CHAPTER Forty-Eight
In Which Charity and I Try to Make Our Way.
I was unable to speak.
Then she added, “It’s Mr. Wild who makes things so dangerous. You said Captain Hawkes works for him. I have heard many stories of his methods: The captain, fearing Mr. Wild will turn against him because of your escape, will go to great efforts to find you.”
Recalling Mr. Sandys and his fate, I knew she was right.
“What are we going to do?” I returned.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ll need to plan something. For the moment you need to come with me. At least we can hide for a while. And think.”
Even as the bells of St. Clements church began to ring again, I followed my sister—neither of us talking—until we came to a place called Feathers Court, fairly close to the river Thames. The narrow court was a dead-end alley leading from Drury Lane and walled in by ancient wooden buildings, some of which were scorched black and on the verge of collapse. Huge timbers were wedged between them so as to prop one another up.
Five stories tall, these buildings had the look of boxes piled carelessly one atop the other, the way an infant might stack wooden blocks. Roofs were steeply peaked and had lopsided brick chimneys. The lower floor of one was all boarded up and seemed impassable, but Charity moved two staves. That created an opening, just enough to allow us to pass through. Once inside, she put the wood back.
The little light that came through the cracks revealed a cluttered space, cold and damp, a floor of rough dirt, and everything smelling foul. I could see a three-legged table, some unmatched chairs, and along the walls, what looked to be shelves. After a moment I realized people were lying on them. It was a hovel for the destitute.
Charity, a finger to her lips by way of urging silence, beckoned me to the far corner, into a tiny enclosed area, perhaps once a coal bin.
“This is where I stay,” said Charity, sitting down on top of a heap of straw.
“How did you ever find such a place?” I asked as I looked about. There was a pathetic neatness about the spot, as if Charity had tried to assert her true character.
“It was all I could afford,” she replied. “It costs a penny every two days.”
I gazed at her through the shadowiness and sighed. When childhood is at its best, there is a time when all seems good, smooth, and secure. Particularly for the youngest—such as me—bad times are not even imagined. All will go well. And no one seems more powerful than one’s elder brother or sister. They can do no wrong. But when such saints fall from grace and become mortal, it is as if the whole world shifts from good to ill.
Thus we sat in silent gloom.
It was Charity who said, “You told me Father came to London to keep me from marrying. If he is here, he might be able to help us get home.”
“But one of the reasons I came to London was to warn him not to come home because Mr. Bartholomew wishes to have him transported to the colonies. Moreover, I know now that Mr. Bartholomew works for Mr. Wild, too, and is in London now.”
“Have you any idea where Father is?”
I shook my head.
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
“We need to find him. He may be our best hope.”
“Father might have gone to Uncle Cuttlewaith’s home to inquire about you,” I said, though I will admit, I was not certain Father could help us.
“If he did,” said Charity, “I had already gone and our uncle has no idea where I went.”
“But if Father did seek you at Mr. Cuttlewaith’s home, he could have left an address where he might be found in case they gained some information about you. That’s where we should begin.”
Charity thought a bit and then said, “Our uncle would turn me away without even speaking. But since they have no anger against you, you could visit. In fact, I think it would be wise to say you don’t know where I am.”
“I’m willing,” I said.
“But don’t forget that Captain Hawkes and his friends will be watching for you.”
“Charity,” I said, “it seems as if everything we might do contains some danger. But if we don’t risk something we are doomed.”
She had to agree.
CHAPTER Forty-Nine
In Which I Go to My Uncle Cuttlewaith’s Home.
“I’m afraid your jacket would mark you as someone of wealth. You’d be set upon.”
“I have no money.”
“The footpads would be pleased enough to take your jacket,” she said. “Constables come by rarely and are often one with thieves. As for those with the Watch, who are supposed to protect citizens, you can’t depend on them either. I assure you, when the city is dark it’s given over to crime. The wealthy always have bodyguards.”
That evening, then, we remained where we were, first talking about all that had happened in greater detail, renewing our mutual deep affection. Most naturally we recalled happier times and even laughed at fond memories. At last we fell asleep, staying close so as to be loving and warm. I was secure in knowing there was no one else in the whole world I loved as well, and that she loved me, too. As I went off to sleep, I vowed I’d never part from her again.
It was a cold and clammy morning. As we prepared to go out, Charity cautioned me to keep a careful eye out for our enemies. “Your Captain Hawkes and his friends will almost certainly be searching for you,” she warned me yet again. “Since I have no idea what they look like, it’s you who must keep the sharp eye.”
“And Mr. Wild,” I reminded her, “will be searching for you.”
I heard her rueful sigh.
Thus my spirits were depressed as we made our way through the decrepit space where Charity was living. I was sure there were more people lying about than when I came the night before. Not that anyone spoke to us.
Outside, a mungy brown fog filled the air, making it hard to see beyond a few feet. What I could see of the broken buildings on either side of the narrow court way seemed on the verge of collapse. Underfoot, our way was crusted over with sheets of thin, weak ice, which, once broken, spewed sticky sludge. I saw someone lying still against a building and wasn’t sure if he (or she) was alive or dead. My new jacket did not keep me very warm. That air bore a foul stench.
Fortunately—if it could be considered fortune—Charity knew the streets well enough to guide us through the concealing fog to a place called Tom King’s Coffee House. It stood in a lane off Covent Garden. Even if I had had directions, I never would have found it, the streets being all of a crisscross and despite the early hour already clogged with laborers.
The coffee house was crowded, most people appearing to be heavy-lidded with too little sleep or too much drink. Not much talk either, but a knick-knocking of clinking glass and cup. Charity and I barely spoke as we breakfasted on a penny’s worth of bread and coffee. I kept alert for Captain Hawkes and his friends but saw nothing to alarm me. In truth, no one seemed to care about us as we huddled close in a darkful corner.
Our breakfast quickly consumed, we sallied out to the yet more busy streets. The low fog had become congealed by a dismal gray rain, which I was glad for, since I assumed it made us that much more difficult to see. Even so, not a person loomed before me that I did not scrutinize. Fortunately, no one gave me cause for alarm.
My uncle’s house was on Hanover Street, not very far from Long Acre, near Covent Garden. It seemed a well-toned neighborhood, suggesting modest wealth. Streets were relatively clean, smelled better, and had fewer people about, and those appeared to be of higher quality.
From a distance Charity pointed to our uncle’s store, one of a number of row shops. They were in brick buildings with street-level bow-front windows with displays of goods behind glass. Higher up were, I guessed, tenements where people lived.
My uncle’s shop had a sign over the door that displayed a walking stick, painted gold. From the stick hung a sign that I could only just read:
Sold and Repaired
>
Walking Sticks for Fine Gentlemen
Mr. T. Cuttlewaith, Esq.
More importantly, I noticed some light moving behind the front window. “I think someone is about,” I said.
“Business commences early and our uncle wants to lose none of it,” said Charity. “He must be expecting a customer.”
I found myself uneasy. “How do you think he’ll treat me?” I asked, not really having considered the question before.
“It’s only information you need. Just go,” she said with some urgency matched by a little shove. “You’ll want to get in before anyone else does so you can speak freely. I’ll wait for you here.”
She retreated into an open alcove that kept her from the drizzle, but which allowed her to keep a watch on our uncle’s shop.
I glanced at her for some final reassurance and then stepped away.
We all have relatives, and for some of us they are as numerous as they are close. But having been born and raised solely in Melcombe Regis, I had never met any of my kin, neither on my father’s side nor on my mother’s, not so much as a cousin. May I further remind you that my poor mother, having died when giving birth to me, was someone I had never seen. Nor had my father, in his everlasting sorrow, kept any images of her about our home.
Yet, as you might guess, an unknown parent brings to a bereaved child a thousand fanciful conjectures. You will understand then that I was most curious to meet this uncle of mine, seeking to gain, if you will, not just information about my father, but some sense of my mother.
I therefore approached the door with an odd mix of apprehension and expectation, pausing only to glance back to make sure Charity was still where she had retreated. Reassured, I drew breath and knocked on the door. After a few moments it opened.
CHAPTER FIFTY
In Which an Unexpected Meeting Takes Place.
It was a middle-aged man who opened the door and peered out. Despite the early hour, he was wearing a dark green gentleman’s jacket, with wide sleeves, lace, and many buttons. Beneath a freshly powered wig his face was round, pink, with smooth cheeks. I could smell his orange-flower fragrance, so I supposed he was wishing to make an impression on someone. Since I was obviously not the person he was expecting, he considered me with a face shaped by displeasure.
“Yes?” he demanded.
For a moment I said nothing, merely stared at him as if I might somehow recognize my mother. Alas, I was met with instant disenchantment for this man appeared to my eyes as both dullish and ordinary. And no mother is ever ordinary to a child.
“Do you wish something?” he said when I did not reply speedily enough. There was spurning in his voice.
Recalling myself, I put on my cheerful smile and said, “Please, sir, are you Mr. Tobias Cuttlewaith?”
His look took on greater annoyance. “And if I was?” he returned.
“My name is Oliver Cromwell Pitts, sir. I believe you are my mother’s brother. That, sir, would make you my esteemed uncle.”
Upon hearing this intelligence, his face squinched up as if he’d just sucked on a sour lemon. “And if I were your uncle?” he asked.
“Please, sir, I’ve only just come to London. From Melcombe Regis. I’m trying to find my sister and father.”
My words brought him even more animated aversion.
“Sir,” I pressed, “I ask nothing from you, save that you might know of their whereabouts.”
As it happened, some people were passing by on the street before his shop. They were of no particular account, but my uncle pulled the door open with some urgency. It was as if he did not wish to be observed with me.
“Come in,” he said. “Just for a moment. I have an appointment with an important customer and I have no desire to be associated with your family.”
I stepped forward.
It was a small shop, with a candle lantern sitting atop a long table. Behind the table were panels upon which were affixed a great variety of canes and walking sticks, simple to elegant. On the table were some tools. On the walls were prints, which portrayed gentlemen in elegant dress—all with walking sticks.
When I entered, my uncle retreated, his back to his table, as if loath to be near me, hands clasped so as to suggest piety. He was staring at me intently.
“You look a bit like your mother,” he said, his tone somewhat softened.
“Thank you, sir. I wish I had known her. But it’s my sister who—”
A woman stepped into the room from a side way. I thought she must have been our uncle’s wife and had been listening because in a curt, harsh voice she immediately said, “Your sister proved to be ungrateful and ill-mannered. We had to dismiss her. We have no idea where she went nor do we care.”
“Yes, madam,” I said, having no desire to argue. “But . . . my father? Might he have come here? He, too, was looking for her.”
“Mr. Cuttlewaith,” said my aunt, “tell this boy to depart.”
Instead, my uncle considered me for a long moment. Perhaps by accepting me as his sister’s son, he felt some obligation. “Your father,” he said, “did come.”
“And most unpleasant he was,” inserted my aunt.
My uncle said, “I told him exactly what my wife told you—that I had to dismiss Charity and have no idea where she went. Your father strode away in a great anger, informing me that ‘the law is king,’ at least three times.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “That sounds like him. But, sir, might he have possibly mentioned where he was lodging?”
“He requested—or should I say demanded—that if I received word of her, I should send the information to him at the Flying Horse Inn. That he would be staying there for a few days in hopes he might locate her.”
“Could you share the location of that place with me, sir?”
“Turnstile Alley near Castle Street.”
“Thank you, sir.”
For a moment we just stood there, none of us knowing what to say, when we were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“The customer we’re expecting,” said my aunt. “I must ask you to go.”
“Yes, madam,” I said, content with the information I had received.
My uncle went by me and opened the door to Mr. Bartholomew’s manservant.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
In Which My Sister and I Seek My Father.
In this man’s hands was Mr. Bartholomew’s broken walking stick—you will recall it was damaged during the time his coach was waylaid. No doubt the servant was bringing the stick for repairs.
My uncle bowed him into his store.
The moment I recognized him, I knew I must get away. In haste I averted my face, hoping I looked somewhat different in the clothing Captain Hawkes had provided me. I burst past him and was instantly upon the street, heading for where Charity had been waiting.
I had barely gone ten steps when, from behind me, I heard, “Stop! Thief! Footpad! Stop him!”
The manservant, belatedly having realized who I was, was giving the hue and cry.
I raced to the spot where I had left Charity. She was not there.
Confounded, I stood desperately looking all about. The next moment Charity burst from another place and grabbed my arm. “I saw that person going into the shop, and feared there would be trouble and hid,” she explained in haste. She was pulling at my arm and leading me away, both of us instantly speeding for all our worth.
“Who was that person?” she asked, moving quickly.
“Mr. Bartholomew’s servant,” I gasped. “He was the postilion on the stagecoach I was made to stop.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“I fear so.”
Charity made no response. But I knew her thoughts as if they were mine. It was as she had predicted. Our enemies were everywhere.
As we ran I stole a look over my shoulder. The foggy drizzle was still sufficiently dense that it was impossible to tell if the servant was following. In any case, there were already too many people on the street to distin
guish anyone.
“Did you learn anything about Father?” asked Charity.
“Our uncle said he was at the Flying Horse Inn.”
Charity immediately swerved into another direction. “This way,” she said.
After a while I asked, “Are there no straight ways in London?”
“I’m going in a roundabout way in case we’re being followed.” She increased our pace.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
In Which We Arrive at the Flying Horse Inn.
Turnstile Alley was yet another narrow way, leading from the much wider Castle Street to the major thoroughfare of Drury Lane. The Flying Horse Inn was midway in the alley, announcing itself by a small sign that depicted a white-winged horse. In the swirling, drizzly fog it seemed to be flying through the clouds. Oh, how I wished I had such wings that I, too, might escape.
The inn was an old, narrow building of two levels, its outside timbered, the spaces between the timbers filled in with I knew not what. There was one large door studded with big-headed nails.
Needing to catch our breath, we halted and gazed at the door, as if it might give us some clue to whether Father was within or not. I was trembling with damp, cold, and worry, continually looking up and down the street in fear that we had been tracked. If that was not enough, now that we were where Father might be, I found myself pulled in different emotional directions.
Yes, I wanted to find him, in hopes he would make our situation easier. Charity was right: he was a lawyer and that should prove helpful. And I needed to warn him about Mr. Bartholomew.
But as I knew only too well, he was a difficult man, given to doing things his own way, and poorly at that. Among the things he did poorly was being a parent.
My fear was that he might make things worse for us, not better. Perhaps before Charity had become a pursued thief, he might have helped. But now, with two of his children in jeopardy, plus Mr. Bartholomew’s accusation to answer for, I feared all of us could be undone.
Though he had told my uncle he would be searching for Charity, it would not surprise me if he had not done so.