The River Maid

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Dilly Court (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_8e566b08-553e-56ae-ae3a-ea96d626f23f)

Limehouse Hole, London, 1854

Essie Chapman pulled hard on the sculls as she rowed her father’s boat towards Duke Shore Dock. It was dark and the lantern on the stern of the small, clinker-built craft bobbed up and down, shedding its light on the turbulent waters of the River Thames. Essie fought against the tide and the treacherous undercurrents, but she was cold, wet and close to exhaustion. Her mysterious passenger had not spoken a word since she had collected him from the foreign vessel moored downriver. The task would normally have fallen to her father, Jacob, but he was laid up, having slipped on the watermen’s steps the previous evening. He had fallen badly and had been carried home to White’s Rents on an old door, the only form of stretcher available to the wharfinger’s men at the time. He had lain on the sofa like a dead man for twenty-four hours and when he awakened he could barely move a muscle.

‘You’ll have to do my next job for me, Essie, love. It’s a matter of life and death.’

His words echoed in her mind as she battled against the elements. By day Jacob’s small craft scurried up and down the river doing errands considered too small by the lightermen and watermen, but by night things were different. Sometimes it was the odd barrel or two of brandy that had to be sneaked ashore before the revenue men laid hands on it, or packets wrapped in oilskin, the contents of which would forever remain a mystery. There was always a messenger waiting on the shore to grab the cargo and spirit it off into the darkness. Money changed hands and Jacob would spend most of it in the Bunch of Grapes, coming home reeking of rum and tobacco smoke. Sometimes, when he felt generous, he would give Essie twopence to spend on herself, but the money was usually spent on necessities like bread, coal and candles.

The tide would turn very soon and Essie was anxious to reach the shore before the current took her downriver. She shot a furtive glance at her passenger, who was wrapped in a boat cloak that made him merge into the darkness. His face was concealed by the hood and she could not tell whether he was young or old, although his lithe movements when he had climbed down the ship’s ladder and boarded her boat suggested that he was in the prime of life. Getting him to dry land was uppermost in her mind and she put every ounce of strength into a last supreme effort to reach the wharf. The sound of the keel grating on gravel was like music to her ears, although it was as much as she could do to rise from her cramped position. Then, to her surprise, her passenger was on his feet and had stepped over the side, wading ankle deep in water as he dragged the craft effortlessly onto the mud and shingle.

The top of the wharf towered above them, menacing even by moonlight. The great skeletal ironwork of the cranes was silhouetted against the black velvet sky, and an eerie silence hung in the still air, punctuated only by the slapping and sucking of the water against the wooden stanchions. It had to be well after midnight and yet the river was still alive with wherries, barges and larger vessels heading for the wharves and docks further upstream. It was slack water and soon the tide would turn and the river would churn and boil as it flowed towards the coast. Jacob always said that river water ran in his veins instead of blood, and as a child Essie had believed every word her father said, but now she was a grown woman of twenty and she was not so gullible.

She stood up, but before she had a chance to clamber ashore the stranger leaned over and lifted her from the boat as easily as if she were a featherweight. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the scent of spicy cologne mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Most men of her acquaintance stank of sweat, tar and tobacco, but this was altogether different and oddly exciting. She had barely had time to catch her breath when he set her down on the ground, pressed a small leather pouch into her hand, and, without a word of thanks, he strode off, heading in the direction of the stone steps.

Driven by curiosity, Essie hurried after him, although her progress was hampered by her damp skirts and flannel petticoat. She reached the top of the steps in time to see him climb into a waiting cab and it drove off into the night, leaving her alone on the wharf amongst the idle machinery. The brief moment of quiet was shattered when the door of a pub in Fore Street opened, spilling out a group of drunken men, who cavorted and sang in good-natured tipsiness until someone landed a punch, which started a brawl.

She weighed the purse in her hand and it was heavy – this had been no ordinary job. The tall stranger with strong arms and gallant manner was not a common seaman, and if he was carrying contraband, it was something small that could be easily concealed beneath his cloak. There was nothing more she could do and she was tired. She might never know the identity of the man who smelled of the sea and spice. What his mission was must remain a mystery – but she was chilled to the bone and the thought of her warm bed was uppermost in her mind.

Essie started walking. Home was a small terraced house in White’s Rents, a narrow alley leading to Ropemaker’s Fields. It was a poor area with several families crowded into the two-up, two-down dwellings. Chimney sweeps, brewery workers, dockers, street sweepers and sailmakers lived cheek by jowl with the families who raised ten or more children in the tiny houses, with a shared privy at the end of the street. The constant reminder of what fate might have in store for the less fortunate inhabitants was Limehouse Workhouse, just a short walk away.

Essie quickened her pace, but all the time she was aware of the deep shadows where danger lurked at any time of the day or night. The yellow eyes of feral cats blinked at her as they slunk along the gutters in the constant search for food, and skinny curs prepared to fight for survival. Drunks, drug addicts and thieves on the prowl might lurk in the shadows to attack the unwary, and it was a relief to arrive home unmolested.

‘Is that you, my duck?’ Her father’s voice boomed out like a foghorn from the sofa as she opened the front door, which led straight into the front parlour.

‘Yes, Pa.’

‘Is the job done?’

‘Yes, Pa.’ Essie trod carefully as she made her way across the floor in almost complete darkness. The curtains remained drawn back but there were no streetlights in White’s Rents, and clouds had obscured the moon. ‘Do you want anything, Pa?’

He reached out to feel for her hand. ‘A cup of water would go down well, Esther. I’ve drunk all the ale, but it didn’t do much to help the pain in my back.’

‘We should get a doctor to look at you.’

‘You know we can’t afford it, love. I’ll be all right in a day or two.’ Jacob shifted his position and groaned. ‘Did he pay up?’

Essie tightened her grip on the purse. ‘Who was he, Pa?’

‘It’s not for us to know. Where’s the money?’

‘I have it safe.’

‘Give it here, there’s a good girl.’

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Pa. Right now I’m tired and I’m going to bed.’ Essie opened the door that concealed a narrow staircase, and she closed it behind her, cutting off her father’s protests. She would give him the money, but not before she had taken out enough to pay the rent collector and buy food. She had not eaten anything since a slice of bread and a scrape of dripping for breakfast, but she had gone past feeling hungry. Pa might be content with a couple of bottles of beer, but Essie could not remember the last time they had sat down to a proper meal. She climbed the stairs to her room where she undressed and laid her damp skirt over the back of a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the tiny room apart from a truckle bed. She slipped her cotton nightgown over her head and lay down, pulling the coverlet up to her chin, but through the thin walls she could hear the infant next door howling for his night feed. The organ grinder who lived at number three was drunk again, and, judging by the screams and shouts, was beating his poor wife. Someone was singing drunkenly as he staggered along the pavement below, banging on doors and laughing as he made his way back to the dosshouse in Thomas’s Rents, an alleyway situated on the far side of the brewery.

Essie leaped out of bed and went to close the window, shutting out the noise. Clouds of steam billowed into the sky above the brewery, filling the air with the smell of hops and malt, which was infinitely better than the stench from the river and the chemical works. She returned to her bed and lay down again, closing her eyes but, tired as she was, she could not sleep. There was no saying where the next job was coming from and the money in the pouch would not last long. Her father was well known on the river and work was put his way, but it was a man’s world and she was little more than a girl. She was tolerated because she was Jacob Chapman’s daughter, but on her own she might as well be invisible. For both their sakes, she could only hope that his injury was not serious.

Next morning, having made sure that her father was ready for another long day on the sofa, Essie set off with money in her pocket. Her first stop was at the pharmacy to purchase a pennyworth of laudanum. That done, she visited various shops in Fore Street to buy enough food to last for a day or two only, as it was summer and milk went sour overnight, cheese grew soft and oily, and flies feasted on meat, leaving their eggs to develop into squirming maggots. Essie bought bread, dripping, two meat pies and a small amount of tea. Then, as a treat, she added a few lumps of sugar. It was an extravagance, but she felt she had earned it.

‘Hold on, Essie. What’s the hurry?’

She glanced over her shoulder and saw her friend walking towards her. ‘Haven’t you any work today, Ben Potter?’

‘I’m just about to start now.’ He lengthened his stride, slowing down as he fell into step beside her. ‘How’s Jacob? I heard about his accident.’

‘Not very good. I’ve got some laudanum to dull his pain, but I think he ought to be in hospital, or at least see a doctor.’

‘What about the bonesetter?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Essie said, frowning. ‘But I’ll see how Pa is by this evening. We really can’t afford to throw money about unless it’s going to do some good.’

Ben nodded, pushing his cap to the back of his head. ‘I’ve got to go or I’ll be late and the guvnor will dock my wages. Old Diggory used to knock me for six when I first started my apprenticeship, but I’m bigger than him now and he’s a bit more respectful.’

Essie shot him a sideways glance. She had known Ben all her life and when they were children they had roamed the muddy foreshore together, searching for valuables or coins that lay hidden beneath the surface. When he was fourteen Ben had been apprenticed to Diggory Tyce, a waterman who had won the Doggett’s Coat and Badge in his youth, and whose knowledge of the River Thames was second to none. Ben was ambitious, and Essie admired that in a man.

She smiled. ‘They say that wherries will soon be replaced by steamboats.’

‘Aye, they do, and that’s the future as far as I’m concerned, but the guvnor will take a lot of convincing.’ Ben came to a halt at the top of Duke Shore Stairs. ‘I’ll call round tonight when I finish, if that’s all right with you, Essie.’

‘Yes, but I can’t promise to be there. It all depends if I can find work.’

‘You shouldn’t be working the river on your own. It’s hard enough for a man, but it’s dangerous for a slip of a girl like you, especially after dark.’

‘I can beat you at rowing any day of the week.’ Essie blew him a kiss and he waved cheerily as he made his way down the stone steps to the foreshore where Tyce’s wherry was about to be launched. The passengers were already seated, and judging by their appearance they were seamen returning to their vessel from a night ashore, some of them very much the worse for wear. One had a black eye and another had his head bandaged, blood seeping through the grubby dressing.

Essie sighed, hoping that someone would offer her employment, although it seemed unlikely. She walked on, heading for home. It was still early but White’s Rents was alive with activity. Small, barefoot children had been turned out to amuse themselves in the street, and the boys were rolling around in the dirt, scrapping and testing each other’s strengths like playful fox cubs. The older girls sat round plaiting each other’s hair and chatting while they kept an eye on the babies.

On the other side of the road Miss Flower was bent double, using her little trowel to pick up deposits left by feral dogs. The smell added to the general stench, but she seemed oblivious to it and trudged on her way, heading in the direction of the tannery where the contents of her wooden pail would be used in the tanning of leather. She said that, on a good day, she could get a shilling for her efforts, but Essie would not have traded places with her for a king’s ransom. Miss Flower’s occupation was almost as unenviable as that of Josser the tosher, who earned his living by venturing into the sewers in search of valuables that had been washed down the drain. Josser and Miss Flower lived at number ten, sharing the house with the night-soil collector, several railway workers and a succession of Irish navvies. Essie wondered how anyone could exist in such conditions, but the poor had to make do in order to survive. She hurried past a group of slatternly women, who stopped talking to look her up and down and went on to whisper and giggle like schoolchildren. Essie was used to this and she walked on, ignoring their taunts.

As she entered the front parlour she was surprised to find her father sitting up.

‘Did you bring beer, Essie?’

‘No, Pa. I spent the money on food. I’ll light the fire so that I can boil the kettle.’

He slumped back against the worn cushions. ‘I need something for the pain.’

‘I bought some laudanum, but you’re obviously a lot better. At least you can sit up now – you couldn’t do that last evening.’

‘Give me the bottle and I’ll dose meself, Essie, love.’ Jacob’s tone changed and he gave her a persuasive smile. ‘Help your poor old pa, there’s a good girl.’