To Taste The Wine Read online

  Yes, all the signals were there. Da hadn’t much use for Mr. Cosmo Perragutt and disliked him the same way he disliked some of the salesmen who came to the shop with their courtly manners and cheap wares. But Chelsea was certain that Mum wouldn’t have cared for her brother as much as she did or have been so happy to see him whenever he came by if at heart he wasn’t a good, kind man. It was that kindness Chelsea depended upon now.

  Later that evening Mrs. Cavendish came to the back door with a supper tray for Chelsea. The meat pasty and slab of buttered bread tempted the girl’s appetite, and the mug of cider looked cool and refreshing.

  “I don’t know why you insist on staying down here in the cold,” Mrs. Cavendish clucked maternally. “God knows the place is forbidding enough with the shelves stripped and the floor bare. Come upstairs to the flat, Chelsea. You’ll have the other children for company, and there’s a fire in the grate to warm your bones.”

  Longingly, Chelsea envisioned herself playing with her friends in front of a cheerful fire. But she knew Mrs. Cavendish would insist on her staying the night, tucking her into bed beside little Anna, and then she’d be trapped until they came to take her to St. Matthew’s in the morning. “Thank you, Mrs. Cavendish,” she replied after a moment, “but I’m fine where I am.”

  Mrs. Cavendish frowned, her hands clasped over her round belly. ‘I wish you would, Chelsea. Your mum would want you to be warm and cozy. She was a good woman, your mum, and your da had the way of a gentleman, I always said.” An expression of sorrow crossed the woman’s face. “Well then, I’ve got to be gettin’ back to my own brood. If you change your mind, you’re welcome.”

  Chelsea listened for Mrs. Cavendish to close the door behind her before she bit into the steaming pasty and tore into the bread. She’d had nothing to eat since morning, and she was ravenous. After her supper, she washed her face and hands and smoothed her hair, giving the first thought to her appearance in days. All her clothes, except for what she was wearing and one of her oldest coats, had been confiscated for debts. When she left the shop for the last time, she closed the door firmly behind her, confident that she would soon find her uncle and thus escape the fate of St. Matthew’s.

  Unfortunately, finding someone in a city the size and scope of London was not as easy as Chelsea’s eleven-year-old optimism had led her to believe. It took her nearly three days of wandering city streets before she even reached the Cheapside area. She was so frightened the man from Whitehall might be searching for her that she hesitated to ask the most likely-looking adults for directions, thus limiting her inquiries to beggars and children hardly older than herself. The first night after leaving the shop, she wandered the streets all night long, afraid of the darkness and, worse, of the blackened alleyways, from which came terrifying grunts and hushed voices. The second day, too exhausted to walk any farther, she stopped to rest in the warming sunshine beside a butcher’s shop. She fell asleep, but before long a man’s boot prodded her awake and a rough voice began yelling about dirty little ragamuffins laying about the doorway of his respectable business.

  Hungry, tired, dirty, and cold, Chelsea continued her search on the third day, until by some sort of miracle she found herself standing under the marquee of the Briarside Theatre. It was the middle of the afternoon, and everything was locked up tight; when she knocked timidly upon the great brass-inlaid double doors, there was no answer.

  “Whatcha doin’ hangin’ about here?” asked a voice behind her. “I never seen you here before.”

  Chelsea turned to find a tall youth squinting down at her. He attempted a smile, a slender wooden pick clamped between his teeth and jutting out of the side of his mouth.

  “I asked whatcha doin’ around here?” he repeated, stepping in front of her, barring her path when he sensed she was about to run away. Chelsea judged him to be several years older than herself—about fifteen. Long, fine hairs curled softly on his chin in a charade of a beard, and she soon realized his squint was more a part of his overall expression than a sensitivity to the sunlight. His clothes were shabby, too large, and the woolen gloves on his hands only covered his palms; the fingers poking through the knitted wool were ringed with dirt, and his nails badly needed clipping.

  “I … I was looking for my uncle,” she stammered, feeling threatened by the way he blocked her path.

  “Just like I’m waitin’ for me mum.” The youth smiled sarcastically. “And me da is the Queen of England,” he added bitterly. ‘You’re a runaway. I can see it plain as the nose on yer face. Who’re you runnin’ away from? Maybe I can help. Maybe somebody’ll pay to get yer back.”

  Chelsea backed away. “I am not a runaway! I’m looking for my uncle.”

  The youth smiled again, and something about it reminded Chelsea of a picture in Mum’s Bible, the one in which the serpent is tempting Adam and Eve with the forbidden apple.

  “I know a runaway when I sees one. You ain’t from Cheapside, cuz I knows everyone from here. Yer clothes ain’t clean and they don’t fit too good, but they was cut from good wool jus’ the same. It was yer shoes that told me you ain’t from here and that you’re a runaway. Good shoes. Too good for Cheapside.”

  “Let me go, let me pass!”

  “That’s another thing, the way you talk. Nah, you’re a runaway fer certain. I’m Jack Hardy.” He made the announcement with a certain sense of pride. “I know everything that goes on here in Cheapside, that’s how come I know you don’t belong here.” Quicker than thought, his hand shot out and seized her wrists, pulling her against him and then turning her so her back was to the wall. She could smell the onions on his breath and see the angry red pimples dotting his chin. “How much money have yer got?” he demanded. “Runaways always have a few bob to tide them over.”

  Chelsea shook her head, frightened half out of her wits. No one had ever treated her this way; no one had ever frightened her like this, not even the man from Whitehall, not even the thought of St. Matthew’s. She struggled, trying to wrench free. “I don’t have any money, not a penny. Let me go! Let me go!”

  From around the corner swaggered a group of youths—a gang, really. When they saw Jack and Chelsea they began to jeer and snicker:

  “Hey, boss, catch yer supper, did yer?”

  “Whatcha got there, Jack? Caught yerself a pigeon, eh?”

  For an instant Chelsea had hoped she’d be rescued; then she realized these were Jack’s friends, and they obviously admired him. Their cruel taunts and sneering expressions were directed at her, and they reminded her of a pack of hungry dogs.

  “Got myself a little runaway here,” Jack announced, his tone now gruff and hard, more of a growl. The little hairs on the back of Chelsea’s neck lifted and prickled. She knew she had to save herself; she had to get away from Jack Hardy and his street gang.

  “Think we’ll get ourselves a reward for turnin’ her in, Jack?”

  “Nah! Look at her. She ain’t worth much as the rags she’s wearin’. Who’d pay to get the likes of this pigeon back? My guess is she’s run away from service or somethin’. But I’ll bet she’s got a penny or two stashed on her somewhere.” He pulled viciously on her wrists, enjoying the wince of pain that flashed across her face.

  The boys laughed, poking at her, trying to riffle through her coat pockets. “Let me go! Let me go!” Chelsea cried, trying desperately to free herself. There were other people walking the street—vendors, women with market baskets, a man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop. Would no one listen? Didn’t anyone care? Wouldn’t anyone help her?

  Jack saw the direction of her glance and looked over his shoulder. Apparently he wasn’t completely confident that no one would step forward to help her, because he heaved her away from the wall and pushed her in the direction of a nearby alleyway. For an instant, Chelsea felt him loosen his grip on her wrists. Taking the only chance she might ever have, she kicked him, hard, the toes of her shoes nipping his shins and cracking his knee. Jack howled in pain, and Chelsea broke away.


  Running, dodging pedestrians, she bolted out into the street almost under the legs of a peddler’s horse. She screamed in fright, but to her, at that moment, nothing was more frightening than Jack Hardy and his gang. They were coming after her, shouting for her, hooting and caterwauling, sounds that made her blood freeze.

  Although soon out of breath, she kept running, her legs burning with strain, the muscles exhausted. Ahead of her she saw the dark shadows of an alley between two buildings that could have been warehouses. Knowing only that she couldn’t run another step, Chelsea dodged into the alley, wailing with fright and defeat when she realized there was no access to the next street. She was trapped, and the sounds of thudding feet were close behind her. Wild with terror, she crawled into the shadows and huddled in the recess of a cellar window, her only cover the gloom and a pair of ash cans. Biting back the sobs tearing at her throat, she listened, her eyes squeezed shut in horrible anticipation of being discovered.

  “I know she went in here, Jack! I seen ‘er when we rounded the corner. She’s here, I know it.”

  “No, I seen ‘er dodge around t’other way,” someone else insisted. Barrels clattered and cans were tipped over as the youths conducted their search.

  “She ain’t here, Jack, I tell yer. We’re wastin’ time while she’s gettin’ away!”

  An eternity later, after the gang had toppled garbage and ash cans and left the blind alley, Chelsea huddled where she was, curling into as small a space as possible. Tears coursed down her cheeks; self-pity and fright and loneliness roiled her innards. And it took her a long, long time to gather enough courage to come out of her hiding place.

  If she were ever to find Uncle Cosmo, it would have to be soon. Chelsea was coming to realize that life behind the shop with Mum and Da had not prepared her for this kind of savage existence. When Jack Hardy had had her pinned against the wall and she’d screamed for him to let her go, no one had intervened. People had been walking the street; shopkeepers had been sweeping their walks; women had been walking from market; all had seen what Jack was doing, yet none had stepped forward. And now she was so frightened she even thought about returning to Knightsbridge, considered going to St. Matthew’s. Instinctively, however, Chelsea knew no one would save her there, either.

  No. Her only hope was Uncle Cosmo.

  Life was a muddle of confusion and fear for Chelsea. Several days had passed since the incident with Jack Hardy and his friends. She learned to be careful, traveling the streets in the early morning or late afternoon hours, sleeping in doorways, begging for a crust of bread. She walked all over Cheapside, finding every theater in the area, asking for Cosmo Perragutt at box offices and back doors. She learned to be watchful, wary of groups of people, wary of her own vulnerability. People at the theaters said they’d heard of her uncle, but no one seemed to know where he was at the moment. Someone told her he might have gone to France with a theatrical company. Dispirited, defeated, but having nowhere to go, Chelsea continued her search. Walking the streets and asking after her uncle became her religion, her only hope.

  One day, more than two weeks later, Chelsea took a walk down to the wharf, one of her favorite evening haunts. There was a fresh produce market by the docks; after hours, fruit, stale bread, and sometimes hot soup were distributed by a group of uniformed men who called themselves the Salvation Army. Chelsea had found that if she listened to their music and their preaching, they could be counted upon for a scant supper. It was late November now, and flurries of snow had already fallen over the city. The cold was bone-chilling and nothing was more welcome than a cup of hot soup and a slab of bread.

  This time, however, she took a new route down to the wharf and came across a dilapidated, ramshackle building bearing a hand-lettered sign: BLEDSOE THEATERHOUSE PRESENTS PERRAGUTT AND COMPANY IN “ROMEO AND JULIET.”

  Chelsea stopped dead in her tracks, reading the sign over and over again. Could it be? Dare she hope? She’d begun to think that her Uncle Cosmo didn’t exist, that he was merely a figment of her imagination.

  Hesitantly, Chelsea went around to the stage door and knocked. A man with a long black cigar stuck his head out. “Excuse me, sir,” she said weakly, “can I find a Mr. Cosmo Perragutt here?”

  The door opened wider, and she could feel the relative warmth touching her face. She stepped in, realizing it was the first time she’d been under a roof in almost a month.

  “He’s in there, girlie,” the man with the cigar said gruffly. “Just bang on the door and go in.”

  Chelsea approached the closed door. Inwardly she was praying, her lips, blue with cold, moving to her silent plea. Taking a deep breath, she knocked timidly and turned the knob.

  Sitting in front of a mirror was a short, portly man. He was applying a false beard to his chin, and the spirit gum vapor filled her nostrils. He glanced up into the mirror, half turning in his chair.

  “Uncle … Uncle Cosmo?” she asked in an agony of anticipation, a desperate mixture of hope and disbelief. “I’m Chelsea, Chelsea Myles, and I’ve come such a long way to find you. Please be my Uncle Cosmo, please.”

  Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Chelsea regarded young Molly in front of her, so like the hungry, defenseless urchin she’d been when Uncle Cosmo had taken her in years ago. The thought of that hunger and just how few coins she contained in her purse made her capitulate. “All right, Molly, one wallet and that’s all. You really shouldn’t let Uncle Cosmo take advantage of you this way. I suppose it will be all right, as long as you don’t keep the money solely for your own benefit. Perhaps you’d better bring it to me.” She hated doing this to Molly; her own parents had brought her up for better things than this. Living off ill-gotten gains never sat well with her, but with winter coming there didn’t seem to be any other way. Heaven knew the ticket receipts from Uncle Cosmo’s productions would hardly keep a bird alive.

  “But what about Mr. Perragutt?” Molly asked plaintively. “He said I was to share with him or there wouldn’t be enough to get by and everyone would have to do without their wages this month.”

  Chelsea grimaced. The old rotter, there was enough stashed in his trunk to take them all to the south of France this winter. But getting him to part with it was another matter entirely.

  As a child she’d worshiped him as her savior; as a woman she knew far too much about the man to suffer under any false illusions. Gratitude had little to do with reality.

  “Molly, you disappoint me. Did you think I wouldn’t take care of you? You just bring whatever you have to me, and I’ll see it’s shared fairly between us.” Let Uncle Cosmo starve, as if he would. “Trust me, Molly, trust me. We might even get down to Brighton before winter sets in. You’re always talking about never having seen Brighton. And Lord knows I’m due for a rest.”

  Molly was elated; there actually seemed to be a flush of color in her thin white cheeks. “Oh, Miss Chelsea! You’re too kind to me! Too kind! I’ll do just what you say, I will. Now if I can just remember my lines for tonight, I’ll consider myself lucky.” An anxious expression crossed her face. “My stage paint! I know I’ll make a mess of meself … myself,” she corrected when Chelsea raised an eyebrow of admonition.

  “I’ll help you if you like,” Chelsea offered generously, pitying the girl. No amount of makeup would erase the pinched, shriveled look that years of poverty and deprivation had stamped on Molly’s face.

  Molly preened in happy anticipation. Miss Chelsea herself was going to apply her stage paint! This afternoon she’d washed her hair in rainwater with some lavender soap she’d purloined from Miss Chelsea, but somehow she must have done something wrong. Instead of coming out thick and curly and shiny sable, like Miss Chelsea’s, it was straighter and more limp than ever. Oh, well, it wouldn’t show beneath the little velvet cap she was to wear in tonight’s performance of selections from The Merchant of Venice by Mr. William Shakespeare. She would do her best to get the lines right this evening so as not to shame Miss Chelsea. And she wou
ld also watch Miss Chelsea carefully—she wanted so much to learn! Learn everything. Her role, that of Portia, was very demanding and exacting, Mr. Perragutt had told her, just slightly less important than Shylock, which he was playing. “The quality of mercy is not strained …” Molly mused silently to herself, dreaming of the day she would step into Chelsea’s roles. After all, it seemed the natural thing, considering Miss Chelsea was almost eight years older than she was and wouldn’t be able to play the parts of young women forever.

  Molly and Chelsea struggled with the heavy trunk, dragging it up the steps and into the theater just offstage. The dressing room was even filthier than the alleyway, but at least it was dry—almost. Quickly, knowing exactly what must be done, they lit the lamps and began pulling out their costumes. Molly thought the burgundy velvet gown with its deep, low cleavage and tight bodice one of the prettiest costumes Chelsea owned. From the small jewel box they selected rings and bracelets and other faux stones and golden glitter. Portia was a rich heiress, and when fully costumed Chelsea looked every inch the part.

  “Will you be wearing your hair in a braided coronet tonight?” Molly asked.

  “No, those tight braids give me a headache; I’ll just brush it out and wear it about my shoulders. Now hurry with the mirror, Molly, I can already hear the crowd gathering out front.”

  “Yes, Miss Chelsea. Mr. Perragutt said he wanted us to be at our best tonight.”

  “As if I am anything but,” Chelsea retorted, offended. And if it were less than her best, who but Uncle Cosmo would know? The audience for the most part was not familiar with William Shakespeare and wouldn’t know the difference if she added her own dialogue to her part. And if Cosmo dared to try to please them by having her sing those bawdy songs he insisted upon, she’d have his head. God, how she hated it when the men in the audience slapped their thighs and leered and made lewd motions with their hands. If she had any spine, she’d have left Cosmo years ago. But what could life possibly offer her except a meager existence as a housemaid or servant—and that she would never do. At least this way she was her own person … almost.