The Perils of Pleasure

by Julie Anne Long

  It had been more than a few years since Madeleine held the ribbons of any sort of conveyance in her hands, but the feel came back to her quickly, and the horse seemed to know its job, ears rotating back to her now and again for instruction, or in response to her hands on the reins. The sickening speed of her heart slowed by the time they reached London Bridge, aided by her growing confidence in her ability to steer a coffin-bearing wagon and the increasing heat of the sun bearing down, which had a lulling quality. She was glad of her borrowed bonnet—something else that Colin Eversea had seen to—because it sheltered her face from both sun and potential curiosity.

  But in the noise of an awakening London, and the rolling wheels of her wagon over cobblestones, she would never be able to hear Colin clawing the box if he was unable to breathe properly.

  The very thought made her nearly stop breathing.

  And with this fear came a perverse rush of anger and impatience.

  One hundred pounds. It was enough, just barely, for her passage to America, for her to finish paying for the farm she’d purchased. She could end all of this now, the fear and uncertainty, by driving this wagon straight to the office of the Home Secretary and presenting Colin Eversea in a box like a grim little gift. Colin Eversea could rise up out of the coffin and point to her and say, “She did it! She humiliated all of you, she snatched me from the gallows in front of thousands of people!”

  But none of those men would be able to bear to believe it—a woman had accomplished all of that? They would hear it as so much raving. She could weep and wring her hands and lie magnificently, and leave one hundred pounds richer, and within a week feel sea air in her hair and see nothing but rippling blue in every direction and not worry about redcoats springing up or pistols aimed in her direction. She could create new memories and allow the old ones to recede into dreams, Colin Eversea included.

  Ah, but this wasn’t true any longer. And this is what made her perversely furious. Because she felt oddly exposed aboard the wagon, and she knew why. Whereas for years she’d found safety in being alone, now she merely felt…alone. With all the attendant vulnerability that came with “alone.” And this was Colin Eversea’s fault. She’d found comfort in shadowy anonymity, in a peculiarly healing shade where she worried about no one, cared, really, about no one, and methodically earned money toward a new life.

  But now Madeleine felt an internal, indefinable pressure, almost a…tug. It was less about impatience to leave than…well, she wondered if seeds ever resented the sun, knowing it would shine with no quarter and give them no choice but to push their heads up out of the safety of the hard, hard ground and bloom.

  And then, of course, possibly be trampled.

  The horse’s ears twitched back; her tension must have rippled through the reins. She murmured an apology to it.

  It was slow going over the London Bridge. The shining, filthy Thames slugged by, the river smell overwhelming and foul and marvelous. It was early yet, but traffic was increasing, and her wagon rolled over the bridge alongside wagons bringing wares into town—lumber and cabbages and clucking chickens in crates—and carriages and hackneys in from Southwark to attend to business in the city. Heads turned her way, her cargo was peered at, and then eyes were quickly, superstitiously, averted once more.

  Madeleine saw no soldiers, mounted or otherwise. How very thoughtful of the English army to dress in red coats. It made them so much easier to spot. But a barouche swept by, all gleam: polished wheels, the bonnet ribbons tied beneath the chins of two pretty young ladies, the tops of walking sticks held in the hands of the crisp gentlemen sitting across from them. Early for their sort to be awake, she thought. Or perhaps they were returning from an entertainment, though it seemed an odd thing to do in an open carriage. She was willing to wager Colin Eversea was acquainted with every one of them. She thought of his ease with the countess, the genuine affection with which they seemed to hold each other.

  Madeleine had never lived that sort of life, and had never thought to yearn for it, particularly. In all likelihood she never would have met Colin Eversea at all. Her life had been filled with work, but not arduous work, and satisfaction, and modest entertainments. Her needs had been met, and she’d been happy. Until she’d lost everything.

  And then she’d been very, very busy.

  One hundred pounds.

  The day was going to be another very warm one. The heat was a band on the back of her neck, bonnet notwithstanding, and she felt damp beginning beneath her arms. Nothing about the dirty sky or the feel of the air hinted at rain, and they ought to have had at least one good rainfall by this time of year. She thought of the dresses in the wardrobe in her lodgings, decidedly cleaner and lighter and…prettier…than the one she wore now. She hadn’t many things in her lodgings, but she missed them. Reminders of her old life had been carefully packed away in a trunk in preparation for their journey across the sea, and she wanted them. Doubtless, Croker had been right, however: it was dangerous to return just yet.

  Following the direction Dr. August had given her, Madeleine urged the horse onto Gracechurch Street, glancing once behind her. The coffin shifted a little with the turns, and her heart picked up speed. Had he been jostled?

  From Gracechurch Street she drove past a wooded square, which resembled a sweet, miniature Holland Park, and turned into Lichen Lane. She pulled the horses to a halt in front of number 12, and all but leaped down from the wagon, scrambled to the back of it, and reached over and poked an exploratory finger into one of the little drilled coffin holes, feeling faintly ridiculous and wild with concern all at once, though it had been scarcely thirty minutes since the lid had closed over Colin.

  Her finger was grasped from inside and given a reassuring little squeeze. She must be inordinately weary. Her throat felt thick. It couldn’t possibly be tears.

  Perhaps no one would think it odd if she spoke to a coffin. She could only hope.

  “I’ll go as quickly as I can,” she whispered.

  Taking the steps to Number 12, Madeleine wished she knew how she looked from head to toe, not just from the neck up. Her dress was probably very rumpled, given that she’d been wearing it since she’d been thrown to the ground after being fired upon and then slept in it for several more nights. This was a street of comfortable, respectable homes, shaded by mature trees, and she wanted to appear as though she belonged here or somewhere very like it.

  She peered over her shoulder. It was early yet, and the houses were amber and shadow in the still-rising sun. Domestic staff—the servants who didn’t live with their employers—were just arriving for their workdays, walking briskly up the street and turning up stairs toward houses.

  Madeleine lifted the knocker, rapped it twice, and waited, ear to the door. She stepped back quickly when she heard the brisk, clicking steps of a woman over a marble entry.

  When the door swung open, Madeleine confronted not a housekeeper, but someone who could only be the lady of the house. She was narrow-faced but handsome, with gray eyes and masses of blond hair tamed into an enormous coil on the back of head, and her dress was a fresh-looking willow green with a van-dyke bodice.

  She regarded Madeleine with blank-faced surprise for a long instant. And then a sort of conclusion—confusingly, it appeared to be something like despair—settled over her face.

  “Not another one,” she moaned.

  Madeleine blinked. “Madam, I beg your par—”

  The woman drew herself up to her full height, dragged in a long breath, and spoke in a voice of trembling dignity.

  “Madam, I know my Jonas was a passionate man. His work often took him away from home, and I am aware that men have needs. It was my cross to bear. But tell me this: how would you feel if you knew that in a few years’ time a rash of seven-foot-tall young men would be springing up all over England? Can you imagine my humiliation? Everyone will know. And do you know how it feels to wonder whether every inordinately tall child you see is a result of your husband’s indiscretion? But
women loved him. Many women, I’ve come to discover lately, as they’ve all come to visit. You look like just his type.” This was added a trifle bitterly.

  “I—”

  “Our daughter is just over six feet tall. I might be able to get her wed to someone she can look in the eye and not carry beneath her arm.” Mrs. Pallatine was ironic now.

  Madeleine was speechless. “Six feet is a lovely height,” was all she could think to say to that. “But Mrs. Pallatine, I’m afraid there’s been—”

  “But Jonas left only enough for his daughter’s dowry and for my maintenance. You will not find any income here. Several women have tried, and I have turned them all away. Good luck to you and your very tall child, madam. The circus life can be generous, as you can see by our fine house, but the traveling can be tiresome, and I can assure you it tempts husbands to stray. I bid you good day.”

  Madeleine was forced to seize the doorknob as the door began to swing shut.

  “Mrs. Pallatine, forgive me, but that’s not why I’ve come. I’ve no…very tall child.”

  Mrs. Pallatine peered over Madeleine’s shoulder into the street.

  And then she saw the pine coffin in the wagon, and another unexpected expression, this one cynicism, washed over her features.

  “Ah. I see now. Please be aware that I don’t make it a habit to marry unusually tall men. Or unusually small ones, or men unique in any other way. I plan to marry Mr. Bell, a barrister who is proportioned quite normally. So you needn’t hover like vultures about my house anymore to collect bodies. I bid you good—”

  “Mrs. Pallatine, I haven’t come for a body. I’ve come…with a body.”

  Mrs. Pallatine stopped short. Her face went blank with surprise and she was silent. She’d plainly exhausted any possible explanations for Madeleine’s appearance on her doorstep.

  Finally, she looked, of all things, relieved.

  Which worked, perversely, in Madeleine’s favor. “And the reason I’ve come to see you today, Mrs. Pallatine,” she added gently, “is that I wondered if you employed any girls called Mary. I need to speak with her regarding this particular body.”

  “I’ve two Marys, as a matter of fact, but each is sluttish as the day is long, so you may take your pick. They should be at their chores now, but one is doubtless still asleep, and the other is probably fawning over the nearest thing in trousers, which given that today is…Monday…would be the man who delivers coal. What do you want with a Mary?”

  “We believe the body in the coffin is a member of her family, and we hoped to surrender it to her. Otherwise we shall go straight on to the pauper’s cemetery with it. I come from Edderly Hospital.”

  “Do you?” Mrs. Pallatine was studying her closely now, frowning a little.

  “Yes, as a messenger of Doctor—”

  Madeleine realized just in time there might be lingering sensitivity to the name of Dr. August in this household. “—Smythe.”

  “Do you typically deliver bodies to doorsteps, madam?” Mrs. Pallatine didn’t sound suspicious. She sounded fascinated. Understandably, she’d never heard of such a thing.

  “We received word at the very last instant in this case, as we made ready to leave for the cemetery, and as your home was on our route, I was instructed to inquire at your residence in case alternate arrangements could be made. We make every effort at Edderly Hospital to locate relatives of patients who pass without relatives present. And the government is always grateful when a relative takes charge of a body. And ’tis it not sad to go to your reward alone?”

  The entire story sounded preposterous to Madeleine’s own ears, but apparently either her sincere delivery or the mention of the government compensated for it. Why else would a perfectly—or nearly perfectly—respectable woman be driving about London with a coffin?

  Mrs. Pallatine sighed.

  “I’ll send the Marys down. Perhaps you can sort it out between them. Would you like to come in, Mrs.—”

  “I think I should perhaps remain with the coffin,” Madeleine said discreetly.

  “Yes, given the trouble with Resurrectionists, I think that’s wisest.”

  And what could Madeleine say to that? “Indeed,” she agreed somberly.

  Down below in the street, Colin reflected upon the fact that he’d spent the past several weeks of his life in increasingly small, dark spaces. He was not desperately uncomfortable at the moment. Then again, he could not in truth say he was comfortable. He couldn’t move more than an inch in any direction, and any time he stretched his arms, the coffin lid bumped a bit, the straw itched him, and the sweat had begun to gather in earnest between his shoulder blades. And then there was the low hum of fear, the knowledge that he might need to spring into response in a heartbeat’s amount of time.

  But that had been so ever present lately, he was almost growing used to it.

  He began to plan what he might do if the coffin lid opened over him and he didn’t see Madeleine’s face but another one altogether. He diverted himself for an instant imagining Louisa’s blue eyes peering in at him, but they had an expression of horror no matter how he tried, so he stopped. He’d crossed his hands over his chest over his locked pistol. He could get it unlocked pretty quickly. He thought he might be adroit enough to jab the interloper in the eyes with two fingers or—

  A gloved finger was poking him in the ear again. He could only just bend his arm enough to reach up and squeeze it.

  Madeleine risked lifting up the coffin lid an inch or so then. He saw a pair of dark eyes fringed by lush eyelashes.

  “Good day,” she said softly.

  “And good day to you,” he answered politely and just as softly.

  “Mrs. Pallatine has two Marys. She’s sending them down. Are you able to breathe?”

  “Adequately.”

  “What more can one ask of life?” she whispered.

  He smiled at her, and he saw her eyes scrunch up in a smile, saw the soft little stars in their depths, and then the lid fell.

  Suddenly, a strident female voice penetrated the walls of his little pine prison.

  “’Tis mine, Mary, I tell ye. Off wi’ ye,” snarled a rough feminine voice.

  “’Ow d’yer ken ’tis yer body, Mary?” Another female voice whined.

  Two Marys? Colin mused.

  There was a silence.

  “I…ken.” This Mary’s voice was a low and sinister snarl.

  Convincing, Colin had to admit.

  There was a silence. And then the wench who must have been the other Mary squeaked and he heard the sound of her footsteps dashing back up the stairs.

  Colin was distantly amused to be referred to as “it,” and also that the remaining Mary was so eager to claim him. He thought he knew why. This Mary must have looked at that coffin and seen pound notes.

  They’d found their girl.

  His heart began a now familiar hard, swift thudding, and he tipped his head back to get his ear closer to his air holes.

  “Are you very, very certain, Mary?” Madeleine sounded careful and reasonable. “I was told I could bring a body to you, and you would know…what to do with it.”

  “Oh, aye.” She was all business now, her voice low and practical. “Ye want me man, Critchley. Yer story is a good one, mum, but ’tis right rash to bring the body straight ’ere in the daylight. But fer two pounds I’ll tell ye where to find ’im. Ye’ll get four pounds fer this ’un if ’tis a large, and Critchley will sell it on to the surgeons an’ take ’is cut from the fee, as ye’ve done the work, like. But…I’ll jus’ ’ave me a look inside, won’t I?” she said suddenly, with insulting insinuation. “I tell ye, I willna be buyin’ a coffin full of rocks—”

  The coffin lid flipped up, a doughy face appeared, and Colin apparently closed his eyes too late. For he saw a mouth gape into an enormous O, and out of it came the first note of a scream that promised to be so extraordinary in pitch that Colin nearly screamed himself.

  Madeleine’s hand instantly appeared, clappe
d over the mouth and pulled the face back, and the coffin lid dropped.

  Knowing Madeleine, she’d probably managed to thrust her pistol in the girl’s ribs, too. But she would need help. That face hadn’t belonged to a petite girl.

  Colin pushed the coffin lid up tentatively a bit more.

  “I only wants the dead ones,” Mary was saying resentfully.

  She was a charmer, this Mary. But I’m rumored to be worth one hundred pounds alive, he was tempted to say.

  Madeleine’s voice was low and persuasive. “Mary…come with us for a very short ride, and I promise it will be worth your while. But if you scream, do keep in mind that we know all about the Resurrectionists, and you and Critchley might find yourselves in very, very grave trouble.”

  “Mrs. Pallatine, she’ll sack me, she will,” Mary said resentfully.

  “Well, Mary,” Madeleine said reasonably, “we’ve pistols and pound notes, and we’ll use both to obtain what we need from you.”

  Colin sat part of the way up, lifting the lid of the coffin, but not enough to poke his head above the sides of the wagon. He brushed his hair away from his eyes, and squinted into the sun, and cocked his pistol almost reflexively.

  The sound got Mary’s attention, and she spun her head to stare down at him.

  “Who the divvil—who are—are ye—” Her mouth dropped open again. “Oh, sweet MaryMotherofGOD-ColinEversea!”

  Her voice went up and up and up in pitch until his name was nearly an inaudible squeak.

  He gave her his very best, spine-melting smile.

  And before his eyes, all the surly went out of her. In its place appeared a small, shy, young-looking smile. Her face was fleshy and colorless, and her hair was oily, some of it shoved up under maid’s cap and some trailing down. Her eyes were blue as lapis but very small and set unnervingly far apart. They reminded Colin a bit of currants pressed into a Christmas pudding.