Scars of Betrayal

by Sophia James

  ‘But you are trying to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I help those without prospects or a place to live and most of these young women see their chosen profession in very different terms than those of wealth and power have a wont to.’

  Nathaniel paused, trying to understand exactly what it was she was saying. ‘You condone this activity? I thought you rescued such women.’

  ‘The Daughters of the Poor encourages financial and social independence. Sometimes the only way of doing that is to make certain that those we aid are safe in their work.’

  ‘You help them remain on the streets?’

  ‘As opposed to leaving them in the throes of a fourteen-hour day inside a cold dank sweatshop run by punitive men.’

  ‘That, I suppose, is another way to look at it.’

  ‘The ideal of refined and protected ladies who are not only good, but who are to know nothing save for what is good is workable only for the rich, though some might say it is repression with a different face.’

  At that he did laugh because he had never had a conversation quite like this with a woman. Such discourse was freeing and he wondered how far she would take her arguments.

  ‘You are an advocate of sex for pleasure rather than for procreation? A dangerous threat to male authority?’

  ‘Look around you, Nathaniel. Women, making their way in the world by the use of their bodies, are a highly visible aspect of our society now. The hope of the Daughters of the Poor is to keep them unharmed.’

  Her use of his name was soft and familiar and when the carriage lurched to throw Cassandra against him, his arms closed around her in a movement all of their own.

  Protected. Like you were not.

  The scent of soft knownness was intoxicating, a small familiarity amongst everything that was changing as the carriage hurtled through the darkness of London’s poorer areas.

  * * *

  Cassandra smiled. Nathaniel had never been a man to step back from risk—she had seen that again and again in France, and now even after a conversation of ideas that he could not have been brought up to believe in, it wasn’t debate he was offering, but comfort.

  A generous man. A generous lover, too. She sat up and away from him. ‘You did not marry again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You did not wish to?’

  He was silent.

  ‘I thought you might be dead after Perpignan.’ Cassie tried to keep the terror from her tone.

  I went to Paris to look for you, to scour the streets for every face that might have been yours. I stayed there for as long as I could manage it and even as I left I looked back.

  ‘Lebansart’s men made certain I could not call for help when they dumped me by the river. When I finally awoke I was in the company of friends and taken by boat to Marseilles.’

  ‘But you never told anyone about me?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said The Lady of Shalott.

  These words went around and around Cassandra’s mind, the refrain plucked from Tennyson as he balanced desire against reality. With more courage she might have told Nathaniel of Jamie and of Paris and of searching for him ever since he was lost to her. She might have reached out, too, in the darkness and simply laid his hand upon her heart so that he heard the strong beat of want and need. And reply.

  But Cassie did none of these things as the carriage drew to a halt and the seedy backwater streets came into view—the call of the driver, the light rain against the cobbles making everything slick-wet and the moon far behind a bank of clouds ensuring darkness.

  Her world. The mirrored shadows. And beyond that the river, sludge-grey as it ran sluggish out to a freedom at sea; neither Camelot nor any other kingdom of dreams.

  ‘Be on your guard,’ she whispered as they made their way on foot down an alleyway, the high and close buildings leaning in, every window hung with the remains of dirty washing flapping in a dirty breeze.

  A woman met them almost instantly. ‘There,’ she said and pointed to a door, the paint peeled and the knocker broken. ‘They have been here a few days and they are back now. I seen a tall man go in there a while ago and he has not come out again since.’

  Nat pulled a knife from his boot.

  ‘He were dressed well, too,’ she returned. ‘He will be in the room at the rear.’ Taking a coin, their informant left, her shawl high up around her hair as she scurried off into the night.

  * * *

  Nathaniel looked around to make certain no one else was watching them. ‘Stay behind me, Sandrine.’ She had insisted that she would be in charge, but he was pleased to see that she obeyed instantly and moved to let him pass. A tall and well-dressed stranger who was up to some nefarious deed. Could this be the man the urchin by the river had spoken of? The corridor inside was narrow, many closed doors leading off it.

  Raising his hand, Nat pointed at keys dangling in a door that was left partly ajar. These people were not expecting any company. They were also patently amateurs. His hopes faded.

  He was inside in a moment and he knew without asking a question that the two youths before him were insignificant within the chain of command. Both were young and both were unarmed, the expressions on their faces frozen.

  On a bed no bigger than a cot a young woman sat crying, her hat beside her and her hair unbound.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Will Fisher, sir,’ the one nearest to him stammered, ‘and this is my brother. He was stupid enough to believe the Lytton gang might pay him a sovereign for a girl new in from the country and he brought her here. Now that I have talked some sense into him we don’t know what to do with her.’

  ‘Is this right?’ He addressed this query to the girl and she nodded. ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why did you bring her to this place?’ He addressed this question to the older brother.

  ‘Kyle Lytton uses it as a hideaway. Jack saw them here over the past few days and thought they were still about.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  All three answered at once. The brothers were seventeen and eighteen, respectively, and the girl but fourteen.

  ‘Get out.’ This was said to the brothers and they did not tarry for a moment, moving past with the look of felons unexpectedly excused from the gallows.

  Cassie was already at the girl’s side. ‘So you are not hurt in any way?’

  ‘No, ma’am. The coach was late and they only just brought me here. Or the younger one did. His brother was furious and arrived straight away after.’ She burst into loud and noisy sobs. ‘And now it’s dark and I don’t know where to go or what to do...and Da will be furious if I arrive back again with nothing in me hand...’ At that thought she could barely carry on.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Sarah Milgrew, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, Sarah, you can stay with me tonight and tomorrow we will find you a place. We have our carriage outside on the next street.’

  ‘I canna afford much for a room, ma’am, but I can sew like an angel, Miss Davis says, and am quick with it.’

  ‘A useful trade and most sought after.’

  ‘My sister came to London some weeks ago and we have not heard from her again. I had hoped to try and find her.’

  Nat’s mind went back to the two girls pulled from the river. ‘Did you sew for her?’

  He saw Cassandra’s eyes fasten on his face, a smal
l frown building on her forehead.

  ‘I did, sir. She left with one of my dresses on and another in her bag. She said she would show people what I do here and find a room for both of us. Da took her to the coach up to London and we had no word after that.’

  Both the girls from the river had been well attired, but there was a touch of the country about them. Could this be the lead that he was after?

  ‘And the coach comes into...?’

  ‘Gracechurch Street, sir. It’s five hours’ travelling in good weather from Wallingford and more if it is wet. That’s where the young man met me and said he could help, but when he brought me here I was afeared...’ She clutched her small bag tightly and looked around the room, drab and furnitureless save for the bed.

  What connection could these girls have with a man who was obviously from London? Could something have happened in their home town to lead them to each other?

  Wallingford was just outside Reading. He filed the name in his mind to be considered later, but right now he wondered how often Cassandra Northrup took it on herself to bring girls like this one home. Many times he surmised by the ease in which she gathered her up and showed her through the door.

  In the carriage the young woman seemed to fold into herself and lean against the far corner, a pose which spoke of hopelessness, implying the difficulty of all she had been through. But at least they had arrived in time. Observing Cassandra’s care, Nat knew that circumstances had not been anywhere near as lucky for her.

  The same awareness that he had experienced back in France all those years before wound into the middle of his chest, and he forced it down. These thoughts were nonsensical because he had no place in her life now, nor she in his.

  He felt anger as she raised her eyes to look at him, the street lamps illuminating the deep shadows of dimple in her cheeks, and was glad to see the gates of the Northrup residence when they came into sight, the fat-bodied hawks on each side swathed in vines.

  As the carriage stopped the front door was thrown open and two maids hurried down the stairs to greet them. They had done this before, Nat thought, as Miss Milgrew was dispatched without fuss or bother into their capable hands, the trio then disappearing up the wide front staircase and into the house.

  Cassandra was still sitting in the carriage, but had moved on to the seat opposite, pulling the door closed in a way that suggested she required privacy.

  ‘If your estate or town house has any need of competent staff, we have a number of girls I could recommend who could well do with a job.’

  This was the last thing he thought she might say, though as he leant forward he had to stop himself from drawing closer.

  ‘Accompany me to the Herringford ball next week, Sandrine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want you to.’ And he did. Desperately.

  ‘Acacia Bellowes-Browne may object, my lord, and the rest of society will almost certainly be astonished.’

  ‘You would let that worry you?’

  ‘I try to stay out of the notice of others. I have limited the occasions that I come into the public sphere and the two times I have done so lately have both been difficult.’

  ‘Society does not quite know what to make of you, which could be a bonus if you use it wisely. I am certain that your charity would benefit.’

  ‘I am not so sure. The Daughters of the Poor relies on the generosity of those of wealth to give donations towards ruin without ever having to confront it.’

  She always surprised him, he thought, always made him feel alive in a way he seldom had been in years. Her dimples. Her hair edging her face in curls.

  ‘I can protect you.’

  His words fell into the silence as she pushed the door open and escaped outside in one fluid movement. Once there she stopped and spoke quietly.

  ‘I can protect myself, Nathaniel, but I thank you for your help tonight.’

  But he did not leave it there. ‘If a ball is too public, come to a private dinner, then, and tell me why I should make a donation to your endeavours.’

  ‘I am certain that would be most inappropriate...’

  ‘A hefty donation...’ he added when she still hesitated.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘A carriage will be sent for you the day after tomorrow at eight.’

  She nodded quickly and then she was gone, pacing towards the front stairs of the Northrup mansion with the singular purpose of retreat. He watched her until the door shut and her shadow flitted briefly against the thin curtains of the downstairs salon.

  * * *

  My God, she should have declined his invite, she thought as she gained her room and leaned against the doorframe. She ought to be downstairs in the room off Alysa’s laboratory, helping the others settle Miss Milgrew in for the night, but she could not risk letting anyone see the panic that was making her hands shake and her heart beat faster.

  Nathaniel Lindsay made her careless and he made her feel things that she should not: warm things, hopeful things, things that held her both in thrall and in fear. Running her fingers across her brow, she felt the clammy sweat of dread. None of these hopes were for her and to imagine that they were would be to simply ruin everything that was.

  She had a life, a good life, a worthwhile life. In the past years she had managed to find a way through adversity and to experience...contentment.

  Cassie smiled at the word. Contentment. To anyone else such an emotion might be perceived to be a bland and worthless thing. But to her it was everything; a way forward, a light after the darkness and the beacon that called her on each and every day. After Nay part of her had shrivelled up and died and after Perpignan joy was an emotion she thought never to know again. But she had known it with Jamie, holding him close against her breast in Paris where she had delivered him at night, the cold fear of aloneness failing to douse the warmth and love she was consumed with.

  Jamie had allowed her a purpose, a new beginning, a way back.

  And now here in London all these years later another chance was being offered. Nathaniel had held her in the carriage as if he would like to offer more than a donation, but she did not dare to believe in such a promise. Not yet. Not now. Not when anyone on seeing father and son together would realise that there was no question of paternity.

  The risk of everything had her sitting, her head between her legs, trying to find the breath she had forgotten to take.

  ‘I can protect you.’

  What did Nathaniel mean when he spoke of protection? The protection of marriage? The protection of being a mistress? The protection of lust and need translated into the flesh, a transient and momentary connection that would wither as soon as he saw the marks upon her breast.

  Traitor.

  No man could want to make love to an embodiment of betrayal. Not even one who had seen her before, whole and beautiful.

  She crossed to the mirror, making certain that the door catch was on before she undid the buttons on her shirt. The cuts stood out, dark red against pale, three long slices of agony.

  Lebansart’s legacy.

  ‘Tell me what was in the documents, Sandrine. Tell me and live.’

  She had recited the names without further hesitation: her child’s safety or that of two faceless men whom she had never met? There was no real struggle, a fact that she was to relive over and over in nightmares that wouldn’t fade. She had stood there with the blood from her breast sticky against her fingers and s
he had itemised all that she had seen.

  He wrote her words carefully in a book with a brown leather binding and a quill whose feathers had seen better days. The ink had stained his finger with black. Little details. Remembered. Her voice had shaken as she spoke.

  ‘Good. Very good. You were worth the trouble.’ Those were his words as he had left the room.

  Leaving her to die, slowly, from a loss of blood. But he had no notion that she was her mother’s daughter and that she would know exactly what to do to lessen the flow and survive. A heavy wad of sheet and two long belts wrapped tight across them before lying face down on the thick mat and willing herself out of panic.

  Survival. She breathed as shallowly as she could and tried not to move at all. And then after a few more hours she began to feel less lightheaded and warmer, the quilt she had heaped upon herself an added comfort and the noon-day light at the window spilling across her.

  It had taken her another hour to find the energy to leave the room and make her way into the street. A doctor on a visit to a patient had found her and bundled her into his carriage and after that she struggled with living for a very long time.

  Except for Jamie. Except for the growth of a child, Nathanael’s child, the only thing anchoring her to the world as everything spiralled into despair and hopelessness.

  Her uncle’s friend had bought her a ticket to Paris as soon as the fever left out of respect for the Mercier family. He had arranged for his small house in Montmartre to be opened for her and sent two maids and a butler along to help her in her quest for independence.

  She did not mention her pregnancy and allowed him no notion of her own family back in London. She needed to think and to plan. She needed to find Nathanael if she could and she needed to be well away from Lebansart.

  The house was quiet and situated in a street not far from the Sacré-Coeur, with a view across the rooftops of the city. Even with the beauty of white marble washed in rain she was lonely and sad, shock reaching into the depths of her soul.