Ragged Rose. Dilly Court
swallowed a mouthful of neat gin. ‘They’ve only just realised that they’ve been taken in by the same man, and he’s turned his back on both of them. They were at each other’s throats. I think they would have killed each other had they had a weapon other than a hairpin and a teaspoon. I must tell Ethel to lock away the kitchen knives tonight.’
Rose picked up the much-darned woollen shawl that she had worn when she left home earlier that evening and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘Hurry up, Corrie. The sooner we set out the sooner you’ll be tucked up in your bed at home.’
‘I wish there was some other way for you girls to raise money,’ Polly said, frowning. ‘Heaven knows what your father would say if he knew about all this, and Eleanor would never let me hear the last of it. She was always the bossy older sister … in the old days, anyway.’
‘I’m sure she will understand when Billy tells her the whole story.’ Cora picked up her bonnet and rammed it on her head.
Polly’s rouged lips curved in a wry smile. ‘I don’t know about that, Cora. Eleanor thinks the sun rises and sets in her first-born, and your father is convinced that William is following in his footsteps. How could you tell a man of the cloth that his precious son is in gaol, awaiting trial for killing his best friend? Especially when we’ve all kept up the fiction that Billy is a guest of the Tressidick family in Cornwall.’
‘They must never know,’ Rose said firmly. ‘We won’t allow their hearts to be broken. Come on, Cora Perkins. It’s time we were home.’
It was less than a mile from the home for fallen women to St Matthew’s church, and the walk was uneventful, notwithstanding a bunch of drunken youths who staggered out of The Eagle tavern on the corner of City Road and Shepherdess Walk. Rose grabbed Cora by the hand and marched past with her nose in the air, which seemed to work as the young men made no attempt to molest them, resorting instead to hurling insults and collapsing with drunken laughter. Rose came to a halt on the bridge over the City Road Basin, where the Regent’s Canal came to a sudden end. A young woman was standing on the parapet and seemed about to throw herself into the murky waters, which were stained with indigo dye, coal dust and industrial effluent.
‘Don’t do it,’ Rose said gently, ignoring Cora, who was tugging at her hand. ‘He’s never worth it, and you’ll spoil that pretty frock if you fall into that filthy water.’
The girl turned her head and in the light of the streetlamp Rose could see that she was very young. Her face was pale and streaked with tears, and her lips worked soundlessly. Rose held out her hand. ‘Nothing can be so bad that it can’t be made better by a nice hot cup of tea and a warm fire.’
‘Who are you? And what d’you want with the likes of me? I ain’t going back into service, not for no one. He done this to me, and now he don’t want to know.’
Rose and Cora exchanged knowing looks. They had both heard this story many times before.
‘What is your name?’ Rose kept her voice low, knowing that any sudden move or harsh tone could send the girl plummeting to her death.
‘M-Maisie. Now you know, so leave me be.’ Maisie held out her arms and raised herself on tiptoe, ready to jump.
‘Don’t!’ Rose and Cora cried out as one, but it was Rose who lunged at Maisie and caught her round the waist. She dragged her back onto the pavement and they fell in a heap.
‘Rose, are you all right?’ Cora cried anxiously as she attempted to help her sister to her feet.
‘Yes, don’t fuss, Corrie. Catch hold of her – don’t let her run away.’
Cora seized Maisie by the scruff of her neck. ‘You silly girl. He’s not worth it, whoever he is, and you might have taken my sister with you.’
Rose scrambled to her feet. ‘It’s all right, Corrie. No harm done.’ She helped Maisie to stand. ‘Don’t cry. We’ll take care of you.’
‘I don’t need you, nor anyone.’ Maisie wiped her nose on the frayed cuff of her sleeve. ‘I can look after meself.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ Rose said, brushing the mud off her skirt. ‘But we all need a little help now and then. Why don’t you come to the vicarage with us? You can stay the night, and tomorrow morning you can decide what you want to do.’
Maisie looked from one to the other and her bottom lip trembled. ‘I ain’t religious. I don’t want no sermon.’
‘I promise you that won’t happen,’ Rose said, holding out her hand. ‘You’ll just have to trust us, and let’s face it – anything is better than drowning in filthy water.’
‘Yes, do come with us,’ Cora pleaded. ‘I’m so tired that I could sleep on the cold pavement and my feet are aching.’
Maisie nodded dully. ‘All right, but just for tonight. I ain’t a charity case.’
‘Of course not.’ Rose started off in the direction of St Matthew’s church, leading Maisie by the hand.
The vicarage was situated close to the church in a respectable middle-class area. The wide streets were lined with terraced houses built in the Georgian era, and the dwellings were well maintained. Unlike some of the surrounding streets, this part of Islington exuded an air of comfortable prosperity.
Rose guided Maisie through the garden to the back of the house and Cora rapped on the kitchen door. It was opened almost immediately by their cook-housekeeper, Mrs Blunt. She was ready for bed, wearing a long robe, and her nightcap sat askew on her head.
‘Where have you been, young ladies? Your pa has waited up for you.’ She glared at Maisie. ‘Who is this?’
Cora stepped inside. ‘We’re so sorry to have kept you up, dear Mrs Blunt.’
‘But we were helping Aunt Polly,’ Rose added hastily. ‘And we came across this young girl who is in desperate need of warmth and comfort.’
Mrs Blunt stood arms akimbo, looking Maisie up and down. ‘Runaway servant, I’d guess. We can’t take in all the waifs and strays in the city, Miss Rose.’
‘It’s just for tonight, and I rather think it’s up to Pa to decide,’ Rose said firmly. She tempered her words with a persuasive smile. ‘A nice hot cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, and a slice of your seed cake would go down well, I’m sure.’ She turned to Maisie without giving Mrs Blunt a chance to refuse. ‘You have never tasted anything as good as Mrs Blunt’s caraway cake. She is the best cook in Islington.’
‘The best in London,’ Cora said, smothering a yawn. ‘Might I have a cup of warm milk, please? I’m ready for bed.’
‘Miss Day works you girls far too hard. That’s my opinion and I don’t mind saying so.’ Mrs Blunt hurried over to the range and moved the kettle to the hob. She turned to Maisie. ‘You can make yourself useful, child. Fetch the milk jug from the marble slab in the larder, and bring the cake as well.’ She pointed to the cupboard on the far side of the room. ‘Chop chop.’
Maisie stood like a statue, as if her limbs had suddenly turned to marble. ‘I’ll help you.’ Cora took her by the arm and guided her as she might a sleepwalker.
Rose could see that her sister had the situation in hand. ‘I’ll go and tell Pa that we’re home.’ She left them and made her way down the gaslit passage that led into the entrance hall of the draughty, rambling vicarage. The front parlour was to the right of the wide staircase, and it was where the family gathered in the evenings, and after church on Sundays. Rose entered the room to find her father pacing the floor.
‘Pa, I’m so sorry we’re late.’ She could tell by the strained expression on his deeply lined face that he had been angered