Isabella Rockwell's War (10 page)

“It is a long
story, Madam, which I feel you do not have the time to hear, and I
will not delay you.”

The woman
nodded.

“So be it. We
sail on the Indus tonight.”

“Is she a fast
ship?”

The merchant
looked at her.

“She is and
she is the last to sail until Spring, but what of it?”

“I hope to
return home one day.”

The merchant
gave a gentle smile and spoke in English.

“With respect,
Miss, you do not look as if you are in any position to be able to
return to your homeland. How will you afford it?”

Isabella’s
face went pink.

“I am saving
and…”

“We work the
markets, Isabella does tricks.”

The merchant’s
face clouded.

“So you take
hard earned money from honest people?” Isabella’s face flamed
further. This had been a very bad idea and she cursed her
desperation to hear voices from home.

“We have to
live, Sir.”

The merchant
banged his crop against his boot and nodded at his driver who got
out a coin.

“I would stay
in this country if I were you. You look like nothing more than a
street child, and India doesn’t need any more of those.” He leant
down and held a coin out to Isabella, but she had jumped down onto
the road and, ignoring his outstretched hand, she salaamed stiffly
to the women.

“I am sorry to
have delayed you. I had thought to engage you in a conversation of
home, but I see I was mistaken.” Then she gestured to Midge who
fell into place behind her.

“That was a
guinea he was trying to give you.”

“He can keep
it,” she spat.

Midge
nodded.

“I’m sorry
they didn’t want to chat. I liked listening to you talk
Indian.”

Isabella
sighed.

“It’s not your
fault.” She walked over to the window of a shop and looked at their
reflection in the glass.

“I mean, look
at us.” They were both filthy and their clothes, layer upon layer,
were full of holes. Grime sat under their nails and around their
hairline. They were very thin, and Midge had a large cold-sore on
one side of his mouth. Isabella’s hair was the only thing about
herself she recognized. The tanned skin she’d had all her life from
the sun had completely gone; she was more English now, she
supposed, than Indian.

“I bet we
smell,” she said wrinkling her nose.

Midge looked
confused.

“But we went
down the bathhouse two weeks ago.”

Isabella
rubbed at a smudge on her cheek with a damp forefinger.

“I used to
bathe every day,” she said, trying not to think of the orange
scented soap and the cool slow-moving river behind the camp.

Midge looked
horrified.

“‘Ere, I don’t
think that’s healthy. Maybe I won’t go and live in India after
all.”

She laughed,
her anger and disappointment forgotten. She pulled her scarf around
her more closely and came away from the window. It was getting
late, the night watchman calling out eleven o’clock. The fog closed
in around them and footsteps came towards them, bouncing off shiny
damp walls and cobbles. Zachariah emerged out of the darkness,
hands in pockets, whistling.

“Come on you
two, Ruby’s starting to twitch.”

Isabella was
amazed. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for
you.”

“But you’ve
never done that before.”

Zachariah
shrugged. “Never wanted to before.”

For once
Isabella had nothing to say.

Midge took
Zachariah’s hand.

“We met some
Indians, but they weren’t very nice to us on account of we aren’t
very clean. Leastways that’s what Isabella thinks.”

Zachariah
laughed, his face transformed. “Why were you talking to them then,
Midgelet?”

Midge gestured
with his head. “She was homesick, I think she wanted to talk Indian
like she did with ’er family.”

Zachariah
nodded, his face peaceful as he walked with Midge along the wall to
the warehouse. A gull called in the distance, the sound travelling
over the lapping water of the incoming tide.

“Well, we’re
her family now, aren’t we?” Midge looked up and nodded at
Zachariah, and Isabella wondered at how sometimes the moments of
greatest sadness could be intertwined with those of the greatest
happiness.

Little by
little, Isabella shed her former self. Her accent disappeared and
her face hardened as she became accustomed to the rough and tumble
of living on the streets. There were hard times, when they would go
to bed with stomachs so empty, it was difficult to sleep, but the
good times made these bearable. Such was Zachariah’s and her own
skill at thieving, these times were rare. Sometimes she felt a
prick of conscience when she thought of Abhaya and how she would
have felt about Isabella’s new profession, but she made herself
feel better by telling herself Abhaya would have wanted her to
survive. She found she still couldn’t think of her father, it was
painful enough thinking of Abhaya.

So she gave
herself little time to think, and if she weren’t working outside,
she’d help Ruby inside by minding the little ones or sweeping, or
cleaning or even doing the dreaded laundry at the washhouse though,
it has to be said, this wasn’t often. She never lost sight of her
prize though, with a ferocious focus of will she hadn’t known she
possessed. Sometimes she woke at night from dreams where she’d been
speaking Hindi, and each time hurt just as much as the last.
Although it was a great relief to be part of this group who had, no
doubt, saved her life – this wasn’t home and it never would be.

“I wish you
wasn’t so set on leaving,” grumbled Midge. They were standing on
the sweeping steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields Church in Trafalgar
Square and Isabella was adjusting her money belt, which she wore
under her clothes next to her skin. She’d long ago exchanged her
huge pile of coins for notes and their bulk was comforting. She
ignored him.

“Where are we
meeting Zachariah?”

“Hyde Park.
He’s taken Lily to go and see Buckingham Palace. They’ve finished
it now – very grand. Then he wants to show us some house he thinks
worth knocking off. We can cut through St James’s Park and ’ave a
look.” They strolled toward the Mall.

“Gaw, this
Christmas thing’s really catching on. Must be as we’re in the posh
part of town. It’d be worth doing one of these houses. You wouldn’t
have to work for a year!” He laughed, a happy carefree sound.

“So long as
you weren’t caught…” Isabella muttered under her breath.

Here in
Mayfair, the snow was swept in neat piles on either side of the
steps up to the front doors. It was dusk, but some houses had not
yet shut their curtains, and she could see candles flickering on
decorated trees. Ribbons of red and green were tied on wreaths of
holly, which sat on front doors, their knobs and knockers buffed to
a shine. Some houses had tiny flowering orange trees on the tables
in the window, bearing real fruit. A delicious smell reached her
nose, earthen and nutty.

“Chestnuts!”
exclaimed Midge, dragging her across the wide causeway along which
smart carriages whisked back and forth. “Come on moneybags. Lend us
a penny.” The chestnuts roasted over a brazier of glowing coals and
she and Midge stood basking in its warmth whilst shovelling the
still-hot nuts into their mouths from greasy paper bags.

“This might
actually be my favourite food of unghhh wooof.” Midge’s mouth was
so full Isabella missed the last couple of words. Strolling back
over to the park, Isabella could see Zachariah in the distance. A
warmly-wrapped Lily sat on his shoulders.

“What is their
story Midge?”

Midge, lulled
by the warmth in his stomach, said idly, “No one knows really, but
there’s a rumour his mum was hanged.”

Isabella was
horrified, but she forced her voice to keep even.

“That’s
terrible.”

“Yeah,
’specially as the word was she was innocent.”

“Innocent of
what?”

“She was
working as a maid, but she was beautiful and one of the toffs
wanted more than just his bed made… if you catch my drift?”
Isabella nodded. “Well, that toff was Lily’s dad, and when Zach’s
mum couldn’t work no more, he threw her out. After she’d had the
baby she took it back to the big house, trying to get ’im to give
her money for food and clothes, but they threw her into the street
and had her arrested for slander.”

“What’s
that?”

Midge spat out
a shell.

“Telling lies.
Normally you wouldn’t get hanged for that, but they say the toff
paid off the judge, who then sent her to the gallows. Zachariah was
seven and Lil’ was one.”

“That’s so
sad. What happened to them after that?”

“They were
left on the street. Zachariah had to learn fast.” Isabella nodded.
“He’s been paying back toffs ever since – he hates them.”

“I don’t blame
him. Shh now, here they come.”

Lily’s cheeks
were pink and her eyes were bright, any sign of her brush with
death long gone.

“Isabella!
We’ve seen soldiers, all in red coats with shiny boots.” Zach swung
her down.

“Yeah we did.
Very posh around here, I reckon there’s rich pickings to be had if
we had half a mind.”

Isabella
wasn’t sure.

“Plenty of
Peelers around as well,” as one walked slowly past them.

“Move on you
lot, get on back to your neck of the woods.”

“We’re just
looking at the new palace, sir. Nothing wrong with that is there?”
Zachariah’s eyes were wide.

The Peeler
narrowed his eyes.

“Well you’d
better get on and look at it, as I’ll be moving you on once it’s
dark.” Isabella felt Zachariah start to burn with anger.

“We’re just
off Sir,” she said pulling on Zachariah’s sleeve in the direction
of the palace. Tall horse chestnuts lined the sandy gallop ahead,
and Buckingham Palace, glittered at them from its far end.

“Come on, it’s
not worth it. Let’s go.”

No sooner were
the words out of her mouth than there was a rumble of hooves and a
grey horse, snatching at his bit, galloped past them. A thin scream
left the mouth of its rider and hung on the damp air around them.
Close behind came a soldier on a large chestnut charger which
stumbled heavily, throwing his rider to the ground. The soldier
didn’t rise. Isabella squinted into the gloom trying to see what
had happened to the first rider, but there was nothing except the
murky blackness under the shadow of the trees. At the end of the
gallop lay the Palace of St James, its courtyard a solid sheet of
ice despite the ton of salt sprinkled there.

Isabella
didn’t really make a decision. The rider had clearly been out of
control. If that horse didn’t slow its headlong dash, horse and
rider risked certain injury, if not death, on the ice. Isabella
cared little for the rider, but she did care, very much, about the
horse.

Taking a
running jump she swung herself into the saddle of the chestnut and
in one movement had urged him off down the line of trees. Now she
could see the other rider and she thanked heaven the horse ahead
was slower and smaller than hers. She settled her chin into her
chest and crouched forward, gaining on the runaway with every
stride. Now she was parallel to the other rider and placing all her
weight into one stirrup, praying it would hold, she leant over and
crooned to the terrified horse over the thuds of their hooves on
the icy sand. Forty feet ahead she could see the icy courtyard and
she pulled desperately on the runaway’s bridle simultaneously
turning her mount to the left. She almost screamed with pain as her
right arm was almost pulled from it’s socket. But Isabella watched
the other horse turn, as if in slow motion, change direction
mid-air, coming to rest finally next to her horse’s heaving
flank.

She leapt from
her horse and grabbed the runaway’s bridle, talking soothingly
trying to settle him. His eyes were still rolling and his nostrils
flared so wide she could see red. Something had terrified him.

“Are you
alright?” The rider was crying, her face hidden in her gloved
hands. She nodded, her blonde hair catching on the collar of her
tweed riding habit. Isabella helped her to unhook her leg and slide
off. She was barely more than her own age, but with a delicate look
about her, fine featured and wing-browed.

“You saved
me,” she gasped in a broken voice. “Thank you so very, very much.”
There was a thunder of hooves and four horsemen pulled up, throwing
themselves from their mounts.

“Your majesty.
You are safe, thanks be to God,” said one, white-faced.

The girl
seemed to get herself under control.

“Tyrwhitt.
This girl saved me. It is her you should be thanking.” They all
looked at Isabella who was wishing she’d taken up Ruby’s offer of a
bath that morning.