Two decades ago Cole was one of these lads.
Cole.
He grinned. The remembrance of how he’d chosen his name still held the power to amuse. Shoved from a fancy carriage out onto the street as a tiny lad, his aristocratic father demanded he not return.
‘I have no need of a dirty bastard. Your mother should have known that before she left you on my doorstep. Now off with you and forget this day.’
The stranger, his father, waved his arm as one might shoo away a stray dog. With a forceful push down the extended steps, Cole butted into the side of a merchant’s wagon and watched his father’s fancy carriage roll away, unable to forget the barren fear and utter dejection as he wept for his mother through the night. By morning his emotions had run dry. Determination and pride replaced his previous trepidation. He crawled from beneath the wagon where he’d hidden from rats and predators interested in fresh victims among the overcrowded squalor of St Giles, only to meet with further condemnation and disapproval.
‘Git.’ The merchant of the wagon had arrived, his arm raised, a blackened shovel in his meaty fist. ‘Empty your pockets before you go. You won’t steal from Hewitt Coal and you won’t make a home beneath my wagon neither, you little thief.’
Cole stared at the angry merchant a long minute before he turned and ran, his lungs near bursting from exertion. On that day, a new child was born. Cole Hewitt. He’d chosen the name to forever remind of his self-made promise to overcome his humble beginnings and dismiss all knowledge of the past. When he’d stopped his race against time and regret, he’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and fought tears, motionless and defeated. From that moment on he’d survived day to day, hungry and cold, until a worn pair of boots intersected his path where he’d hidden in the dank corner of an empty alley.
His life would have become just another dreadful story if Maggie hadn’t scooped him up and offered him shelter. Eventually she taught him his worth and, with that new-found belief, he vowed to become a better person, achieve success and never look back. He would forget his past, wipe it clean from his memory and build a thriving future that had nothing to do with his parents’ rejection.
He shook his head with pride, unwilling to forage through the despicable memory of his abandonment and the hardships of the years that followed. Today was not that day.
Dressing with alacrity, he hailed a hackney for the ride to Charing Cross, able to keep the rest of his unpleasant past at bay. Then, after purchasing a bouquet of lilies from a flower cart, he knocked on the door, only to discover no one answered. Where might Maggie-girl be at such an early hour? He pressed his ear to the panel. Not a sound stirred within.
He called her his makeshift mother, but she was no more than ten years older and, at thirty-seven, she’d made her life’s work to better the lives of the pallid faces lost to the streets. So many abandoned urchins benefited and, with his accumulated wealth from the Underworld, he’d provided most every advantage for her generosity to reach others.
He eyed the modest house, its wooden porch swept clean of debris, the windows freshly washed. How often had he offered to purchase Maggie a fine townhouse in Mayfair, but she stubbornly refused to leave, dedicated to those less fortunate? Instead he set her up in fine rooms, at least the best this area possessed, and this too was his legacy, an opportunity to make his past a matter of selective remembrance. And in that way, poverty was a blessing. No one asked questions in Charing Cross. It was easier that way.
Dismissing the familiar reminiscence, he retrieved the brass key from his trouser pocket and turned it in the lock. Inside, he lit the lantern on the hook near the door and placed the bouquet on the kitchen table for Maggie to discover when she returned. He hadn’t eaten and a full stomach would do well to start his day, but instead of nabbing a biscuit from the breadbox, he ventured to the bedroom where he stored a few personal articles in the top drawer of the armoire. He removed the jar of bootblack and adjusted the standing mirror upward so he could see his reflection. Then, with a nimble touch, he worked the black grease through his hair, darkening the golden strands to pitch in less than a heartbeat. He cleaned his hands on a cloth kept there and, with the scarcest vestiges of residue on his fingers, massaged a tinge of colour beneath his eyes, into the hollows of his cheeks, just enough to alter his complexion to ashy and tired, cautious not to appear sickly. He’d kept a day’s growth of whiskers for a scruffy, uncivilised affect. Last, he moistened the gum paste and attached an unkempt moustache, so bushy it appeared almost a beard. A useless pair of spectacles completed his transformation.
Whistling a cheerful tune, he cleaned up his handiwork, replaced the items and donned a jacket he kept in the hall closet before he locked the door and made to leave. With his initial plans deterred, he would make use of the afternoon with another endeavour.
He had only one foot off the stoop when an ordinary rented hack pulled to the curb in front of the address. No one ventured far into Charing Cross. Most especially by hackney.
Some people walked.
Most people ran.
Charing Cross was a community of habitual crime. The poverty-stricken population saw no way to survive without repeatedly plundering victims and therefore stole from each other as much as any fool who roamed without protection and wherewithal. While this particular area had elevated to a modicum of respectability in a broad sense, only a few blocks south a semi-derelict warren of dilapidated houses and open sewers rivalled the worst living conditions in all London.
More than a little intrigued, he watched as a woman disembarked. This was no place for a refined lady. Her intricately stitched gown and wool pelisse tempted his smile to surface as much as the long scarf wrapped around her head, to shadow her face or add allure. One could never tell. She must be gentry, but hadn’t she any sense? Only a fool arrived in the middle of Seven Dials wearing anything that resembled quality. She would draw more attention than had she disembarked in the nude. That same smile broke free. His swindling days were long behind him, still he could spot an easy mark with surety. What could the lady be about?
He had no time to consider it further as she aimed directly for the steps where he stood, her face narrowed with a look of determination, her petite figure rigid with purpose.
‘May I help you?’ She was a pretty piece of muslin, or at least held the potential to be. Right now her brows were lowered and mouth pinched tight into a grimace, while that unbecoming scarf covered most all other features.
She raised a delicate gloved hand as if to release him from his offer. ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice was an even-tempered whisper. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend.’
‘Miss Devonshire, is it?’ He couldn’t imagine who would wish to speak to Maggie. Even the most well-intended charity folk didn’t venture into this area alone. Maggie was in the practice of helping lost children, those neglected by unprincipled parents who would otherwise be left to loiter and wander were someone like she not to intercept their terrible fate. And while charity had its place, forgotten orphans were not an aristocratic preoccupation by any means.
In his experience, Quality held themselves above the sad truth of London’s squalor. It was a subject to be discussed in Parliament, not a problem to be solved. What service could this lady seek? ‘Is it a matter of business or pleasure?’
‘I suppose it is a bit of both.’ She retreated a step though she kept her head lowered. ‘And no business of yours.’
Despite her stern set-down, the lady appeared a nervous rabbit, too quick to glance over her shoulder or beyond at the slightest noise, though every motion accentuated her misplaced presence and drew further attention. He watched a suspicious shadow across the street who paid close notice to their interaction. Didn’t the woman know the perils of the area? Did all of higher society live with their heads in the clouds?
Probably.
‘You