The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

face was lovely; her eyes were large and she had a wide brow. The first word that came into his head was class. She had it, in Amos’s opinion. She obviously came from good stock. Suddenly, he knew deep inside himself that this was true. He glanced surreptitiously at Rose, who was talking to Stephen and Vicky, and caught a glimpse, fleeting though it was, of the young woman in the photograph. She was Rose’s mother, he truly believed that.

      Turning the picture over, Amos looked again to see if there was a photographer’s name on it. No luck, there wasn’t. If there had been a name they would have noticed it when Rose had first allowed them to open the bag.

      ‘What can you show me next, Rose?’ Amos asked, and she turned from Vicky and Stephen, looked in the bag and brought out a key. She handed it to him.

      It was a plain key, no name or markings on it. Amos shook his head. ‘I don’t know what this is for. Do you, Rose?’

      ‘Mam’s key,’ she answered and looked at Vicky as if she could supply the answer.

      Amos handed the key to the child. After putting it away she brought out a piece of flannel, a scrap really. He knew what it was—the gold wedding ring. He took it out of the cloth, his eyes resting on it for a moment, and then he wrapped it carefully and once more she took it, placed it in the bag.

      There were other small things, which she showed him, mostly a child’s treasures, things she had saved for herself. Several coloured glass marbles, a pressed flower between two sheets of paper, a handkerchief, and a small prayer book. Inside he saw again the neat inscription: ‘To Grace from Mother.’ No date. Nothing else. Not a word.

      A brick wall, he thought. We’re facing a brick wall. Looking at Vicky and Stephen, his eyes full of disappointment, Amos murmured, ‘It’s the same as last time, I’m afraid. I haven’t found a clue amongst her things. I somehow thought I might, that there would be something there that would be a lead, a clue, something I’d missed before. I’m afraid it’s wishful thinking on my part.’

      ‘We understand,’ Vicky said. ‘And anyway, it will be like starting afresh, won’t it, Amos? The three of us together…a new family.’

      Pushing herself to her feet Vicky went over to Fenella standing near the table. She slipped her arm through hers, and said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, my dear, dear friend. I shall be forever grateful.’

      ‘Vicky, darling, I’m thrilled for you and Stephen, and for that simply gorgeous child. She’s lucky, we’re all lucky.’

      ‘If it hadn’t been for Amos and Haddon House—’ Vicky broke off and shook her head. ‘Imagine what might have happened to our little rosebud if Amos hadn’t found her and you hadn’t opened Haddon House three years ago?’

      Fenella nodded and smiled. All of a sudden she seemed on the brink of tears. She swallowed them back, took control of herself, and together the two women walked across to the big sofa near the fire. As usual, the child was clutching the cloth bag, and appeared to be suddenly alarmed as the two women approached.

      Vicky said, ‘Don’t look so frightened, Rose. I’m going home now—’

      ‘Naw! Naw!’ the child whimpered, and her face crumpled. Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Please doan go.’

      ‘Ssssh,’ Vicky said softly, and knelt down in front of her. ‘You’re going to come, too, Rose, with me and Stephen, to our house. And you shall live there with us, and we shall look after you always, and we shall keep you safe.’

       THIRTY-FOUR

      The sunlight filtering in through the many glass windows in the conservatory cast a soft golden glow on everything on this sunny May Saturday.

      Amos Finnister glanced around, admiring the room, which was airy and lighthearted, yet extremely comfortable with wicker chairs and sofas filled with plump cushions, and matching occasional tables. It overflowed with white orchids and others of more brilliant hues. Nan Watkins’s pride and joy, they were glorious, and Neville’s wife had created an indoor garden that was serene and peaceful, a quiet haven.

      Will Hasling, who was sitting with Amos, broke the silence when he said, ‘I have finally met Rose, and she is the loveliest little girl. My sister and Mr Forth are thrilled to have her, and Rose is lucky to have fallen into their laps, so to speak, thanks to you.’

      Amos looked across at Will, inclined his head. He had grown to like this young man, found him admirable in many ways, not the least in his devotion to Edward Deravenel, his genuine loyalty to him. Will was also intelligent, well informed about business and politics, and a warm-hearted, kind person.

      ‘I wonder if you understand how truly lucky the child has been?’ Amos asked in a low voice.

      ‘To a certain extent, yes, I do. She could have died out there alone on the streets, from hunger or exposure, or she could have been seriously injured in some way. Or taken by the wrong kind of person, someone who might have easily abused her, hurt her.’

      A shadow crossed Amos’s face, his mouth tightened; there was a long reflective pause before he finally said, ‘The latter would have been the worst, in my opinion. If you’re dead you’re free…certainly from further harm. Injured, you’re in hospital hopefully, or being looked after somewhere safe. On the other hand, if you’re grabbed by the wrong people, forget it.’ He shook his head and there was a sudden sorrow on his face. ‘Those kind are unscrupulous. They’re the ones who sell children to brothels and to white slave-traders, who ship them abroad to be re-sold like so much cattle in markets dealing in humans. Boys as well as girls. Sold to brothels, where they are in bondage for the rest of their lives. They never escape.’ Amos paused, and for a moment he looked pained, his eyes weary, his face pale. He sighed, then he noticed that Will was watching him closely, obviously interested in what he was saying.

      Amos continued more slowly, ‘Then there are those criminals who run gangs of children, they teach them how to be criminals, to steal in the streets and on the river ferries crossing the Thames…they are trained to be pickpockets, and they become dangerous little thieves, and they, too, are doomed to a life of crime and degradation.’

      Will Hasling sat back, staring at Amos, a man whom he had come to like, respect and trust. After a moment, Will remarked, ‘There’s a whole world out there that few people are aware of. Especially people like me, who don’t know much about crime and criminals and the East End.’ He grimaced and added, ‘We’re not all that well informed, I’m afraid, are we?’

      ‘That’s true, sir. And you know, it takes all sorts to make a world,’ Amos answered. ‘Some of the worst types reside in Whitechapel, Limehouse, Southwark, and the environs. On the other hand, by the same token, there are innumerable good, upstanding, law-abiding citizens living there as well. Rose could have ended up being taken in by good people. However, more than likely they would have been very poor, and she would have been an extra mouth to feed. It would have made it tough on them, and she would have been a terrible burden.’

      ‘Rose had a narrow escape, I understand what you’ve been saying,’ Will murmured quietly. ‘And I do have a bit of knowledge from my sister. She has told me a little about those awful places—the rookeries, in particular. They sound vile.’

      ‘They’re foul. Unspeakable broken-down tenements surrounded by dark alleys and cul-de-sacs, underground tunnels, dead-end ginnels and yards. The rookeries are enormous slums, and dangerous, Will, hard for you to comprehend. It’s a violent world in there, not even the police go in unless they have to, and they never go in alone or even in twos and threes. They enter as a large posse so that they can protect each other.’

      Leaning forward, Will now said, ‘You’ve painted quite a picture, a terrible picture, and what I don’t understand is why they’re not torn down?’

      ‘And where would they go, the poor who live there? Answer me that.’