Page 15 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder

CHAPTER 14

A Half-Crown

Breakfast was boiled suet pudding stuffed with bacon and onion, purchased from a cookshop in the town of Alton. With the hearty fare filling her stomach, Henrietta’s energy was refreshed and they made good time for the rest of the morning.

But as the day progressed into the afternoon, her riding difficulties grew more bothersome. It took considerable effort to find her point of balance and an effective seat, and while her drawers protected her thighs from chafing, her half-boots didn’t prevent the stirrup leathers from nipping into her calves. Additionally, the heat caused her to sweat and she disliked her increasingly sour smell.

Meanwhile, Theo looked relaxed and comfortable in the saddle. He gazed about the countryside with shining eyes, for all the world as if he were enjoying a sightseeing holiday. He’d pushed his hat back on his head and his arms and face were growing tanned, whereas Henrietta’s skin was overly pink. Just past Guildford, he began a jaunty rendition of Sheridan’s ‘Let the Toast Pass’, which made Henrietta smile.

When he finished the last refrain – ‘ let the toast pass, drink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass ’ – he gave her a teasing wink. Wondering if it was his way of praising her as a woman well worth his toast (he had emphasised the line ‘ here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes ’, hadn’t he?), Henrietta grew flustered.

Rather pleasantly flustered.

She asked an abrupt, unrelated question before she could dwell too long on her inconvenient feelings. ‘Where did you learn to ride, Theo?’

‘I delivered the newspapers when I was a whelp,’ was his merry response. ‘Learnt to ride the cart horses round London twenty years ago.’

‘ Twenty years?’ she asked, uncertain if she’d misheard.

‘Indeed.’

She frowned. ‘But you couldn’t have been more than ten?’

He met her gaze, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight. ‘I was eight.’

‘You started to work when you were eight?’ she asked, aghast. When she was eight, she’d started school, but her life until that point had been one of freedom, play and fresh air. Nor had Miss Shirley’s Seminary in Brighton been overly strenuous. The girls had attained only as much feminine-appropriate learning as they’d felt inclined towards, and Henrietta had concentrated on riding and sport. To this day, she had no skill at all with singing or instruments, and despised anything requiring a needle. She could draw and dance because she possessed some natural ability with both, but she only spoke French because she’d had a French nursemaid and learnt the language in her infancy, along with English.

Theo looked at her with something between pity and amusement. ‘Delivering newspapers wasn’t my first job. When I was about two, I was deemed hearty enough to begin work, so I was transferred from an infant asylum to St Sepulchres workhouse – the one by the burying grounds off Chick Lane, near Smithfield, if you know it, though I was raised in the old building before it was rebuilt some years ago. From the earliest days of my recollection, I – like almost everyone there – spent ten hours a day picking oakrum.’

‘Rigging?’ Henrietta asked, knowing the term from her experience with boats.

‘Yes, it’s also called rope picking. Tearing apart the fibres of worn rigging, so it may be reused to waterproof ships.’

Henrietta scrunched her nose. ‘Is that … unpleasant work?’

Again, Theo gave her that oddly pitying glance. Then he used his teeth to remove a glove and edged his horse closer, displaying his left hand, which was large and calloused, the long fingers marked with webs of fine scars. It was the hand of a man who’d performed physical labour all his life. A hand that told a hard story but spoke of survival as well.

‘Grown soft, they ’ave.’ Theo emphasised his accent with a laugh after catching her gaze. ‘There was a time when my callouses would’ve sanded wood. That happens when hemp rips apart your flesh when you’re naught but a childling.’

‘Oh, Theo, I’m sorry,’ Henrietta said, pressing her lips together and blinking so rapidly at the hedgerow her vision blurred. Her earliest memories were of her French nursemaid rubbing scented lotions into her rosy flesh after extracting her from warm baths, and then enveloping her in the softest towels, fresh from airing in the sea-salt breezes.

‘Now, now, Henrietta.’ Theo’s voice was tender. ‘I didn’t show my ugly hand because I want your pity. We all have our scars, eh? Some inside us, some outside. They’re old pains now healed, there to remind us of what we overcame.’

Henrietta swallowed the ache in her throat but couldn’t bring herself to look at those gold-flecked eyes. ‘What about when you went to school?’ she asked, hoping Theo had pleasant childhood memories as well.

He laughed. ‘Never went to school.’

That didn’t make sense, for he was most certainly well educated. ‘But who taught you to read? To write?’ And write well – though she’d never admit to him that she sometimes admired his column’s wit.

He tapped his temple. ‘Told you I’m clever.’

‘But you can’t have picked up a book and simply started to read? Someone taught you your letters.’

‘In a way, yes. Sunday mornings at St Sepulchres. We littles were given Bible verses to memorise. If we didn’t remember them from one week to the next, we got a lashing, but I had no trouble with the task. In fact, I’d remember the older children’s verses too, and, one Sunday, the curate gifted me a collection of Bible quotes. It was the cheapest sort of publication, close-printed pages stitched between pasteboard covers, but it was the first new thing I’d ever possessed of my very own and I felt as fine as a gentleman with my little book. I kept it with me day and night, flipping through the pages during breakfast, dinner and supper. At first, the words meant nothing to me, but the curate would point to the phrase that I’d been set to learn that week, and, little by little, I came to identify that the letters had sound. In time, the workhouse master noticed my diligence and took to teaching me some of the trickier words, even releasing me from my work on occasion to spend an hour or so with him.’

‘That was kind,’ Henrietta said, glad to hear a happy part to the story.

As a speedy curricle raced past, Theo’s eyes cut to hers, but he only spoke once the dust cleared and the sound of pounding hooves receded. ‘One of the first lessons an impoverished orphan learns is that kindness almost always comes with a cost. The workhouse master’s fee eventually became more than I was willing to pay.’

‘What do you mean?’

He paused, but then shook his head. ‘Never mind that. ’Tis one of those inside scars I spoke of, but it’s healed, long ago. The main point of my story is, that’s how I learnt to read. The secondary point is that when I was six years old, I knew I needed to get out of the workhouse – which brings us to an incident of my childhood you will like.’

She inclined her head. ‘Yes?’

‘One day, a charitable organisation visited St Sepulchres – this was by now 1798, when the parish first began to raise funds for the rebuilding of the workhouse. We’d had to clean for days – they wanted to show the crumbling state of the building, but they didn’t want the rich folk offended by squalor or foul smells – and the most infirm were tucked out of sight, for the master wanted the charity to believe that the inhabitants were hale folk, making a valuable contribution to society. The master wasn’t well pleased with me by then, but I’d defied the odds against me – I was a hearty, well-formed chap, and I could read to boot, so he paraded me out to the fine folks, all scrubbed up with my first pair of new shoes. Told everyone my story, how I was the bastard of a whorish thief who’d hanged after I’d entered the world, but I’d been at the workhouse since infancy, and look what a fine, clever lad I’d become with hard work and rigorous study – barely six years old, but with the body and mind of a boy two, three years older. He told me to read from my little book and then I received praise from all those rich folks – except one fine gentleman, who remained aloof, watching me. I was offered money and sweets, but the master was there all the while, pinching my neck, and so, as much as I wanted to claim the money for my own, I had to answer as I’d been taught: “God and Mr Wessel” – for such was the master’s name – “provide for my needs. If you wish to contribute financially, please let it be to the workhouse, so all may benefit.” ’

‘I don’t like this story very much,’ Henrietta said, being honest. ‘Mr Wessell sounds dreadful.’

‘Ah, but I haven’t got to the good part yet.’ Theo laughed. ‘Before the end of the visit, the gentleman who lingered approached Mr Wessell and I noticed then that everyone present was deferential to him. Mr Wessell bowed so low I thought he’d topple forward. “I wish to speak to the boy alone,” the man said, and Mr Wessell didn’t dare argue, though he gave me a look indicating he’d flay my bare bottom if I said anything amiss. But I decided to throw caution to the wind, for I sensed this great man was an opportunity, like learning the verses had been.’ Theo looked at her. ‘Can you guess who he was?’

Her breath caught. ‘Edmund?’

He nodded. ‘I didn’t know it at the time, for he didn’t give me his name. He took me aside – Mr Wessell watched all the while – and asked me a series of questions, to which I replied truthfully. When he asked me if Mr Wessell was a good master, I said, “Both good and bad. He taught me my letters, but he stopped when I refused to do something he asked of me.” He enquired what that something was and when I told him, his eyes turned steely. “Soon, Mr Wessell will no longer be master here. Thank you for your honesty.” And then he turned away, but something dropped, landing right at the toe of my new boot. I looked down and I could see it was a gold coin, the likes of which I’d never laid eyes on. “Sir,” said I – for I did not know to call him Your Grace – “You dropped this,” and I handed it up to him. He knelt but closed my hand over it. “That was for you. Something you needn’t give to Mr Wessell, though now I suspect you must, for he has seen it. Why did you not take it, if you thought I’d dropped it without knowing?” And I answered him truthfully. “Because a boy like me would be hanged if found in possession of such a thing. If it had been a half-crown, I might have pocketed it. But I would’ve thanked you in my heart.” ’

Henrietta laughed outright. It didn’t surprise her that boy Theo had been a cheeky imp, since grown Theo was, as well. Though perhaps rather too large to be called an imp …

Theo’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, your husband found my response amusing as well. He smiled then, for the first time. He was still holding my hand over the coin, then he slipped his other hand into his pocket and slid another coin between my fingers. “There,” he said. “A half-crown for you. Tell me, what will you do with it?” I replied without hesitation, for I’d already planned my venture, if given a bit of coin. “Buy a broom,” I replied. “A good sturdy one, for sweeping the crossings.” He wished me the best of luck with my endeavours and I didn’t spend another night under the workhouse roof. I handed the guinea to Mr Wessell – for that was what the coin was, I later learnt – and pocketed my half-crown. The next chance I got, I climbed over the workhouse wall and I was free. Spent the first night in an alley; the next morning, I was sweeping the crossing near the Sessions House before the sun rose. I did that for two years. One day, the editor of the Examiner , Mr Scripp, was crossing when a draught horse passed by and released a massive, steaming shit. I scurried forward, scooped it with a shovel I’d acquired by then, and flung it aside. Mr Scripp was so heartily impressed by my show of strength that he offered me my third job, packing and loading and delivering the papers.’

‘Is that half-crown the reason you never disparaged my husband?’

‘No,’ Theo replied. ‘I never disparaged your husband because I never found fault with any of his actions. I told you, I don’t pick and choose.’

‘Did Edmund know who you were?’ Henrietta asked, intensely curious. ‘Later, I mean. After you began writing The Hawke’s Eye . Did he know Theodore Hawke was the workhouse boy to whom he gave a half-crown?’

Theo’s lips turned down. ‘For the longest time, I didn’t think so. But shortly after the Charitable Relief Scandal, I happened to pass him on the street when, much to my surprise, he stopped and spoke to me.’

‘Saying what?’

‘As close as I can recall, that the Charitable Relief exposé was a much better application of my talents than exposing illicit affairs.’

‘And so it was.’ Henrietta heartily agreed.

‘Well, I nearly lost my job with Scripp over it. Which is why, when your husband then told me he was “pleased his half-crown wasn’t wasted”, I was annoyed. Oh, I was astonished to learn he remembered me, naturally, but I was also irritated. I told him I’ve done the best I could to make my way in the world. He responded, “You can do better,” and he seemed so dreadfully disappointed that I was devastated; it is one of the reasons I want to solve his murder. Let him see from heaven that his half-crown wasn’t wasted.’

Henrietta was deeply moved. ‘My life experience is so vastly different from yours that I can relate to little of what you say. However, I do understand how affecting Edmund’s disappointment could be. One gentle glance of disapproval from him would distress me more than all the scolds my father ever delivered.’

‘Your father scolded you?’ Theo sounded sceptical. ‘Always thought you’d been … but never mind.’

‘Cosseted?’ she said. ‘Spoilt? Treated like a little princess?’

His lips twitched, but he held back the laughter dancing in his eyes. ‘All I’ll say is, my observations have led me to believe your parents think the sun rises and sets with you.’

Henrietta laughed. ‘They were so immensely pleased when I became the Duchess of Severn, they forgot every last one of my youthful transgressions. Please don’t misunderstand, my parents are lovely, but they had their hands full with their children. I was an exceedingly naughty, headstrong girl – as wild as the waves, ever striving to keep up with my brothers, who were imps, every one. So, yes, I was frequently scolded for not behaving like a young lady.’

‘After suffering three of your vicious attacks, I can verify that you are still a wild imp. Yet you manage your public duties elegantly, so you must have applied yourself to learning how to behave like a fine lady at some point?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Yet my motivation arose not from my father’s scolds, but because there was someone I wanted to impress.’

‘Your future husband?’

She nodded. ‘It seems he impacted both our childhoods.’

Theo winked. ‘Aye, we have that in common.’

Henrietta grew rather breathless while his gold-flecked eyes gazed back. Embarrassed, she looked away and they travelled on in silence.

But after a time, she stole another glance, wondering at her growing attachment to the man. She’d heard many heartbreaking tales over the years … why did Theo’s story affect her so deeply, as if it should have personal meaning to her ?

After some time, she reasoned the oddity away. She was a grieving widow whose life had been upended. There was a huge hole in her existence where Edmund had been, and learning of his unexpected influence on Theo’s life had shaken her.

Theo started to whistle. They continued without conversing and Henrietta was glad. She felt the danger of asking too many personal questions. Further fascination with Theo’s past would only feed her growing, terribly inconvenient tendre.