by Annis Bell
“That’s not something I would have expected of him,” Jane said with surprise.
“I’m sure he has his reasons. Bertha also said that he’s famous for his moods, and that if he weren’t so generous with his salaries, his staff would leave as fast as they came.”
“What about a Mary?”
“There are two girls there by that name. It’s a common name, after all. We’re invited to his place next week. Get your Hettie to ask around. I think that would be the smartest thing to do.” Alison sighed. Something else seemed to be weighing on her. “Jane . . . this is hard for me to say, but I think you should hear it. Thomas says it’s none of your business, and that actually bothers me a lot, you know, because he might have similar secrets.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I can’t help but feel that you decided too fast to marry Wescott. Then again, the circumstances were extraordinary, and I know you wanted to avoid Matthew’s guardianship, which turns out to have been exactly the right decision.”
“Ally, get to the point.”
“I love you very much, Jane. I just don’t want to see you hurt.” Alison’s blue eyes shimmered with tears. “I’ve seen Wescott with another woman three times now, and they seemed very familiar with each other.”
Jane had to take a deep breath. She swallowed twice before replying. “Well, that’s his right, I suppose. We . . . we have an agreement, Ally.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I mean . . . can you tell me?” Alison wiped her eyes and looked intently at Jane. “Don’t, if you don’t want to.”
Jane grinned. “I know you. If I didn’t tell you, you’d keep probing until you found out everything. Remember that last evening in Rosewood Hall? When I told you I wanted to keep my freedom?”
Her friend nodded.
“Wescott overheard us and made me an offer—to marry me, but to let me keep it. My freedom. I owe him no explanations, and he owes me none.”
“If I found out that Thomas had a lover, I’d turn into a right fury. We share a bed, after all. No, I could not stand that!”
Jane looked at her friend in silence.
“Do you not share a bed?” Alison asked.
Jane shook her head. She turned away and looked at an orchid. “It’s better like this. Besides, he has no interest in me. Not that kind of interest.”
“Oh. Well, fine, that’s up to you. At any rate, the woman he was with was very beautiful, at least from what I could see through her veil. A little fancy, perhaps. Not as vulgar as Florence Rutland, but in that direction.”
“Really, Ally, that’s enough. I’m not interested, full stop. His interest in that woman could very well be professional.” Jane looked around, but they were alone in the conservatory. “He keeps his work very much to himself, but it is very possible that he’s involved in secret missions for the crown.”
“Hmm. You know, I could probably tickle something out of Thomas about that. He’s very good friends with one of the secretaries of our prime minister, Lord Palmerston.” After a brief pause, she added, “Like I said, it all seemed rather familiar.”
“The stench!” Jane pressed a handkerchief over her mouth and nose and could not bring herself to believe that Violet Sutton actually walked through the streets of Lambeth as if she were at home. She almost seemed to enjoy stumbling through the mud in her boots.
“It’s up ahead,” the widow said. She was bubbling over with energy that morning. Still, Jane feared the condition would not last very long, and it was impossible for the coach to follow them through the narrow alleys. Lambeth lay on the other side of the Thames, where run-down shacks and buildings formed slums that housed mostly dock workers and laborers from the glass and textile factories, surviving as best they could. The railway line did, indeed, go as far as Lambeth, but that had changed nothing for the poorest of the poor in the slums along the Thames. As they always had, the low-lying marshlands flooded in spring and autumn, leaving behind sodden shanties rife with cholera, fever, rheumatism, and dysentery.
“Why don’t they dig up the mud left by the river and get rid of it? Then it wouldn’t stink so much,” Jane complained. Behind them trudged Hettie and an armed servant of Hargrave’s.
Some distance away was a windmill, and from the river came the cries of boatbuilders, mariners, fishermen, and vendors touting their wares. In every dark corner crouched a picture of misery with outstretched hands. And the few not begging are too weak or already dead, Jane thought, regretting that she had said nothing to Blount about this particular outing. She felt safe in his presence. The unassuming man knew how to deal with all kinds of people. Since her conversation with Alison, she had pushed Wescott—and his valet—out of her mind, which had not been difficult: she had not seen her husband for two days.
In front of a two-story building stood a sleazy-looking man who eyed her and her companions with disdain. A red lamp hung over the entrance.
“A brothel. It isn’t right, is it? The poor children have to live in this filth, and if they make a slip, the girls soon find out where they’ll wind up,” said Violet. She tugged on the string hanging from a doorbell dangling over the narrow entrance of the building next door.
Although the orphanage was no more than a stable with triple bunks and a dining room, Jane found it far more comfortable inside than out in the lane among the shady-looking ruffians who seemed to be hanging around waiting for an opportunity to rob them or cut their throats. Did Violet think of herself as some sort of saint to whom nothing could happen? Jane feared as much.
The place was run by an aging missionary and his daughter. In one room, children sang spirituals, and a few youngsters were playing with blocks and dolls in a corridor. Their little bodies looked underdeveloped and rickety. They were even paler and more wretched than the orphans out in the country, who at least got more sun and better air. On their way there, Violet had told Jane about orphan girls who became pregnant and whose deformed bones caused life-threatening complications when they later gave birth. Just recently, a wave of Irish immigrants had caused a widespread diphtheria outbreak, and now many of the orphans were of Irish heritage.
“How nice to see you again, Mrs. Sutton. You are a gift from the Lord himself!” The old missionary greeted his visitors and led them into a small living room.
“I’m not going anywhere, ma’am. I’m staying here with you,” whispered Hettie firmly, positioning herself beside Jane’s chair.
Violet’s servant waited in the hallway while the missionary’s daughter, a pale woman in her midforties, brought in a pot of tea. Jane thanked her but declined, and Violet did the same.
“As well as providing for the orphans, we have now become a branch of the society to protect young girls under fifteen years of age who have slipped into prostitution,” the missionary declared proudly. His skin was marked by deep creases, and a snow-white beard covered his cheeks and chin. But his eyes were alert and filled with genuine sympathy for his charges.
His daughter was obviously devoted to him and sat quietly beside her father.
“Such girls—,” Jane began, then faltered. “Where do they tend to come from?”
“Poverty is at its worst out in the country, and many girls are tempted to the city with promises of work and better earnings, but quickly find themselves in a brothel. Sometimes they are with child, and the shame of going home with a baby born out of wedlock is simply too much for them, and more often than not there are enough hungry mouths at home already. A nip of whisky, a few pretty words, and there’s no turning back.” The missionary seemed in his element. “And then there are the girls who have actually found a decent position in a good house. Then one night they get caught by scouts or compromised or simply lured into a brothel. Now I had one very sad case a few months back. A pretty girl, that one. Very young.”
The missionary scratched his head thoughtfully and final
ly turned to his daughter. “What was her name again?”
“Polly? The one who came in from Hyde Park.”
“That’s the one. Imagine this: the girl was so afraid of her former employer—who was also her torturer, apparently—that she wouldn’t even say his name. She was terribly traumatized. All she did was talk about her friend Mary. She had to warn Mary.”
Jane froze on her chair. “Polly? Was she a petite blond girl, perhaps twelve at the most?”
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“Wasn’t there something in the newspaper? But please go on. I might be mistaken.”
Hettie had begun to breathe faster, and Jane gave her a warning pinch on the leg, beneath her skirt.
The old man’s brow furrowed. “There was nothing about Polly in the papers here. Be that as it may, she was a runaway. I wanted to help her, but she was so terribly frightened. She kept saying that she was being followed. She was looking around the whole time, talking about a dark-skinned man who wanted to throttle her with a scarf.”
Violet let out a kind of strangled cry, and in her mind’s eye, Jane saw images of Indian assassins. Her nanny in India had told her about the infamous Thugs, who were said to have used their scarves to murder thousands of travelers.
“Poor child. Very sad. We made such an effort with her,” the daughter said. “She must have been very badly hurt in both her soul and her body. Perhaps we should have sent her away from here immediately, somewhere out in the country. She would certainly have felt safer out there. But our means are limited.”
Jane reached for her purse automatically. “That’s why we are here. But please, go on. Tell me what happened to Polly.”
“She was with us for two nights, and on the second night, she disappeared. She climbed out the window and ran away. It was a cold night with the snow piling up, and all she had on was a thin dress.” The missionary shook his head sadly. “I felt very sorry for her. And you say you know where the girl is?”
Jane sensed Violet’s eager stare. “I fear she is dead, and buried now in a village cemetery in Wiltshire.”
“You don’t mean the girl from Rosewood Hall? Much has been spoken about her,” said Violet in all innocence.
“Ah! I’ve read about it myself. You’re Lady Jane! But, of course, you found the girl. The Lord’s blessing be on you!” the missionary exclaimed. “Did she tell you who had tortured her or where she came from?”
“No. She was barely alive when I found her on the grounds that night. She died before she could say anything. But she mentioned a Mary, and that set me wondering. How terribly sad.” Jane took a handkerchief and pressed it to her nose and eyes. “I would like to leave, Violet, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no, of course. Painful memories. And it was your uncle’s last ball, wasn’t it?” Violet remarked, withdrawing her purse as well.
Just let me out of here was all Jane could think. Suddenly, it was as if danger lurked in every doorway and behind every shack. She knew she was in over her head, but her instincts had never let her down before.
29.
Only a few minutes had passed, but in the time since they’d left the orphanage, the sky had clouded over and the narrow alleys were already nearly dark. Stinking fumes poured from chimneys and windows, and it was starting to rain.
“That’s all we need,” Hettie groaned as she raised her umbrella to at least protect her mistress from the unwelcome weather.
In front of them, beneath an umbrella, were the feet of Violet and Hargrave’s servant, whom Jane and Hettie walked behind like sheep, and then even those vanished a moment later around the corner of a house. Jane tried to catch up to them, but two pairs of boots abruptly blocked her path. She stopped, pushing Hettie with her umbrella to one side. “What the devil . . . ?”
But it was not Hargrave’s servant standing there in the narrow alley in the pouring rain staring grimly at her. The two men were strangers, and their intentions were clearly not benign. Jane had no idea of where she and Hettie were, and called out, “Violet! Where are you?”
At that, the taller of the two men sent his companion away with a nod. “My lady,” he said.
The man took a step toward her as he drew a knife. “Your purse, if you please. And I have a message for you.”
The glinting knife sliced toward Jane’s throat. But Hettie had folded her umbrella and now swung it with all her might at the assassin’s extended arm. The man, however, had more experience in a fight, and he quickly recovered from the unexpected attack and lashed out at Hettie with the knife. She screamed and pressed her hand to her side. Jane ducked and tried to dodge to one side, but her skirt caught on a nail jutting from a post. Her eyes had adjusted almost immediately to the dim light of the alley, and she saw the blade coming toward her. Desperately, she tugged at her skirt, seeing death before her eyes. Then she heard a dull thud that was followed by a horrible hissing sound, and her assailant toppled into the mud like a felled tree. As if from nowhere, Blount was standing in front of her. He cut her skirt free from the nail and said, “Come with me.”
Hettie was crying and holding her side. Blood was seeping between her fingers, and Jane took hold of the brave girl’s arm. “We have to get away from here. Everything will be all right, Hettie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” her maid whispered, reeling through the mud with Jane.
Finally, they reached the end of the dark alley. At the corner of the building, Jane nearly tripped over the body of the knife wielder’s accomplice. The rain grew heavier, and a thunderstorm announced itself with a flash of lightning. The road was utterly deserted, the shutters closed over the windows. No one cared what was going on out on the street. At least, it felt that way to Jane. She was sure that the rats would crawl out of their holes and steal anything of any use from the dead men.
Blount stopped and pointed at the body on the ground. The man lay on his back, his eyes gazing up sightlessly. A deep cut crossed his throat. No sound would ever come from his mouth again. “I got here in the nick of time. My lady, never drive to such a place alone again.”
“I could never have guessed this would happen. I only came here to visit an orphanage with Mrs. Sutton,” said Jane in meek defense and cast a furtive glance at the body on the ground. “Did you do that?”
Blount ignored the question. “Hettie needs medical attention. I know someone, not far from here. Someone discreet.”
“Where is Mrs. Sutton?” Jane looked around for the coach they had arrived in, but could not see it anywhere. There was no sign of either Mrs. Sutton or her servant. “Was she also robbed? Did you see her, Blount?”
Wescott’s valet inspected Hettie’s wound. “Your ribs took most of it. You were lucky, Hettie.” To Jane, he said, “If you mean the hysterical woman running through the alley screaming . . . she jumped into a carriage with her servant and hightailed it.”
“Wonderful! Now we have no transport. Where are we going to find something around here?” Jane looked down at her clothes and smiled sadly. “Who would take us anywhere like this anyway?”
Her dress was torn, wet, and soiled with mud, filth, and Hettie’s blood. It was pouring relentlessly, and the rain was running from the ruins of her hat to the loose strands of hair, over her face, and down the collar of her dress. As the material soaked up the water, it grew heavier and heavier and, along with the bulky crinoline, increasingly unbearable. It’s like having a millstone tied around my body, thought Jane, who was finding it hard to maintain a dignified posture.
“How did you get here?” she asked Blount, who just pointed along the road.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a hansom cab waiting up ahead.” He moved off toward a vague outline at the end of the street, leaving Jane and Hettie no choice but to follow.
“Hettie, can you manage it?” Jane put one arm around her maid to support her.
“Hmm, yes,” the i
njured girl groaned, and set one foot in front of the other resolutely.
The hansom cab had just finished a tour to Battersea Park and was happy to find a customer for a drive to Belgravia. Because the hansom sat only two, Blount climbed up on the back beside the driver.
Hettie pressed close to Jane, who took her hand, alternately squeezing and stroking it. “You’ll be fine again soon, Hettie. I owe you my life, truly. You took your umbrella and stopped that treacherous assassin from—”
“Don’t say it, ma’am. It was too terrible! I don’t want to think about what might have happened.”
“I’ll double your pay, Hettie, but it stays our secret.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t want that,” Hettie protested.
“Shush, not another word. It’s the least I can do.”
Lambeth was on the southeast bank of the Thames, and so they only had to cross a bridge to get to Pimlico or fashionable Belgravia Square, both in Westminster. The cab pulled up in front of a heavy gate on a side street off the square. The gate revealed little of the house on the other side, and the dense foliage of old chestnut trees concealed all but patches of a light-colored facade with oriel windows. Neither name nor crest gave any indication of who lived there. Blount paid the coachman, stepped over to the gate, and rang the bell. A few moments later, a servant bade them enter. He seemed to know Blount well, for he asked no questions and simply led the three of them to the main entrance.
Stepping into the hall was like entering another world. Confronted by the unusually beautiful interior, for a moment Jane forgot her bedraggled appearance and the circumstances of their arrival. Beauty seemed to be the single principle that ruled the place, a principle to which everything else took second place. Architecture, paintings, carpets, busts, and lamps were all carefully harmonized, forming an intoxicating blend of colors and shapes, which seduced a visitor. Most fascinating of all, Jane mused, is that one feels at home here, even protected. How extraordinary! Who lived there?