PEOPLE OF ABANDONED CHARACTER PEOPLE OF ABANDONED CHARACTER Clare Whitfield www.headofzeus.com First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd Copyright © Clare Whitfield, 2020 The moral right of Clare Whitfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 9781838932800 Head of Zeus Ltd First Floor East 5–8 Hardwick Street London EC1R 4RG WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM For Team Riley-Whitfield ‘Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.’ James 2:17 New King James Version Contents Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph One More Gone to London Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Little Lost Polly Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 The Ghost of Dark Annie Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Elizabeth the Melody Kate of All or Nothing Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Marie Jeanette: la Grande Blonde Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 About the Author Bonus Chapter An Invitation from the Publisher One More Gone to London Reading, 1885 It was a bad day for a funeral: the wind was high, the sun weak and the threat of rain too strong. Impossible to dress for. Impossible. The sun came out and one wilted under all those layers – the woollen greatcoat, the sober waistcoat, the top hat – and then a breeze took up and one’s fingers turned blue. Impossible. Mr Radcliffe noted the sparse congregation. As the deceased’s solicitor, he was duty bound to attend, but the vicar’s wife had had to practically coerce people from the parish to pay their respects, so she’d said. St Bartholomew’s was a crumbling relic of a church, so at least the small pews didn’t appear so vacant. Mrs Alma Chapman had insisted on being buried there, in ‘the real church’, next to her husband. The church proper was now in the main village; a bigger, better church, for a bigger, better England. For each shovelful of earth the gravedigger attempted to throw on top of the late Mrs Chapman, a gust of wind blew most of it across the faces of the people standing around the grave willing the whole torturous event to a conclusion. A last laugh, perhaps; an indication of the old woman’s feelings towards the congregation. It was not a dignified or elegant spot; the farm was in plain view, the donkey could be heard braying, and as the wind took up the gravedigger’s earth once again, the gathering finally gave up and started to move away. Even the vicar retreated. Now it was only Mr Radcliffe and the Chapman granddaughter, a tall column of black, her mourning veil pressed against her cheeks by the wind. Hands clasped in pious, observant grief. She appeared young enough, though according to his records the girl was very much a woman. But then everyone looked young to him these days, and he never had had a firm grasp on how to judge a woman’s age. They did things to themselves, with hair, and feathers and hats; it could be most confusing. Mr Radcliffe knew Susannah Chapman the way he knew most people, through annotations in documents: records of life and death, the stuff of ink and blotting paper. The poor thing, what should a girl-woman do with herself when she had no male relatives to offer protection and no real wealth behind her? Throw herself on the mercy of those that would have her, he supposed. In his head he had already prepared what he would say to her after the funeral. A few short words of solace, inspiration, even. He had been overly preoccupied with this, for what could a man of his age have to say to a young woman? For once he wished he’d brought his wife along. He would start along the lines of: ‘Death, to those left behind, does not mean the end but a new beginning. We must forge a new path, over muddy tracks and hard ground…’ He was especially fond of the ‘muddy tracks’ part, but as he took the first step to deliver his monologue, the girl gathered her skirts out of the boggy ground and turned to leave, and he had to almost gallop to catch her. It was not lost on him that it was now he who was negotiating a muddy track. ‘Miss Chapman, won’t you wait a minute. I only want to speak with you a moment.’ Mr Radcliffe waved his hat, quite out of breath by the time he caught up with her. ‘Forgive me, I’m sorry to bother you so soon after your grandmother’s passing. I only mean to leave you with a thought, and that is that, for you, this is a new beginning—’ ‘Yes, Mr Radcliffe, thank you. I understand. I’m sorry, I must hurry. I have much to do.’ And she turned like a great black obelisk, the veil making it impossible to see her features clearly. ‘Allow me to walk with you, Miss Chapman. I have news that could offer you some reassurance, security, even,’ he said, making strenuous efforts to keep up with the young woman’s stride. He explained how he had been approached by the vicar’s wife with an offer of accommodation and a small salary in exchange for domestic and educational assistance with her six girls. Now that both Miss Chapman’s grandparents were dead, the best she could do would be to rent their house to tenants and find herself a husband, quick smart. ‘I would ask you to thank the vicar and his wife for me formally,
