The Button Box. Dilly Court
Drury Lane, London 1872
It all started with a single button. Clara Carter smiled to herself as she locked the door of Miss Silver’s drapery shop in Drury Lane, and set off for home. That button was still her pride and joy, secreted away amongst the rest of her collection in the wooden button box that her grandfather had made for her tenth birthday. Grandfather Carter had understood her fascination for small things, beautifully crafted, and the button that had fired her imagination had all those qualities. She had spotted it lying in the snow outside St Mary le Strand church one Christmas Eve. Sparkling like the evening star, the whorls of tiny French paste stones imitated diamonds to perfection. Nine-year-old Clara had snatched it up and hidden it inside her fur muff, hoping that no one had seen. Surely something so lovely must be valuable and the person whose clothing it had adorned would be searching for it. Her conscience had bothered her during Midnight Mass, but not enough to make her give up her prize. At home, in the comfort of her bedroom at the top of the four-storey house in Wych Street, Clara had hidden the button beneath the feather mattress, away from the prying eyes of her younger sisters, Lizzie, Betsy and Jane.
That was ten years ago, and since then things had changed drastically for the Carter family. Clara wrapped her cloak around her as an icy blast of wind from the north brought the first flakes of snow floating down from an ink-black sky. It was dark now and the lamplighter was finishing his rounds, leaving islands of yellow light in his wake like a good fairy illuminating a wicked world – Clara had never quite grown out of her romantic childhood fantasies. Her button collection had filled Grandpa’s box long ago: each one held a special memory for her and they were all precious. Now she was forced to work in the draper’s shop out of necessity, but it was no hardship. The long hours and poor pay were compensated for by the pleasure she derived from handling the merchandise. The rainbow colours of the ribbons and the feel of silks and satins as she measured out lengths of fabric were a sensual delight. One day she would own such a shop, but it would not be a tiny, one-room establishment like Miss Silver’s. Clara had ambition, fired by a visit to Peter Robinson’s in Oxford Street, and, in the not-too-distant future, she was certain that the busy thoroughfare would be filled with large department stores and one of them would belong to her.
She quickened her pace as she headed for Wych Street. Despite the comforting glow from the gaslights, she was well aware that the darkness of the underworld lurked in the narrow alleyways and courts of Seven Dials and the area around Clare Market: St Giles Rookery to the north was a place to be avoided even in the daytime. She hurried homeward to the house her family had once owned, but due to her father’s addiction to the gaming tables and the enforced sale of the property, they now occupied two rooms on the ground floor, paying an exorbitant rent for the privilege of living in damp, draughty accommodation.
‘Clara.’
She stopped and turned to see Luke Foyle emerge from an alleyway. His tall, broad-shouldered figure cast a grotesque shadow on the frosty pavement. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said crossly. ‘You scared me.’
He was at her side in two long strides. ‘A good reason for seeing you safely home.’
‘Luke, I walk this way twice every day, except Sundays, and I’ve been doing so for the last five years.’ She was tired and she walked on.
He fell into step beside her. ‘That’s because my name means something round here, Clara. No one takes liberties with my woman.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. I’m not a piece of property to be squabbled over by rival gangs.’
He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, but it was a possessive move rather than a gallant gesture. ‘I might consider making an honest woman of you, if you play your cards right.’
She shot him a sideways glance. ‘You take a lot for granted.’
‘Come on, Clara, don’t tease me. We’ve been walking out together for two years, and I’ve had to be satisfied with the occasional kiss and cuddle. I don’t know any other red-blooded man who would put up with such a state of affairs.’
Clara came to a halt, snatching her hand free. ‘Then find someone else, Luke. I like you a lot, but I don’t like the way you make your money. You could do so much more with your life if you finished with the Skinners’ gang. They’re bad news and always will be.’
‘You know nothing, Clara.’
She faced him angrily. ‘I know that you’ll end up in prison if you carry on the way you are.’
‘What I do to earn a living shouldn’t concern you. When we’re married I’ll look after you and you’ll want for nothing.’
‘Married?’ Clara tossed her head. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Luke.’ She hurried off but he caught her up.
‘I thought we had an understanding.’
‘You were different when I first knew you, but then you got mixed up with the Skinner brothers and you’ve changed.’
‘Not towards you, Clara. My feelings for you are the same.’
‘Then prove it, Luke. Leave the gang and find employment somewhere they can’t get to you.’
He shook his head. ‘What brought this on? You were fine when we met on Sunday and now you’ve changed.’
‘I read the newspapers,’ Clara said simply. ‘The police are hunting for Ned Skinner. He killed two men, Luke. He shot them because they owed him money. I don’t want to be associated with people like that, and you shouldn’t either.’ She trudged on, wrapping her cloak around her as the snow began to fall more heavily, and she did not look back. Luke Foyle was handsome and charming, and his fair hair and wide grey eyes gave him the appearance of a romantic poet, but he was too sure of himself and she was no man’s property. His allegiance to the Skinner gang puzzled her greatly, and had always been a source of contention between them. Why an educated, intelligent man like Luke would mix with the worst thugs in the East End was a total mystery. She quickened her pace, slowing down only when she entered Wych Street with its gabled sixteenth- and seventeenth-century houses, rowdy pubs, second-hand clothes shops, and booksellers whose stock in trade were indecent prints and lewd literature.
Clara’s home was next to the barber’s shop and she could smell the pomade and shaving soap wafting out as a customer emerged, clean-shaven and shiny-faced. He looked like a poorly paid but respectable clerk, who should have been on his way home to his wife and children, but he lurched across the road and entered the pub. Clara sighed. That would be another family who would go without because the breadwinner frittered away his wages. She had lived with that problem since her mother died nine years ago and Pa had drowned his sorrows in drink and the excitement of the gaming tables. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Luke had not followed her before letting herself into the building.
What had once been a happy family home was now divided into cheap rented rooms. Clara was used to hearing the tenants swearing at each other in half a dozen different languages, with children screaming and babies crying. The smell of boiled cabbage mingled with a strong odour of overflowing chamber pots and rising damp. The wallpaper was peeling off in long strips and the paintwork was scuffed. From a room on the top floor she could hear the out-of-work musician playing his trumpet; soon he would have to pawn it in order to buy food and pay the rent. At least they would get a bit of peace and quiet until he begged or borrowed enough money to redeem his instrument. A woman screamed and a door slammed, causing the windows to rattle. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Clara hurried along the narrow hallway