Cinderella Sister (6 page)

A draught of cold air laced with the faint odour of tobacco smoke wafted up from the parlour as Lily made her way downstairs. For a moment she thought she might find her pa seated in his chair by the fireplace, smoking his favourite briar pipe, but when she opened the door it was Matt seated in the saggy old armchair by the fire. With his strong profile and dark hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, he looked so much like their father that it brought a lump to her throat. She slipped into the room unnoticed and went to sit on the window seat. It was draughty here too, but she was used to the cold and she knew that it would get much worse as winter progressed. The old house had been built on a promontory and the cold easterly wind blew from the North Sea, whistling across the Essex marshes and picking up noxious smells from the tanneries, sewage works and manufactories to the east of the River Lea. It was not the
most beautiful place in which to live, but Lily loved her home and the river that flowed past it on its way to the sea, carrying ships to far-off lands and bringing them safely home laden with exotic cargoes. The whole area might be dirty and dangerous, but for Lily the river and its wharves held an endless fascination.

She curled her legs up beneath her, studying the faces of her brothers and sisters with the eye of an artist. Nell, with her dark hair, sleek as a raven’s wing, confined in a severe chignon at the back of her neck, was fully occupied turning the collar on one of Luke’s shirts. There was something serene and beautiful about Nell and Lily was secretly in awe of her. Then there was Luke who had his head in a book as usual, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world. His red-gold hair flopped over his forehead and his thick eyelashes formed corn-coloured crescents on his tanned cheeks. His generous lips moved silently as he read, and Lily could relate to his ability to vanish into a world created by words.

Seated on the far side of the fireplace, Matt smoked his pipe, staring into the fire with a faraway expression on his handsome features, and not for the first time Lily wondered why he had not married. He was twenty-eight and she knew several girls who worshipped him from afar, but none of them seemed to catch his eye. He had stepped out with a few of them, but it had come to nothing. She wondered sometimes if he was afraid to give his heart to a woman in case she broke it, as their mother had done to Pa. It was a question that she could not answer, and she looked round for Mark who patently adored girls and had courted quite a few. As if sensing
Lily’s unspoken question, Nell looked up from her sewing. ‘Where did Mark go, Matt? He really should have stayed at home on a night like this.’

‘Where do you think?’ Matt said with his lazy smile. ‘It would take more than a pea-souper to keep him away from Flossie Cobbold.’

Nell sighed. ‘It must be love.’

‘He asked me to write a poem for her,’ Luke said, brushing the lock of hair back from his eyes for the umpteenth time. ‘I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with Flossie.’

Molly was sitting on the rag rug by the hearth, with the tip of her pink tongue held between her teeth as she attempted to renovate a battered straw bonnet with flowers fashioned from scraps of silk. ‘What about bossy?’ she said, giggling. ‘That rhymes.’

‘But it’s not exactly romantic,’ Luke countered. ‘And I don’t think young Flossie is the type to be wooed by words alone.’

‘If it’s expensive gifts she’s after, she’ll be sadly disappointed,’ Molly said, stabbing her needle into the plaited straw.

‘That’s not very fair,’ Nell said gently. ‘Flossie is a nice girl, even if she is a bit flighty.’

‘Flighty! I’ve heard she’ll be very generous to a bloke who treats her to a night out and she’ll do anything for a box of chocolates.’ Molly glanced round to see what impact her words had, but her grin was wiped off her face and she let out a yelp as she pricked her finger on the needle.

‘That serves you right, young lady,’ Matt said sternly,
although Lily could see the corners of his mouth twitch as though he was trying not to laugh.

‘Yes, that’s what you get for being crude,’ Nell added, patently unamused.

Lily had to suppress a giggle, but no one noticed her as all eyes were on Molly who had leapt to her feet and gone very red in the face. ‘I think you’re all horrible. I was just stating the truth.’

Matt burst out laughing. ‘Sit down, you silly girl, and get on with turning a hideous bonnet into something even worse.’

Molly retaliated by throwing the offending article at him. ‘I hate you, Matt,’ she stormed angrily. ‘If Pa was still here he wouldn’t let you talk to me like that, and I wouldn’t have to make do with a bonnet I’ve had for two years or more. Pa would have bought me a new one long ago.’

‘Learn to take a joke,’ Matt said easily. ‘You’ll have to deal with worse than that in life. Just be thankful that you’ve got a roof over your head and food in your belly. As to Pa having money to throw around, just remember that he was a fireman like the rest of us; it was Grandpa’s position as dockmaster that kept you in the style you miss so much.’

Nell glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Oh, heavens! It’s half past nine. Did anyone make Grandpa’s cocoa?’

All eyes turned to Lily.

She jumped to her feet. ‘I’d quite forgotten, but I’ll do it now. Does anyone else fancy a cup? And what about our Frenchman? Do you think he’d like some too?’

Nell put her sewing aside. ‘He should sleep through the night, but I’d better go and check on him.’

‘I’ll go,’ Molly said firmly. ‘I’m going to bed anyway since I’ve got to be up at the crack of dawn.’ She flounced out of the room without waiting for a response.

‘I’d better go with her.’ Nell half rose to her feet but Matt reached out and laid a hand on her arm, shaking his head.

‘Let her do it,’ Luke said, closing his book with a snap. ‘After all, the fellow is so full of laudanum that he couldn’t raise a little finger. Her head is so stuffed with dreams, let her imagine he’s a handsome prince who will open his eyes, fall in love with her and carry her off to his castle.’

Lily dropped a kiss on top of his head as she passed his chair. ‘You are the only one who understands us, Luke.’

He glanced up at her and smiled. ‘I’d like some cocoa, Lily.’

Next morning, everyone was up and about before dawn. Mark and Luke were on the early shift at the fire station and Matt headed off to the Seamen’s Mission, where he said he hoped to gain the information about the stricken vessel that he needed for his report. Molly went to work with the utmost reluctance, and Nell left for the Ragged School having given Lily a long list of instructions, mostly concerned with caring for the injured Frenchman. Grandpa stomped off to his room, muttering darkly about some people being favoured above others and getting all the attention,
and Aggie put on her bonnet and cloak, saying that she was going to the market to buy meat for supper. Lily couldn’t resist the temptation to peep out of the parlour window, knowing from past observations that Aggie’s rheumatics would improve the moment she was out of the house. Today was no exception and Aggie went off with a spring in her step which made Lily smile to herself. She had once, when she was much younger, followed Aggie to the market, and had seen her gossiping on a street corner with a group of women. Lily did not know their names, but it was not hard to guess that Aggie’s friends were all similarly situated and going to market gave them a chance to get away from their employers and enjoy a good long chat.

Left to her own devices Lily knew that she ought to go up to the attic and check on the injured man, but she was suddenly nervous. Nell had attended to him first thing that morning, and had said that he was conscious but rambling and she feared that he had developed a fever. Lily must look in on him at regular intervals, she had said firmly; he must be given sips of water and reassured that all was well. He must not be allowed to worry.

Lily was undecided. There was a pile of ironing waiting for her in the scullery and the clothes that had not dried yesterday were now hanging on the washing line in the yard and would soon be dry. It was a crisp, cold but dry morning and all traces of yesterday’s pea-souper had vanished during the night. The air was now crystal clear and the smoke from the manufactories along the south bank of the river rose in straight
plumes into an azure sky. Taking one last look at the sunny scene outside the window, Lily had to suppress a sudden urge to abandon her wearisome household tasks. The sunlight had an intensity about it that only occurred on cold winter days and the light was perfect for sketching. It would be wonderful to be free to do just as she pleased just for one day, but it wasn’t to be. She had duties to perform and the first and most pressing was to go upstairs to take a look at the patient.

She turned away from the window, and, stopping to straighten the hearth rug and the cushions on the sofa that leaked stuffing every time anyone sat on them, she made her way slowly from the parlour. The sun slanted palely through the hall windows, catching the dust motes in its beams and turning them into a shower of sparkling gold. The improvement in the weather was more than welcome after the suffocating fog of yesterday, but the sunlight revealed scuffed floorboards in need of a good polish, and as Lily mounted the stairs she noticed that the banisters were thick with dust. There was so much to do, and even if she worked from dawn to dusk the task was well beyond the capability of one person. In the old days they would have had a daily woman to do the scrubbing and heavy work, with the help of a parlourmaid and a scullery maid. She tried not to feel dispirited, and she turned a blind eye to the cobwebs that seemed to have materialised overnight.

Outside the attic room, she stopped to catch her breath and her hand trembled as she opened the door just enough to take a cautious peek at the bed, but all was quiet. She tiptoed into the room and stood gazing
down at the face of the man she had helped to save. He was, as she had first thought, very good-looking with classically sculpted features that would not have appeared out of place on the marble bust of a Greek hero. His dark hair was plastered against his head, and his winged eyebrows and eyelashes were the same shade of rich brown. Lily sat down on the chair at his bedside, wishing that she had her pencil and paper at hand. Even in sleep, his was a face that any artist might crave to immortalise on canvas.

He stirred suddenly causing her to rise from the chair with a start. She picked up a glass of water that Nell had left on a stool by the bed and she held it to his dry lips. He swallowed convulsively and most of the water spilled onto the pillow, but he managed to sip a little more. Recalling Nell’s instructions, Lily wrung a cloth out in the bowl of water that had been left for the purpose, and she bathed his forehead. He was burning up with fever and she did not know what to do next. She felt alone and helpless and she wished that Nell was there. Even having Molly by her side would have been a small comfort.

The man moaned and Lily leapt back from the bed, biting her lip. She was tempted to run from the room and close the door behind her, but she knew that would be cowardly. She did not want the poor fellow to die of neglect. As a last resort she knelt at his bedside and clasped her hands together. ‘Please help me, God,’ she said fervently. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Almost as if the plea had permeated his fevered brain, the young Frenchman opened his eyes. He stared
at her with an unfocused gaze, murmuring something in his own tongue.

Instinctively, she reached out to hold his hand. ‘It’s all right. Please don’t try to talk. You’re quite safe here.’

A frown puckered his forehead. ‘Where am I?’

He had spoken in English but with a slight accent which intrigued Lily. Growing up so close to the docks she was used to hearing sailors chattering away in their own languages but this was the first time she had come into close contact with a foreigner. She squeezed his fingers gently, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘You are in the old dockmaster’s house in Wapping. You were brought here yesterday.’

‘My ship.’ He struggled to sit up, falling back against the pillows with a cry of pain.

Alarmed, Lily reached for the medicine bottle and, following Nell’s instructions, measured out a few drops of laudanum into the glass of water. She held it to his lips. ‘Please don’t worry, sir. You must rest.’

He drank thirstily but his gaze never wavered from her face. ‘I begin to remember. The fire – you saved me.’

‘No, it wasn’t like that. Well, not exactly anyway. I suppose I found you but you were injured quite badly and I had to get help …’ Her voice tailed off as she realised that he had lapsed into either a deep sleep or unconsciousness; she was not sure which, but at least he was no longer in pain. She knew that she could leave him safely now, but she continued to hold his hand, staring down at his slender, tapering fingers and smooth skin. There were no calluses and his fingernails were clean and neatly pared. It was the hand of
a gentleman. She held it briefly to her cheek, and then, feeling rather foolish, she laid his hand on his chest and pulled the coverlet up to his chin. ‘Sleep well,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll come back to see you in a little while.’

Even then she could not tear herself away from the handsome stranger. He seemed so forlorn and lonely up here in the attic beneath the leaky roof. It was cold, and draughts whistled through the holes where the ceiling plaster had crumbled away exposing the gaps in the roof tiles. Lily was certain that her Frenchman was used to far better than this. Perhaps he lived in a beautiful chateau on one of the French rivers. She had read about such places in books that Nell brought home from school when she was preparing the next day’s lessons. Ma had loved reading, and although her choice had veered more to gothic novels and novelettes than to anything more literary, she had insisted on teaching her daughters to read at an early age. Lily could remember sitting on her mother’s knee and learning her alphabet by studying the text beneath illustrations in the latest fashion journal or the society news page in
The Times
. She knew almost nothing about mathematics, but Nell had taken over after Ma’s sudden departure and she had taught Lily how to count and to add pounds shillings and pence, saying that was all a young lady needed to get by.