Under the Mistletoe
Автор
Marguerite Kaye
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Chapter One
The thick fog, a classic London pea souper, had begun to disperse, revealing an iron-grey sky overhead. A sulphurous tang stung the back of his throat, overlaid with the sickly-sweet smell of decay from the detritus that flowed sluggishly in the gutters. Flakes of soot like black snow floated listlessly downwards from the plumes of smoke puffing from every factory chimney.
Eugene shivered, pulling his muffler up to cover his nose, and took shelter under the awning of a shop selling second-hand clothes. Several pairs of boots were lined up at the front of the window display, though when he looked more closely he saw that at least two of them were mismatched. An array of hats, caps, mittens and shabby bonnets was piled higgledy-piggledy behind them. It was hardly the height of elegance, but that wouldn’t concern the people who shopped here. Inside, stacked on shelves, would be the mainstay of the shop’s business, much-darned clothing that hadn’t become too threadbare from years of washing. Acutely conscious of his own plain but well-tailored black suit and his thick woollen coat, Eugene hunched his shoulders, turning away as the shop door opened. His starched shirt collar and cuffs would be smudged with grime, but they had started the day brilliant white.
Across the road lay his destination, a maze of narrow streets. Not a place for the faint-hearted or unwary, but sadly familiar, given the slum conditions he had publicly exposed over the years. This time however, he was not in pursuit of a story to publish, but on a much more personal quest. He had made little progress in the last six weeks, yet his instincts told him he was getting closer and his instincts were usually sound. Somewhere in the warren of alleys across the road lay the key to the mystery.
He dodged the late-afternoon traffic and headed down the first street. Cramped and dark, it was lined with brick-built houses three storeys high which soared far into the gloom. The frontages were flat with mean windows, the bricks soot-blackened and crumbling. As he walked on, the silence began to envelop him, for the streets were too narrow for through traffic. He had the eerie sense of being watched, though the few people he passed averted their gaze. He felt every inch the outsider.
He turned and found himself in a courtyard that was a dead end. Retracing his steps, he turned into another street, the walls so close together that he could almost have touched both sides with his arms spread. His usually reliable sense of direction failed him. He had no idea where he was, or how to locate the church where he hoped to find the breakthrough.
At a crossroads he hesitated. Each street stretched straight and decrepit, and all looked horribly similar, but one looked slightly broader than the others. He followed it, his hopes rising as he spotted light emanating from the windows of a large building that looked like it might be a church or mission hall. Two shallow steps led up to a battered door. Hugely relieved, Eugene turned the handle and stepped quietly inside.
He found himself in a small square vestibule and from behind the door ahead of him came a subdued, contented murmur and a delicious smell that made his mouth water. He eased the door open just enough to peer through. The hall was not large, but the ceiling was double height, giving it a spacious feel. Gas sconces flared at regular intervals along the freshly painted walls and a fire blazed in the hearth at the far side of the room. Three rows of trestle tables took up most of the space and around each table sat a very eclectic mix of diners, men, women and children of all ages. Some wore rags, others working clothes, and he spotted a number of soldiers in tattered uniforms, though the war in the Crimea had ended in March. Dinner was well underway, with tin bowls filled with a fragrant stew, plates stacked high with bread and mugs filled with milk and ale. He was unobserved, as everyone was concentrating on their food.
Then he saw her. Petite, with a wild tumble of curly black hair pinned up in a top knot, clad in a dark dress with a white apron tied over the voluminous skirt. He told himself that it was merely the resemblance to a nurse’s uniform that made him think it could be her, but his instant reaction was too visceral for him to be mistaken. He would never forget that one, fleeting memorable night.
He remembered the silky, springy texture of her hair when it tumbled loose over her shoulders. He remembered the olive tone of her skin, the voluptuous curves of her body. He remembered the roughness of her calloused hands on his skin. The tangle of their limbs, slick with sweat. The scent of their lovemaking mingling with the all-pervading smell of battlefield mud. The soft, muffled cry she made when she climaxed.
He remembered the flickering oil lamp in the makeshift wooden hut. The coarse sheets and inadequate blanket on the small bed. The open trunk, half packed with her belongings. He could vividly recall his last glimpse of her sitting up in the bed, the sheet clutched around her, as he picked up his clothing from the floor in the grey light of dawn. And that last, lingering kiss goodbye.
All this flashed through his mind in those seconds as he stood rooted to the spot, both entranced and shocked. He had never thought to see her again, though their passionate night still haunted his dreams, nine months later. What the hell was she doing here? He had barely formulated the question when she turned. Heart-shaped face. Huge brown eyes under fierce brows. Full mouth which formed into an ‘oh’ of shock when she saw him. She stood perfectly still, absurdly rooted to the spot just as he was, the colour draining from her cheeks, before returning, colouring them bright red, as she hurried towards him, pushing him out of the door and back into the entranceway.
‘Hello, Isabella,’ he said, as if there was any doubt.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I had no idea I would find you here. I swear I did not come looking for you.’
Her mouth firmed. ‘What then, are you in search of a story? Did Father Turner send you snooping in an attempt to find an excuse to shut us down? I’m sorry to disappoint you but as you can see, there is nothing untoward going on, simply wholesome food being served without the supplementary sermon he insists upon dishing up. I would very much appreciate it if you would remind him we are not in competition. God knows, these people need all the help they can get.’
‘Isabella, I am looking for Father Turner, but I’m not here at his behest.’
She folded her arms, glaring at him. ‘His church is about five minutes’ walk from here. Don’t let me detain you.’
She wanted him to leave, but eating at the tables in the hall were precisely the kind of people he needed to speak to and Isabella had their trust. Besides, he didn’t want to leave, not like this, without a parting word, just exactly as before. ‘I am investigating a story, but it’s a personal one,’ Eugene said, ‘and I think you might be able to help me a great deal more than Father Turner. Will you let me explain?’
‘I’m in the midst of serving dinner.’
‘Then what can I do to assist?’ He took off his hat and gloves as he spoke, a manoeuvre that had proved extremely effective in the past. Presume that you’re welcome and basic good manners would make it more difficult for you to be rebuffed. He unbuttoned his coat. ‘At the very least, you must need help with the washing up?’
Isabella remained where she was, though she didn’t reissue his marching orders. ‘Are you honestly saying that your being here is a coincidence?’
‘I swear, I had no idea. When I saw you I was dumbfounded.’
Her mouth softened a fraction. ‘The feeling was mutual. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I still don’t know what to think.’
‘Fate?’ Eugene suggested wryly. ‘Let me stay, help with the dishes and hear me out afterwards. Though if you’d rather I left now I would understand. I’ll go and ask for Father Turner’s help as planned and I won’t trouble you ever again,’ he added.
She pondered this long enough for him to wonder whether he’d be able to act on such a promise, walk away without knowing anything more about her than he already did. Then, slowly, she nodded. ‘Very well. If you were serious about helping with the dishes...’
‘Lead me to the scullery,’ Eugene said, smiling with relief. He followed her back into the hall and through a door at the rear into a well-equipped and obviously new kitchen, where an amply proportioned woman was removing huge basins of steamed pudding from the top of a stove.
‘Maisy,’ Isabella said, ‘this is Mr...’
‘Eugene.’ Now was not the time for formal introductions, he decided, smiling at the cook. ‘That smells absolutely delicious.’
‘’Course it does,’ Maisy said, failing to be charmed. ‘My spotted dick is famous in these parts.’
‘And if you do a good job with the dishes,’ Isabella said, ‘you might even earn yourself a slice. Maisy also makes excellent custard.’
‘There won’t be any of that left. Never is. Excuse me,’ Maisy said, pushing Eugene to the side. ‘Scullery’s in there.’
The room contained nothing but two sinks and several drying racks. ‘We are fortunate enough to have the water supply switched on every day here,’ Isabella informed him. ‘You can hang up your coat and jacket on the peg there. The hot water comes from the kettle on the range, we haven’t managed to have a boiler installed yet.’
Seeing him look with dismay at the stack of dirty crockery, pots and tin plates, she took pity on him. ‘One for washing, one for rinsing, and then they go on the rack there. Start with the soup bowls. You’ll be joined by two of the ladies when they’ve had their pudding.’
Her voice was low, cultivated, her plain clothes, like his, deceptively expensive. He guessed her to be twenty-five or so, five or six years younger than himself. She had gone to the Crimea at the start of the war back in fifty-three and left the day after they met, at the end of hostilities in March. She had been unmarried at the time and still wore no wedding ring. That was the sum total of what he knew about her. Eugene’s innate curiosity, both his Achilles’ heel and his driving force, was aroused, but he needed to keep it in check. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from the task in hand. He began to pump water into the first of the basins. ‘I’ll get on then, shall I.’
Isabella returned to the main hall where she had been working on plans for the soup kitchen at Christmas in between helping out, but Eugene’s presence made her menus and shopping lists a meaningless blur. The empty dishes were already being stacked on the tables in preparation for pudding. She never tired of the way the children’s faces lit up at this treat, but as she set about helping to clear plates and distribute puddings, memories of that night kept intruding, flooding her cheeks with colour.
She had never behaved so wantonly before or since. It was triggered by the sense of a chapter ending and a new beginning, she had eventually concluded. The war was over, her life lay ahead, a blank canvas for her to paint. She was free, she was reckless and she wanted to mark the occasion, though when she had first encountered him earlier that day, a reporter in search of a war story, she had not imagined how it would end.
The attraction had been there, though, from the moment he shook her hand and introduced himself, Eugene Barnford, known in the press as The Torch. ‘Shining a light on injustice,’ he had said sheepishly, still holding her hand. They had talked, she recalled, of the war, of his work, of the story he had come to tell, tracking the men’s homecoming, soldiers who had sacrificed so much for their country. What kind of reception would they get? Like her, he was alone and lonely.
Later, when he bumped into her in the dark, having left the going-away party, there had been no words. A kiss, which led to another kiss, which led to another. Searing, urgent passion and the knowledge that she was leaving for ever. The war was over, the future was undefined, she was returning to an empty house, an empty life, and there had only been that moment and that man. She hadn’t ever expected to see him again, though she had read and admired his work. Now here he was, washing dishes in the scullery, and he needed her help. Once she saw him again, her next emotion after shock had been exactly as it had been that first time. Fierce longing.
He was not handsome, but he was memorable. His dark blond hair was fine, worn longer than was fashionable, curling at his shoulders. His mouth was full and sensual. A strong nose, a most decided chin, high cheekbones, and deep-set blue eyes beneath countered any trace of femininity about his appearance. And his body...
Isabella shivered at the memory of his lean body tangled with hers, the fine hairs on his forearms as he braced himself over her, the curve of his buttocks clenched at her touch, the dip of his belly that she had traced with her tongue, the way he had slid, smooth as silk, hard, inside her. And his mouth. Oh, dear heavens, his mouth.
‘See you tomorrow, Isabella.’
She started. The hall was all but empty. Maisy was putting on her voluminous coat. Isabella had no memory of serving pudding, of anyone leaving. ‘Yes,’ she said, following the cook to the door, ‘see you tomorrow.’
Another sixty people with full stomachs were returning to their homes and lodging houses, if they were the fortunate ones. For those who had nowhere to go, then at least hunger would not be at the top of their list of woes. They were easy to spot, the homeless ones, carrying their worldly goods in a heart-achingly small sack or bundle. She struggled, every day, to remind herself that she was making a difference, but it felt such a small act in a world where so much was needed.
She waved Maisy off and, heart beating fast, returned to the hall. Eugene was wating for her. His sleeves were still rolled up. His fingers, she noted, were prune-like from the water and there was a spot of grease on the front of his shirt. ‘Did Maisy give you some pudding?’
He shook his head, grimacing. ‘I have to confess I hate spotted dick. It reminds me of school meals.’
Now that, Isabella thought to herself, was a telling remark for ‘school’ must have been a boarding school. His clothes and his accent proclaimed him educated and well off. In another life, she would be breaking all the rules of propriety by being alone with him, but that world was long gone. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asked him, striving for an ease she was far from feeling.’
‘Thank you, that would be much appreciated,’ he replied, unrolling his shirt sleeves.
In the kitchen she took her time, watching him through the open doorway as he put his coat back on and smoothed back his hair. That night had been an aberration, a moment out of time that was long gone. He needed her help, nothing more.
He stood up as she brought the tray into the hall, pulling out a chair for her and taking a seat opposite. Isabella poured the coffee and pushed a cup towards him.
Eugene nodded his thanks and took a sip. ‘I was astonished to find you here, but on reflection not surprised. I remember when we talked, how concerned you were for the future welfare of the men you had nursed.’
‘I followed your story in the press about the appalling treatment many of them suffered on their return home.’
‘I’m not sure how much good it did. Those who concern themselves with such matters already knew what a scandal we were creating by abandoning them on their return, those who didn’t want to know were unlikely to read what I wrote. This place, however, is providing tangible help. What charity is behind it?’
‘It was my idea. I set it up and I fund it, though I rely entirely upon people like Maisy for the practicalities. Shopping, cooking, that sort of thing. There is a rota of helpers for each of the six days we are open.’
‘Good lord! You mean you used your own money? That kitchen must have cost a fair bit and food for fifty...’
‘Sixty, six days a week. You’d be surprised at how little that costs.’
‘I could work it out and it’s a substantial commitment to make, week in, week out.’
‘How I choose to spend my money is entirely my own affair.’
Eugene held up his hands. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. What you’re doing here is extraordinary. I’m extremely impressed by your dedication.’
‘I’m not doing this to impress anyone.’
Eugene grimaced. ‘You think I’m being patronising. I don’t mean to be. It’s none of my business, you’re quite right.’
‘It is your profession to ask questions, I suppose. You’re a journalist.’
‘Yes, but—look, this is a very odd situation, let’s face it, and I’m curious about you. We met under extraordinary circumstances, we spent—’
‘Please!’ Heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘There is no need to recall—to discuss—I see no point in raking over something that was—was...’
‘Inexplicable.’
‘Yes,’ Isabella agreed gratefully.
‘It was, you know, for me too. I am not the sort of man who—I mean I’ve never before, not like that.’
‘Nor have I,’ she said, relieved and reassured to see that his cheeks too were tinged with colour.
‘The next day, I wondered if I had dreamt the whole thing. I went to the hut later but it was empty, you were already gone, and that only added to the feeling of incredulity. I simply couldn’t believe it when I saw you here, though as I said, in a sense it’s not surprising.’
‘I had to do something. Three years nursing in the Crimea taught me that I need to be useful. It opened my eyes to the world, and when I returned to England I couldn’t close them again,’ Isabella frowned down at her ruined hands. ‘I suspect all of us women who were there feel the same, those of us who were not qualified nurses, and who were in robust enough health to survive, I mean. We did not take up arms, but we have been through too much, in a different way, to simply step back into the humdrum lives we left behind. We were free, you see, out there away from family ties.
‘I know my friend Honoria McGrath, another nurse—a real nurse, unlike me, she was a midwife before the war—she is now working in the Royal Hospital Chelsea for Soldiers. I can only surmise about the others. I haven’t kept in touch with them.’
‘What about your family?’ Eugene asked. ‘What do they think of your work here?’
Isabella stiffened. ‘My mother is dead. As for the rest of them, they neither know nor care. It is none of their business how I use my inheritance.’
‘So it is a legacy from your mother which funds this place?’
‘That, as I believe I have already informed you, is none of your concern. I have no desire to have The Torch shine a light on me, thank you.’
‘The title was my editor’s idea, not mine, and I told you, I’m not here to write about you, though it seems to me your soup kitchen would make an excellent story. How many of the men here today fought for their country and yet they can’t afford to feed themselves? And those children too, they weren’t all here with parents, were they? Runaways, some of them, doubtless from orphanages, from workhouses, escaping from harsh masters. It’s a scandal that no one wants to hear about. May I ask why you are so anxious to hide your light under a bushel?’
‘I don’t want to antagonise Father Turner any more than I already have, that’s all. We have different approaches, but I am keen that we co-exist.’ Isabella took a sip of her coffee. ‘I have nothing against religion, I know it provides a great deal of solace to many, but Father Turner passes judgement before a person is even allowed across his threshold and will not feed those he deems undeserving, and that is what makes me so furious.’
‘“Judge not, lest ye be judged”—isn’t that what the Bible tells us? Perhaps Father Turner hasn’t come across that particular passage.’
‘Has he ever been starving? Desperate? Is it so wrong for a man to steal in order to feed his children, for a wife to sell her body in order to do the same? He has no idea what people will do when they are in dire straits, while I have seen—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘He is a fundamentally good man providing a much-needed service.’
‘And you are trying to do the same, but he sees you as competition rather than complementary?’
‘Even though most of the people who eat here would not cross his threshold.’ She finished her coffee and pushed the cup aside. ‘Which brings us back to what brought you here.’
Eugene sighed. ‘I’m trying to find someone. A woman. It’s not what you think,’ he added hurriedly, seeing her expression. ‘I’ve never met her.’
‘Then what is it you want with her?’
‘I think she may have been wronged, though not quite in the way you are imagining, and certainly not by me.’
‘Then who?’
The silence went on for so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he broke it, his voice was rough. ‘My brother.’
‘Why isn’t he here, with you?’
‘Because he died six weeks ago.’
