Julia London 4 Book Bundle
Page 67
His eyes roamed her face, searching, as if he had never really seen her before now. “I will protect her with my life, Claudia … how can you not know that?”
There was pain in his voice; she swallowed past a sudden lump of emotion, blinking rapidly against tears that all at once welled in her eyes. “I do know it,” she admitted quietly. And she did—she knew it about him as well as she knew herself, and wondered madly why it had taken her so long to understand it. “I’ll give you the directions.”
Julian pivoted and strode quickly to a writing table, snatching paper and pencil, then strode back to her, thrusting them at her. “Write it down,” he said anxiously, “the exact directions.” He retrieved his spectacles and peered over her shoulder as she wrote the directions to 31 Upper Moreland Street, fairly snatching the paper from her hand when she had finished. He looked tired, she thought, much older than his thirty-three years. He frowned and glanced up at her. “I don’t know the street.”
“You wouldn’t,” she mumbled.
His frown deepened as he stuffed the paper into his coat pocket, then walked swiftly to the door. “How far? I wonder if I might reach it before nightfall?” he muttered to himself, distracted. “I’ll just send a note to Genie—”
“I intend to go to my father’s house,” Claudia said quietly.
With his back to her, Julian paused, his body visibly tensing. Please say no. Say no, say no, she silently begged him. “I won’t stop you,” he said without turning.
What was left of her heart crashed like a falling star to the earth. Tears slipped from her eyes and raced down her cheeks. “I was rather hoping you would,” she said, and gulped back more tears.
Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he turned to look at her. His gaze faltered for a moment as he glanced at the paper in his hand, then at her again. “It’s rather useless, don’t you think?”
“Is it?” she whispered.
He nodded solemnly.
There it was—it was over, all hope gone, crushed—her husband plainly despised her. Claudia forced her gaze from his handsome face to the carpet at her feet—she never wanted to lay eyes on him again, not when he looked like this, so handsome, so virile … so distant and cold. “I’ve packed a few things. If you would be so kind as to send one of the footmen with it?”
“Of course.”
She kept her gaze riveted to the floor, wishing he would just go now, leave her to her sorrow and misery.
“Claudia …”
He would not let her go, not like this! Her heart took wing, feebly attempting to resurrect itself.
“Is there anything I should know about this place? Will I encounter any obstacles if I want to see her?” he asked.
The wings on her heart broke and sent it plummeting to earth in a tailspin. “No, of course not,” she managed. “She is quite safe. You need only knock on the door, and the rest is up to Sophie.”
He nodded, turned away, and walked out of the room.
And Claudia collapsed onto a settee, doubled over in grief as the tears of her despair poured out of her heart.
Julian had but one thought upon seeing Upper Moreland Street: He was glad Claudia was gone, else he’d be tempted to have her head for subjecting Sophie to this place. Upper Moreland Street was clearly far beneath the standard of living Sophie was accustomed to, and Julian resented the hell out of it.
The coach pulled to a stop in front of Number 31; he alighted, closely watching the woman who appeared on the stoop. Small and thin, the gown she wore looked too big for her and had been patched in more than one place. Her graying brown hair was swept back and knotted tightly at her nape, making her look rather severe in countenance. She frowned as Julian walked toward her and folded her arms defensively beneath her bosom.
“Good evening,” he called.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“The Earl of Kettering,” he informed her with an aristocratic air.
The woman, however, did not seem particularly impressed. “Ah,” she remarked, as if they had met before. “So you’re him, are you?”
Him? He let it go. “Might I inquire as to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Mrs. Conner.”
“Mrs. Conner, I am given to understand that my sister, Lady Stanwood—”
“She’s here all right. Come on, then,” she said, and stepped into the little house.
Hesitating briefly, Julian walked up the steps of the little stoop, stepping into the tiny vestibule and passing through to the main corridor. Instantly, he encountered two young boys tumbling roughly in the narrow hallway as one of them rolled like a ball onto his foot. Julian cleared his throat, succeeded in gaining the lads’ attention. Both turned startled expressions to him, tilting their heads as far back as they could to see him.
“Blimey,” whispered one, his eyes as round as saucers.
“Blimey, indeed,” Julian drawled, and carefully stepped over the two ruffians, snapping his greatcoat away from their grubby little hands. He had lost Mrs. Conner, of course, and paused as the two boys resumed their boisterous play, peering into one room on his left.
Two women were seated inside the small parlor, darning a mountain of stockings. One of them glanced at him and smiled broadly. “G’day, milord,” she called out in a thick cockney accent.
Julian nodded curtly and quickly moved on. Rough lads and cockney women—what else had Sophie been subjected to? How had Claudia ever thought to bring her to such a place? Frustrated, he paused at the door to his right and looked inside. It was a dining area of some sort, except that bolts of cloth were strewn all over the place. Two young girls labored with a pair of shears over a bolt on the table, carefully cutting the cloth into large squares. The oldest girl paused in her work and peered curiously at him. “Are you the magistrate?” she asked.
“No,” he responded instantly, shuddering to think why a girl of that age should have a need to know what a magistrate was, much less be expecting one. Good God. Where in the hell was Sophie? He headed for the stairs at the end of the corridor but noticed a door behind it. Leaning to one side to have a better look, he thought he ought to at least try the door before he went up and accidentally blundered into someone’s bedchamber.
The door led to a narrow hall, which connected the front of the little house with another room in the back. As Julian squeezed into the narrow passageway, the scent of fresh-baked bread reached his nose. He had, apparently, stumbled onto the kitchens. He stuck his head in nonetheless to see three women baking, one up to her elbows in dough.
“Oh, my, look ’ere, Dorcus,” one chirped cheerfully. “ ’Av ’ye ever seen such a fine-lookin’ bloke?”
The woman at a washtub quickly turned around. A gap-toothed grin spread her lips as she hastily wiped her hands on her apron. “Well then, come in, milord! We won’t bite ye now, will we, Sandra?”
“I’m not making ’im any promises,” Sandra replied coquettishly, and the three women howled their shared amusement.
“I beg your pardon—apparently I have the wrong room,” Julian politely informed them, and received another round of cackling for it. He quickly backed out of the room, rolling his eyes at the laughter. What sort of strange place was this, filled with women and children? They were everywhere, in every room, engaged in every conceivable occupation. Julian mounted the stairs and paused to look in the first door he came to. Two more women, a stack of piecework between them, their needles flying over the cloth. He moved on before they could notice him, to a second door, where thankfully he found Mrs. Conner seated in a rocking chair, moving back and forth in time with her needle.
“Shall I pour a cup of tea for you?” she asked, never looking up from her piecework.
“Mrs. Conner,” Julian said, feeling uneasier by the minute. “I have come to fetch my sister. If you would be so kind as to bring her to me, I’d be much obliged.”
“She knows you’re here, milord,” Mrs. Conner casually informed him, still not looking up.
“Julian!”
Sophie’s voice startled him; he whirled around, expecting to see … anything but this.
She was smiling, albeit rather thinly. The smile was marred by the black and purple bruise on her chin, its yellow edges spreading to the corner of her mouth. The sight of it sickened him; he silently vowed then and there that he would see Stanwood dead before he would ever see him near Sophie again.
“How did you find me?” she asked. “Claudia, I suppose. You see, Mrs. Conner? I knew she’d not keep it a secret for long.”
“It’s just as well,” Mrs. Conner remarked casually.
“Are you all right?” he asked roughly. “Has he done more harm to you than …” He could not bring himself to say it, could only motion vaguely to her chin.
Sophie shook her head. “You mustn’t worry about that, Julian. It’s over now, and it shan’t ever happen again. Really, I am fine.”
She sounded so calm, so sincere, that he felt the painful prick of guilt run up his spine. He should be telling her not to worry, promising no one would ever harm her again! But when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came, and Sophie slipped her arm through his. “It’s all right,” she said softly. With a reassuring smile, she glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Conner. “You wouldn’t mind terribly if I showed him about, would you, Mrs. Conner?”
“Lord, no. It’s high time he saw what she does for us,” Mrs. Conner responded, and squinting, paused in her work to peer out the bowed window. “Time everyone knew what she does for us,” she added quietly.
Julian had no idea who or what Mrs. Conner was talking about, nor did he particularly care to know—at the moment, he wanted only to take Sophie from this awful place, take her home where she belonged, where he could keep her safe. “There’s no time now, darling,” he said to her. “Where are your things?”
“There’s all the time in the world,” she gently contradicted him. “Another half-hour won’t make a difference, Julian. Come. I want you to see it.”
“I have seen—”
“No. No, you haven’t. Not like you should,” she said stubbornly, and with another, reassuring smile, she tugged on his arm, pulling him out of the small drawing room and into the little corridor. “Do you know what this place is?” she asked as she led him toward the end of the hall and another staircase leading upward.
“No,” he grumbled irritably.
“I daresay there’s not another place like it in all the world. It’s a haven where women like me can come when they need shelter.”
Julian huffed his opinion of that, and tossing a glance over his shoulder, he said tightly, “These women are not like you, Sophie—”
“Yes, they are,” she said, cutting him off. “They are just like me. All of them have fallen on one sort of hardship or another, and all of them needed a place they could go, where they would be safe. They are just like me in that, Julian. Do you know how difficult it is, especially for these women?” she asked rhetorically as they reached the second floor.
Julian said nothing, but frowned at her back as she paused to open the door to a room where several small desks were crowded. He glanced around. “All right. It’s a schoolroom,” he said impatiently.
“It’s the only education some of the children who come here shall ever receive,” she said thoughtfully. Julian glanced again at the room and turned to leave—but something caught his eye. Reaching for his spectacles, he peered intently at a drawing tacked to the wall, and walked into the room.
He knew that drawing.
He had seen dozens just like it, in her sitting room at Kettering House. It was the drawing of a school that Claudia was constantly sketching. Here it was again, tacked to the wall, but this one had crude figures penciled in around the edges with names written in childish scrawl above each perfectly round head. Johnny, Sylvia, Carol, Belinda, Herman … “It’s Claudia,” he muttered.
“Why, of course, it’s Claudia!” Sophie said, laughing.
Julian jerked his gaze to her. “What do you mean by that?”
Sophie’s smile faded to confusion. “Surely you know!”
“Know what?” he demanded, feeling the disquiet come over him, the shift of his body inside his skin.
Sophie swept her arms wide. “All of this is Claudia! She is the one who made this place!”
Stunned, Julian stared at her. How could it be true? He’d never heard of this place, never so much as suspected its existence. Certainly he knew she donated to various causes, but he never in his wildest dreams—
“She started it more than a year ago. She pays for it with her allowance and Mrs. Conner keeps it for her. Mrs. Conner tells the most amazing story, really, of how Claudia rescued her from one of the textile factories. There’s so much more to it, I think, but so many women have come through here. Janet said they all know about it now, you know—the women in the factories, that is. But they keep it a secret amongst themselves. If a woman should need sanctuary, regardless of the reason, they know there is a place they can go to be safe when they’ve got nowhere else to turn. Come,” she said, and slipped her hand into his, pulling him along.
He followed, mute in his astonishment, trying to absorb the things Sophie proudly showed him. On the fourth floor, where the roof pitched sharply down, there were six beds along each wall in one long room. The children slept here, Sophie informed him. Sometimes the room was full, other times it was empty. All the beds were neatly made, and on the end of each of them were a woolen scarf and a pair of mittens. The women who stayed here were asked, in exchange for their keep, to contribute if they weren’t too beaten down by life. Not money, she quickly informed him, never that, because Claudia believed they should keep every pence they earned. One woman had been so grateful for the shelter that, with the wool yarn Claudia supplied, she had knitted several pairs of mittens and scarves for the children who would come here.
Claudia apparently supplied everything, Julian quickly learned, with her own funds or by wrangling donations.
Sophie led him through the second floor, along a row of small bedrooms each housing two beds all neatly made up, with cheerful pictures and little pots of violets gracing the dressers. In each room was a wardrobe with a handful of serviceable gowns for those women who arrived on the doorstep with nothing. The gowns, Sophie explained as she opened one wardrobe, came mostly from Mayfair, talked out of the wardrobes of Claudia’s friends.
As they moved through the house, Sophie introduced him to several of the women in residence. Julian greeted them all with proper decorum. He couldn’t help noticing little things about them, however, like how rough their hands were, or how one woman frequently caught her back, as if in pain. And there was Stella, Sophie’s maid, happily tending two young girls. And Janet, Sophie’s new friend, sporting a horrible black eye that sent a shudder of revulsion through him.
On the second floor was the main parlor where Mrs. Conner was still sitting, her needle flying in and out of her piecework. There was also a music room with a pianoforte and a harp donated by some Samaritan, and a library of sorts. As Julian wandered through the library full of novels and works of geography, astronomy, and etiquette, he spied a stack of basic children’s primers. He picked up one child’s book and thumbed through it.
“Many of the women who come here can’t read a’tall,” Sophie whispered. “Some can only read their letters. They like the children’s books.” Julian stared at the book he held, trying to imagine a grown woman struggling to read it. Such things he took for granted; he could not imagine how difficult or limited one’s life would certainly be without the ability to read.
When they had completed the tour of the house, Sophie showed him the tiny little hothouse Claudia had talked a tradesman into erecting so that the women mig
ht have vegetables year round. As she wandered through a row of tomatoes, she said, “Mrs. Conner fears a long winter. Claudia’s allowance isn’t quite sufficient to keep them all clothed and fed, and unfortunately, the donations have dried up, what with the scandal.”
The donations. He had thought they were all for her school project.
Julian was humbled into silence. He looked at Sophie as they stood in the little hothouse, a million thoughts, regrets, and sorrows rifling through him. “It’s a remarkable place, I’ll grant you that. But I’m sorry, nonetheless, Sophie. I’m so very sorry that you ever had to seek refuge here. I’m sorry that I didn’t see—”
“No, Julian,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “This is not your fault and I won’t allow you to believe that it is. It was my decision to elope and there was nothing you could have said or done that would have changed my mind.” She smiled tremulously and glanced away, her eyes focused on something very distant. After a long moment, she spoke again. “I am very glad I came here. I didn’t want to at first, and I won’t lie—I was frightened to death when Claudia left me alone here. But these women … oh God, I can’t explain it. I just understand so much that I didn’t know even two days ago, Julian. I never would have learned it had I not come here.”
“Learned what?”
“That I am strong,” she answered without hesitation. “I am strong, and I always have been. I just never realized that I could be me.”
He really wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but thought perhaps he understood it on some remote level. How strange it was, he thought, gazing at the youngest of his sisters, the last of his charges, that she seemed so … grown-up now, so very unlike the wailing, lovesick girl he had left at Kettering Park. Never had he seen Sophie so sure of herself. So confident.
Claudia had done that. Claudia had succeeded in doing what he had never been able to do. Not only had she given these women the means of finding their self-confidence, but she had given that precious gift to Sophie, too. That, and her life.
And all of it humbled him beyond comprehension, to the point that it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees in that tiny little hothouse and begging God to let him take it all back, to start all over again.