Dilly Court - The River Maid

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Dilly Court 2018

Cover photographs: Front © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Background © Shutterstock (ships/harbour)

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

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: 9780008199609

Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008199616

Version: 2019-03-27

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Twenty-Six

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Essie Chapman pulled hard on the sculls as she rowed her father’s boat towards Duke Shore Dock. It was dark and the lantern on the stern of the small, clinker-built craft bobbed up and down, shedding its light on the turbulent waters of the River Thames. Essie fought against the tide and the treacherous undercurrents, but she was cold, wet and close to exhaustion. Her mysterious passenger had not spoken a word since she had collected him from the foreign vessel moored downriver. The task would normally have fallen to her father, Jacob, but he was laid up, having slipped on the watermen’s steps the previous evening. He had fallen badly and had been carried home to White’s Rents on an old door, the only form of stretcher available to the wharfinger’s men at the time. He had lain on the sofa like a dead man for twenty-four hours and when he awakened he could barely move a muscle.

‘You’ll have to do my next job for me, Essie, love. It’s a matter of life and death.’

His words echoed in her mind as she battled against the elements. By day Jacob’s small craft scurried up and down the river doing errands considered too small by the lightermen and watermen, but by night things were different. Sometimes it was the odd barrel or two of brandy that had to be sneaked ashore before the revenue men laid hands on it, or packets wrapped in oilskin, the contents of which would forever remain a mystery. There was always a messenger waiting on the shore to grab the cargo and spirit it off into the darkness. Money changed hands and Jacob would spend most of it in the Bunch of Grapes, coming home reeking of rum and tobacco smoke. Sometimes, when he felt generous, he would give Essie twopence to spend on herself, but the money was usually spent on necessities like bread, coal and candles.

The tide would turn very soon and Essie was anxious to reach the shore before the current took her downriver. She shot a furtive glance at her passenger, who was wrapped in a boat cloak that made him merge into the darkness. His face was concealed by the hood and she could not tell whether he was young or old, although his lithe movements when he had climbed down the ship’s ladder and boarded her boat suggested that he was in the prime of life. Getting him to dry land was uppermost in her mind and she put every ounce of strength into a last supreme effort to reach the wharf. The sound of the keel grating on gravel was like music to her ears, although it was as much as she could do to rise from her cramped position. Then, to her surprise, her passenger was on his feet and had stepped over the side, wading ankle deep in water as he dragged the craft effortlessly onto the mud and shingle.

The top of the wharf towered above them, menacing even by moonlight. The great skeletal ironwork of the cranes was silhouetted against the black velvet sky, and an eerie silence hung in the still air, punctuated only by the slapping and sucking of the water against the wooden stanchions. It had to be well after midnight and yet the river was still alive with wherries, barges and larger vessels heading for the wharves and docks further upstream. It was slack water and soon the tide would turn and the river would churn and boil as it flowed towards the coast. Jacob always said that river water ran in his veins instead of blood, and as a child Essie had believed every word her father said, but now she was a grown woman of twenty and she was not so gullible.

She stood up, but before she had a chance to clamber ashore the stranger leaned over and lifted her from the boat as easily as if she were a featherweight. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the scent of spicy cologne mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Most men of her acquaintance stank of sweat, tar and tobacco, but this was altogether different and oddly exciting. She had barely had time to catch her breath when he set her down on the ground, pressed a small leather pouch into her hand, and, without a word of thanks, he strode off, heading in the direction of the stone steps.

Driven by curiosity, Essie hurried after him, although her progress was hampered by her damp skirts and flannel petticoat. She reached the top of the steps in time to see him climb into a waiting cab and it drove off into the night, leaving her alone on the wharf amongst the idle machinery. The brief moment of quiet was shattered when the door of a pub in Fore Street opened, spilling out a group of drunken men, who cavorted and sang in good-natured tipsiness until someone landed a punch, which started a brawl.

She weighed the purse in her hand and it was heavy – this had been no ordinary job. The tall stranger with strong arms and gallant manner was not a common seaman, and if he was carrying contraband, it was something small that could be easily concealed beneath his cloak. There was nothing more she could do and she was tired. She might never know the identity of the man who smelled of the sea and spice. What his mission was must remain a mystery – but she was chilled to the bone and the thought of her warm bed was uppermost in her mind.