Green Eyes

by Karen Robards

  The story touched her to the heart. Catching his hand, Anna rose on tiptoe to press a kiss to the hard lips that at the moment wore a rueful, self-mocking smile.

  “You’re not on the outside any more, my darling,” she told him softly as her fingers entwined with his. “And you never will be again.”

  And then, his misgivings be damned, she half coaxed and half led him back to the house.

  About the Author

  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved to write. My first book was a ten-page effort written at age five for my grandmother. Throughout grade school, high school and college I wrote for various school publications. When I was eighteen, my first professionally published piece—a humorous anecdote—appeared in Reader’s Digest. Still, it never occurred to me that I might become a professional writer. I aimed for a career as a lawyer and was actually in law school when I sold my first book. When that happened, the world lost a would-be lawyer and gained a writer. That book, which is still in print, is Island Flame, and it was published when I was twenty-four. Since then, I’ve written over forty books, which regularly appear on the New York Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly bestseller lists, among others. The mother of three sons, I read, I write, and I chauffeur children. That’s my life.

  Connect with Karen Robards Online

  Website: http://www.karenrobards.com/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/TheKarenRobards

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKarenRobards

  Sample Chapter from Loving Julia

  I

  “You, Jool, get yer arse movin’ and do as yer bid! Now! Or, by God, I’ll. …”

  A swipe with a brutishly thick forearm finished the threat. Jewel Combs ducked the blow with the agility of long practice. The rush of air as it just missed her head blew long tendrils of her inky black hair upward in its wake. She was not one whit bothered by the violence. Getting hit was nothing new to her; if a day had passed since her birth some sixteen years before when someone had not hit her for something, she could not remember it. Dodging blows—or taking them if she wasn’t fast enough on her feet—was a fact of life for her and all those like her the ragged, dirty urchins who had no home but London’s filthy back streets.

  In fact, she was luckier than most, and she knew it. She had a family, of a sort. Jem Meeks was meaner than a gutter rat and almost as ugly with his thin, cadaverous face and long beak of a nose, but if you did as you were bid he saw to it that you had a place to lay your head nights and a crust of bread with a bit of meat to sup on. And he kept you safe. No one bothered you if you were one of Jem Meeks’ band of pickpockets, hawkers, and petty thieves.

  “I’m goin’ I’m goin’, ya ol’ cod’s head!” Jewel muttered tartly. Reaching behind her, she yanked tight and tied the laces of her most prized possession—a new dress salvaged from the castoffs of some down and out theater company.

  At that time of night the loft was nearly deserted; the assorted characters who resided there practiced their vocations after dark. Besides her and Jem, there was only Ol’ Bates (whose lay was pretending to be blind drunk until some cove bent over him to rifle his pockets, and then robbing the surprised cove instead), and Nat the Tinker (so called because he would carry the finest of the watches and gewgaws he lifted under his coat, and offer them for sale to passersby on the street when the need for drink was in him). Ol’ Bates was sick, as he had been often lately what with the damp all around, and Nat was sleeping off a drunk.

  Jewel stepped carefully over Nat’s snoring form, which lay sprawled across one of the half dozen or so beds made of old sacks that covered one section of the floor of the huge, drafty loft. Reaching the exit, she ducked her head to get through the low door. The stairs twisting downward were broken and rickety, blackened by the fire that had left the warehouse unusable and prey to squatters like themselves. But Jewel took them with the surefootedness of a young goat, carefully holding her skirts clear of her feet to keep her precious dress safe. A large rat skittered down ahead of her, staying close to the wall. Its long naked tail left a trail in the heavy layer of soot and dirt. Jewel barely noticed it. Like blows, rats were a part of her life.

  Behind her, Jem clumped more cautiously. The thud, thud of his heavy boots echoed the gradually accelerating thumping of her heart. She wasn’t afraid, not Jewel, but she didn’t much care for this new lay he’d come up with. But, as Jem said, times were hard in this year of our Lord 1841, what with them so-called Corn Laws doing in the gentry so that they weren’t near as plump in the pocket as they used to be. And with the winter as bad as it had been, and the nobs just now starting to trickle back to town, why, things were in a sad way.

  Jewel was an expert ticker hunter (tickers being watches and hunting them being, in a manner of speaking, what she did), trained by the best pickpocket around, as Jem claimed he had been before he had gotten hit with the rheumatiz. But when there was nothing in the purses of those she robbed even artistry such as hers was of little value. None of them had been having much luck lately, not even Corey the Chaser. His lay was jumping out in front of gentlemen’s rigs and then rolling away at the last possible moment, screaming so that the victim would think him injured and offer him something—generally a pound note—to keep him from raising too much fuss about being run down. As Jem said, “Ya gotta do wot ya gotta do,” and to eat they had had to come up with some new lays. If Jewel didn’t like the one he had chosen for her, well, she could do it or get out.

  Her one consolation was that the new game had required the acquisition of the fine looking dress she now wore. Jewel clutched the crimson silk skirt and jumped down the remaining four steps so as not to have to wade through the pile of offal that someone had dumped on them. Landing lightly, she tugged at her tight bodice and tucked in between her breasts a torn edge of the black lace that adorned it, trying not to notice the pumping of blood in the veins of her neck, or the sweat that dampened her palms. She had loathed this lay from the first, when Jem had assured her it was a one time thing. But that first time had netted them a tidy sum, and Jem was never one to pass by a source of easy money. If her stomach wasn’t strong enough to stand the sight of a little blood, well, then, her stomach shouldn’t be so damned weak livered. Or so Jem said.

  The worst part was that they needed Mick for this lay.

  She hated Mick, really hated him. He liked the new lay, liked the violence and the blood, she could tell he did. Mick was short and stocky with oily dark hair, a broad pockmarked face and little gleaming black eyes that glistened like cockroaches whenever they rested on Jewel. And he had thick, meaty hands—about a dozen pair of them, which he could never keep to himself. So far, she had managed to fend off anything more than the occasional grab, but she knew that she had Jem more than her own physical prowess to thank for that. Of course, if ever the day came when she refused to do what Jem asked, well, she would have to make damned sure that day never came. For a chit with no one to look after her, London’s slums were a dangerous place. Jewel figured she would last about one day before she fell victim to one of the area’s many predators. Then she would be lucky to end up, alive, in a whorehouse.

  Her hand was outstretched to touch the crazily leaning door that led onto the street when it suddenly swung open. She had no time to step back before she was pulled against a thick chest and imprisoned by bearishly strong arms.

  “Eh, Jewel me dear, waitin’ fer me, were ya? That’s awright, I like me wenches eager.” Mick squeezed her tight while a slow grin exposed teeth that were already beginning to turn brown around the edges from rot.

  “I tole ya to be ’ome early. Ya knew we was goin’ out ternight.” Jem’s irritable grumble came from behind Jewel. She jerked angrily against Mick’s hold, feeling safe with Jem at hand.

  “Ah, Jemmy, I’m ’ere, ain’t I? An’ I’m ready fer work.”

  Despite her struggles, Mick hugged Jewel even tighter as he spoke, rubbing his crotch against her in a way that made her want to throw up
. His man-thing was hard and swollen and it hurt as he pressed it into her flesh. She shoved him fruitlessly. She might have grown up wild, but she was a good girl that way. Her ma, whom Jewel could just barely remember, had told her always to keep herself to herself, and Jewel always had. There might come a time when she had to trade her body for food and shelter, but that time hadn’t come yet. If it did, well then, she would do what she had to do. But she sure as hell wasn’t goin’ to let Mick toss her on her backside for free in the meantime.

  “Yer gettin’ some real nice little titties on ya, Jewely,” Mick whispered in her ear as he rubbed himself against her again.

  Jewel clenched her teeth in revulsion. She hated Mick. … What she would really like to do was stick a knife in his middle. But since she didn’t have a knife on her she made do with the next best thing. Catching a fold of the flesh in the soft area near his armpit, she twisted it between her thumb and forefinger as viciously as she could. Mick yelped and jumped back, helped by a mighty shove from Jewel.

  “Ya keep them filthy ’ands an’ that filthy mind offa me, Mick Parkins, or I’ll slit yer throat for ya some fine night whilst you lay sleepin’,” she hissed, glaring at him ferociously before stomping on through the door. Behind her, she heard Jem’s bark of laughter.

  “Better watch yerself, me bucko, or she’ll be carvin’ ya up for fish bait,” Jem advised with a chuckle.

  “She’ll sing a different tune one o’ these days, the little bitch, mark me words,” Mick growled.

  Jewel tried to ignore the little shiver of fear that ran up her spine at the threat. Mick was getting bolder with her all the time, and one day soon she feared that even the threat of Jem’s retaliation would not be enough to keep him off her.

  “C’mon, let’s get goin’. We ain’t got all night.” Jem was walking beside her now, and Jewel put the threat of Mick aside for the moment. Mick came up close behind her, as she didn’t resent his nearness. Now they were merely partners in crime, all three intent on the job they had to do.

  Even at noontime the narrow cobbled street was shadowed by the dilapidated buildings of timber and brick covered with dingy, peeling mortar that leaned one against the other, blocking out the sun. Now, as Big Ben boomed the strokes of two A.M. in the distance, the street was as dark as the inside of an unlit cellar. There was a sputtering streetlamp on the far corner, but its light came nowhere near the middle of the street where the three of them walked, Jem and Mick in shabby frieze coats and slouch hats pulled low, and Jewel in her red silk dress with her hair twisted up into as close as she could come to a fashionable knot.

  Thick fog rolling in off the Thames shrouded everything, making the air heavy and damp and depositing slimy particles on Jewel’s hair and skin. She shivered at the cold, glancing resentfully at her companions. They wore coats while she had to be next door to naked to attract the pigeon. But then, feeling cold was nothing new to her. She didn’t know why it was bothering her so much lately. Maybe she was getting old. …

  The smell from the nearby river and the overflowing gutters underfoot was enough to knock the uninitiated right off their feet. Jewel, sucking in the stink along with the fog, barely noticed it. Just as she barely noticed the drunks lying in the gutter, or the shadowy forms lurking in doorways or skulking along the labyrinth of connecting streets through which they passed. Like the rats, the cold, and the stink they were a part of life in the slums of Whitechapel.

  “Ye’ll do jest fine, Jool-girl.”

  Jem, clearly sensing her nervousness with that strange sixth sense of his, clapped a hand on her bare shoulder as he spoke. Jewel jumped at the unexpected touch, but the large warm hand steadied her as it propelled her toward the cross street where the streetlamps sputtered fuzzily through the fog-muffled darkness. It was almost time. …

  She rubbed her arms, left bare by the short puffed sleeves of the low cut dress, wishing vainly for the warmth of summer as she did so. It was mild for early March despite the fog. But it was still much too cold for her fashionable bodice. Her work clothes, she thought with a grimace, and rubbed her arms again.

  They reached the lamplit street, and with a final encouraging squeeze of her shoulder Jem pushed Jewel out into the light while he and Mick ducked into a nearby alley. It was her job to walk along the street, with Jem and Mick following in the shadows, until she found a pigeon. Then she had to lure him in, and she hated it. In her usual lay, she had respect. She worked the shoppers haggling at street markets in her own territory, where she was well-known amongst the street people. There, her friends would cover for her if things went wrong. What made the new lay so dangerous was that they were operating outside their usual territory; tonight Jem had decided that they would work the area near Covent Garden, hoping to catch a cit or a toff heading home from a night on the town with his pockets well lined and his wits befuddled by drink. They planned to relieve their victim of all his valuables instead of just his ticker or his purse, and if the pigeon was plump enough they wouldn’t have to work again for several days.

  Jewel had to admit that a single hit with this lay brought in considerably more than she usually managed to pinch in as much as a week on her own. The pigeon was chosen with care, and Jem and Mick were thorough, stripping the man of every single valuable, from the occasional fur lined cloak to the more common fat purse, ornate gold watches on heavy chains, profusions of rings, fobs and seals, silver hip flasks, small painted miniatures of family members framed in gold (it was amazin’ what some folks carried on their persons!) to sometimes even his clothes and shoes, if they were grand enough and if Jem felt they might fetch a good price resold. Yes, it was certainly quicker prigging the whole man rather than just lifting the items from his pockets, but it was more dangerous, too. In this lay, the three of them came face to face with their victims. They could be identified with ease.

  Along the cobblestone street other females moved, some with their heads down and covered with shawls to denote their modesty, some lurching along as they lovingly swilled the contents of stone jugs, some decked out in tawdry finery and on the prowl—as was Jewel.

  Two men, well-to-do cits by their clothes, were walking along the street together, steady on their feet and sober of countenance. Not very good prospects, Jewel thought, forcing herself to concentrate on the business at hand. The sooner she played her part, the sooner it would be over with.

  Ahead of her, a whore in a floss-trimmed dress so faded that it was difficult to tell if it had once been blue or green approached the men, smiling so that her few teeth showed and thrusting her body forward so that they could get a better look at her ample—and nearly bare—bosom.

  “Wanna ’ave some fun, gents?” she whined, her coy smile not masking the avarice in her eyes. One of the men looked at her with some interest, but the other pulled him away.

  “Don’t be daft, George, she’s likely got the pox,” snorted the second. Then to the whore he added, “Get on away from us, or I’ll have the watch on you!”

  The woman snarled, her face contorting with malice, and let loose with a stream of profanity that made the men’s cheeks redden. Her language didn’t bother Jewel at all. Jewel had heard as bad or worse all her life, and was capable of doing a sight better herself when the occasion called for it. The only thing that bothered her was that the two men were now hurrying away. They hadn’t been good prospects together, but would have been perfect if the whore had managed to separate them. But she hadn’t, and now the area was deserted except for street people.

  “Damn it, Jool, get your arse walkin’. We can’t stand around ’ere all bloody night!”

  The hissed admonition from Mick caused Jewel to grit her teeth. She wasn’t his bloody doxy, to be ordered around as he chose! But she forced herself to relax, and concentrate. The sooner she found a pigeon for the plucking, the sooner this night would be over, and she would be safe in her warm pallet under the eaves.

  “ ’ey, Jool, you takin’ up whorin’? Whisht I was a skirt, so I coul
d fall back on sommit like that! Lord God, light as the gentry’s pockets are lately, I be like to starve to death!”

  The half admiring, half envious voice of the old man behind her made Jewel start. You be as jumpy as a parson with a whore, she scolded herself as she turned to grin at him. Willy Tilden was an inch or so shorter than her own medium height, and he was even thinner than she was. If not for the web of wrinkles that lined his face, he would have looked like a boy. But he was nearly sixty, they said, and he was one of the best, a master pickpocket. He had recognized Jewel’s talent early on, and gave her the respect one professional accorded another. Jewel admired him, but she was also wary of him. Another of Willy’s lays was the providing of females to Mother Miranda, the notorious abbess. Jewel had no wish to end up lining Willy’s pockets by being sold off like a parcel to that one.

  “Not too likely, Willy,” Jewel responded. Her tone held the respect an apprentice owes a master, and the old man grinned at her before moving on. She didn’t like the idea that word would soon be out on the streets that Jewel Combs had turned whore, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  “ ’ist, ya bleedin’ wantwit, keep yer mind about ya! ’Ere comes a ripe ’un.”

  Jem’s near shout of a whisper came from a recessed doorway some few feet behind Jewel. Jewel looked up quickly to see a young man, a toff by the evidence of his fancy wine coat and tan breeches. He was staggering down the street and she was amazed that she had not noticed him some ten minutes earlier. He was singing “God Save the Queen” at the top of his lungs; the sound echoed off the narrow buildings to provide its own ringing chorus. From his singing, to say nothing of the way he stopped to lean a hand against a storefront for support from time to time, it was clear that he was extremely well to live. Jewel’s eyes gleamed as he passed beneath a streetlight, and she saw that he was very young, not yet twenty, she guessed. An easy pigeon to pluck, she thought with relief. Mick should have no excuse to rough him up at all.