God help him.
“Take all the time you need, lad.” The reverend gripped his shoulder, then stood. “All the time you need.”
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. Newton was right. He did have God to thank for this appointment.
2
If men’s heads were roses, she’d lop them all off. Gripping the shears in a stranglehold, Miri squeezed them until her arms shook. Clip. For Roland’s sharp words. Snip. His obsessive control. Slice. If only she could as easily be rid of the problems her brother was causing, but things had only worsened now that he’d imbibed a heady drink of power from the pulpit two days ago. Do this. Don’t do that. Chop. Chop. Chop! She’d like nothing better than to nick off Roland’s tongue.
One by one, dead branches collected in a thorny heap at her feet—spiked and tangled as her thoughts. Obviously working in the rectory’s garden would not be a diversion. Not this evening.
Spent, she sank to the ground and laid the shears in her lap. If she couldn’t keep herself composed, how would she ever succeed in keeping Roland calm? She breathed in deeply, savoring the early evening smell of dirt and worms and possibility. Like the possibility of running away to live with Will. Forget about Roland. Leave the bones of her past here in the rectory garden to bleach in the sun.
She exhaled, long and low, until nothing was left. Maybe she was the one slipping into insanity, for it was crazy to think she could find Will and more than madness to think he’d take responsibility for her. Responsibility wasn’t exactly a prodigal’s hallmark.
“Miss?”
Miri startled at the cook’s voice, shoving anger and hurt down into a dark cellar in her heart. No doubt they’d keep. Glancing over her shoulder, she forced a pleasant tone. “Yes?”
Mrs. Makin’s raisin eyes were set deep into her face. Mobcap askew, she looked like a shortbread taken too soon from the oven. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. I hate to be interruptin’ ye, but Master Brayden, why he’s a mite … well, if you don’t mind me sayin’, I’d as soon ask you about the meals for the rest of the week rather than him. Master Brayden is …”
“Cantankerous?” Miri smiled. “Or surly?”
“Oh, miss!” The cook’s brows rose. “I never said—”
“Of course not. I did.” Brushing aside a stray curl with the back of her hand, Miri cocked her head. “Though I vow I won’t own up to it. Now then, what was it you wanted to ask?”
Mrs. Makin clucked her tongue, a censure belied by the sparkle in her eye. “I’m wantin’ to know if the vicar will be back soon. For all his skin and bones, Mr. Eldon is a hearty eater. I’ve been wastin’ a fair amount of time and food, cooking and serving as though he might come to table.” The cook took a step closer and lowered her voice. “But it’s been four days now, miss. You know I tend to my own affairs and all, but I was wondering if you knew … what I mean to say is … that were some scuffle I heard the other morn.”
Miri’s smile faded. So it hadn’t been a nightmare, not if Mrs. Makin had heard the same ungodly sounds in the predawn gloom last week. Angry voices, hushed and low. Crashing furniture. A cry. Then silence, smothering and weighty.
Her own careful search of the rectory had yielded nothing amiss, except for her own shredded nerves—which Mrs. Makin now deftly minced yet more.
The cook glanced over her shoulder, then, with another guarded step, drew nearer. She bent, her words clearly meant only for Miri. “I’ve been meaning to ask if mayhap you knew something about the vicar’s disappearance.”
Hah. As if Mr. Eldon, her brother, or any man for that matter, would confide in her. Men hoarded their secrets like casks of wealth. Miri shook her head. “Sorry. I know as much about Mr. Eldon’s situation as you.”
“Well then, I suppose there’s naught to be done about it.” Mrs. Makin straightened and patted the flour-coated apron stretched across her wide midsection. “My girlish figure has suffered enough. If it’s all the same to you, I shall stop cooking as if the vicar were here. Leastwise till he returns, eh?”
“By all means, Mrs. Makin. Do as you see fit.”
“Thank you kindly, miss.” The cook tucked her chin and turned, her skirt billowing up dust swirls on the walkway.
Miri watched her go. Just past Mrs. Makin’s shoulder, a dark cloud hung low on the horizon. Frogs ribbited, their sound bass and throaty, swelling with the coming night and promising a rainstorm. But peeking over the edge of the thunderhead, the last of the sun’s rays reached out. Miri pushed off her bonnet and lifted her face. Orange light soaked into her skin, dappling a spotted pattern on her closed lids. The evening breeze, while damp, hinted that summer was not far away. If God could change the seasons, why not her life?
Please, Lord, would You?
Working out a kink in her neck from her strained position, she opened her eyes and caught sight of a thick sucker near the base of the shrub rose. She lifted the shears, tilting them first one way, then another. Such an angle would make this difficult. Must even her chosen pastime present nothing but trouble?
The stray curl fell forward again, and she blew it back. Gearing up for a quick, powerful slash, she leaned forward, spread the wooden handles wide, then slammed them together.
“Miriall!”
The blades slipped, gouging into the branch’s flesh. A jagged gash cut deep enough to wound but not to sever, opening the door to disease. Miri stared at it, sickened for a moment, then shot to her feet. The shears clattered onto the gravel. She tugged on her bonnet, brushed bits of soil from her dress, then inched both hands behind her back, hiding the dirt beneath her nails. “Yes?”
The spasm in her brother’s clean-shaven jaw did not bode well. His grimace deepened while his gaze swept her from head to toe. “Return to the house.”
“I shall, shortly.”
“Now.” He turned, the tails of his greatcoat flapping.
Miri glanced at the barren rose bush. There would be few blooms if she did not finish pruning before buds appeared, especially since she’d butchered the poor thing. “Pray, give me leave to—”
“No.” He neither looked back nor paused in his trek toward the rectory.
“But …”
He stopped and pivoted. The waning daylight threw sharp shadows across his face, and she flinched at his resemblance to their father.
He stared her down. “There is naught more to say, child. You will cease squandering your time on this garden of vanity.”
Child? Of all the arrogance. At nine and twenty, he was only five years her senior. Miri lifted her chin and flashed a prim smile. “I fail to understand how caring for the Creator’s handiwork can be construed as vanity.”
“Consider whom you address. I do not recall your face among the dons beneath me at Pembroke.”
A vein protruded on his temple. For one wicked moment, she entertained the crass thought of it bursting.
Remorse forced her to break the deadlock of stares, and she studied the crushed leaves at her feet. “Forgive me. I did not think.”
“One of your many shortcomings. No wonder Father never found you a husband.” He exhaled his disgust, the chirrups of roosting martins the only sound bold enough to reply. “I shall, however, overlook this incident.”
Miri dared look up. Was he truly extending her grace?
“Henceforth you will take better care in minding your tongue and your time. This parcel of weed and sticks is incapable of producing anything of use.” The frown on his lips softened, though it never quite became a smile. “I expect more from you than tending to that which is beyond salvation. Am I quite understood?”
Clamping her lips together, Miri nodded. She understood.
But she could not agree.
Drizzle and darkness. Fog and murk. Miserable companions, comforting as death. If the grim reaper did chance to appear, Ethan would embrace the wraith with open arms. But not even that specter would brave the Old Nichol slum on a night such as this. Dank air settled into his lungs, and a tremor wracked through
him. He tugged the threadbare fabric of his coat tighter and pressed on despite his wavering determination.
“What’s it been now … two days? Three? You suffer in vain, my friend.”
Above the clamor of London’s sleepless streets, the words carried on Will’s gin-soaked breath. The odor added yet one more offensive layer to the stench wafting from the open gutters, triggering Ethan’s nausea. Ethan doubled over and emptied the contents of his gut, adding to the waste. Even after the half-digested remains of the small bread crust hit the muddied lane, he remained bent, dry heaves clenching his belly.
“You don’t have to go through this. You know I’ve the cure for your ills.”
Straightening on shaky legs, Ethan nodded, then wished he hadn’t. Dizziness nailed him, and he grabbed Will’s sleeve. “The cure is—”
“Let me guess … God.” Will shrugged him off, though a smile deepened the dimple in his chin. “Believe me, in the past few days I’ve heard enough from you about God this and God that. Where is your God now that you shake and heave and hurt? If this is your idea of a better life, then I’ll have none of it.”
Pain hammered in Ethan’s temples, and he closed his eyes against it. Mayhap his friend was right; his life certainly wasn’t any better—physically, at any rate. The price of abstinence exacted a cost higher than he’d bargained for. Abandoning his wicked lifestyle had sounded like a good idea while sitting on that church pew, but now—he clamped his lips, forcing back the relentless sickness.
“Your newfound piety will be the death of you. Here.”
Ethan opened his eyes to his friend’s outstretched palm. The lump resting there looked like tar and smelled of poppy seed, settling his stomach at once. Desire shook through him, harder than the chills that had rattled his bones for the better part of the evening.
Perhaps he had been rash in his decision. Even a tot was weaned gradually from his mother’s milk. He ran his tongue over cracked lips, pulse racing. He could start a new life—a good life—tomorrow.
“Well?”
No mortal could bear such temptation—especially not a man like himself. Newton would understand, wouldn’t he? Would God?
Will shoved the piece closer. Relief, escape, euphoria—all within grasp, inches from his fingertips.
Ethan snatched the opium and clutched it to his chest, trembling.
“Good man.” Will clapped him on the back and set off with his long-legged gait, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, then.”
Ethan hesitated. The longer he stood, the more the fog condensed, beading along strands of his unkempt hair, dripping into his eyes and clouding his vision. An utterly foreign feeling of abhorrence at what he was about to do began deep in his chest and spread outward. This was wrong. He knew it.
But it would be the last time.
He swiped moisture and guilt from his brow with the back of his hand, then strode to catch up with Will.
His friend veered off the lane, disappearing into an alley that led to the door of their flat. Hardly bigger than a wardrobe, the lean-to housed all sorts of vermin, both human and rodent. Ethan rubbed his thumb against the silky lump in his hand. Soon it wouldn’t matter where he laid his head.
Increasing his pace, he cut the corner too sharply. A coughing fit raged through him, and he stumbled over a hump of rags.
“Ye scarpin’ prigger! Watch yer step.” The rags shifted, then stilled.
Ethan bent, hacking until he caught his breath. “Sorry, Jack.”
He should have known that the crossing sweep would be balled up about now, but his thinking had turned to wet wool—thick and heavy. Once again he brushed the hair from his eyes and wavered on unsteady feet. The rolling clouds of mist thinned in the narrow passage, and though darkness yet reigned, he could see much better.
“Well, well, just the lackey I been waitin’ on nigh the better part of the eve.” A deep voice, raspy as kicked gravel, met Ethan’s ear an instant before a figure emerged from the side of the building. “Right fine of you to show up, Ethan boy. Not mannerly to keep a business partner waitin’.”
Ignoring him, Ethan sidestepped the man. Fingers bit into his shoulder and yanked him backward, causing his treasure to fly from his grip. Anger filled the hollow in his gut. “Knicker off, Thorne.”
“Surly pup!” Thorne grunted. “Pay up, and I’ll be on me way.”
“No, I’ll be on mine.” Ethan jerked free. He never should have come back. Not tonight … not ever.
Thorne spun him around. A knife blade flashed in his hand. “I said, pay up.”
Ethan’s heart beat erratically. Why was breathing such a chore? Mind racing, he scanned the dark alley for a bottle, a stick, a broken bit of brick. Anything. He’d lost his jackknife, his dagger, his boot blade. Everything … except his soul.
“Caught you with your britches down, did I?” A smile split Thorne’s face. “Yer such a wastrel. Can’t even defend yerself. Ethan Goodwin … ha! Oughtta be Ethan Good-fer-nothin’. You’ll either die at the gallows or of the pox.”
“I suppose that depends upon whether I embrace your principles or your women, doesn’t it, Thorne?” Ethan widened his stance, prepared for anything once that insult hit home.
Thorne’s smile vanished. He advanced a step, glowering. “Then it’ll be a direct route to Newgate for you.”
Newgate? God, no. Anything but that. Please.
Sweat dampened Ethan’s shirt until it stuck to his back like a second skin. He’d watch his blood spill in this alley before he’d rot in a jail cell. Bare hands would have to do. He lunged for the knife.
Thorne sprang forward, slashing.
The blow knocked Ethan to his knees. A new kind of wet, warm and sticky, soaked into the front of his shirt—from the inside out. Pressing his palm against his ribs, he gasped. Drips trickled down his side as he pushed up to his feet. “You cur! You miserable little—”
Will shot past him, a dagger of his own clenched tight and aimed at Thorne’s heart.
Thorne snorted, then feinted into a crouch. At the last second, he twisted. Will’s blade swung wild, throwing him off kilter.
Just the opening Thorne needed. He thrust upward, a blur to Ethan’s eyes. The close alley walls muffled Will’s cry as he lurched backward.
Time stopped. The awful thud of Will’s head smacking the ground sounded overloud in Ethan’s ears. His friend—his only friend—gasped for breath like a fish on sand, an alarming amount of blood pooling on his chest.
“No!” Ethan grabbed Will’s knife, rage narrowing his focus to one potent thought.
Kill Thorne.
He stabbed. Blade met bone.
Thorne’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped, followed by his body. Two twitches later, Nigel Thorne lay still as a corpse.
Ethan cast the dagger aside, then turned and knelt next to his friend. With the last of his strength, he shifted Will’s head to his own lap that his friend might breathe easier. But gurgles accompanied each of Will’s labored breaths.
“Hold on, Will.” He rocked him as a babe in arms. Will’s friendship had ever been closer than a brother’s. Much closer—and well did he know it. “Hold on.”
“Did you … did you kill him?” Blood snaked past Will’s lips and oozed down his chin.
“Hold on!” Ethan swallowed back fear, and his throat tightened. God … what had he done? This was all his fault, and for what? A meal’s worth of pocket change? He tugged at his collar with a free hand, unable to breathe. How had everything gone so wrong when only days ago all had been made right?
“You cannot …” Will struggled, wide-eyed. “Do not stay here. Go … west end. Find my sister. I know she’ll—” Will gasped. “She’ll help you.”
Beneath Ethan’s grip, his friend grew limp. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. “No!”
Ethan jerked his face to the sky. Blackness stared back, nothing more. “God! This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not for Will. Not like this. Take me, not him!”
&
nbsp; “… not worth it …”
Ethan bent, angling his head to catch his friend’s words.
“… she will … help.” Will sucked in a shuddering gulp of air and breathed out his last words. “Seek Miri.”
3
Nigel Thorne stiffened his arms and legs, playing the part of a dead sewer rat left to bloat in the alley. Ethan Goodwin’s heavy breathing had long since fled into the night, but Nigel lay there just the same. No sense taking chances. He’d already wagered and lost enough blood for one evening. If not for the bag of quids tucked beneath his waistcoat, Goodwin’s blade would no doubt have ended him.
He opened one eyelid to the thinnest of cracks. Complete blackness stretched into an endless void. He widened the slit. Impossible. Even with the heavy fog, he ought to at least see a lighter shade of grey.
Both his eyes flew open. The longer he stared, the harder he tried to distinguish some kind—any kind—of variation in the darkness, yet the darkness deepened more. Black crawled in and made a home behind his eyeballs. Gads! Maybe he really was dead.
He jerked up his head. His hat rolled off to the side, and, without the thick felt inches from his face, everything sharpened into focus. Ash heaps. Horse droppings. A pile of rags. And a corpse—one for which he’d rather not take the blame.
Pressing the heel of his hand against the gash near his ribs, Nigel sucked in a breath and staggered to his feet. The alley closed in on him, and he waited for the spinning brick walls to slow into straight lines. He took one step, then spewed out curses. Holy hobnails, but that hurt!
With each step thereafter, he used up every profanity he owned, then borrowed a few he’d heard down at the wharves. Slowly, leaning against shops and posts and sometimes a random drunkard, he worked his way to Shoreditch and finally climbed the stairs to Mistress Pegg’s Bawdy House.
Woozy from pain and panting, he shoved open the door and stumbled into the entryway. A thick waft of perfume mixed with sweat and the soured stench of too much gin stole the rest of his breath. He banged his hip against a small table at the bottom of the stairs, toppling an oil lamp. Grunting, he hung the rest of his body against the stair rail.
Michelle Griep Page 2