The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Dilly Court

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      ‘We will be safer if you aren’t here,’ Clara said, moderating her tone. Despite his failings he was still her father and she could remember the time when he had been her hero. ‘I can take care of Betsy and Jane, and Lizzie is all right where she is now. Is there anywhere you can go?’

      Alfred clutched his forehead, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I can’t think. I don’t know what to do …’

      ‘It’s all right, Pa.’ She patted his hand. ‘I have to go out and get food and a bag of coal so that we can light the fire. We have three days to find a way out of this – three days, that’s all.’

      She put on her outdoor things, picked up a basket and set off for the bakery.

      When she returned she found to her surprise that Betsy had cleaned the grate and laid twists of newspaper and the last of the kindling ready to light to fire. Alfred had raised himself from his bed and had attempted to shave in cold water, but had cut himself and was holding the towel to his cheek.

      Clara gave the shop boy a farthing for carrying the coal and she set the basket on the table. She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘I’ll get the fire going and make a pot of tea. We’ll talk after we’ve eaten, Pa. But we have to come to a decision soon.’

      ‘I’ve filled the kettle with snow,’ Betsy volunteered. She peered into the basket. ‘Did you get butter and jam?’

      ‘It was a choice between the two, so I bought jam.’ Clara set to and lit the fire before placing the kettle on the hob.

      Betsy was already slicing the loaf and Jane emerged from the bedroom, yawning and blinking as a ray of sunlight filtered through the window. ‘Bread and jam – how lovely.’ She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘Are you quite recovered now, Pa?’

      Alfred bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry, girls. You deserve a better father. I’ve let you all down and I’m ashamed of myself.’

      ‘That’s as may be.’ Betsy slapped a slice of bread onto a plate and thrust it in front of him. ‘Being sorry isn’t going to help us out of this tangle.’

      Clara shot her a warning glance. ‘Pa knows what he’s done, Betsy. Give him a chance to put things right.’

      ‘I have a cousin who lives on the Dorset coast,’ Alfred said slowly. ‘Is the tea ready yet, Clara? My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak.’

      ‘Be patient. It will take a while longer. What were you going to tell us about your cousin?’

      ‘I haven’t seen Jim since we were boys. I doubt if we would recognise each other now, but we were friends once.’

      ‘Where is Dorset?’ Betsy gave the kettle a shake as if encouraging it to come to the boil. ‘I have to leave for work in a few minutes. I need a hot drink to ward off the cold.’

      ‘Never mind that now.’ Clara took a seat next to her father. ‘Dorset is a long way from here. You’d be safe there, Pa.’

      Alfred gazed at her, his bloodshot eyes swimming with tears. ‘But what would I do there, Clara? Jim is a fisherman and he lives in a tiny thatched cottage. Can you see me in such a place?’

      She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I can see you alive and well, living by the sea. You know what will happen to you if you remain here.’

      ‘You have to go, Pa,’ Betsy said firmly. ‘You haven’t any choice in the matter.’

      ‘I haven’t got the fare, girls.’

      ‘Then you’ll just have to walk.’ Betsy snatched her bonnet off the peg and rammed it on her head. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go now, and I haven’t had my cup of tea.’ She picked up her shawl and hurried from the room, muttering beneath her breath.

      ‘What have I done?’ Alfred held his head in his hands. ‘What have I brought you all to?’

      ‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ Clara rose to her feet. ‘Betsy’s right, though. You have to leave London and the sooner the better. The week’s takings have yet to be paid into the bank. I’ll borrow enough to buy you a railway ticket to Dorset but you must leave today.’

      ‘I can’t have you stealing money from Miss Silver. I’m a lot of things, Clara, but I won’t allow my daughter to take what doesn’t belong to her.’

      Clara was tempted to tell him that she had inherited the shop and its entire contents, but she knew that would be fatal. The gleam would return to her father’s eyes and he would see the opportunity to double or treble his stake at the gaming table. It was a disease that was eating him away, for which there was no apparent cure. ‘I’ll work twice as hard to pay the money back, so you mustn’t worry.’

      ‘But, darling girl, if you have the money to send me to Dorset, wouldn’t it be better to give it to Patches? Then I’d be a free man and I could find work and support my family.’

      ‘It’s no good, Pa. Patches wants the money in full. I think you know her well enough to realise that she means business.’

      ‘All right, I’ll go to Dorset, Clara. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never go near Patches Bragg’s place again.’ Alfred reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Promise.’

      Clara crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘All right, I promise. Now pack your things and I’ll go to the shop. The sooner you’re away from London the safer we’ll all be.’

      Clara kept the shop closed for another day, ostensibly out of respect for Miss Silver, but in reality to accompany her father to Waterloo Bridge station. Even though he had promised to leave London, she was only too well aware of his erratic tendencies. When he was in a sorry state and riddled with guilt he would act and think rationally, but as the effects of drinking too much wore off and his optimistic spirit returned, he was likely to head for the nearest gaming club with his ticket money in his pocket.

      Having made sure that he was on the train when it pulled out of the station, Clara set off to walk back to Wych Street. The sun shone palely on the snow-covered rooftops but the icy pavements were still slippery underfoot. The River Thames was swollen with snow melt on the ebb tide as it snaked its way towards the sea, swirling around the stanchions of Waterloo Bridge, playing with the vessels tied up at the wharfs so that they bobbed up and down like toy boats.

      Clara made her way as quickly as possible in the icy conditions, intent on getting her sisters to the relative safety of Miss Silver’s shop. A wry smile curved her cold lips and she reminded herself that it belonged to her now, but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what Patches Bragg might do if she discovered that Alfred Carter’s daughter owned such a property. She quickened her pace, calling in first at the milliner’s in the Strand where Betsy was at work in the backroom.

      Miss Lavelle did not welcome such intrusions, nor did she encourage visits from ladies whom she considered to be unsuitably dressed for a high-class establishment, and from the pained expression on her face when Clara entered the premises, that obviously included her. Tall and painfully thin, Miss Lavelle was able to look down her nose at someone who barely came up to her shoulder. Clara had never considered herself to be short, but Miss Lavelle made her feel small and insignificant.

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