Chapter 2

Specks

Sir Charles Finch sat in his office reading the paper. In Paris all week, he had returned this day to the stack of news and letters which had accumulated in his absence. Dinners, balls, charity functions, invitations to the country; a hundred letters which required his imminent reply. Unwilling to face that pile, Charles settled into his leather chair and began reading the news from several days ago. He was drawn to an interesting article about the young maid accused of stealing the Burleigh silver. It seemed some enterprising journalist had thought to speak to her, gained access to her cell. He wished that many of his own staff showed as much tenacity and initiative.

Charles could tell the writer was young by his enthusiastic style and progressive thinking. It was unusual for anyone in the establishment to take the side of a woman of besmirched name, whether her reputation was deserved or not. Curious, he took a glance at the by-line, and was surprised to see his own name. Could it be?

Charles thought back to that rainy day four years ago, standing in the little Spitalfields church while a few dearly beloved bid farewell to his estranged brother. He had found out about the funeral by chance, through an acquaintance who was Will’s client—had gone, filled with deep regret that he would never be able to restore his brother to the family, or to say goodbye.

Approaching his brother’s widow that day, he tried to offer her his condolences with a mind to extending financial aid but could not penetrate her grief. She had looked at him blankly, before drifting past as though he had not been there at all.

He remembered the tall, solemn boy standing in front of his father’s coffin—Charlie, his brother’s first son. Will had occasionally written to his older brother, a last connection to his distant family. From those scant letters, Charles knew young Charlie was a great scholar and promising writer.

Charles had once replied, a little before Christmas, offering to help. Could he pay for school fees? Send Charlie to a good school—Stowe, perhaps?—where his father and uncle had gone. Could he send gifts for the children, or some luxuries? Of course, proud, stubborn Will had refused. Then he had died and left the children with only their mother.

Charles often berated himself for not trying harder to help that day, at the funeral, for not seeking the family out and insisting they accept his aid. The thought of them struggling crept into his mind in the dark moments of the night and kept him from slumber. In the morning, though, he would somehow convince himself that all was well. That Will would have provided for his family. That Josephine’s family would have looked after them. That they would not have accepted his help anyway.

Charles looked back at the article. Could this young, idealistic writer be his nephew?

He picked up a quill and began to write a letter to Mr Morley at The Chronicle.

~

Meg’s feet ached as she entered the apartment, exhaustion deep in her bones. As she passed her Uncle Walter’s bedroom she could smell the stale beer wafting from his gaping, snoring mouth. Passed out in his clothes and boots, a candle still blazing by the bedside, with relief she crept in, removed his boots and blew out the flame.

 Most nights her uncle stumbled in drunk and demanded to know if there was anything for supper. Though she wished her father had never left, she knew working in a Clerkenwell factory had broken his heart. After a life running a farm and working the land, the darkness, the punishing futility of factory life had all but destroyed him. When she remembered him as he had been before they had come to London—his skin bronzed from the sun, his clothes smelling of hay and apples—her heart filled with a melancholy beyond merely missing her father. It was a piercing nostalgia which pricked like a needle and bled into the walls she built around her heart. Though she tried to accept that London, damp and lonely, was her life now, memories of her Kent childhood always broke through; an apricot sunset, scented with blossoms; her friend Katherine down by the pond, her dark hair and pretty dresses. She would gently remove her silk stockings so she could paddle in the shallows, giving not a care that she was a young lady and her friend a farmer’s daughter. She would sneak Meg into the big house and the pair would hide beneath a table laid with a rich tablecloth, peeping out at the lords and ladies who had come for tea or luncheon.

In her dark room in Clerkenwell, the memories seemed strange—as though her childhood belonged to someone else. A dream another had lived. The scent of hay and blossom had been replaced by the constant odour of burning coal and stale beer. The soft pink light turned to grey. She could not blame her father, could understand the temptation of open seas—freedom. What did concern her was that it had been nearly four years since he’d gone and she had not received a letter from him.

And so she waited. Waited for him to send word, to return to her. Waited for the wind to change and blow fortune her way. And while she waited, she was left at the mercy of Walter’s caustic tongue. She supposed she was lucky it was only his tongue he used for lashing out. At first, she had tried to justify his moods. He had never married. He was used to the company of men. It was the drink that made him that way. Somewhere deep inside he must have cared about her a little. A single grain is a feast to a starving man.

About to remove her shawl and boots, she heard a faint knocking. Rushing to the door, she whispered, “Who is it?”

“Charlie Finch.”

Charlie? She ran her hands across her face and through her hair, cursing that she had not had a chance to clean herself up.

The first thing that struck her was how careworn he looked, circles under his eyes to match her own.

“Charlie—”

“My apologies, Meg, for the intrusion. Perhaps I should not have come. Or sent word first. I went to the bar to see you, but Betsy told me you had gone home. And since I had walked you here, when we… the other night.” He flushed at the memory.

Meg felt a butterfly flap its delicate wings in the pit of her stomach. “I confess, I am much surprised to see you, Charlie. Pleasantly so, of course. Is something amiss? You look positively ill.”

“I do not wish to unload my troubles on you, but I wondered if you would care to take a walk. I know the hour is late. Do you think your uncle will mind? I give you my assurances that I will act as a gentleman. This time.”

Meg wanted to pinch herself, her exhaustion banished by joy. “I’d love to go walking with you, Charlie Finch.”

Strolling down Cheapside in the direction of St Paul’s, it was warm, and the moon hung low in the sky. Linking her arm in Charlie’s, she waited for him to speak. One block. Two.

“I am sorry I did not come to see you earlier. I had a most agreeable time the other night. I mean, that’s not what I mean. It was nice. Nicer than nice.”

Meg giggled. “Charlie, you needn’t fret. I had a nice time too.”

“It was not my intention to neglect you. I have had a few troubles.”

“Is there something I can do?”

“No more than you are by listening.” He then spoke of his mother and his concerns for how to best look after his family. “I went to see Mr Morley and ask if I could write more pieces for the paper. He told me he would not commission them, but that if I wanted to write them, he would consider them for submission and pay me if they were printed. I have spent the nights since writing articles on everything I can think of—the odorous state of the Thames; the plight of those forced into overcrowded slums to make way for new housing; the campaign for matchmakers to use red phosphorous instead of the toxic yellow—but Morley liked none of them. He said he does not want pieces about the downtrodden and depressing. He wants scandal. He wants sauce. That’s what sells papers, he says.”

“What are you gonna write about, then?”

“I do not know. Not yet. My brother Oscar was telling me of a club in the Haymarket. A den of vice. Gambling, women of ill repute, wealthy men doing things they cannot tell their wives. He poses as a servant there, running clandestine messages between a young man and his secret lover, or so he tells me. I thought tomorrow night I would see if I can gain entry and uncover a good story.”

So, serious, thoughtful Charlie Finch has an adventurous side. “What a lark! Think you might need an accomplice?”

“Would it not be too ungentlemanly to take you to such a place?”

“What could be ungentlemanly about taking a lady to a den of sin and vice?” When Charlie still looked concerned, she assured him, “Charlie, I work in an alehouse, there cannot be anything in your fancy club I’ve not seen before.”

“You do not think your uncle will mind?”

“To hell with him.”

As they reached St Paul’s Cathedral, the white marble illuminated by the moon, they turned left onto Peter’s Hill and headed for the river. Although it was late, several boats still drifted silently on the silvery water.

“Charlie.”

“Yes, Miss Megs.”

Emboldened by the familiarity between them, she ventured, “I heard one of the boys from Abbott & Sons talking about you the other night. He had had a few too many ales and was more than a little loose-tongued. He said that you were a Finch.”

“You know I’m a Finch.”

“No, I mean, a Finch. One of the Finches. Of Finch Wharf. Finch Goods. And that your father’s mother is a Beaumont.”

He paused for a moment. “It’s true. I am.”

“If you’re a Finch and a Beaumont, and I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but—why is it so hard to find the money to look after your mother? Why do you need to work as a clerk?” Charlie looked serious, considering how to answer. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“I do not know if I told you, my mother used to be an actress.”

“Gosh, on Drury Lane?”

“Alas, no. She was a Parisian singer who found her way to the music halls of East London. She was not about to be summoned before Queen Victoria, yet I know my mother would have been something to see, in her day. Not that my father’s family—the esteemed Finches of London, or the Beaumonts with their vast Yorkshire estates—cared much for her abilities, no matter how admired she was. When they heard their eldest son was adamant he would marry a French actress―”

“He walked away? From his fortune? His family?”

“He was the second son, so he was not to inherit the estate, but there were privileges. Father never spoke of what happened—his silence said what he could not. There was no compromise. No reconciliation.” Charlie paused, leaning against the stone wall. “Even so, everything was good for a long time. There are blessings to being an unconventional family. There are still expectations, of course, but freedom too. And there was music—and love.”

A shadow crossed Charlie’s face and he looked across the Thames. Silence hung between them, punctuated only by the lapping of water against the stone walls and their own breathing. Meg thought Charlie wasn’t going to speak. When he did, his voice was low and thick. “Have you been to those old tenement houses? Where the floorboards are ancient and rotting, threatening to give way under your feet?” She nodded. “The night my father died, it was so sudden. We never saw it coming. The floor simply fell away beneath us.” Charlie looked into Meg’s eyes and then turned to face the river again, resting his elbows on the stone. “I was fourteen. Constables found him in the street. Carried him home. A doctor was called, but there was nothing to be done. It was his heart, they said.”

She moved behind him and put her arms around his waist, pressing her face against the wool of his coat. There it was again, the scent of wool. Ink. Charlie. He turned in her arms. “I have depressed you with my story.”

“Not at all. My mother died when I was born and my father is who knows where. I know how it feels to have only yourself to rely upon. You have your family to take care of too. It would be burden enough for anyone.” Stroking the hair above his ear, she curled her fingers through the dark spirals. “I hope we can be a comfort to one another.”

His arms tightened and he smiled with mischief. “I believe, just possibly, we may.”

When he kissed her, it was not like that first night, in the alley. That had been beer, exploration, conquest. This was different. This felt comforting, safe. It felt like home.

~

Oscar flicked through the silk, lace and taffeta of the dresses backstage at The Pavilion, trying to find one that was somewhat modest and did not smell too much of gin and sweat. He knew little about the girl accompanying his brother, only that she would have to blend in with the toffs. Getting inside the club would be the easy part, Oscar betted. It would be getting close enough to hear something scandalous that would be the challenge. Playing errand boy for the lovelorn gentleman, Robbie, had been fortuitous. Not only had there been a shilling in it for him, but his services were called upon again a few nights later to act as a messenger between Robbie and Juliet in the Haymarket. Secrecy was paramount, for Juliet was in the service of an unpleasant lord named Bradbury. Oscar wasn’t entirely sure what kind of services Juliet performed for this Bradbury, but he was certain this club was the kind of place Charlie would find a good story.

He heard a tap on the stage door. On the other side stood his brother in their father’s best suit beside a charming young lady with dark red, voluminous hair pulled in a loose knot, thick strands loose about her face. She was different. Not fragile and wan like was popular in ladies, but healthy, spirited—her face full of character.

“Evening. You must be the lovely Meg. Welcome to my humble place of employ. Come in, won’t you?” Oscar extended his arm, as though presenting a throne room instead of a cluttered, dimly lit dressing chamber. Charlie rolled his eyes and gestured for Meg to enter ahead of him. As she stepped inside, Oscar took her hand and kissed it.

“A pleasure to meet you, Oscar. Charlie has told me so much about you.”

“All bad I hope,” Oscar replied.

“Nothing but the truth.” Charlie closed the door behind them.

“My sources tell me you’re in the market for the finest of gowns. Something to rival the Countess of Bedford, or at the very least her lesser but still pretty cousin, Lady Shrewsbury. Come right this way, my dear, for we have many gowns of varying degrees of quality and odour.” Meg laughed and Charlie shook his head with a reluctant smile. Oscar knew his charm was his best asset. One that Charlie envied. He could never understand why his older brother begrudged him the few traits at which he excelled. Charlie was certainly happy to utilise his brother’s skills to his advantage when he needed them.

Oscar stuck out his elbow and Meg allowed herself to be led to the rack of dresses which filled an entire wall of the room. Candlelight flickered in the silk and sequins. She ran her hands over the gowns, a rainbow of colours, and Oscar watched her dazzled expression. “So, what are we thinking, my dear? Prim and proper? Luscious and languid? Coy and coquettish?” Her hands drifted until she came across one in a shade of emerald with capped sleeves and a bodice embroidered in glittering silk. The elegantly stitched flowers radiated light as she pulled it from the rack and sized it up to see if it would fit.

“Wait!” Oscar cried, grabbing the dress and thrusting his nose into the armpits. “Yes, acceptable. Carry on.” Meg laughed again.

“Don’t mind my brother,” Charlie apologised. “In his mind, this is being a gentleman.”

“I’m ever so grateful for the dress, Oscar. I’ve even a little perfume in my purse, so not to worry if it’s a bit fragrant! I’ll wager these costumes don’t get washed much.”

“Hard for the audience to smell much over their own stench,” Oscar joked.

“Here, Meg.” Charlie took her hand and ushered her into a small, curtained changing room. The boys waited while she dressed behind the blue velvet folds.

“You’ll find all manner of corsets and petticoats in there.” Oscar called out. “Let me know if you need any help with the lacings!” Charlie elbowed him hard in the side. “Ouch. Blimey, ease up, C. I meant I’d get one of the girls to help. I’m not a scoundrel.”

When Meg reappeared, the dress was a little loose at the bust and the waist—she could use a bit of filling out in both departments, Oscar thought—but she did look beautiful. Charlie stared at her, his tongue tied. Never lost for words, Oscar stepped in, telling her she looked like a real princess. When she grimaced, he took her hand and led her to a mirror surrounded by small lanterns. She was surprised to see the lady staring back at her in the glass. “Use whatever makeup you want, my dear. Oh, and one more thing.” Oscar disappeared across the dressing room, digging around in a jewellery box. When he returned, he saw Charlie stand behind Meg, put his hands on her waist and gaze at her in the glass, their eyes meeting in the reflection, her face melting into a smile.

Oscar cleared his throat and held up a cluster of what appeared to be emeralds and diamonds, set in earrings and a necklace. They were cheap gemstones, mere imitations, but Meg’s face lit up as though they were the Queen’s own collection. Oscar began to drape the necklace around her neck. Charlie took it from his brother and fastened it himself. He then handed her the earrings and she clipped them on, turning back to look at herself. “Thank you, Oscar.” Then she took Charlie’s hands, “Thank you, Charlie.”

“You are most welcome, madame.” Charlie kissed her, lingering a little too long for Oscar’s liking.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. Got a job to do, ain’t we?”