The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller

‘Where is Dorset?’ Betsy gave the kettle a shake as if encouraging it to come to the boil. ‘I have to leave for work in a few minutes. I need a hot drink to ward off the cold.’

‘Never mind that now.’ Clara took a seat next to her father. ‘Dorset is a long way from here. You’d be safe there, Pa.’

Alfred gazed at her, his bloodshot eyes swimming with tears. ‘But what would I do there, Clara? Jim is a fisherman and he lives in a tiny thatched cottage. Can you see me in such a place?’

She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I can see you alive and well, living by the sea. You know what will happen to you if you remain here.’

‘You have to go, Pa,’ Betsy said firmly. ‘You haven’t any choice in the matter.’

‘I haven’t got the fare, girls.’

‘Then you’ll just have to walk.’ Betsy snatched her bonnet off the peg and rammed it on her head. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go now, and I haven’t had my cup of tea.’ She picked up her shawl and hurried from the room, muttering beneath her breath.

‘What have I done?’ Alfred held his head in his hands. ‘What have I brought you all to?’

‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ Clara rose to her feet. ‘Betsy’s right, though. You have to leave London and the sooner the better. The week’s takings have yet to be paid into the bank. I’ll borrow enough to buy you a railway ticket to Dorset but you must leave today.’

‘I can’t have you stealing money from Miss Silver. I’m a lot of things, Clara, but I won’t allow my daughter to take what doesn’t belong to her.’

Clara was tempted to tell him that she had inherited the shop and its entire contents, but she knew that would be fatal. The gleam would return to her father’s eyes and he would see the opportunity to double or treble his stake at the gaming table. It was a disease that was eating him away, for which there was no apparent cure. ‘I’ll work twice as hard to pay the money back, so you mustn’t worry.’

‘But, darling girl, if you have the money to send me to Dorset, wouldn’t it be better to give it to Patches? Then I’d be a free man and I could find work and support my family.’

‘It’s no good, Pa. Patches wants the money in full. I think you know her well enough to realise that she means business.’

‘All right, I’ll go to Dorset, Clara. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never go near Patches Bragg’s place again.’ Alfred reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Promise.’

Clara crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘All right, I promise. Now pack your things and I’ll go to the shop. The sooner you’re away from London the safer we’ll all be.’

Clara kept the shop closed for another day, ostensibly out of respect for Miss Silver, but in reality to accompany her father to Waterloo Bridge station. Even though he had promised to leave London, she was only too well aware of his erratic tendencies. When he was in a sorry state and riddled with guilt he would act and think rationally, but as the effects of drinking too much wore off and his optimistic spirit returned, he was likely to head for the nearest gaming club with his ticket money in his pocket.

Having made sure that he was on the train when it pulled out of the station, Clara set off to walk back to Wych Street. The sun shone palely on the snow-covered rooftops but the icy pavements were still slippery underfoot. The River Thames was swollen with snow melt on the ebb tide as it snaked its way towards the sea, swirling around the stanchions of Waterloo Bridge, playing with the vessels tied up at the wharfs so that they bobbed up and down like toy boats.

Clara made her way as quickly as possible in the icy conditions, intent on getting her sisters to the relative safety of Miss Silver’s shop. A wry smile curved her cold lips and she reminded herself that it belonged to her now, but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what Patches Bragg might do if she discovered that Alfred Carter’s daughter owned such a property. She quickened her pace, calling in first at the milliner’s in the Strand where Betsy was at work in the backroom.

Miss Lavelle did not welcome such intrusions, nor did she encourage visits from ladies whom she considered to be unsuitably dressed for a high-class establishment, and from the pained expression on her face when Clara entered the premises, that obviously included her. Tall and painfully thin, Miss Lavelle was able to look down her nose at someone who barely came up to her shoulder. Clara had never considered herself to be short, but Miss Lavelle made her feel small and insignificant.

‘You know the rules, Miss Carter,’ Miss Lavelle said icily. ‘No visitors during working hours.’

‘I do know, and I apologise, but this is something of an emergency. Might I have a quick word with my sister, please?’

‘She is busy. We have an order for a titled lady that must be completed today.’

‘Then would you be kind enough to pass on a message?’ Clara said firmly. ‘Betsy is not to go home tonight. Please tell her to go to the shop in Drury Lane. She’ll know what I mean.’

‘That sounds ominous, Miss Carter. If your family is in trouble I would like to know. I have to be very careful whom I employ. I am patronised by the carriage trade, and any taint of scandal would ruin me.’

‘Your reputation is quite safe, Miss Lavelle, but I would be grateful if you would give my sister the message.’ Clara swept out of the shop, head held high. She could only hope that Miss Lavelle’s notorious love of tittle-tattle would lead her to pass on the information in the hope of discovering a new scandal. One thing was certain – Betsy could stand up for herself. Sometimes she was too forthright for her own good, but she would not allow Miss Lavelle or anyone to browbeat her, and she would not breathe a word of their father’s fall from grace.

It was Jane who was now Clara’s main concern. Jane and Betsy were complete opposites. Betsy had the face of an angel and a core of tempered steel. No one got the better of Betsy Carter, but Jane was sensitive and easily hurt, and her disability made her an easy target for mockery in Seven Dials. Clara was not looking forward to breaking the news of their father’s sudden departure, and she had no intention of telling her youngest sister about Patches Bragg. There was something important she had to do before she went home.

The pawnshop in Vere Street exuded the familiar smell of sweaty old clothes, lamp oil and mildew. Fleet emerged from the back room, wearing two military overcoats with a striped woollen muffler wrapped several times around his scrawny neck. He had to climb over several piles of books and a jumble of pots and pans in order to reach the counter.

‘What you got to pawn this time, miss?’

‘Nothing, Mr Fleet. I’ve come to redeem my button box.’ Clara took the money from her reticule. She had taken the week’s takings from the strong box in Drury Lane, intending to use the money for her father’s railway ticket, but she could not allow her treasure to remain with Fleet for another day. He would only keep it for a specified amount of time before placing it for sale, and then it might be lost to her for ever, and with it the precious memories attached to each of her tiny treasures. There was little or no loveliness in the dark and dirty streets she knew, but one day she would escape the squalor of Seven Dials and create a place where colour and beauty could be shared by all. It was a dream, but to her the button box represented hope over despair, and success over failure. She placed the coins on the counter and Fleet reached up to retrieve the box from the top shelf.

‘Here you are, but I expect you’ll be back with it before the month is out.’

She shook her head. ‘I hope not, Mr Fleet. I sincerely hope not.’

Jane was seated at the kitchen table, finishing off a spray of silk flowers for Betsy. She looked up and a slow smile transformed her pale face. ‘Things must be looking up, Clara. You’ve got it back.’

‘Yes, I called in at the pawnshop on my way home. I couldn’t leave it there another moment.’

‘And we have jam,’ Jane said happily. ‘I had some on my bread, although I only took one slice. I didn’t want to be greedy.’

‘Having enough to eat isn’t being greedy.’ Clara felt the teapot and it was still warm. She filled a cup with the weak, straw-coloured liquid. ‘Jane, I have something to tell you. Pa has had to go away for a while. He’s gone to stay with his cousin in the country.’

‘Are those people after him for money, Clara?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, but he’ll be safe in Dorset with his cousin Jim.’

‘But you look sad, Clara. That’s not all, is it?’

‘No, dear. We have to move out of here today. I need you to help me pack our things, such as they are. We’re going to live above the shop in Drury Lane.’

‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it, Clara?’ Jane said, smiling. ‘I mean this isn’t what we are used to. I can remember when we owned the whole house and we had a cook and a maid, and Pa was a different person when Mama was alive. He used to kiss me goodbye every morning before he left for the City, and he dressed smartly and smelled of cologne.’

Clara put her cup down with a sigh. ‘You’re right, Jane. Things were better then but we have a chance to make a new life for ourselves, and you can play your part.’

‘What can I do? I’m a cripple and always will be.’

‘Don’t say things like that. You might not be able to walk very far, but you’re a bright girl and you have a good head for figures. You can help me in the shop.’

‘Can I really?’ Jane’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘I’d love that.’

‘But first we have to move our things to Drury Lane. Let’s make a start. The sooner we leave here, the better.’

It was not far from Wych Street to the shop in Drury Lane, but the snow on the pavements was rapidly turning to slush. Clara had hoped that Luke might turn up and offer to help, but there was no sign of him and she had no intention of going to his lodgings to beg for assistance.

As soon as they had sorted out what to take and what might be left until another day, Clara took Jane to the shop. It was slow going, but Jane was determined to walk and the distance hardly merited spending precious funds on a cab. Clara lit the fire in the back parlour and left Jane to settle in while she went home to collect as much as she could carry. She lost count of how many trips she made, but darkness was falling as she left the house in Wych Street for the last time, and under a cloudless sky the temperature plummeted.

Slipping and sliding on the frozen slush, she was close to exhaustion and every muscle in her body ached. Her fingers were clawed around the handles of a valise and a carpet bag, and she had lost all feeling in her toes. A man, walking head down against the bitter wind, almost collided with her and she lost her footing, saving herself from falling by clutching a lamppost.

‘Clara, is that you?’ The young man she had met at Miss Silver’s funeral hurried to her side.

‘Mr Silver?’ Clara managed to regain her balance and salvage her dignity.