by Anne Groß
“Two lefts?” Elise pointed hesitantly down the road.
“Quite right.” He touched his hat politely. “Until this evening then,” he said and took off in the opposite direction, his long legs working too fast for Elise to question him further.
A left and then a left at the dashing habery, Elise thought as she watched Richard quickly receding away. She tried to picture the landmark he’d specified, but had a hard time imagining what a radishabery might look like. The only thing she could think of was a cart of some sort. They’d passed plenty of vegetable carts, but she couldn’t remember one that specifically displayed radishes for sale. She’d been too intent on keeping up and not hitting anyone with the wooden bludgeon she had draped across her shoulders to notice the particulars of the sales carts.
The yoke now felt ten times more cumbersome with two full buckets of water swinging from it on her already bruised and sore shoulders. She took a few steps in the direction Richard had pointed and the swinging weight of the buckets caused her to shuffle off balance. She overcorrected to her right and water sloshed down her skirt. With the aid of a stream of profanity, she managed to steady the buckets with both hands. When she began again, Elise walked more slowly and with her legs spaced wide apart in a balanced waddle. Recognizing Mary’s solid gait in her own movements, she smiled and headed for the Quiet Woman with a newfound respect for the barmaid.
WHERE IS IT?
This is all Mary’s fault, thought Elise grumpily after countless city blocks where she was forced to swing back and forth to avoid smacking people with her load. If it hadn’t been for Mary and her stupid crush on that stupid Frenchman, she never would have been asked to fetch water, Richard would never have abandoned her in deepest London, she wouldn’t still be wondering what a havershamery was, and she wouldn’t now be completely lost. Elise’s mind worked over how to exact revenge as she staggered along down the narrow road. Maybe she should scatter a thick layer of sand in Mary’s bed, or dunk all her pantaloons in beef broth so she’d attract stray dogs. Replacing her face powder with cinders from the fireplace seemed too obvious.
It had been easier following behind Richard who had easily cleared a path through the costermongers selling parasols, apples, second hand clothing, bits of old iron and other trash, the scullery maids, the bakers, the clerks, merchants, laborers, layabouts, and all the other riffraff of the streets. It felt like the entire population was out walking. Plodding through the crowd, she became more and more tired as the weight on her shoulders pressed her down. With her hands occupied in steadying the buckets, she was unable to lift her skirt when she stepped off the platform to circle around those that formed clots in her way. As a result, the hem of her skirt swished over everything disgusting that pooled along the edges of the road, which then slowly worked its way up her legs. Initially, Elise had attempted to stop people for directions. Three women she asked looked straight through her and gave her a wide berth as they passed and a young man asked for money for the favor. She thought she would finally get the help she needed from a finely dressed gentleman, but when he tried to lead her down a strange alley, Elise thought better of following and hurried back to the main street. The name he’d hurled at her retreating back confirmed Elise’s instincts, so she resolved to find her own way back.
A woman who approached on the arm of a gentleman flipped her skirt away from Elise in what was more of a gesture than an actual attempt to get out of Elise’s way. The unspoken air of hierarchical self-importance that caused the woman to think a skirt swish was all she needed to move out of the way made Elise’s teeth grind. She wasn’t accustomed to thinking of herself as near the lowest rung of society, and she didn’t like the way it felt. Elise grazed the woman’s shoulder with the end of her yoke and the bucket sloshed over the woman’s skirt as she yelped in pain. “I say,” the woman’s escort yelled at her retreating back, “return here this instant or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”
Elise rolled her eyes. He was obviously posturing. There was no way he’d chase her down. She knew she wasn’t worth the sweat it would cause him, but the threat of punishment would be enough to win him his girlfriend’s appreciation, and who knows what that could lead to? She just did the guy a big favor. She paused at yet another intersection and peered down the street. It seemed familiar, but in the way that one lane lined with brick buildings and paved in slop looked like any other brick lined slop chute. Elise used Mary’s coat sleeve to wipe her escaping tears of frustration and the motion of raising her arm nearly upset the heavy yoke from her shoulders. She barely saved the buckets from being overturned. Choking down her sobs, she slipped away from the London crowds into the empty lane to gather her courage. A huge sigh escaped her lips when she took the torturous wooden board from her shoulders and carefully set the buckets down. Peace, away from the cries of the street vendors, the rattle of the carriages drawn by monstrous horses, and the snobbery of the upper class, was what she needed, if only for five minutes.
She’d never hear the end of it if she got back to the Quiet Woman without two full buckets of water, she thought to herself, and now they were three-quarters full. Elise considered trying to retrace her steps back to the pump. Everyone seemed to know Richard, so not only would she be able to top off the buckets, she’d probably find someone to tell her how to get back to the pub. She thought longingly of Tucson’s logical grid of North-South, East-West streets. It was impossible to get lost in Tucson with the sun always so clear in the sky casting shadows in shades of burnt orange and lavender between the soft ridges of the Catalina Mountains directly North of the city. Find the Catalinas and you’ll always be able to find your way home. Again, Elise was reminded of Mrs. Southill’s words. “Find your way home,” the witch had said. If only it was that easy.
The sound of footsteps caused Elise to suddenly straighten up and wipe her tears. A short man approached from the main road. He adjusted his cloak over his shoulders and pulled his hat lower on his brow, but his sallow look was unmistakable. “Mr. Laroque,” called out Elise happily. “Am I glad to see you!”
The man glanced to his right and left, surveying the area as he quickly walked to her side and grabbed her elbow. Being newly introduced to the London custom of elbow grabbing, Elise went along as he led her into the shadows and growled at her in his own language.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French. Did Mary send you? They must be worried about me by now.” She continued in her relieved prattle, castigating both Mary and Richard for her current situation, until Mr. Laroque suddenly swung her hard into a stack of empty crates and she fell with her arms and legs inelegantly splayed.
The snarl on Mr. Laroque’s face made Elise wish she hadn’t looked at him. His expression spoke volumes, but his words were incomprehensible. “No habla French,” Elise repeated slowly and loudly as she struggled to get back to her feet.
He stood so close she had to turn her head to avoid making eye contact. The sharp corners of the wooden crates pressed against her calves.
“You are a bad liar, Elise Dubois.” He said her name in four perfectly accented syllables as if the name itself was proof of her understanding his language. “Where is the Emperor’s jewel?”
The question was absurd. The type of person that kept jewelry wouldn’t have horse manure caked to her ankles. “What are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well. The emerald: give it to me.”
“Right,” she drawled. “Maybe women in France wear emeralds when they’re sent to lug water, but here in London we don’t find it very practical.”
The force of his backhanded slap spun Elise back to the ground. She didn’t even have time to scream before he snatched her hair and pulled her to the other side of the alley where he slammed her against the wall, pinning her with a body check and pressing the side of her face against the rough brick with one hand. “You conspired with that salope Lenormand. Do not think to fool me. Did you not think we would catch up with you? Fouché fi
nds everyone, no matter where they hide.” He switched back to French, speaking it in a low guttural lilt as he grazed the skin of her neck with his lips. Shivers went down her spine. His breath was hot and smelled vaguely sour and sulfuric, like he’d had too many of Mrs. Postlethwaite’s pickled eggs. Elise closed her eyes and willed it all to go away—the water buckets, the soupy streets, the choking air, and most of all, the man who was grinding her face against the rough brick. “Tell me!” he shouted, interrupting Elise’s prayers, and slammed her head against the wall a second time to add emphasis to his demand.
Time stretched and slowed. She saw nothing that wasn’t ringed in red; she heard nothing that wasn’t the pounding of her heart. She reached up with both hands and took hold of Laroque’s wrist. When his hand came away from her face, she wasn’t surprised at her success. She took two steps to the side, like a dancer circling her partner, and carried his arm backwards and up until he howled and bent forward. With his head now close to her waist, it was only natural to lift her knee and slam it into his face before pushing him away.
Her lungs expanded, taking in as much oxygen as physically possible to feed her muscles; her shoulders bent forward with her arms at her sides ready to pump. Run. Run fast. Run like there’s nothing in front of you but blue skies and dusty trails. Elise lunged and felt her foot slide forward into her stride. Then, alarmingly, it continued to slide forward and her arms shot out at her sides to wave in wide circles, extended and flightless. Grand jeté, she suddenly remembered from her childhood ballet classes. I do know some French, she thought as she fell onto the cobblestones.
Before she could get up again, the Frenchman was against her back. There was no difference, Elise found, between the rough textures of the cobblestones in the street and the brick wall—both were equally unpleasant ground against her face. The only difference was this time the point of a knife pricked just under her jaw. Elise opened her mouth, but didn’t know if she should beg for mercy or make up a location for the emerald he wanted so badly. He was speaking French again and when she didn’t respond, he grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the ground. He’s a one trick pony, she thought as the pain brought stars to her eyes. Her head hit the ground again and the stars sparkled green and flew with golden wings, buzzing pleasantly. If he killed her, maybe she would return to Tucson. The thought calmed her, and she smiled as Laroque’s angry face faded from view. A new face took its place, and was scowling just like the old face, only crosshatched with white scars. “Thomas,” Elise breathed.
“Move. Now,” he ordered.
Elise obeyed. She scurried backwards on the ground like a crab to huddle against the wall while Thomas and Laroque circled each other with knives drawn. Thomas feigned a lunge to the right then spun in a dodge. The Frenchman countered with two jabs and a slice, but it didn’t stop Thomas’s forward momentum. He dropped his shoulder and sent Laroque skittering into the wall two feet from Elise. “I said move,” shouted Thomas as the Frenchman shook off the blow and reached to grab her. She spiraled away just inches from his fingertips. While Laroque’s attention was still centered on Elise, Thomas stepped in. He wrapped one massive arm around the Frenchman’s head and pulled back, sliding his knife across the exposed neck. A spray of blood arced into the air, then ebbed.
“No, no, no, no, no. Don’t scream,” Thomas pleaded as the noise poured from Elise. He reached for her, but she flinched from his knife. He slid the knife back into his belt and caught her arm, which she deftly twisted from his grip. “Bloody hell, stop screaming.” He grabbed her wrist again and with a jerk, pulled her against his chest and crushed his hand over her mouth. He sank into a squat, clamping down on her struggles and folding her into his lap. “Where are you going to run to?” he whispered in her ear. He pressed his cheek against her hair. “You’ve nowhere to run. Pull yourself together.”
The memory of Mrs. Elliot begging for leniency for her husband loomed fresh in her mind. The woman’s fear had confused her then, but now she understood. Thomas had killed without hesitation. Pull yourself together? She’d been barely keeping it together since she woke up a month ago, and now she was sitting in a murderer’s lap inches from a pool of his victim’s blood. Part of her had still been expecting to wake up one morning back home in her own bed, but there was nothing dream-like about the body sprawled against the wall.
“Please don’t cry,” Thomas crooned while rocking her. He moved his hand from her mouth and gently tucked her head under his chin and they sat balled like kittens while Elise trembled from the aftereffects of finally submitting to the reality of everything.
“I just want to go home,” she whispered.
The world felt much colder when he opened his arms. She unsteadily climbed to her feet and turned to watch as Thomas dragged Laroque by his ankles into a dark niche where two buildings came together. To Elise, the red trail from Laroque’s draining jugular looked like a neon sign reading, “Here lies a man with new gills,” but Thomas seemed unconcerned. He half-heartedly tried to rub out the blood trail with the toe of his shoe. The action unnerved Elise. He was too casual, as though he’d done it all before.
“We’ve tarried too long. Can you walk?” he asked.
She took his offered hand and he pulled her close, catching her chin to twist her face up into the dull light. “Look at what that bastard did to you.”
Elise was glad for the supportive arm around her waist, but the cupped chin went too far. It reminded her that her cheek stung like hell where the skin had been ground away. “It’ll heal,” she said, trying to ignore his probing look. The side of her mouth felt thick where her lip had split.
“I hope that doesn’t leave a permanent mark.”
“Maybe everyone will leave me alone if it does.”
“I know how that feels. You wouldn’t like it.” Thomas pushed his shaggy black hair away from his face to reveal his own scars but all Elise could see were his intense blue eyes, which effectively disproved both of their arguments for and against facial disfigurement.
He led her away through more quiet alleys out of sight of those who might notice the blood on Thomas’s sleeve and the bruises on Elise’s face. At first, Elise attempted to keep track of where they were going, but since the route was so circuitous and she didn’t know where she was coming from, the effort was fruitless. She was surprised when Thomas called a rest on the stoop of a boarded entrance to an old shop. A lopsided sign over the door read, “Miss Mary’s Haberdashery.” To Elise, the sign was more evidence to prove it was all Mary’s fault.
Thinking of Mary reminded her of why she had stepped out in the first place. “Oh no,” she gasped, “the buckets.” Her eyes well up again when she realized she’d lost them. “Mrs. Postlethwaite will flay me.”
“After all that’s happened today, you’re still frightened by Mrs. P? She’ll forgive the buckets when she sees your bruised face, don’t you worry.” Thomas guided her to sit on the bottom step and stirred a small bonfire that some other wanderer had left smoldering just outside the shop’s stoop. When the coals glowed and crackled, Thomas sat back with a hiss and clutched his side.
“You’re stabbed? Why didn’t you say anything?” Elise cried. She reached out to look under his coat but had her hand slapped away.
“Leave it. It’s nothing.”
“Just let me look at it.”
“No.”
Thomas pulled his pipe and tobacco from his pocket and Elise instantly forgot about the possible gravity of Thomas’s knife wound. “Will you share that bowl?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
There was something calming about watching Thomas perform the ritual of packing his pipe with three pinches of tobacco. “There’s rules to filling a pipe,” he instructed. “They say the first pinch you push in as if shaking the hand of a baby.” He tamped the tobacco into the bowl with his thumb. “The second, the hand of a lady. The last you push in like it’s a man’s hand you’re shaking.” He lit the pipe with a splinter of wood fro
m the dying embers and passed it to Elise.
“Someone should hurry up and invent little sticks that ignite on their own,” she said as she blew smoke into the air.
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
Elise smiled, feeling strangely calm. “I’m glad you showed up when you did.”
“It’s all Mrs. P.’s doing. When Richard came into the kitchen with you having yet to come back, she started to worry. So, I sent Johnny off to look for you. Well, when he came back shaking his head, I went to look for you myself. But it’s Mrs. P. as started the worrying.” He took the pipe back from Elise and they sat in silence and watched the little bonfire eat up the last of its tinder. “Who was he?” Thomas finally asked.
“Who was who?”
“The Frenchman.”
“You mean Mr. Laroque? You know as much as I do.”
Thomas seemed to think about this for a while as he puffed, then asked, “So what did he want from you?”
Elise was about to mention the emerald, but thought better of it. The idea of a missing jewel felt familiar somehow, like trying to recapture a fading dream five minutes after waking up. “I think he thought I was someone else.” She reached for the pipe, but Thomas held onto it and puffed thoughtfully.
“Have any of your memories come back?”
“What is this, twenty questions? No. I have no memories.”
Thomas turned to look at her and pulled the pipe out of his mouth. “Are you sure?”
“No. Memories.”
Elise felt herself wither under his glare. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t look so hurt. “I saw what you did,” he finally said. “You bloodied the frog’s nose. I’ve never seen a woman get out of a tight spot the way you did. You wouldn’t have needed my help at all had you not slipped and fallen.” He spat into the fire and shook his head.