A Mother's Trust (6 page)

‘She’ll kill me. She’ll do for me, she will.’ Still mumbling beneath her breath Biddy retreated.

Phoebe turned Dolly onto her back and cushioned her head on her lap, stroking the matted mouse-brown hair back from the unconscious girl’s forehead. ‘Speak to me, Dolly. It’s Phoebe Giamatti. I’ve come to help you.’

Dolly’s eyelids fluttered and opened briefly before
closing
again. Phoebe chafed her cold hands. ‘Come on now, my girl. This won’t do at all.’ She spoke firmly, hoping that, used as Dolly was to obeying orders, she might respond to authority but to no avail. Phoebe untied her apron and made a pillow of it which she laid beneath Dolly’s head. She rose to her feet and went in search of water and a reasonably clean cup or mug. It was difficult to make out anything in the semidarkness, but she could see that the table in the centre of the room was littered with dirty crockery. Flies buzzed inside an empty jug, feasting off the remains of milk that had turned sour and coated the bottom in a thick gelatinous mess. She had hoped there might be some water or even a bottle of small beer so that she could wet poor Dolly’s lips, but there was nothing. She did not want to leave her, but Dolly was deathly pale and her breathing thready. Perhaps she had suffered some kind of fit, or maybe she had simply fallen and hit her head on the hearthstone. Whatever ailed her it was obvious that she needed prompt attention. Phoebe waited for a little longer but Biddy had not returned and, in desperation, she went in search of help. There seemed little point in requesting assistance from the cobbler, who resolutely turned his back on her as she went past his window, and the rest of the house seemed deserted.

As soon as she put a foot outside the building the heat hit her with such force that she gasped for breath. The air was thick with dust and the yard was deserted except for a few ragged children playing blind man’s buff, seemingly oblivious to the oppressive weather.
Picking
up her skirts, Phoebe ran towards the steps taking two at a time. In Charles Street, she stopped to look around, hoping to find someone who might help, but the passers-by were mostly women on their way to market with baskets slung over their arms and a few old men poking about in the rubbish in search of something to eat. A clerk from the law courts hurried past, refusing to stop and listen to her plea for help, and she experienced the same indifference from a carter and a drayman delivering beer to a nearby pub. Shielding her eyes against the sunlight she hoped to see Minnie or Ethel hurrying towards her, but it seemed there was no one who would give her the time of day let alone offer to help in an emergency. There was no point in returning to Saffron Hill as all the men, including her grandfather, were out peddling their ice cream to the hot and thirsty public.

There was nothing for it but to brave the taproom of the nearest pub. She opened the door and went inside. Heads turned and bewhiskered faces eyed her curiously. She was well aware that no decent woman would put her foot in this establishment but she had seen the angel of death hovering above Dolly’s inert form. She peered through the veil of tobacco smoke looking for someone with a kind face, but too late she realised that she had stumbled into a meeting of the Leather Lane mob. She knew one or two of them by sight and they were criminals of the worst order. She backed towards the door, avoiding the clutching hands of a man with a livid scar running down the left side of his face.

‘Don’t go, sweetheart,’ he said with a throaty chuckle. ‘Stay and chat for a while.’

She turned and ran out into the street, closing her ears to the sound of raucous laughter that followed her. She hailed a passing hansom cab and when it did not look as though it would stop she leapt into the road, waving her arms. Swearing volubly, the cabby drew his startled horse to a sudden halt. ‘Get out of the way, you silly bitch. D’you want to get killed?’

The occupant of the cab opened the half-doors. ‘Phoebe Giamatti?’ Paxman stared at her in disbelief. ‘What’s wrong?’

Despite the fact that it was Rogue who was staring at her with his brows knitted together in a frown, he was the first person to have noticed her distress. ‘There’s a badly injured child in Bleeding Heart Yard,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I need to get her to hospital. Will you help me?’

He leaned down, holding out his hand. ‘Get in.’ He hauled her onto the seat beside him. ‘Bleeding Heart Yard, cabby.’

‘Make up your bloody mind.’ The cabby flicked his whip and urged his horse to a trot.

‘I’ll ignore that remark,’ Paxman said, relaxing against the stained leather squabs. ‘Since you gave the poor fellow the fright of his life just now.’

‘Thank you.’ Phoebe stared straight ahead. It took all her self-control to be civil to him.

‘For what? I haven’t done anything yet.’

She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was
laughing
at her but still she refused to look at him. ‘The girl has had an accident. She’s barely breathing.’

‘And I suppose you want me to go into some dirty hovel and touch this creature who is no doubt alive with vermin.’

‘She’s likely to die if she doesn’t get urgent medical treatment.’ This time she did turn her head to give him a straight look. ‘But if you’re too much a gent to get your hands dirty I’ll thank you for the lift and find someone else to help.’ She reached up to tap on the window. ‘Stop here, please, cabby.’

She prepared to leap from the vehicle as it drew to a halt but Paxman caught her by the arm, holding her in an iron grip. ‘Don’t be a fool. You’ll break your neck if you’re not careful and then it will be you who ends up in hospital.’ With the ease of an athlete, he sprang from his seat and before she had time to protest he lifted her to the ground. ‘Wait here, cabby.’

Phoebe ran on ahead, racing down the steps into Bleeding Heart Yard. She could hear his footsteps close behind her and his presence, even though he was the last person on earth she would have asked for help, was oddly comforting. The children scattered before them, regrouping in doorways to watch suspiciously as Phoebe and Paxman entered the house. They were still there when Paxman re-emerged carrying Dolly in his arms. Phoebe collared the eldest and most intelligent-looking boy. ‘I want you to tell Mrs Fowler that we’ve taken Dolly to St Bartholomew’s hospital. Can you remember that?’

He nodded and his eyes widened as she thrust a halfpenny into his hand.

‘Good boy. Don’t forget to tell her. It’s very important.’ She watched the boy scuttle off clutching the money as though afraid she might change her mind and take it back. Life is strange, she thought, as she followed Paxman who was holding Dolly in his arms as though she were a baby. Here was the notorious gang leader, carrying Dolly as carefully and tenderly as a father with an injured child. If she had not seen it with her own eyes she would not have believed it possible that a man with such a fearsome reputation could have shown such compassion for a stranger. She climbed up to sit beside him as he cradled the insensible Dolly.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I’m not an ogre, but in my line of business I have to be tough. That doesn’t mean I’m totally without feeling.’

Refusing to be cajoled by his studied charm, Phoebe concentrated her attention on Dolly. ‘She’s very pale.’

‘She’s half starved. She weighs almost nothing. Who’s responsible for this child?’

‘She lives with her mother, Ethel Fowler, the cobbler’s widow.’

‘That explains it. Old Fowler was a miser and his wife’s a harpy.’

Phoebe could not contain her curiosity. ‘How do you know them?’

‘I wear boots that need to be mended, just like any man. And old Fowler fancied his chances on the gaming tables. Our paths crossed once or twice.’

Phoebe shot him a covert glance beneath her lashes. His profile was straight and strong, reminiscent of some of the marble statues she had seen once on a visit to Milan when she was a child. He looked up suddenly, as if sensing her close scrutiny, and she averted her face. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking that she was at all interested in a person of his low calling. She smothered a sigh of relief as the cab drew up outside the hospital.

Paxman carried Dolly into the reception area and immediately commanded the attention of a young nurse who almost fell over herself in her attempts to please him. Cynically aware that he was exercising his considerable charm in order to get his own way, Phoebe followed them into a small cubicle, but she was immediately ousted by a senior nurse who appeared as if from nowhere and ordered her to take a seat in the waiting area. She perched on the edge of the hard wooden bench and was joined a few minutes later by Paxman, who sat down beside her.

‘Thank you, but there’s no need for you to stay,’ she said stiffly. She felt even more ill at ease in his company now that the immediate crisis was past, and she became aware that they were attracting curious stares from the patients waiting to be seen.

‘I agree.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I could serve young Dolly better if I went to find that mother of hers. Not that I think Ethel Fowler would be a ministering angel and her rat-catcher sister is even worse, but the child needs to have someone present who is responsible for her welfare.’

Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled her with a smile.

‘She’s lucky to have you, of course, but when all is said and done I think you have enough on your hands looking after your own mother.’

Phoebe’s heart gave an uncomfortable flick against her ribs. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Ma,’ she said quickly. Too quickly, she realised when she met his intent gaze. This was a man who was nobody’s fool.

‘I didn’t say there was. I hope she’s not pining for my errant brother. He seems to have that effect on women.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ She turned her head away, unwilling to be subjected to his intense scrutiny for a moment longer than necessary. ‘Hadn’t you better be going? I can manage here, ta very much.’ She looked up, startled, as he took her hand and laid a silver half-crown on her palm, closing her fingers over the coin. ‘What’s that for?’

‘I imagine that you’ll need to pay for the girl’s treatment, and I doubt if Mrs Fowler would be willing to cough up the reddy. Old Henry wasn’t the only skinflint in that family.’ He picked up his top hat and set it on his head at a jaunty angle. ‘Goodbye, Phoebe. I hope we don’t meet again under such dire circumstances.’

‘I hope we don’t meet at all,’ Phoebe murmured to his retreating back, but not loud enough for him to hear. After all, he had been more than kind to Dolly. Perhaps his heart was not as black as people made out, but his fearsome reputation could not have been earned by doing good deeds. She settled down to wait for
someone
to come and tell her what was happening to Dolly. Minutes later a young nurse glided up to her like a grey and white swan.

‘Did you come with Miss Fowler?’

Phoebe nodded her head. Her throat constricted with fear as she studied the nurse’s face for a glimmer of hope. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Are you her sister perhaps?’

‘No, just a friend, but her mother’s been sent for. She should be here any minute now.’

‘The doctor wants to perform an operation on Miss Fowler. It needs to be done very soon.’

‘What operation? What’s wrong with her?’

A glimmer of a smile curved the nurse’s lips and her brown eyes softened. ‘You mustn’t worry, miss. We’ll do everything to make your friend well again, but we do need a parent or guardian to agree to the treatment.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Fowler is on her way.’ The words had barely left Phoebe’s lips when there was a disturbance at the main entrance. Raised voices preceded Ethel and her sister Minnie as they stormed up the aisle between the wooden benches.

‘There she is, Ethel,’ Minnie screeched, pointing her finger at Phoebe. ‘There’s the interfering little wretch that stole our Dolly away.’

‘I’ll have you for this,’ Ethel muttered breathlessly. ‘What right had you to take my child from her home? And what d’you mean by sending that villain Rogue Paxman to find me? It’ll be the talk of every tavern from here to Shoreditch.’

The young nurse stepped forward. ‘Please keep your voice down, ma’am. This is a hospital and there are sick people to consider.’

‘Oh, an ‘orspital is it? I’d never have knowed it, you silly bitch. Where’s me daughter? I’m taking her home.’

‘Yes, we want Dolly and we’re leaving now,’ Minnie added, rolling up her sleeves.

‘What’s all this noise?’ A doctor in a white coat had come up behind them unnoticed.

The nurse blushed rosily. ‘I’m so sorry, Dr Murchison. These ladies are a bit upset.’

‘A bit upset, you potty tart?’ Ethel took a deep breath that inflated her already large bosom to alarming proportions. ‘My daughter’s been kidnapped, doctor. You’re a party to a criminal act.’

Phoebe laid her hand on Ethel’s arm. ‘Please, Mrs Fowler. This isn’t helping Dolly. She’s very poorly. She needs an operation.’

‘What?’ Ethel screamed. ‘Are you trying to extort money from me, doctor? Because if you are I ain’t having it. I’m a poor woman. The rumours about the gold was false and anyway it was all pinched because of that stupid little cow.’

‘Yes, me sister had to whack her good and hard for burning the wooden leg and then letting a bloody thief pinch the gold.’ Minnie flexed her muscles, glaring at the doctor.

‘I think Dolly must have fallen and hit her head again this morning,’ Phoebe added hastily. ‘I found her in a heap on the floor by the hearthstone. That’s where she lay.’

Dr Murchison folded his arms across his chest, his pale eyebrows drawn into a knot over the bridge of his large nose. ‘I’ve heard enough. You, ma’am,’ he jerked his head in Ethel’s direction, ‘would be up before the beak on a charge of child cruelty if I thought it would stick. Your daughter has a fractured skull and needs urgent medical intervention in order to save her life. Now, do you agree to allow the procedure to go ahead, or do you want to risk a charge of murder being brought against you?’

‘MURDER?’ ETHEL PALED
visibly and then appeared to recover, bristling like a turkeycock. ‘Who says so? A sawbones like you? I don’t have to believe you, cully.’