Chapter Thirty-Two
Leith, Scotland
“Ineeded work. My sister had twa bairns and between the pair of us, we had not tuppence to rub together. She works inna tannery, but tha pay is shite. Our da’ wis a fisherman.
Dressit as A am, A get paid twice as much at the market.
Na ane trusts a woman fishin.” Davina Robertson gestured to her clothes—rough workman’s ware—a heavy, cable knit jumper covering the shape of her torso.
“A dinnae e'en neit tae lie aboot it. A juist say, ma name's Dav—it is after aw.
An they see whit they want. Na ane expects a woman tae be strong enouch for the work.
But fool's money spends an aw as the wise man's.”
It had taken a few interviews before Charlotte could make head or tail of the lowland dialect, but in the end, her familiarity with cockney had done her well.
They were completely unique dialects, but once she had keywords, she could piece the rest together.
Learning their way of speaking gave her a whole new insight into the lives of the people she interviewed.
It was not until then that she felt she could give their stories the depth they deserved.
And after nearly four weeks, she finally felt as if she had gained her footing.
Edinburgh was a beautiful city. Charlotte had not expected the dark, moody crags of the medieval town to bring her such solace.
But unlike London, the perpetual fog and mist were like a blanket in which she could wrap her broken heart.
As each day passed, she felt more confident that she could move on from her heartache.
Her life here was already full and promising. During the day, she acted as governess for the two young sons of Lady McFadden, a friend of Lady Gordon’s and a harried widow in desperate need of a quelling force for her rambunctious boys, who were only one year apart in age.
The small, dark-haired boys were fantastically intelligent—if bent on mischief—and she found teaching them to be a spirited challenge that reminded her of the days her own brothers were small.
Thinking of the twins, however, always brought her melancholy back.
They would be returning for their term break soon, and Charlotte had arranged for them to stay with the Chesterfields for the summer.
She would have given anything to bring them up to stay in Edinburgh with her, but her rooms were far too small, and while her reputation had not been publicly sullied during her liaison with Benjamin, she did not want to risk their futures with her proximity.
No, she would make sure they were cared for from afar, her savings now almost just enough to cover the cost of their tuition—though the cheques she sent to the tuition office had never been cashed.
Perhaps she could even send a gift down for their thirteenth birthday in July.
Her evenings often looked like this, standing on the docks or in the closes, speaking to women and men about their lives.
The working class here faced many of the challenges she had seen in London.
Poor working conditions, pitiful pay—women, as always, faced the brunt of the difficulties.
In collecting these stories, she had begun chewing on an idea.
An anthology—vignettes of each of these people’s stories, pulled together to show just how common their suffering was—and how unnecessary it seemed next to the wealth of the nation.
The idea had been encouraged by her introduction to a radical whirl of writers, artists, poets, philosophers, and other such characters known to Elsie.
Her friend’s name had granted entrée into a whole other society in Edinburgh.
One so entirely different from what she had known her whole life.
Speaking to so many colourful minds, she felt herself changing, growing.
Sometimes it felt as if she were becoming a whole new person yet had never felt more herself.
It was a fantastic education that was proving immensely helpful to her plan of self-sufficiency and journalistic advancement.
She had already had two articles printed, and while the alternative presses did not pay as well as her position in London, she felt she could really make a name for herself and her writing, and, most importantly, shed light on the concealed truths that desperately needed to be changed.
Fingers growing numb in the heavy, dense fog of the Leith docks, Charlotte tried to scribble down all the fascinating tidbits of Devina’s story.
At sixteen, the woman had dressed in her dead brother’s clothing and signed up for a fishing vessel.
When no one questioned her, and she was paid thrice what she had been when she worked with the other women up the dockyards gutting fish, she decided to make a go of it.
Since then, she had managed to purchase her own boat and take on a small crew.
In the two decades since then, she was one of the most successful small vessels on the water—and no one dared pay her a woman’s wage for her catches.
When the call of the pub finally dragged Davina and her crew up from the docks, Charlotte thanked the woman and slipped away.
Her mind swirled with the possibilities of this story, and how beautifully it would tie in to the story of the factory woman who had struck her floor manager when he had made unwanted advances and been cast out the same day.
She had gone on to start her own cottage enterprise, making better quality garments than her previous employer, while her employees were paid and fed better than any factory worker.
It could be a fair argument for the benefit of improving working conditions for all.
As the idea took hold, and her excitement mounted, as it always did when she grasped onto an idea, she completely missed the steady sound of boots on the misty cobblestones behind her.
It was not until she turned down Leith Walk that she realised her mistake.
It was evening. The early summer light this far north always tricked her, staying light until much later than she would expect, but then once it dimmed, it was far too late to be out alone as she was.
She should have hailed a hack the moment she came up from the docks.
Edinburgh was not nearly as big as London, but she was not familiar with the streets, and she would be foolish to think it safer for a single woman at night.
The steps behind her had grown nearer. They were heavy.
And now that she was listening, there were at least two of them.
They might merely be workers on their way home, but Charlotte was not so na?ve as to be hopeful.
And the hair on the back of her neck prickled, not allowing her to ignore the sudden fear that settled in her bones and propelled her steps forward.
A hack drove by, but it did not slow down when she waved.
At this time of night, few conveyances were passing on the road.
She hurried her steps again, pacing wider so she could cover more ground, without it looking like she was fleeing.
If she could just put more space between her and the boots behind her, she could slip off to a side street and lose them before they sprang on her.
The thought had her scanning each coming turn, mentally gauging the distance between her and her pursuers, for she was now certain that was what they were.
How stupid of her to get herself into such a predicament.
Benjamin would have railed at her for going out without an escort to a place like this, especially so late at night.
She hoped he would forgive her now—if he heard of her foolish demise.
It was that thought that propelled her even faster, eyes fixed on the next turn.
That would be her only chance. If she got there, she could run.
There was a cemetery down the next street. If she could get there, she could hide.
She would run in three…two…one…
A hand shot out and pulled her off the street. She could not even manage a shout as the long arms wrapped around her and covered her mouth, bundling her down the stairs and into the door of a cellar room.
Her whole body was screaming, muscles tensed and eyes frantic, desperate to make out what was happening—how she could run. This was it.
“Shhh. Please don’t scream when I put you down.” The voice sounded as desperate as she felt. “Please, please. They will hear us if you scream.”
She could only frown in response. Her captor’s hand still covered the whole lower half of her face.
“I promise I will not hurt you. But if you scream, he is going to have my hide. I promised to keep an eye on you, and I lost you for one minute, and you were nearly set upon by thugs!” The captor’s voice was…
English. And growing more and more agitated as he spoke to himself.
“Please. You are safe. Please do not scream.”
Charlotte was losing feeling in her arms where he gripped her like a vice above the dark floor. She nodded, if only to be released.
Seemingly satisfied with her response, her captor set her down gently, offering a hand to steady her as she regained balance.
“Who are you? What do you mean you will be in trouble if I scream?”
“Shhhh.” Her voice had been rather loud in the small, dark room. Where were they?
“My name is James Smith. I used to work in London. My employer, Benjamin Scarsdale, sent me to Edinburgh for an apprenticeship last year. He wrote to me a few weeks ago with instructions to keep an eye on you. He gave me your address and an idea of where you might habit to venture. Boy, he was conservative in that estimate. You cover half the city every evening!”
Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light that filtered through some grimy windows on the street side of the wall, and she could see the tall young man who had grabbed her. He was well dressed, like a shopboy or perhaps a clerk.