They made good speed down the narrow, dirt road, the thick rows of scraggly bushes keeping the shambling undead at bay. The closer they drove, the heavier the air seemed with the dark clouds of dirt and soot belching from nearby smokestacks.
Lizzie pulled out a dainty lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and coughed. “Has the air gotten worse down here in the past months?”
“The mills and factories have doubled, to be sure. The work goes on nearly twenty-four-hours a day. Take a good whiff. That’s the smell of money.”
“Too bad it creates such a stench.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she realized that wasn’t what she smelled. The distinct foul odor of something rotten grew stronger. The horse neighed and almost shied but for Pierre’s strong hands on the reins.
“I can’t back him up in time. We’ll have to fight our way out. Are you ready?”
She drew one of the larger knives from her satchel. “Unfortunately, yes.”
With that, he turned the carriage aside so the horse was shielded by a protruding bank of scraggly bushes and jumped from his seat. Lizzie leaped to the ground on her side as the first few gruesome creatures shambled into view. The front intruder drew closer and snarled, revealing part of a blackened tongue and a few stubs of rotten teeth. Dark, thick drool dripped from its mouth. The monster’s missing molars didn’t stop it from chomping at her in anticipation.
Lizzie groaned in response before she lunged at the creature. It slashed fingerless hands at her, but Lizzie got out of reach before plunging the knife through the thing’s sole clouded eye. She jumped over the smelly corpse and ran at the next one, which met her attack with a near toothless grin and an ugly moan. UNNNHHH.
“Oh, hush.” She pulled the hatchet out and leaped, aiming at the head. The hatchet plunged into the already broken skull and rotted brain with a loud crack. The creature crumpled and fell in a grisly pile.
A glance at Pierre saw him finishing off the last creature with a slash of his blade. She couldn’t help but admire the dashing figure he made despite the garish array of corpses scattered about the ground. Once again, she felt reinvigorated by the fight, and the sense of accomplishment, of vanquishing evil. Her mood improved, she clapped her hands in glee.
“Well done. Bravo!”
Pierre sheathed his sword and joined her at the carriage, chucking a finger under her chin. “I’m glad to see you’re in better spirits. I’m hoping it’s me and not the fight that’s got you so enthused.”
The glint in his eye staggered her for a moment, making her unsure just how to answer. “Well, um, I guess I’m feeling good about fighting again. At least a little.”
“I’m glad to see that. Are you sure that’s all?”
She felt like a deer caught on a busy city sidewalk as she looked up at him. “Well, no, yes, I-I mean…” She paused. “I can’t say.”
“Oh, Lizzie.”
The feel of his hand at her waist, the other caressing her cheek, made her almost wish they were anywhere but standing in the middle of some dank road surrounded by the stench of the dead. She reluctantly tried to put some distance between them, but not before he leaned down and softly kissed her neck.
“I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say, and soon,” he whispered, before moving away with a wink. Just as quick he was back to business. “All right, let’s get away from this stink and continue our mission. Shall we?”
She took the hand he offered and climbed back into the carriage, elated, confused, and filled with a range of emotions she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. It occurred to her that inviting him back into her life wouldn’t be as easy to handle as she’d first thought. Her cheeks warmed as she returned his smile. Truth be told, she enjoyed the challenge, more than she ever imagined.
The horse snorted, stepping carefully among the littered brush and piles of debris as Pierre carefully maneuvered the animal around the bend. Lizzie looked up in surprise and down again at the address on the paper she held. She eyed the row of dilapidated rowhouses in confusion. “Are we in the right place? I never knew of these buildings being rented.”
“Lots of new mills have been opening, which means housing is needed. Unfortunately, it also results in many unscrupulous owners subdividing their buildings into substandard hovels for the workers, and the city’s got its hands full with the zombie outbreak. No time, and far too dangerous, to carry out all the building inspections.”
Lizzie’s next question was forgotten as she watched Pierre pull a bag out from under the carriage seat. He began to remove his jacket before getting out of his seat.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“You don’t want me to go down to those houses there dressed like some well-to-do now, do you? And let’s say it wouldn’t be proper for me to change my attire in your presence. I’ll return in a moment.”
She nodded, wishing her face didn’t get as red as she knew it was, and watched him head to the back of a dilapidated brick shed at the end of the road, bag in hand. Several minutes later he returned dressed in a torn, dirty pair of trousers topped by a rough woolen work shirt. The patched cap and pair of scuffed, worn boots completed the ensemble.
“Why, you do clean up well, don’t you?” she laughed. “Where did you get those clothes?”
“Never mind,” he growled. “Let’s just say I know people. Oh, and I wouldn’t be laughing too hard, if I was you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she caught the bag he tossed her way. “You want me—”
“You think I can leave you here alone? You don’t know the area. I do. Now hurry up. No one will see you back there.”
“What about the horse?”
“Go on. He’ll be fine. Once you’re done, I have someone who’ll take the animal and the carriage.”
She hurried behind the building and looked around, the thick copse of trees and wild growth around it ensuring her privacy. As she slipped off her coat and dress, and slid into the plain, well-worn cotton skirt and bodice, she knew it made sense. They couldn’t just go knock on doors like she’d thought they would without any fore-planning. Nor could they go into any of the local saloons dressed like they were.
A sigh escaped her as she slipped off the soft leather boots, and donned the stiff pair of clunky work shoes. At least they fit. The last addition was a less-than-jaunty green bonnet decked with a tired, dirty cloth flower. She made a face as she put it on. Worry about Emma had her so tangled up and distraught she knew she’d been careless about a lot of things lately. She should’ve thought this out ahead. She really needed to get her thoughts back in order.
Stuffing her own clothes into the bag, she emerged from behind the shed, surprised to find Pierre in intent conversation with a stocky, red-haired man. The visitor barely reached Pierre’s shoulders, his solid form shod in well-worn trousers and a well-used coat. He rubbed a hand across his wild hair before giving her a sly smile and pocketing the handful of coins Pierre offered. To her surprise, he exchanged a few more words in some other tongue with Pierre, who answered in kind before seeing to the horse. He doffed his hat and then headed down the road a few feet. A minute later, he led the horse and carriage through an open section of the thick brush and disappeared from view.
“Where’d he go? What if he doesn’t come back?”
“He’ll be back. He lives down that way a piece.”
She gave him a puzzled look, his explanation no less confusing than this new development. “How do you know him? I’m not sure he can be trusted.”
He snorted in irritation and gently pulled her arm. “So many questions. We don’t have much time. Just trust me. I trust him. Implicitly.”
She stopped a moment and pulled back. “You-you understood him? What were you speaking?”
“Aye, I was speakin’ Gaelic. More questions, lass?”
Her brow lowered, Lizzie glared at him. “Gaelic? Like-like those curses you said someone translated for you? You-you lied to me! You said you coul
dn’t read that! I thought you were French, not Irish!”
“Half. My mother was Irish. We were forbidden to speak her tongue at home. She wanted us to fit in, become American. I can speak some, but most of it I can’t read. There was no need to explain all that to you, not yet. It doesn’t change who I am, nor should it matter. Does it?”
She stared at him, more confused than ever. “No, I suppose not. Oh, I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m just surprised, and really annoyed, you didn’t trust me enough. You know my secrets.”
“Yes, I do. But things are told in the time they should be told, not before. So, are you going with me or not?”
“Yes, yes. Only, please. No more secrets.”
“Now Lizzie, I’m ready and waiting for you to share in all my secrets. Just say the word.”
She hooked her arm in his. “Can we go, please?”
“Very well. Only one thing. Let me do all the talking. Yes, I’ll be using some Gaelic. I want those I’m talking with to feel comfortable. Just smile and nod. If anyone says anything, I’ll explain you have a sore throat and can’t talk. I have a hunch your little housemaid and her friend might be in one of the saloons over here, so we’ll go there next. Just remember, not a word unless you can be speakin’ the Irish now.”
She nodded as they walked down the path. After looking at the address again, she pointed to the second of the weathered gray rowhouses. Upon closer inspection, the appearance was worse than it looked from a distance. Pockmarked wood shingles covered the front of the two-story building. Torn strips of black tar paper peeked out from spots where the shingles had disappeared. Rotted wood surrounded the cracked windows. Pieces of card or weathered wood covered some of the missing glass. The small plots sported dry dirt devoid of one blade of grass. It truly was dismal.
Pierre knocked on the weathered door and saw the dingy curtain in the right window twitch. A moment later, an old, gray-haired woman, her head covered with a plaid wool shawl, answered the door. Lizzie sniffed at the pungent scent of cooked cabbage wafting from the room.
Pierre placed a hand on his chest in a gesture of apology. “Excuse me, Máthair, Mother. Do you speak English?” She shook her head no. He tried again. “I’m looking for Miss O’Sullivan. Is this her baile, home?”
The woman peered at him, her face guarded, her mouth quirked to the side. “No, no lass, beo. No live here.” She motioned down the road, and gave them a dirty look before shutting the door.
Lizzie looked at him, confused. “Mr. Jennings said he called. Someone told him this was her address.”
“They lied.” Pierre shook his head. “They didn’t want us to know where she lives, but my friend who took the horse said he’s seen her around. He told me to try the saloon down the block. We’ll check there.”
They hurried past the last few houses when Pierre pulled Lizzie into a corner of one of the buildings. “Someone’s coming. Get close, so I can hide your face. Forgive me for being forward.”
With that said, Lizzie got but a brief glimpse of a young man coming out of a dingy building a few doors down before Pierre pulled her in tight. She nestled her face in his neck, feeling the throb of the vein there.
He leaned closer, his lips against her neck, and whispered, “It’s your maid’s boyfriend. Stay close.” He feathered her neck with light kisses. “I’ve wanted to do this forever.”
As she turned her face to his, she let out a small gasp of surprise when their lips met. She forgot where they were, savoring the warmth and softness of his mouth on hers, every nerve in her body alive. That little kiss they’d shared some months back? She realized it was nothing compared to this.
A minute later, it ended. She stood there, unsure how she felt, as he pulled away from her. “All right, he’s gone.”
A feeling of dejection hit her. “Oh.” She wondered, was that all it was? A ploy?
Her face hot, she nodded, but didn’t say anything else. As much as she might’ve liked to say something, she still had to sort out her feelings. But she didn’t resist when Pierre grabbed her hand as they continued down the road.
“The Brown Jug is the local tavern your housemaid likes to go with her friends, so my friend told me,” Pierre explained. “Now, you’ll have to get over your, um, properness, when we go in. I might have to be actin’ more familiar with ye, like you’re my lass, understand?”
She exhaled in shock, giving him a dirty look as he slid his hand down her back and patted her backside.
“Liz, act like you want me, that you like me, not like you want to kill me. If you do that, don’t be too surprised what I’ll say so the men won’t be thinkin’ you’re pushin’ me out o’ your bed.”
She pushed him away at that. “Do you have to be so crude?”
He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear. She tried to ignore the heat between them.
“Liz, don’t pretend. Don’t think. Just let yourself go. And don’t forget, our lives might depend on how you act.”
She sighed and put a few inches between them. “Very well. I’ll be your tart if you like, only I hope you won’t take advantage of it.”
His smile grew wider. “Me? You know I won’t, but remember this is not a game.”
She dared not breathe as she took in the intensity of his gaze. Yes, I know, she thought. We’ve crossed a line and neither of us is pretending any longer.
Chapter Fourteen
Q. In your opinion could the results you found be produced by an ordinary hatchet in the hands of a woman of ordinary strength?
A. In my opinion they could, sir.
—Testimony of Dr. Frank W. Draper,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 13, 1893
T
hey continued down the road, Lizzie’s nervousness growing with each step. Several young toughs loitered in front of the run-down saloon, cigarette smoke swirling around them. They leered, eyeing her before noting the steely look on Pierre’s face. The young men looked away, muttering to themselves as they flicked half-smoked cigarettes to the ground.
“Relax,” Pierre whispered. “Give me a smile and a peck.”
She did that, leaning over to give him a quick kiss as he squeezed her arm. He glared at them, his eyes narrowed, before opening the door and pulling her in behind him. Lizzie blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the dimness inside. The thick layers of body sweat, smoke, and the smell of stale beer scenting the air made her cough.
“Be gettin’ me an ale, lass.” He slapped her on the backside and gave her a playful shove. “Make yerself useful out of bed.”
The man next to him laughed and nodded. “Aye, mate, glad my lass ain’t as slow as that one there. Mebbe ye be needin’ a younger one.”
Pierre glared at the other man. “Now, look here. Don’t be overlooking the older ones. There’s a lot of saol, life, in them, there is.”
The other man tipped his glass in response as Lizzie brought two mugs over, clouds of foam overflowing the top edges. Pierre grabbed his ale and took a hearty swill before pulling Lizzie over and gave her waist a good squeeze. “Thank ye, lass. You be takin’ so long, I though ye’d run off with some other bloke.” He gave a hearty laugh. A few of the younger men laughed as well before turning back to their beers and conversation. Their tablemate got up and went to the bar for a refill, before heading over to talk to another group of men.
Lizzie watched and kept an eye on Pierre as he guzzled his beer and pulled her down to sit on his knee.
“You’re doing well,” he whispered. “Smile, get closer to me, and drink your beer. We’re being watched.”
She took a sip of her beer and nuzzled his neck, burying her face against him. She felt her face warm, mortified to act so in public, but knowing if she didn’t it would look far worse. It didn’t help, either, that she could feel every throb of the vein in his neck, almost in time with the too-fast beat of her own heart.
“Here comes someone. Be quiet now,” he whispered.
“Maidin, good morning. Lass, sit
there a while.” He pushed her off his lap and onto the wood stool next to him.
The other man nodded and slid onto a seat on the other side of the table. He studied them, his eyes cold and hard. “Ain’t seen you in here afore,” he said.
“No, I usually am goin’ to a place over on Pine. Came in to see a few old pals. Was hopin’ to find Sean O’Malley. Didn’t catch him at home.”
The man visibly relaxed at mention of the name. “Oh, aye, Sean was in here an hour ago. Said he’d be comin’ back later.”
Pierre sipped his beer and nodded. “Well, then I’ll be comin’ back in then, too.” He took a quick look around the room before lowering his voice. “Say, he told me Eileen was seein’ someone new?”
The stranger quirked an eyebrow his way before sipping his own beer. “What is it ye’d be wantin’ with Eileen, now? Wot business would she be to you?”
“Ach, no business. Sean said she’s working in some saibhir, rich lady’s house. I thought mebbe her buachaill, boyfriend, would be interested in buyin’ some goods.”
The man made a scoffing sound. “Huh. Aiden O’ Neil? He’s about as lazy and unreliable as the sows out at old McArthur’s barn down the road. You want a good price, ye be talkin’ to me. I can get ye a lot more than some o’ these other nobodies.”
“All right, then.” Pierre rose and held out his hand. “I’m Peadar. This is my lass, Éilís. I thank ye. I might be comin’ up with somethin’ soon.”
“Conor O’Brien.” He reached out and shook Pierre’s hand. “I’m not here, ye ask Bridget there behind the bar. She’ll be knowin’ where to find me.”
Lizzie watched O’Brien walk away when someone coming in the door caught her eye. She tried to shrink closer to Pierre and quickly lifted her mug to cover her face. “My housemaid Eileen’s coming in—and she’s not alone!”
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