Dilly Court - The Mistletoe Seller

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Dilly Court 2017

Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Shutterstock(background)

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

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: 9780008199555

Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008199579

Version: 2020-10-09

In loving memory of Harry House

2013–2016

Taken too soon but never forgotten

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

Chapter Twenty-Six

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About the Author

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St Mary Matfelon Church, Whitechapel, London – Christmas Eve 1859

‘I found her in Angel Alley, Vicar.’ The verger cradled the infant in his arms, protecting her from the falling snow. ‘She was all alone and no one else in sight.’

‘Bring her into the warmth, Fowler, before she freezes to death.’ The Reverend John Hardisty stood aside, ushering the verger into the candlelit church. The bells were ringing out to summon worshippers to midnight mass, and the first of the faithful were already starting to arrive.

‘What will we do with her, Vicar?’ Jim Fowler gazed down into the blue eyes that regarded him with an unblinking stare. ‘She must be cold and no doubt she’ll be hungry soon. Where will we find someone to care for her at this time of night, and at Christmas, too?’

‘Take her to the vestry. My wife will know what to do.’

A married man himself, with nine little Fowlers to raise, Jim carried the infant to the vestry and as he pushed the door open he was greeted by the sound of female chatter, which stopped abruptly when the assembled ladies spotted the baby.

‘Good gracious, Jim, what have you got there?’ Letitia Hardisty surged towards him, peering at the baby with undisguised distaste. ‘Not another foundling, surely?’

‘Oh, Letty, that’s not a very Christian attitude.’ Cordelia Wilding, a plump woman wearing a fur-trimmed velvet bonnet and matching cape pushed past her to snatch the infant from the verger’s arms. ‘What a beautiful child. Just look at those soft golden curls and big blue eyes. She’s a little angel.’

The third woman, Margaret Edwards, the deacon’s wife, plainly dressed in serviceable grey linsey-woolsey with an equally plain bonnet, leaned over to take a closer look at the baby. ‘A Christmas angel, to be sure. I believe she’s smiling, Cordelia.’

‘It’s probably wind.’ Letitia stood back, frowning thoughtfully. ‘If you’ll stop cooing over her, ladies, you’ll realise that we have a problem on our hands.’

Margaret touched the infant’s cheek with the tip of her finger. ‘Where did you find her, Fowler? Was there a note of any kind?’

Jim puffed out his chest, pleased to be able to tell the deacon’s wife something she did not know. Margaret Edwards was notoriously opinionated and very conscious of her husband’s standing in the community. ‘I took it to be of the female gender, ma’am. Judging by the lace dress, which must have cost a pretty penny, in my humble opinion.’ He glanced round the small group and he realised that they were unimpressed. He cleared his throat. ‘Ahem … I was taking a short cut through Angel Alley and I heard a sound. She weren’t crying, but sort of cooing, as if to call out to me.’

‘Very interesting,’ Letitia said sharply. ‘But was she on a doorstep? If so, the mother might have intended the householder to take her in. Or was she in some sort of shelter? It’s been snowing for several hours.’

Cowed by her supercilious stare and the caustic tone of her voice, he bowed his head. ‘She was left in a portmanteau, ma’am.’

‘A portmanteau?’ Margaret tapped her teeth with her fingernail, a habit that never failed to annoy Letitia.

‘I think we all know what a portmanteau is, Margaret.’ Letitia moved closer to the verger, fixing him a stern look. ‘Did you bring it with you? It might help us to identify the child. This is obviously a matter for the police.’

He shook his head. ‘It were sodden with snow, ma’am. I was too concerned about the little one to think of anything but getting her to safety.’

‘You stupid man. There might have been a clue as to who she is, if indeed it is a girl.’ Letitia cocked her head, listening. ‘The bells have stopped. It’s time for the service to begin. We can’t stay here talking all night.’

‘What will we do with the infant, Letty?’ Cordelia clasped her hands to her bosom, her grey eyes filling with tears. ‘Someone must take her in. I would, but I’m afraid Mr Wilding would object. We have visitors staying with us, important business contacts, you understand.’

‘I can’t have her,’ Margaret said firmly. ‘I must support the deacon during this busy time of the year. He has his duties to perform, as has the vicar.’

‘And for that reason I cannot have her either,’ Letitia added, nodding. ‘Besides which, the child needs a wet nurse.’ She turned to Jim. ‘You have a large family, Fowler. Surely one more would make little difference, and I seem to remember that your youngest is only a few months old.’

Jim took a step backwards, holding up his hands. ‘My Florrie has enough to do, ma’am. We can barely feed and clothe the young ’uns as it is. Maybe the Foundling Hospital would take her in, or else it will be the workhouse.’