Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil
Page 22
No one had noticed Henry going the other way through the flames toward Lucien, Sadie, and Shadwell.
Lucien stared at him, horrified. “You can’t come with us!” he said urgently, his eyes flickering just once toward the doorway to the sewers.
“I don’t intend to,” Henry replied. “But if you hurry, you can come with me. There’s still time to get back through the fire, if we go now.”
But it was Shadwell who answered. “You want him, you must pay.” He was standing close to Sadie, between her and Henry. He put out his hand and his strong, heavy fingers closed like a vise on arm. “If he goes with you, I will kill her.”
Henry hesitated.
“Slowly,” Shadwell elaborated. “Painfully.”
“You are doing that already,” Henry told him. “My leaving Lucien behind will not change that. As you have pointed out before, those who are with you are there by choice. I don’t know what choices Sadie has left. Each decision we take can narrow them. But if she will not fight to save herself, no one else can do it. There comes a point when we all stand alone.”
Lucien took a step toward them.
“Go, while you can,” Henry ordered him. “I’m coming with you.” He turned, and in that instant Shadwell let go of Sadie and put his other hand on Henry. His grip was like iron. For a moment, as he saw Lucien step into the flames, Henry was paralyzed. The pain in his arm took his breath away.
Lucien was gone. Sadie was still standing by the wall, stunned.
Henry swung around to face Shadwell. He had never physically fought anyone in his life. There was only instinct to prompt him.
Shadwell’s face was close to his. For the first time in the red light of the flames, Henry saw his eyes, empty keyholes into hell in his uneven face. He could not bear to look at them. He bent forward a little and charged, knocking them both off balance and toppling onto the floor, kicking at each other. It was ridiculous and desperate. The heat was filling the room and sucking the air out of it. Henry was gasping already.
Shadwell was on top of him, holding his throat. He couldn’t breathe at all. The room swam into darkness.
Then suddenly he was slapped, hard, and gasped for air.
“Get up!” a voice hissed at him. “Get up, you fool! Take my arm!”
Henry opened his eyes, expecting to see Crow and Squeaky, but it was Ash hitting him with the little strength he had. “Get out of here, down the sewer and turn left. Stay left at every turn. Go!”
Henry struggled to his knees. The fire all but filled the room now. Shadwell was on the floor, kneeling, rising, his back to the flames. Sadie was screaming, her clothes alight. Henry tried to lunge toward her but Ash kicked him in the ribs. Henry doubled up with the pain of it and found himself staggering forward. A hard shove from behind and he was through the open doorway. It slammed shut behind him. In seconds the room would be an inferno. Yet he was safe and utterly alone, unable to go back, unable to help.
The sour smell of the sewers was cold and damp, a balm to his seared skin. He was glad to step into the icy water and wade to the left. Feeling his way in Stygian darkness, he was too relieved to be afraid.
The water grew deeper, the current of it stronger as he went a little uphill. As Ash had told him to, he bore always to the left.
His feet were numb beyond his ankles by the time he saw light ahead, but he had not had to travel as long as he had feared. With a shudder of relief he made his way onto a ledge and upward to an iron ladder. He grasped it and climbed to the passage above.
There were sounds ahead, footsteps. Henry froze. Then he saw the pool of light on the dripping wall. Suddenly the slime of it was gold. A whole lantern appeared, and the hand holding it, then the sleeve of Squeaky’s scorched and ruined jacket.
“Squeaky!” Henry shouted with joy. “Here! Over here!”
Squeaky came forward at a run, the lantern swinging around wildly, as his feet slid on the wet surface. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, his face contorted with both fury and relief. “You had us scared half to death! You ever do that again, an’ I’ll …”
Crow was coming behind him with Lucien and Bessie. They were all filthy, skin scratched and burned. Their clothes were torn and in some places blackened by fire, but they were alive.
Bessie threw her arms around Henry, hugging him with more strength than he would have thought she could possess. Slowly he closed his arms around her and held her just as powerfully.
“You need to get those burns tended,” Crow interrupted. “We should get out and find clean water, bandages.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed. “Yes, of course.” Now that he thought of it, parts of him hurt appallingly. Even in the semi-darkness here, he felt as if he was still on fire. He let Bessie go at last and tried to collect his wits.
Crow took him by the arm, but holding only the cloth of his sleeve, not touching his skin. “Come on. Lucien knows the way.”
It seemed like a long time, but perhaps it was no more than half an hour before they were standing in the street. The lamps were lit and gleaming in the dark, shedding pools of gold on the snow. Icicles sparkled from roofs and gutters. There were a few carriages and hansoms around, and they could hear harnesses jingling, hooves muffled in the snowdrifts that were still fresh and untrampeled.
In the distance people were singing.
Crow, the least disreputable-looking among them, hailed a cab. They all piled in, although with difficulty. Henry needed a little assistance.
“Where to?” Crow asked.
Henry gave him James Wentworth’s address.
Lucien began to protest.
“According to the driver, it’s Christmas Eve,” Henry told him sharply. “You’re going home. Where you go after that you can choose, but tonight you owe us this.”
Lucien sat stiff and afraid, but he did not argue.
It was not a long ride to Kensington, where James Wentworth lived, but to Henry, who was exhausted and very sore, it seemed to take ages; Only now, on the brink of impossible success, did he actually wonder if Wentworth really wanted his son back to forgive him. Perhaps it would instead involve some harsher discipline, some price for his disobedience and the family’s shame.
When they stopped they had to fish between them for enough coins to pay the fare and offer the cabbie a bonus fit for Christmas Eve. They climbed out stiffly, helping each other, until they stood on the freezing pavement. The hansom jingled and rattled off into the distance.
The street was lit as far as they could see in both directions. There were wreaths and garlands on the doors. Somewhere far away church bells were ringing out across the rooftops.
Henry walked up the short distance to Wentworth’s door, lifted the brass knocker, and then let it fall.
The door was opened almost immediately and the liveried butler stared in undisguised disbelief.
Lucien stepped forward. “Happy Christmas, Dorwood. Is my father at home?”
The butler gasped and his eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Mr. Lucien,” he said gravely. “If you care to come in, sir, I shall tell him you are here.” He did not even bother to ask who his companions were.
Inside, the magnificent hall was decked for Christmas, as if they had been expected. The Yule log was burning in the open hearth. There were garlands of holly, ivy, and mistletoe, with colored ribbons. Red wax candles glowed. There was mulled wine in a large bowl on the sideboard, and cakes and pies and candied fruit in dishes.
A door flew open. James Wentworth came out, his eyes wide, his face shining with joy. He went straight to Lucien and threw his arms around him, too filled with emotion to speak.
Then he let him go and turned to Henry, the tears wet on his cheeks.
“Nothing I can say is thanks enough.” He all but choked on the words. “My son was lost, and you have found him for me—you and your friends. My home and all that is in it are yours.” He looked questioningly at each of them.
“My friends,” Henry introduced them. �
��Dr. Crow, Mr. Robinson, and Bessie.”
Bessie curtsied, with a slight wobble. Crow stood beaming the widest smile of his life, and Squeaky bowed, really rather gracefully.
“How do you do,” Wentworth replied. “Happy, happy Christmas.”
Dedicated to all who look upward
BY ANNE PERRY PUBLISHED BY THE RANDOM HOUSE PUBLISHING GROUP
The Sheen on the Silk
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin Execution Dock
Acceptable Loss
FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Highgate Rise
Belgrave Square
Farriers’ Lane
The Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
Buckingham Palace Gardens
Treason at Lisson Grove
THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS
No Graves As Yet
Shoulder the Sky
Angels in the Gloom
At Some Disputed Barricade
We Shall Not Sleep
THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS
A Christmas Journey
A Christmas Visitor
A Christmas Guest
A Christmas Secret
A Christmas Beginning
A Christmas Grace
A Christmas Promise
A Christmas Odyssey
A Christmas Homecoming
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, most recently Buckingham Palace Gardens and Treason at Lisson Grove, and the William Monk novels, most recently Execution Dock and Acceptable Loss. She is also the author of the World War I novels No Graves As Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep, as well as nine Christmas novels, most recently A Christmas Homecoming. Her stand-alone novel The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Byzantine Empire, was a New York Times bestseller. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.
www.anneperry.com