She didn’t answer, but lowered the brim of her bonnet and set out into the square, making a fast beeline toward the man in the blue coat as he turned the corner out of the square. In his hand, he held a fat envelope he hadn’t had a few minutes before.
Dashiell scooped up Garth with one hand and tucked him under the arm holding the plate of sandwiches, then scrambled after Vivienne.
She turned her head when he caught up with her, her eyes fired with anger. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same question.”
“I’m following the man with the blue coat,” she explained, as if it were completely rational behavior. “Now stay at home, please. This doesn’t concern you.”
“What? You are deranged if you think I’m letting you loose in London by yourself.”
She gave a frustrated snort and flicked her wrist. “Fine then, just get far behind me in case someone recognizes you.” She raised the hem of her gown and ran ahead, leaving him in her wake.
What is happening here?
The tiny man strutted, carefree, shoulders swinging, as if it were the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, unperturbed by the crowds of people crushing against him.
Vivienne tracked him like an excited bloodhound. Behind her flapping hem, Dashiell followed, hatless, holding Garth and a plate of beefsteak sandwiches. The hound’s curled tongue strained for the sandwiches. Dashiell felt as idiotic as he ever had in his life. But he couldn’t leave Vivienne alone, not as men’s gazes boldly raked over her as she passed, too intent was she on the tiny man to notice their smirks of appreciation.
“Keep your damn eyes to yourself,” Dashiell growled as he slammed his shoulder against one gentleman who had the audacity to turn and whistle at her figure.
Vivienne didn’t hear. She veered right, heading for the slums of St. Giles.
Bloody hell! He rushed to catch up with her, grabbing her elbow with his free hand. “Enough of this game. You need to turn around. It’s dangerous now.”
“No,” she said, a gritty determination in her eyes a Spartan soldier would have admired. Then she surged ahead and disappeared in the human congestion.
“Damn that lady,” Dashiell spat, turning the corner after her onto a narrow street. The houses were streaked with soot and collapsing on their rotting beams. Clothes fluttered from windows and lines strung between the buildings. The reek of animal waste and sour perspiration assaulted his nose. Mothers clad in stained, faded dresses clustered on the stoops outside their doors, holding their crying babies. Barefoot children whose faces were smudged with dirt chased each other up and down the walk, avoiding the open gutter and the drunks who stumbled about with shiny, vacant eyes. Above the general roar of chatter rose the cries of the muffin and pie vendors singing out their goods.
Garth cowered in Dashiell’s arm, afraid for his little doggy life. Dashiell was beginning to believe the hound had more damn sense than Vivienne.
Vivienne! Where is Vivienne? In a split second, at least a dozen images of Vivienne hurt, crying, bleeding rushed through his head. Then, in the tangle of people, he spied that damn blue coat stopping before a dirty building and then disappearing inside… and Vivienne not ten seconds behind. She paused at the door, looked about her, then walked on and stopped a few feet away, turning back to study the grim residence.
Dashiell pushed through the inebriates and vendors to where she stood. “I don’t know what you’re doing. But you need to go home,” he ordered. “Right now.”
His words seemed to bounce off her hard head, unheeded. “Wait here,” she said slowly. “I’m going to knock on the door. I need to find out his name.”
He grabbed her arm, causing Garth to yelp. “Now you just stop. You are not safe. I’ll get the house number as we pass and ask around about it.”
“That is far too complicated,” she replied. “I’m simply going to knock on the door and say that I am looking for Mrs. Highgate—she was my former school mistress, the one who tossed me out. A witch of a woman. Anyway, he will say she isn’t there, and I will say something like ‘This was the name and address I was given,’ and hopefully he will tell me his name.”
For a second, he couldn’t respond. Although Vivienne had grown into this ravishing lady, her sense of fear and self-preservation was still clearly that of the twelve-year-old girl in the tree who wanted to run away with him. “I’m beginning to believe you’ve been lying to me all these years. That you actually live in Bedlam and every once in a while they let you out to visit your aunt. Now why is knowing this man’s name worth risking your life?”
“He is, um, a business associate of my father,” Vivienne replied coolly.
Dashiell scrutinized her face with his hot eyes. “You are lying,” he said. “I know when you’re lying.”
Fine, so he guessed her deception, but she was losing her patience. “I told you to stay back at Wickerly Square.”
“What? You are very lucky I followed you. My dear lady, this is St. Giles. You know, sometimes referred to as the most dangerous place in all of England. You’re lucky you haven’t been knocked to the ground and had that little scarab ripped from your neck, or worse. Now why are you risking your life for this man in the blue coat?”
Vivienne studied his face. Angry lines formed around his mouth, and his eyes shone almost black. She couldn’t possibly explain that her aunt was potentially being blackmailed. She swallowed and considered turning back and going home, but she didn’t know if she would get another moment to come back. If this were indeed the most dangerous place in all of England, at least she had Dashiell with her as an unwitting aid.
As she debated, a swarm of pie and trinket vendors descended on them. As Dashiell shouted that in no uncertain terms would he buy a stolen pocket watch or eat meat pies fit for vultures, she nimbly slipped between the vendors’ carts. She just needed a few seconds, that was all! Dashiell might become angry, but she had greater concerns than her neighbor’s wrath.
A pair of dirty doves nesting in the timbers above her looked down with tiny black eyes as she knocked on the wooden door held by rusty hinges. The little man answered the door. Up close, she could see his features for the first time. Ginger-colored freckles dotted his delicate face. He possessed large, thickly lashed blue eyes and a rather feminine pink mouth. His gaze traveled up and down Vivienne’s body and he began shaking like an excited squirrel. “’Ere to see Mrs. Jenkinson, are ya? Come in, come in.”
He took off his hat and violently waved it, beckoning her inside. She hesitated. This wasn’t a very good idea, but who was Mrs. Jenkinson? She looked beyond the man to a tiny entrance hall painted a pale azure with splotches of white, as if to recreate clouds in a sky. A broad young lady came down the stairs, dressed in cascades of pink ruffles. Blond ringlets fell about her plump face and squinting eyes. She didn’t look too frightening, Vivienne thought.
She peeked over her shoulder at Dashiell. His angry face glowered at her from above the shoulders of the muffin and pie men who held him hostage. His lips formed a vicious slew of profanity, probably with her name inserted between obscenities, but she couldn’t hear him from the noise of the crowd.
At least he knew where to find her if she didn’t come out.
“Why, thank ya, dearie,” she said, trying to adopt the brash accent of the peasant women who sold fish in the market in Birmingham. “And wot be your name?”
“Willie,” he said, fingering his hat. “This ’ere is my ma and me’s place.” He jerked his head toward the stairs as if he were proud of the hovel.
Vivienne took a tentative step into the hall, intending to go no further. But Willie closed the door behind her and then clasped her elbow, pulling her into the adjoining room. The pink-ruffled lady now sat on a sagging burgundy sofa beside a bony companion clad in a matching gown. In the corner, another woman wearing the same pink uniform plucked one of the three strings on a harp that looked as if it had fallen off the back of a wagon more than a few times.
The ladies regarded Vivienne with dull eyes and gaping mouths. Was this some sort of strange boarding house for witless ladies?
“Now don’t you pay attention to these old things,” Willie said. “You ain’t like them. These ’ere are just a few weeks away from the streets.”
The streets?
She gasped as the realization blossomed in her head. This was a brothel! A mixture of shock, fear, and curiosity hit her at once.
She stared at the ladies. Physically, they looked no different than the ladies seen shopping for poultry and thread at the markets. There was no special distinction about them, no overflowing breasts or faces stained with makeup or gaudy clothes. Yet these women lay with several men a night. Well, perhaps, she thought. Vivienne really wasn’t knowledgeable about the specifics of the prostitution trade. There was something about these women that was both repulsive and fascinating at the same time.
Willie let go of her arm to knock on a door along the back wall.
Vivienne began to back up, ready to bolt. “You know, really, I think I have the wrong add—”
“Ma! We ’ave a new girl. You ’ave to see ’er!” Willie shouted. Again he grabbed Vivienne’s arm and pulled her forward, his face beaming as if Vivienne were some wrapped present he was giving his mother.
The doorknob shook as if jiggled by a key. When the door opened, a petite lady with a pert, upturned nose peered out. Her pale blond curls and vivid blue eyes contrasted against her tanned, dry skin. Wrinkles cut deep valleys under her eyes and around her mouth. Ugly brown splotches marred her cheeks. Mrs. Highgate’s words, “A lady always wears a bonnet,” echoed in Vivienne’s mind.
Behind Jenkinson was a miniscule study only big enough to hold a slim, scratched oak desk and a chair. On the desktop sat a lit lamp, a cut-glass decanter of some dark spirits, and a familiar-looking open envelope, but Vivienne couldn’t see its contents because the woman stood in the way.
Jenkinson cocked her head and eyed Vivienne. Her lips were parted, and Vivienne could see her teeth, all black stumps. “Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” she demanded.
Vivienne took a step to her right, trying to see over the woman’s shoulder. “I was given this address.” She could just make out a gold chain peeking out of the envelope when the madam stepped forward and grabbed Vivienne’s chin.
“Who gave ya?” The woman blasted Vivienne with a breath of acrid liquor.
“My… um… former mistress, but I was asked to leave,” Vivienne said, straining to look around the woman’s head.
“I think Mrs. Fontaine could use ’er,” Willie said. “We could sell ’er to Fontaine to get ’er off our backs.”
Jenkinson dropped her hold on Vivienne and turned her head to look at her son. Vivienne saw the flash of a gold chain dotted with tiny sapphires spilling out of the envelope. She remembered the Sunday her aunt let her wear that very necklace to church for her fifteenth birthday. This foul madam was blackmailing her aunt.
“You don’t know nothin’ ’bout business,” the madam barked at her son.
“I’m very sorry,” Vivienne said. “I didn’t hears your name?”
For several long seconds, the woman scrutinized Vivienne with narrowed eyes. Hers were surprisingly beautiful eyes, the color of blue marbles. Vivienne had to believe that at one time, this monster of a woman had been very attractive.
“Adele Jenkinson,” she said finally. “The girls ’ere call me Mama Dellie. I suppose you can too and all.”
“Mama Dellie, I’m afraid there might be a tiny mistake.” Vivienne just needed to slip quietly away without making a scene, and then she could think about what to do next.
“See, she has ’em nice manners,” Willie said.
“You want to work for Mrs. Fontaine, don’t you?” his mother asked. “She would set up a girl like you right nicely.”
“I…”
The front door slammed with a hard thud, and Dashiell stomped into the parlor. His brows slanted down like an angry hawk and his left cheek quivered with fury. In his hand, he still held the plate with the one remaining sandwich, while a terrified Garth hid his head under Dashiell’s armpit, his leash wrapped about his shivering hind legs. “I am taking you home now!” Dashiell hissed through clenched teeth. “Do you understand?”
“Just what the ’ell is going on ’ere?” Jenkinson yanked Vivienne behind her and screamed, “Sidney!”
On the floor above, there was the sound of scraping, like a chair being pushed back, and then the whole house shook with the pounding of footfalls. For a second, Vivienne felt she had fallen into the “Jack and the Beanstalk” fable and was about to urge Dashiell to cut the beanstalk to keep the giant from descending from the sky when the largest, most perfectly square man she had ever seen took up the entire entrance to the parlor. His shoulders were about as wide as his torso and legs combined, and he held his head at an angle to keep it from grazing the ceiling.
Dashiell groaned. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“Darlin’, find out wot this gentleman wants,” Jenkinson ordered.
Sidney snorted through his nose like an angry bull and gave Dashiell a hard, mean eye.
“Don’t hurt him!” Vivienne freed herself from Jenkinson’s grasp and threw her body between Dashiell and the giant. “This ’ere is my—my ’usband,” she cried. “You see, we ’ad a fight ’cause he don’t make no money. We ’ave six children and—and that dog—all hungry. And he don’t do nothin’ but sit around all day, drinkin’ and good for nothin’. I says to him, if you don’t get money, I will.”
Dashiell wore the most incredulous, yet horrified expression on his taut face. When he spoke, his voice came out high and stiff as if the words hurt to utter. “That’s what I was comin’ to tells you, my sweet sugar muffin. I found work.” He held out the platter. “Look, I have food here.”
“Oy, you mean it?” she wailed, trying to get all teary-eyed for realism.
“I sure do, my little butter biscuit.” He looked like he could slap her. “Now you can get the hell home and raise our six children proper.”
“Honestly, I should’a known!” Jenkinson barked. Her eyes squeezed to slits and she looked hard at Vivienne. “I was right bein’ suspicious of you. I don’t know what game you’re playin’, but you don’t have six starvin’ children. If you did, you’d sell that purty li’l necklace around your neck to feed ’em.” She jerked her head toward Dashiell. “And this man ’asn’t worked a day in his life, not wearin’ ’em fine clothes. And look at his hands! Sidney, take her necklace for the trouble she’s caused me.”
The bull of a man lurched forward, and the floor shook on impact. She could smell the metallic scent of hard gin wafting off him. His eyes were shiny and dilated with intoxication. He put his enormous hand on her necklace.
“Don’t you dare touch my scarab!” Vivienne kicked the man’s shin. He didn’t move, solid as the cliffs of Dover, but emitted a low laugh that sounded like rumbling thunder. He pushed her backward, and she stumbled against the harp.
She heard the ringing sound of the platter hitting the floor and Garth’s startled yelp. Then something flashed across her face. It was Dashiell’s fist ramming into Sidney’s face. “Don’t you goddamn touch her!” he shouted. “Vivienne! Get out!”
She ducked under his arm, fell to her knees, and grabbed Garth’s leash as he attempted to hide under the sofa. The ladies shrieked and leapt up, stepping on her hand as they fled. Ouch!
As she came up with a scared and whimpering Garth in her arms, Dashiell’s head slammed onto the sofa cushion beside her. “Oh my God!”
He had that stupefied look as if he had just suffered a hard blow. She turned and gazed up. Sidney stood, swaying on his feet, a lopsided smile hanging on his lips. He had his fist pulled back, ready to deliver Dashiell another punch. Rage rushed through her. With one hand, she ripped an ugly lamp from the side table and swung it at the giant’s face, missing him entirely, instead slamming Dashiell’s collarbone. “You are n
ot helping,” he howled. “Go outside before you kill me.”
“I won’t leave you,” Vivienne cried.
Sidney grabbed Dashiell by the collar, yanked him up, then wrapped his arm around Dashiell’s neck, choking him like a python.
“Now, you just let him alone,” she shouted at the terrible Sidney. “Or… or I’ll set this dog on you.” She held up Garth, who tried to hide his bulging eyes under his paws. “He is vicious, really he is.”
Sidney laughed through his big yellow teeth, and with the hand what wasn’t around Dashiell’s neck, pushed her and Garth onto the floor.
“You bloody puff guts,” Dashiell growled and rammed his elbows into the giant’s ribs. He fell back, stumbling in his drunken state, giving Dashiell time to extract himself and land two lightning quick jabs to the man’s fleshy jaws.
“I said, get out,” Dashiell ordered Vivienne in the hardest, most malevolent voice she had ever heard, at the same time dodging Sidney’s fists.
Still, she wouldn’t budge. “But—”
“Now!” he yelled.
She rushed for the door with Garth hugged to her chest. Over her shoulder, she took one last peek just as Dashiell slammed Sidney’s gut. The man groaned, listed sideways, and smashed against the wall.
“You touch my wife again, and I’ll kill you, you goddamn rump splitter,” Dashiell growled.
Vivienne waited on the walk, chewing on three fingernails. She didn’t feel much safer outside as a crowd of sharp-eyed street urchins, drunks, and women in garish rags had begun to gather, all curious about the goings-on at Jenkinson’s place.
***
From outside the brothel, Vivienne could hear the shrieks of women, the banging of metal, then a heavy thud and the musical reverberation of the harp’s strings. Dashiell shouted a terrible curse word that started with “f.” Then glass shattered, and the sandwich plate was thrown out of the window, breaking into pieces on the street. The throng of spectators whistled and cheered like this was a sporting game.
Garth leapt from her arms, sniffed the fragments of the plate, and began to growl menacingly at the brothel.
Wicked Little Secrets Page 5