The Button Box

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Dilly Court 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photographs: Portrait © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred, Background © Alamy

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008137410

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008137427

Version: 2020-10-09

Dedication

For Xavier James Evans with love.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

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About the Author

Also by Dilly Court

About the Publisher

Chapter One

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 and rapped on the kitchen door. Moments later it was opened by Betsy. ‘Where have you been, Clara? Do you know what time it is?’

Out of habit, Clara glanced at the place where the clock used to stand on the mantelshelf, between a spill jar and a brass candlestick. Like everything of any value in the Carter household, it had ended up in the pawnshop.

‘I know I’m late but I couldn’t close up until the last customer had gone.’ Clara slipped off her cloak and hung it from a peg on the wall. ‘Where’s Pa?’

‘Where do you think?’ Betsy asked crossly. ‘He’s gone out and taken every last penny we had.’

‘He said he’s on a winning streak.’ Fourteen-year-old Jane raised herself with the aid of her crutches. ‘There’s tea in the pot, Clara. I’m afraid it’ll be a bit stewed.’

‘That’s all right,’ Clara said hastily. ‘Sit down, Jane. There’s no call for you to wait on me.’

‘But you work such long hours, and I’m at home all day. I feel so useless.’

‘Nonsense.’ Clara moved swiftly to her side and gave her youngest sister a hug. ‘You keep us all sane in a mad world.’

‘There’s nothing to eat.’ Betsy returned to her seat at the table and picked up the hat she had been trimming. ‘I’ve got to have this finished by morning. It’s an order from the woman Lizzie works for. Miss Lavelle promised it would be ready in time, only she’s not the one who’ll have to sit up half the night working by the light of a single candle.’

Clara glanced anxiously at Jane, who had always been delicate but this evening her pallor was even more pronounced and dark shadows underlined her blue eyes. ‘Have you eaten today, Jane?’

‘I don’t get hungry sitting down doing next to nothing.’ Jane picked up the silk flower she had been making and her nimble fingers added another petal. ‘You mustn’t worry about me.’

‘I’ve only had a slice of bread and dripping,’ Betsy said mournfully. ‘I wish I’d gone into service like Lizzie. At least she gets three square meals a day.’

Clara reached for the teapot and filled a cup with the straw-coloured liquid. She took a sip, trying hard not to pull a face. It was lukewarm and bitter, but it revived her enough to take command of the situation. She was the eldest and her younger sisters had been her responsibility since their mother’s death from the illness that had left Jane crippled. Clara went to retrieve her cloak.

‘Where are you going?’ Betsy demanded. ‘I need you to help me.’

‘We’ll all work better on full stomachs.’ Clara opened the door leading into the room that had once been their mother’s parlour and was now their bedroom. She returned with her precious button box tucked under her arm.

‘Not that,’ Jane murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

‘I’ve nothing left to pawn other than the clothes I’m wearing,’ Clara said sadly. ‘I’ll redeem it when Miss Silver pays my wages, but we can’t work if we don’t eat.’

‘It’s just a collection of odd buttons.’ Betsy tossed her dark head. ‘I don’t know why you keep it anyway, Clara. It’s not as if they’re worth much.’

Ignoring her sister’s last remark, Clara braved the snow to walk to the pawnbroker’s in Vere Street. She arrived just as Fleet was about to shut up shop.

He peered at her from beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. ‘Oh, it’s you. I suppose it’s the button box you’ve brought me, yet again?’

Clara slipped inside the shop, eager to be in the warm, if only for a few minutes. The thin soles of her boots were no protection from the cold and they leaked at the best of times. ‘How much, Mr Fleet?’ Her teeth were chattering so uncontrollably that she had difficulty in framing the words.

He took the box from her, opened it and plunged his mittened hand into the colourful assortment, allowing the buttons to trickle through his dirty fingers. Clara held her breath. It made her feel physically sick to see her precious collection manhandled in such a way, but her stomach growled with hunger and she was beginning to feel light-headed. They went through this ritual every time she pawned her treasure, and each time the amount she received grew less. She left the shop with enough money to purchase two baked potatoes and a bunch of watercress, but she had to run to catch up with the man who was trudging homeward, pushing his cart.

Despite Clara’s efforts Betsy remained unimpressed. ‘I’d have thought you could get three taters instead of a bunch of wilted watercress. I hate that stuff.’

‘Don’t be ungrateful,’ Jane said, frowning. ‘I like watercress.’

‘Then you have it and I’ll have your share of the murphy.’

‘Stop it,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You sound like two five-year-olds. We’ll share and share alike. Two po-tatoes was all the man had left in his can, and he gave me the watercress.’

‘I suppose it’s better than nothing.’ Betsy held out her plate. ‘It’s all Pa’s fault anyway. He only ever thinks of himself.’

‘He might win tonight.’ Jane took a small portion of the potato. ‘I’m not very hungry, Betsy. You can have the last piece.’

Clara took her seat at the table. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Jane?’

‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. But I’ll be able to finish off the silk flowers before bedtime.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Clara laid her hand on her sister’s thin shoulder. ‘You’ll finish your supper and go straight to bed. I’ll help Betsy with the bonnet and you’ll get your beauty sleep.’

‘It would take more than that to make me pretty,’ Jane said, chuckling.

‘You are by far the best-looking of all of us.’ Clara sent a warning look to Betsy. ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes,’ Betsy agreed reluctantly. ‘You take after Mama with your fair hair and blue eyes and so does Lizzie, only she’s got a turned-up nose, which spoils her looks – in my opinion,’ she added hastily.

‘I’d rather have dark hair and eyes like you and Clara, and Pa. You must admit he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.’

Clara and Betsy exchanged wry smiles. ‘You haven’t been out much,’ Betsy said, laughing. ‘But I suppose Pa is good-looking in his way. The man I marry will have golden hair and hazel eyes, and he’ll be very rich and never go near a gaming table.’ She turned to Clara. ‘What about you, sister? Will you wed Luke and join the Skinner gang?’

Shocked, Clara stared at her in dismay. ‘What do you know about the Skinners?’

‘Everyone knows that they’re the toughest gang in the whole of London,’ Betsy said airily. ‘I heard a customer in the shop talking about them this morning.’

‘I love Luke.’ Jane glanced anxiously at Clara. ‘He’s been very kind to me, and I worry about him. He shouldn’t mix with those bad men.’

‘I’m sure he can take care of himself,’ Clara said firmly. ‘Anyway, I have no intention of marrying Luke – or anyone, come to that. I intend to have a shop in Oxford Street and turn it into a department store like no other.’

‘You’ll need more than a button box to do that.’ Betsy reached out for the last piece of potato. ‘Does anyone want this? It’s a shame for it to go to waste.’

‘No, you have it.’ Jane struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you for finishing what I started, Clara. I think I will go to bed, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’ Clara watched her sister as she made her way across the kitchen to their bedroom, leaning heavily on her crutches as she negotiated the flagstone floor. ‘I wish I could do something for her, Betsy. It’s no life for a girl of her age, cooped up all day with no one but Pa to talk to, and he’s not always here.’

‘We’d be better off without him, if you ask me.’ Betsy pushed her plate away. ‘I know we don’t earn much, but he shouldn’t use our money to gamble on the turn of a card, or whatever horse takes his fancy at the races.’

‘You’re right, of course, but he’s our father. He can do what he likes, but not for much longer, Betsy. I swear I’ll make things better for us – no matter what it takes.’

Next morning the streets were ankle-deep in snow when Clara made her way to Drury Lane. She opened up as usual, but the only people braving the weather were those who were slipping and sliding their way to their places of business. Miss Silver lived above the shop, but she rarely came down before noon these days. An ageing spinster who had cared for her invalid mother for most of her life, Rebecca Silver was not a well woman. Clara had witnessed the bouts of coughing that laid her low for days, and sometimes for weeks in winter, but the shop was Miss Silver’s living and the customers were her friends. She was not going to retire gracefully, and she sometimes said, in her rare moments of levity, that she would die behind the counter and be buried in a shroud made from Spitalfields silk.

Clara busied herself sweeping the floor and dusting the shelves, and was about to rearrange bolts of muslin when the door opened and her first customer of the day rushed in, bringing with her a gust of ice-cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.

‘Lizzie!’ Clara stared at her sister in surprise. ‘What brings you here?’

‘It’s not from choice, you may depend on that.’ Lizzie stamped the snow from her boots, creating icy puddles on the newly swept floorboards. ‘Miss Jones sent me to buy silk thread to mend Mrs Comerford’s best gown, which madam intends to wear tonight.’ Lizzie glanced out of the window, pulling a face. ‘Although I can’t see her going anywhere unless the weather improves.’

Clara pulled out the drawer containing spools of silks in rainbow hues. The sight of them always made her smile, but Lizzie was frowning ominously. ‘What’s the matter?’ Clara asked anxiously.

‘It has to be an exact match. Miss Jones doesn’t know how madam managed to snag the skirt, but the tear is quite noticeable and so the thread must blend in perfectly.’ Lizzie fished in her reticule and produced a tiny scrap of pink silk.

‘I think that is the nearest.’ Clara picked up a spool and held it against the material. ‘Take it to the door and look at it in a good light.’

‘Such a fuss over a tiny tear.’ Lizzie examined the colours in daylight. ‘You’re right. It’s a good match. I’ll take it.’

Clara wrapped the spool and handed it to her sister. ‘That will be twopence, please.’

‘Put it on Mrs Comerford’s account,’ Lizzie said grandly. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to say that when you went into a shop, Clara?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’ Clara noted the purchase in the ledger Miss Silver kept for account customers.

‘Something’s wrong – it’s Pa, isn’t it?’ Lizzie gave her a searching look. ‘I can tell by your face, Clara. He’s up to his old tricks again, isn’t he?’

‘He’ll never change,’ Clara said, sighing. ‘He went out before I got home yesterday and hadn’t returned when I left this morning.’

‘And your button box is in Fleet’s pop shop, I suppose.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘You ought to take our father in hand, Clara.’

‘There’s nothing I can say or do that would make any difference.’

‘Then leave home, like I did. I didn’t want to go into service, but now I have my sights set on becoming a lady’s maid, and that will give me all sorts of advantages. Mrs Comerford’s husband might be in trade, but I dare say he has more money than most of the titled toffs that she tries to imitate. It’s quite pathetic the way she fawns and grovels when she entertains Lady this and Lady that to afternoon tea. I have to stand there ready to pick up a napkin if one of them drops it on the floor, and hand round the food, watching them stuff their greedy faces, all the time pretending that I’m invisible.’

‘At least you’re well fed and they provide your clothes. I’m sure it’s worth putting up with their odd ways just for that.’

‘I suppose so, but I go out of my way to help Miss Jones. It’s her job I’m after – that’s if I don’t land a rich husband first.’

Clara closed the ledger with a snap. ‘Have you anyone in particular in mind?’

‘That would be telling,’ Lizzie said with an arch smile. She tucked the spool of thread into her reticule. ‘I must go.’

‘It’s a long walk to Bedford Square in this weather,’ Clara said anxiously.

‘No matter. Miss Jones gave me the cab fare. She trusts me and so does Mrs Comerford.’ Lizzie left the shop with a cheerful wave of her hand and a faint trace of attar of roses in her wake. Clara could only guess that her sister had been sampling Mrs Comerford’s perfume while she dusted her room. Only Lizzie would be so bold. If she were discovered it would mean instant dismissal, but then Lizzie had the cheek of the devil.