As the boats meander just beyond the workhouse buildings at St Pancras, the sisters notice the outline of a man with a torch who stands under a bulbous gas lamp centred above the entry gate. When he lowers his torch, its orange glow reveals his short black jacket and silver buttons.
‘Look, it is the third man.’ Verity points at him. ‘He follows us, sister!’
‘Shh! Do not alarm the others. You are right – it is Mr Benedikt. Look. He tips his hat. He wants us to know he is watching.’
‘How extraordinary. Constance, what is it about the boy? I think I shall go mad with not knowing.’
‘Whatever it is, he is an innocent and helpless, and we must protect him.’
The boatmen scurry about, preparing to enter the last three locks before their course veers onto the spur that leads to the Cumberland Basin. The country sky opens here, and beneath it unfolds a secluded, peaceful valley. The change in the air is remarkable.
The narrowboats settle into the curve of the canal with a short sprint upstream. The evidence of a new town on the edge of London spreads before them. Across the fields, through which the canal navigates, sparsely occupied streets are laid out; a church spire, a sprinkling of commerce, yet Camden Town still sleeps and will only slowly awaken in its development.
On the northern edge of the new Regent’s Park, the canal cuts in two directions. Here the captain steers onto the canal spur that borders and separates two villages, Park East and Park West, and runs south to the spur’s end at the new hay market in the Cumberland Basin.
Standing in a slight valley and set in private gardens railed off from the street, a few villas are scattered in Park East in a haphazard way; no two are alike and they are not in line with their neighbours.
‘There’s yer castle, madams,’ Captain Emil tells them.
Tower Lodge looks as if it is on fire. Huge braziers flare with bright flames to light their way from the bank. Men with torches stand in the garden at the ready to help unload. Inside, the shutters are folded back to reveal sparkling, flame-lit chandeliers and candelabra shining through the glass. From the boats the sisters behold the welcome sight of the parlour fire beckoning cold hands and feet.
‘I feel I’m eavesdropping on another’s life,’ Verity says.
A turret rises up four floors to dominate the north side of the house. Torches staggered across the first-floor balcony create jagged shadows that leap around the circular landing. The spectacle renders them silent. Even the great shires stand perfectly still, their feedbags motionless, as they adjust to the towering wall of light that radiates through the tenebrous countryside.
A figure stands inside the house at one of the imposing Gothic windows, and another waves from the Tower Room. Their petite frames turn away and disappear. The featured, tall chimney stacks lend the house a fortress personality, but the gables and classical design of the main body of the house softens the aspect. When the two young women seen in the windows throw open the garden door, the house seems to invite an attachment, as if it would like nothing more than a long romance.
‘These will be the day maids.’ Bertie chuckles. ‘I told ’em they’d be working a long day today. I wanted them here to welcome you. I hope they’ve readied the house as I instructed.’
‘Day maids. Two. Think of it, sister,’ Verity says.
When Verity was nine years old she had asked her father if they were wealthy.
‘Yes,’ he’d said. ‘Very.’
‘And for how long will we be so?’ Constance had asked.
‘With your mother’s help, because she is very clever and holds land and wealth of her own, you will always be secure.’
‘Even if we live to be one hundred?’
His gaze had rested on his daughter’s faces, which seemed to always hold quizzical looks and wrinkled brows.
‘Yes, if you should be so fortunate.’
When the sisters first asked the advice of George Fitzgerald regarding their possible purchase of a ninety-nine-year lease on a house so large and removed from the life they had known, he advised them to follow their instincts because the money was certainly there, and though the well of their fortune was not bottomless, they could easily afford many of the homes in this secluded area in all of their assorted shapes and sizes.
After they are moored at the bottom of the garden, the unloading begins and everyone has a hand in it.
‘Bertie. The champagne, please.’ Constance says.
In the light of all the fires with the motley group of people standing by, their work nearly done, Constance raises the bottle of champagne and gives it a good whack against the wall.
‘Lawless House,’ she says.
‘Lawless House,’ repeats Verity.
When the last box and the last basket are safely delivered into Lawless House, the sisters step on board the captain’s boat once again.
‘We wish all of you well and happy in your new home,’ Angela says.
‘That we do. That we do,’ echoes Captain Emil.
‘Thank you and I shall settle up with you now.’ Constance takes him aside.
‘There is this. And there is this.’ She places two pouches in his hands.
‘But madam … I …’
‘One is the wages, the other is something for the winter. I’ll hear nothing about it. Now, do wave to us on your journeys, and when you have time, a mooring here is always welcome, Captain Emil.’
‘Whenever we pass Lawless House we will have an eye out for the boy,’ Angela says.
‘Should you ever need anything Angela, come to us. We should like to help.’
The boatwoman’s eyes glisten and she nods, but is unable to speak.
‘We are sincere, Angela. This is not a farewell trifle we offer.’
Angela nods, her fierce pride momentarily suspended.
‘Honoured to have met you, Mrs Fitzgerald.’
Verity walks along the towpath
