break for it and ran, dodging down alleys and avoiding the grabbing hands of men who lurched out of doorways, offering her money and promising her a good time. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she did not stop to find out.

  The narrow courts and alleys were unlit, but in the distance she could see a pool of light. Emerging from the darkness was like entering heaven – she could hear voices and the scent of fruit and flowers filled the air. Her feet barely seemed to touch the cobbled streets as she ran towards this oasis in the darkness of the wicked city. She came to a halt in a square where wagons were being unloaded by porters, who balanced baskets filled with produce on their heads. They added one on top of the other until their burdens reached improbable heights, but somehow they managed to deliver the fruit and vegetables to the stall owners without dropping a single apple. Angel watched, fascinated and excited by the bustling activity. She might have been invisible, for all the notice anyone took of her, and that was oddly comforting after the terrifying moments in Clare Market. Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, she made her way between the carts and barrows to the far side of the square and comparative safety beneath the portico of St Paul’s Church. She huddled in a corner and fell asleep.

  She awakened to bright sunshine and a cacophony of noise. Cart wheels rumbled over the cobblestones and the clip-clop of heavy horses’ hoofs echoed off the surrounding buildings. The shouts of the traders bargaining for fruit and vegetables vied with the cries of the flower girls and the raucous laughter and chatter of the porters.

  ‘What are you doing here? This ain’t no place for the likes of you.’