On a Cold Dark Sea(3)
Thinking of her face as protective armor made stealing easier the next time. And the time after that. Not that Charlotte didn’t take precautions. She only ventured into markets well away from home, at the busiest times of day. In a matter of months, she had progressed from snatching buns out of maids’ shopping baskets to pickpocketing, brushing up against well-dressed gentlemen and feeling for the chink of coins in their trousers. On these occasions, there was no need to skulk about; she looked the men straight in the eye as she stumbled against them and slid her hand into their pockets. A few even tipped their hats to the pretty girl who apologized so sweetly, even as she clutched their money behind her back.
Charlotte hoarded her earnings for months, but it was only a matter of time before the temptation to spend it won out. When she came home with a length of poplin for a new dress, she told her mother it was a gift.
“A lady saw me admiring it in the shop window and bought it for me, out of Christian charity,” Charlotte said. “It’s an unpopular color—the shopkeeper offered it to her at half the price.”
The fabric was a rather ostentatious shade of blue, and the shopkeeper had been willing to haggle. The price had dropped after a few blinks of Charlotte’s woeful eyes. But there’d been no generous stranger.
“Aren’t you lucky,” Mother said, her tone suspicious. “Sure there’s nothing more to it than that? There’s plenty of so-called gentlemen who’d take advantage of a girl like you.”
Charlotte was tempted to boast that it was the other way around, that she was the one tricking the gentlemen. But that would be asking for a slap—or worse. Mother’s pride was the only thing of value she still possessed, and she’d extract a harsh punishment if she found out what Charlotte was up to. It was a protectiveness born of self-preservation, not love. Charlotte was a bauble she hoarded, kept shiny and pristine until she could be married off for an appropriate sum.
“Time you put that face to good use, in any case,” Mother continued. “I’ve been thinking you’re the right age to start in service.”
Service? Working as a maid meant scrubbing and groveling and emptying chamber pots from dawn until dark. Charlotte had no intention of succumbing to such a fate, no matter how grand the house. The following day, she returned to the fabric shop and asked the owner if he knew of any dressmakers who’d pay her to do piecework. To her surprise, he offered to hire her instead.
“Be good for business, having a pretty thing like you about,” he said, with a sly smile.
He kept her at the front of the shop, greeting customers. Even other women, it seemed, liked to be welcomed by an attractive face. The well-to-do clientele were the wives and daughters of factory owners and bankers who needed wardrobes for country weekends and formal dinners, and Charlotte studied them as their fingers stroked the silks and velvets. She listened to their murmurs and later repeated their words: Quite lovely, don’t you think? and This will do marvelously for Delia’s coming-out. She mimicked their expressions and their posture, the way their lips and teeth snapped together. A south London accent wouldn’t get her where she wanted to go.
Charlotte learned other lessons as well. How many fondles to allow Mr. Thornton, the shopkeeper, before wriggling away and asking what his wife would think of such behavior. How to use such incidents to increase her pay while keeping her reputation. How to smile one way at a demanding female customer and another way at the woman’s shy, unmarried son. A future beckoned, with a husband and a house and children, the kind of future that would be a victory, given her upbringing. In the meantime, she continued to steal when the opportunity presented itself. A pudgy middle-aged man walking along Clapham Common, his watch chain trailing from his coat. A sour-faced old fellow who’d stuffed a few pound notes in his pocket without folding them first. Each successful theft felt like a gulp of fresh air after a lifetime spent in smoke-filled rooms. Complacent with success, she grew careless in picking her targets. And that carelessness led her to Reg, which led to everything else.
He looked like any other likely prospect. A gentleman of means, out for a Sunday stroll in freshly shined shoes. His green suit was a shade brighter than most men would wear, and he walked with a springy step that told her he took pleasure in being noticed. A dandy, Charlotte thought, easily distracted by simpering admiration. When he pushed aside his jacket and slid a hand into his front trouser pocket, she saw the bulge in his waistcoat and knew she’d found her mark.
Charlotte followed him into the park, around the fountain where children were racing wooden boats. She lingered by a tree as he stopped and smoked a cigar, then picked up her pace when he resumed his walk through an alley of trees. She pitter-pattered until she was almost running, a seemingly distracted young woman focused solely on her destination. She hurried on until—thump!—she’d bumped into his back, throwing off his balance so he stumbled forward and then teetered back against her.
“Oh dear!” Charlotte cried out in mock distress. Her mouth formed a perfect round O.
“Gracious.”
The man had the kind of face whose bold features all fight for attention: dark eyes framed by prominent eyebrows; a large, fleshy nose; a thick-lipped mouth and dimpled chin. The overall effect was striking rather than handsome, but there was something appealing in the way he looked at Charlotte, as if she were just the person he’d hoped to see.
“Pardon me,” Charlotte said, looking down, her entire body cringing in mortification.