Dashiell panicked. He couldn’t go back to his room, where Vivienne’s scent still lingered on the sheets. Not yet. He shook his head. “I can’t go home.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” He shouted so violently he lost his balance and had to grab his grandfather’s shoulder.
From one of the windows above them, a gravelly male voice yelled, “Then shut your damned ’ole!”
“I just want to walk.” Dashiell pushed off the post and concentrated on the ground, trying to walk an unwavering straight line. After a block, he gripped his belly, feeling the brandy wash up in the back of this throat. “I need to sit,” he muttered. Up ahead, he saw the open iron gates of Wesley Congregational. He just needed to make it a few more steps.
“What are you doing?” his grandfather asked as Dashiell stumbled into the brick courtyard. The earl waited at the gate, as if he might get struck by lightning or suffer some other horrible kind of Biblical death upon entering the church grounds. “You can’t go in there.”
Dashiell staggered over to the steps and slumped down on the cold brick.
His grandfather cautiously tiptoed across the yard. “Tell me, what’s the matter?”
Dashiell opened his palms and closed them again. “I bedded Vivienne.”
“You did what to Vivienne?” his grandfather shouted, his voice echoing in the courtyard. His right hand lashed out like a whip and popped Dashiell’s bruised chin.
“Bloody hell!” Dashiell spat through his clenched teeth. In the tall narrow house connected to the church grounds, he saw the spark of a match and then the brightening glow of a lamp being lit behind a sheer curtain on a third floor window.
“What’s going on out there?” Mr. Charles stuck his head out his window.
“Hell’s fire,” Dashiell hissed to himself, then cleared his voice and tried to speak in a polite sober tone. “Nothing, we’re leaving,” he said, trying not to slur. “A th-thousand pardons.”
“Brother Lord Dashiell, is that you?”
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.” Dashiell cursed under his breath. “Why, yes. Just out for a night stroll.”
“Wait there, I’ll join you.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway. I’ll be just a minute.” He shut the window before Dashiell could protest again.
Dashiell leaned back and propped his elbows on the upper steps. “I think this could be the worst night of my life.”
“Are you going to marry her?” his grandfather asked.
Dashiell studied the faint outline of the gibbous moon, obscured by drifts of clouds. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.
The hard edge of his grandfather’s knuckles slammed Dashiell’s jawbone.
“Will you stop that?” Dashiell yelled, cradling his face.
The door to the minister’s home opened, and Mr. Charles padded out, holding a lantern and wearing a black night robe and bright knit slippers. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Dashiell and his grandfather mumbled their greetings, keeping their eyes averted and focused on the bricks at their feet.
“Is something wrong?” the minister asked.
“Yes,” the earl said. “Dashiell deflowered Vivi… er, someone he shouldn’t have.”
Dashiell bolted up from his step and staggered dizzily for a moment before his head cleared. “Now, now, you just stop that!” He pointed to his grandfather. “This scoundrel, this cur, this… this Caligula thinks he has the moral rectitude to judge me.” Dashiell lurched forward and shoved his chest into his grandfather’s, causing the old man to stumble backward. “You’re a bloody d-degenerate.”
“Careful now.” Mr. Charles inserted his arms between the men. “I’ll have no fighting or swearing in the Lord’s presence. Do you understand?”
Dashiell slumped back down on the step. He felt light-headed, and his body rocked on some drunken current.
“Does this have to do with Miss Vivienne Taylor, Sister Gertrude Bertis’s niece? I thought I overhead her name before I came out to meet you.”
Dashiell couldn’t answer the minister. He let out a long breath through his nose. He should have said no, but he couldn’t. He was desperate for counsel that his grandfather couldn’t give him. But he feared Mr. Charles would launch into a miniature sermon, condemning Dashiell and Vivienne’s sin and saying that they deserved to languish in the furnaces of hell. Instead, the minister sat beside Dashiell.
“Are you going to marry her?”
“I d-don’t know,” Dashiell replied, burying his head in the darkness of his palms.
“Do you love her?”
Dashiell’s throat throbbed. His head ached, his heart ached. Yet he said nothing. For several seconds, the men stood in silence, except for the crunch and rattle of passing carriages and the low calls of the nightingales in the trees that grew out of the pavers on either side of the chapel.
Dashiell felt the minister’s reassuring hand on the back of his neck. “You want to marry her, don’t you?” he said softly. “You want to return home every day and see her smiling, so happy to be reunited with you. Or come to her bedside as she lies exhausted yet beaming, proud of the little newborn she nourishes at her breast. Or to simply sit with her in the evening and recount your day, what book you read, or who you met on the street. You want her to know every aspect of you.”
Dashiell wiped his eyes. God, he was so drunk he was weeping like a little boy. “Yes,” he tried to say, but the words got mangled in his throat. “But I—”
“You want to be the good husband, the faithful husband, the loving husband. But you’re afraid you’ll disappoint her… and yourself, as you have been disappointed before. You’re afraid that in your heart, you are unworthy.”
“Yes,” Dashiell choked.
“And you’re right.”
Dashiell bit his lip. What he always knew was now confirmed by a man of faith. The little light of hope he harbored was snuffed out. He just wanted to slink back to some grimy gaming club, drink himself to death, and then slip quietly into hell.
“Look at me, Brother Lord Dashiell,” the minister ordered.
Dashiell lifted his eyes, too far gone to be ashamed of his tears.
“But this love you have for Miss Taylor is worthy,” Mr. Charles said. “It is far more noble than yourself. This love offers salvation for you, but only if you give it a place to grow. Stop being afraid, stop running away. These fears are mere shadows. Put your faith in that hope for love, trust that it will give you strength and help you be the man you want to be.”
“I love her,” Dashiell cried, the words repressed for years now tumbling from him. “I love her. I love her.”
“I know you do,” the minister said quietly. He rose, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned. “Now you boys go home, get some sleep, and sober up. Then ask Miss Taylor properly. If you bring around a special license tomorrow, I’ll marry you.”
***
Dashiell and his grandfather walked back to Wickerly Square. The clouds had thickened, blocking the moon. The streetlights, blanketed in fog, burned in big glowing orbs.
“I guess I could move back to Berkeley Square,” his grandfather suggested. “Seeing how you’re going to need a nursery.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll want to be near Gertrude.”
The earl lapsed into silence.
“I’ll figure out accommodations and what not after I make Vivienne and me officially husband and wife,” Dashiell said, the word wife warming his heart.
He would make up for leaving her like he had done. For his terrible words. He would explain that he was scared because he loved her so much.
In his bedchamber, he collapsed onto his bed and pulled up the wool blanket. His muscles felt loose and heavy against the mattress. He turned his head and buried his nose in the down of his pillow, where her scent still li
ngered. His mind started to ease, and he closed his eyes, sinking into a dream where he and Vivienne were walking hand-in-hand at the Acropolis when the waning sunlight bathed the old ruins in gold light.
“I love you,” she said, her voice low and soft.
“I love you too,” he whispered in his dream. “My beautiful wife.”
Seventeen
The stark morning light crept through the crack between the closed curtains. Vivienne lay on her side in bed, the scent of Dashiell lingering on her body. The coals had burned to black ash several hours before and now the room was cold, but she didn’t move to lift the covers that were wrinkled at her feet. Her brain felt thick and numb.
Obviously, their sacred Bazulo vow didn’t extend to lifelong commitment after succumbing to unbridled passion and having one party beg the other to take her virtue.
In a few hours, she would board that train bound for Birmingham where she would have to tell her father what had happened. “Hallo, dear Papa! I fell in love with England’s worst rake, Lord Dashiell, and John caught me in his embrace, so I got jilted. Then I went crying to Dashiell and tried to trap him into marriage, but he left me too. And I still love him. I can’t stop this ache in my heart, like a knife sliced it open and the bleeding won’t stop. But I guess my feelings really don’t matter, because now you’re going to debtor’s prison.”
And getting tossed from the ladies’ seminary ended any glorious dreams of becoming a governess. She was useless. A bad seed.
She turned and gazed at the bottle of Dr. Oliver’s Elixir for Tranquil Slumber and Serene Mind that Miss Banks had left the previous evening. The sunlight illuminated the brown glass, making it glow like a garnet. At the very bottom of the label it read “Opium, Alcohol, Foxglove, Valerian, Henbane, and Dr. Oliver’s secret ingredients. A mere drop brings hours of blissful stupor.”
“Opium very good,” the oriental lady had said. “It make you forget.”
And Vivienne knew that if she had enough opium she would forget… forever. She would never have to see Dashiell again or remember how perfect she felt in his arms, never have to go home and tell her father what had happened.
She reached for the bottle.
There was a tap at the door.
“Yes,” Vivienne said, shoving the medicine back. Miss Banks entered, holding a tray with a steaming tea cup and plate of toast.
“Oh, Saint Mary, you do look a fright,” she exclaimed, rattling the dishes.
“I—I didn’t sleep,” Vivienne said. “I was… was worried about Aunt Gertrude.” Lies just rolled off her tongue so easily now. There was no hope for her. She was beyond redemption.
“Oh, now, don’t you be a’worryin’ that you’ve got to go home and tell your dear father that you were a’sinnin’ with Lord Dashiell and now your poor papa is going to prison.” She shoved the teacup under Vivienne’s nose. “Have a bit of nice tea. I made it special for you. Added a drop or two of the mistress’s Dobb’s Effervescing Citrate of Caffeine.”
Vivienne sipped the liquid and released a series of violent coughs.
“Very good, miss. Now, let’s get you dressed. The mistress wants you to come down so the ladies can pray for your soul,” the housekeeper said in her cheery lilt.
Vivienne slid off her covers and wobbled as her feet hit the floor. Her leg muscles were sore and goosy.
Miss Banks fussed with Vivienne’s corset and petticoats. She dressed her in the plain green crepe dress Vivienne had worn the day she arrived to London so full of those proverbial good intentions. She was going to be the perfect, loving wife. She was going to save her family and her father would adore her. For once, she was going to be the favorite daughter.
Now she was on the road to hell.
“Oh, miss, what will become of us?” the housekeeper said. “We’ll be out in the street, beggin’ for our keep. I just know it. Those vermin won’t stop until they good and destroy the missus. But don’t you fret about us. No, no, you go home to your father and sisters. The Lord will take care of us just like he did Job,” Miss Banks said, reaching for Vivienne’s hair and wrenching it into a tight bun.
Through the window, Vivienne could hear the muffled rattle of carriages arriving for the Bible lesson.
“Oh, there are the ladies now, and my scones are still in the oven.” Miss Banks hurried out.
Vivienne crossed the room, drew open the curtains, and narrowed her eyes in the light. Below, a line of black, boxy town carriages stopped before her aunt’s home. Footmen held open the doors and helped down ladies in lacy black caps.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face those righteous women with her sins still fresh on her skin.
On the bedside table, the bottle of elixir glinted in the sunlight.
It make you forget.
She snatched up the medicine and unscrewed the cap. The floral odor of opium and Dr. Oliver’s secret ingredients tickled her nose.
Come rest, the oriental woman had said.
Yes, rest. Sweet, sweet rest.
Vivienne tilted the bottle. The liquid touched her tongue.
Then she saw a speck of blue in her periphery. She turned to look out the window. Coming into the square, swinging his shoulders with his jaunty carefree gait, was the man in the blue coat. In his hand, he held an envelope.
“That little rat!” she hissed. He was going to interrupt her aunt’s Bible lessons with his ugly demands!
A vicious rage tore through her. An idea formed in her head—so vile, the thought sent a shiver through her. Below the haze of tiredness clotting her brain, she knew that perhaps this plan wasn’t a good idea. That she needed to sleep and then she could think more clearly. But time for that luxury had run out… just as Dashiell had.
I will save my family! I will if it’s the only thing I can do.
She would be like Cleopatra, except without fatal cobra bites, using her beauty and wiles to save her beloved Egypt. She would be like Joan of Arc, except without execution and French sainthood, raising an army to defeat the English. She would be like Queen Elizabeth, except without virginity, fending off the Spanish armada and leading her country to prosperity.
Vivienne dropped the bottle, letting the contents leak onto the carpet, ran to the clothespress, pulled out her boots, and jammed her feet inside. She tossed her green cloak over her shoulders, grabbed her reticule, and then flew out of her chamber and down the stairs.
Mrs. Lacey waited in the entrance hall, holding a pair of opera glasses with an aqua porcelain handle.
“I’m ready for Lord Baswiche today,” she said and held the lenses to her face, magnifying her eyes into two blue orbs. She gazed up at Vivienne. “Good heavens, look at you! Did I miss the wedding?” Her elfin features softened. “Isn’t the first time wonderful? I remember Mr. Lacey and I had left the church and were walking to my grandmother’s house for dinner, but he just couldn’t wait to have me.” She broke into giggles. “I tried to explain to the watch outside Hyde Park that we were newlyweds. But they arrested Mr. Lacey anyway.”
“I’m sorry, but there will be no wedding,” Vivienne said and sailed out the door.
Willie was coming around the line of carriages when she planted herself in front of him. He jerked to a stop and blinked. “You!” he exclaimed.
Vivienne didn’t reply. In a fast motion, she seized his envelope.
“You’re not supposin’ to ’ave that!” He swiped at her hand, but she whirled around, turning her back to him.
She ripped open the envelope and plucked out the contents. She unfolded a single sheet of thin paper. On the page was a clumsy tracing of a nude woman, sitting on a chair with one knee drawn up. Her face was turned at a quarter angle, gazing out a sunlit window.
Above her, written in misshaped letters was “No julry this time.”
Willie watched her face, a sneerlike smile hovering on his mouth. “Pretty, ain’t it?” He reached for the paper, but she crumpled the sketch in her hand. “’Ey, give me that back.”
She ignored him and started walking.
He jumped after her, grabbing her elbow. “What do you think you’re playing at? You—”
She yanked her arm away from his grasp. “I’m going to give your mother her payment.”
“’Ow’s that?”
“Me. I’m giving her me.”
***
Dashiell opened his eyes. The pale light of morning flowed in from his window. He was going to marry Vivienne. The very thought that hours before had petrified him, driving him into the night, now caused a quiet peace in his heart, like the unruffled water on a lake at daybreak.
He nestled deeper into his blanket, wanting to linger in this tranquility a few moments longer. Soon, he had drifted back to sleep, and the sweet dreams of his future life with his beloved Vivienne.
***
Vivienne stood outside Jenkinson’s brothel. The bright sound of children’s laughter rang in the air as they explored the pockets of the drunks sprawled unconscious about the pavement. Mothers clustered about the doorsteps, holding their crying babies and looking at Vivienne with tired eyes.
“Tell Mrs. Jenkinson to meet me outside,” Vivienne told Willie.
He scratched the side of his nose. “She won’t like it,” he said as he turned to go inside his home.
Vivienne scanned the rotting building. The window that had been broken during her last visit was now boarded up with rough scraps of wood. Her life had come to this sad place, when just a week before she was deciding on which gown to wear to her wedding. She felt tears come back. She blinked them away and steeled her spine. She couldn’t feel sorry for herself when she had done herself in. She grimaced to think that she had tried to trap Dashiell into marriage, even if it was one of the sweetest moments of her life.
The brothel door opened, and Jenkinson stepped out, hugging a tatty gray wool shawl about her shoulders. Her tanned face was rough and slightly swollen as if she had just woken up. Suspicion tensed her eyes. “Wot the ’ell are you doing back ’ere?” she demanded.
Vivienne’s heart beat like a trapped moth. “I’m Gertrude Bertis’s niece. My… my aunt hasn’t any more money. You won’t get any more from her. She is dying,” Vivienne lied. Hot dizziness filled her head, and she had to pause before she could continue. “I’m… I’m offering m-myself for you to sell to Mrs. Fontaine on the condition that you give me all the sketches.”
Wicked Little Secrets Page 23