Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  “Is the blade yours or is it not? Speak up, boy, I haven’t all day.”

  Knowing that his life well might depend on what answer he gave, Rourke fought to hold his voice steady and his mind clear. “Aye, milord, it is, but—”

  “That will be all.” The judge looked down on the court recorder seated below at the small side table. “Let the record reflect the accused answered in the affirmative.”

  “I am afraid I must object.”

  The deep-timbered voice drew a collective gasp from occupants of the courtroom. Heads swung about to the back of the room, Rourke’s included. His mark from the night before, Prime Minister William Gladstone, strode down the aisle toward the witness stand, greatcoat billowing behind his tall form like a ship’s sail. Other than a small bandage applied above his left eye where his brow must have scraped the sidewalk, the legendary statesman looked surprisingly hale.

  Rourke cast the judge a sideways glance out of his still-working right eye. “Prime Minister, your presence does this court great honor, but it is not required. We have the sworn testimony from two trusted witnesses, officers of the Metropolitan Police Force, as well as the assailant’s weapon, which he himself has just identified.”

  Gaining the witness stand, the prime minister stepped inside. “Be that as it may, I wish to bear witness for the defendant.”

  The judge’s salt-and-pepper brows rose to reach the hairline of his wig. He leaned forward. “It is highly irregular for a victim to testify on his attacker’s behalf.”

  Gladstone nodded, his craggy countenance betraying no emotion. “Highly irregular though it may be, it is perfectly legal. The presumption of innocence until guilt is proved beyond a reasonable doubt is the golden thread that runs throughout the web of English criminal law, is it not so, my lord judge?”

  The judge gave a grudging nod. “Very well, milord, pray proceed.”

  The prime minister folded his long arms behind his back as though preparing to address Parliament. “The lad did not attack me, as you say. He did, indeed, attempt to pick my pocket, but that is all. It was only after I set hands upon him that he did shove me. My coming to harm was pure accident, hence the charge of robbery must be reduced to the lesser crime of thievery. With me lying on the ground and my money clip in his possession, there was nothing to keep him from running to ground. Instead he elected to remain and render me aid—not to assassinate me as some today have alleged. It is the inherent morality and selflessness of that choice that brings me to speak on his behalf.”

  The judge scowled. “The boy is an orphan who makes his home in the St. Giles rookery among his fellow thieves and vagabonds. Reformation through incarceration is his only hope. Thrice now he has demonstrated he cannot be left to his own devices, that he must be removed from the society to which he is a danger.”

  Watching closely, Rourke saw Gladstone shake his head, then wince as though the gesture caused him pain. “Prison will only push him over the precipice to destruction.

  The company he keeps there will murder all that is good in him and nourish the little that is bad.”

  The judge fingered the sleeve of his robe. “In that case, pray tell us, what is it you propose, sir? Surely you do not suggest this court should simply set him free?”

  “Let him be sent not to prison, my lord judge, but to school.”

  “School!”

  School? Rourke had never attended a real school, but the Methodist do-gooders at the Christian Mission on Whitechapel Road held classes sometimes. Whenever he could, he sat in. The backless benches were hard on a bum, but the lesson part was all right. He liked the ones to do with numbers the best. His sums almost always came out right, and he could carry impressively large figures in his head.

  Gladstone continued. “There is a Quaker orphanage in Kent known as Roxbury House. The institution has an impressive record of rehabilitating troubled boys and girls. I sit on the board of directors. Remand the boy to my custody, and I assure the court he will be found a place there.”

  The judge removed his spectacles and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “And if he runs away?”

  “I will settle a surety of one thousand pounds upon him to vouchsafe that he will not.”

  A thousand pounds! Rourke felt his jaw drop. He could scarcely fathom such a sum, let alone himself worthy of the trust it implied.

  He swung his gaze back to Gladstone. “I believe in this young man. I believe he possesses sufficient goodness and power of will to turn his life about. But to do so he must be given a chance.”

  An hour later, Rourke found himself unchained, released, and bundled into Gladstone’s well-appointed carriage, the soothing scents of leather, cigars, and bay rum filling his nostrils, a wool carriage blanket wrapped about his shivering form. His benefactor sat on the opposite seat, his large gloved hands resting atop his gold-tipped walking stick. So far he’d not spoken since depositing Rourke inside.

  Uneasy with the silence, Rourke looked from the thumbs he’d been twiddling. “I didn’t mean for you to fall and crack your crown—honest.”

  Gladstone nodded. “I know that.”

  Rourke plucked at a loose thread in the blanket’s weave. “Are you going to hit me? I shouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  From beneath the bandaged brow, gunmetal-gray eyes honed in on his bloodied forehead and bruised face. “I rather suspect that in your short, miserable existence, you’ve been struck overmuch as it is.”

  Rather than answer and risk turning into a “rat,” Rourke pulled back the leather window curtain and looked out. His left eye was badly blurred, but if he kept it closed, he could see well enough with his right. The snow-covered streets were far wider and straighter than the narrow, winding warrens of the East End. They must be headed westward to the fancy part of town where the toffs lived.

  “How much farther is Roxbury House?”

  “Roxbury House is in Kent.” The prime minister’s voice held a trace of surprise. “Tomorrow morning we shall take the train there together. Tonight we shall stay at my house.”

  Rourke let the curtain drop and turned back inside. “You’re taking me to Number Ten Downing Street! That house!” Patrick O’Rourke to hobnob with the inhabitants of the ministerial residence, who would have thunk it!

  The corners of the older man’s mouth twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Quite. Once there, my good wife shall see that you receive a wholesome meal, a hot bath, and dressings for those wounds. The future will look a good deal brighter after a night’s rest in a bed all of your own.”

  Yawning, Rourke wasn’t so certain about the bath part, but the bit about supper and a bed sounded grand. After a year of living off maggoty meat and bunking on a musty mattress with three other boys, Gladstone’s description of the hospitality to come seemed like heaven on earth. Truth be told, he was more than ready to fall asleep where he was. Outside, the air was sharp as a knife, but cradled within the gently rocking carriage, he felt snug as a bug in a rug. Suddenly it seemed an effort to hold open even one of his eyes. He snuggled against the leather squab and considered that for the future, he might want to alter his rule of no looking back.

  Looking back might not always be such a bad thing after all.

  New Romney, Kent

  Some thirty-odd leagues from London, on an estate set upon the wide, flat plains of the Romney Marsh, a little girl of a like age but markedly different birth was having her own trial of a day.

  Straw and stable mud sticking to her riding boots, eleven-year-old Katherine—Kate—raced into her family’s breakfast room, skidding to a stop at the foot of the linen-covered breakfast table. “Papa, Papa, someone’s stolen Princess. She’s not in her stall. She’s not anywhere in the stable or in the paddock, either.”

  Arthur Lindsey, third Earl of Romney, lifted red-rimmed eyes from the raw egg he’d just dropped into his glass of beer and scowled. “Katherine, do cease caterwauling. It’s scarcely ten o’clock.”

  Kate
halted at the table’s foot. Loud sounds at any time of day always made Papa cross, but particularly so in the mornings. Displays of “vulgar emotion” did not set well with him, either. Chest heaving, she tried calming herself as best she might, given the monumental nature of the current calamity.

  Princess was very precious to Kate. The mare had been a birthday gift, the last birthday her mummy would live to help her celebrate. Since Mummy had gone to live with the angels the summer before, the horse had been Kate’s closest confidante, best friend, and principal playmate. She loved her little sister, Bea, certainly, but you couldn’t really play with a toddler. Nor had she ever understood why so many other little girls fancied dolls. She’d found dressing and undressing them to be a bore, but then she scarcely cared for clothes herself. As for stuffed animals, why bother cuddling a cloth-covered bear or satin-sewn pup when there were so many real live animals to love who could love you back?

  Be the weather fair or foul, every morning Kate sprang out of bed, pulled on her riding boots, and rushed out to the stable where she headed straight for Princess’s stall. Kate couldn’t imagine a lovelier start to the day—or a worse beginning to this one.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, but Princess’s gone missing. She’s not in the stable or the paddock, either. Someone must have stolen her in the night. We have to do something, call in the magistrate, organize a search party, post a reward … something before the thieves get any farther away.”

  “Calm yourself, Katherine. The horse isn’t stolen. It has been sold.”

  Sold! The unfathomable horror of that single word sent Kate staggering. “S-sold?” Her stomach couldn’t have hurt any worse if he’d stood from the table and struck her.

  Her father nodded, and then winced as if the minor movement must cause him pain. “I’m sorry, Katherine, but there was no help for it. I got into a … spot of trouble the other night, and family honor called for putting Princess up as collateral.”

  Family honor? “You wagered my horse in a card game?”

  His gaze shuttered. “It is not the place of children to question their parents.” A curtain of frost closed over his face. “I know you’re fond of the beast, but a pony is property to be purchased and sold, not unlike this table upon which our breakfast is laid out or the chair upon which I sit.”

  Princess wasn’t property, not to Kate’s way of thinking. Property was an object, unthinking and unfeeling, whereas a horse was flesh and blood. And Princess was so smart. She’d learned all sorts of clever tricks over the past year. But she didn’t only think. She felt things, too. Whenever Princess caught sight and scent of her mistress, she nickered and came trotting over, rubbing her head against Kate and sometimes even trying to groom her. Imagining how frightened and bewildered her friend must be feeling now, Kate caught her reflection in the pier glass in time to see a tear squeeze out of her eye and slide down her cheek.

  Even knowing she was fighting a losing battle—grown-ups always had the upper hand no matter how canny and capable a child might be—Kate’s sense of justice compelled her to go on. “If that’s true, then she’s my property, not yours. You and Mummy gave her to me. Taking back a gift is wrong.”

  “That will be quite enough.” Papa’s red-rimmed eyes hardened, and his mouth thinned. “You would have outgrown her in another year or two. Once our … finances are more robust, we shall go to London and take a drive to Tattersall’s in Knightsbridge Green. You may select any mare you fancy.” Apparently considering the matter settled, he raised his breakfast pint, tipped it back, and downed the ovum in a single swallow.

  “But I don’t want any horse. I want Princess.”

  Gagging, he set the glass aside. “You are being deliberately obstinate. A horse is a horse is a horse.”

  Not to me, Papa.

  Proud though Kate was, for Princess’s sake she was prepared to plead. She edged toward his chair and caught at his sleeve. “Buy her back, Papa, please do. If you do, I’ll be the best, most obedient daughter in the whole world, I promise.”

  He shrugged her off and reached for the napkin to blot his mouth. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  Too late meant Princess was, indeed, gone. The hollow feeling in Kate’s stomach matched that in her heart. There was nothing left for her to lose. She stared up at her father, his elbows planted on the table and head held between his slender white hands, and felt hatred curl like a garter snake in the pit of her belly.

  “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you. I wish you were the one dead and not Mummy.” If he was, Kate felt certain it wouldn’t be the angels he lived among.

  Upset as she was, it wasn’t temper that compelled her to tell her father she hated him. It was the truth. Her mother wouldn’t stay out all night getting into “spots of trouble,” and then come home afterward reeking of cigar smoke and perfume and another bad smell that belonged to a grown-up drink called brandy.

  He slammed a fist atop the table, sending the empty place setting rattling. “Katherine, these tantrums will not be tolerated. Such public displays of spleen are not only unladylike, they are common. Go to your room and do not dare come out until I say you may—now!”

  Kate turned and ran from the breakfast room, into the front hall, and up the stairs. Halfway up, she tripped, coming down hard on her knees. The bruising pain felt right somehow, solid. She pulled herself up by her hands and scrambled to the top, nearly plowing into the sweet-faced, blond chambermaid, Hattie, polishing the landing rail.

  “Miss Kathy, you gave me a fright. Are you all right?”

  Normally Kate would have stopped for a chat—they were friends, after all—but today she pushed past. She didn’t stop running until she reached her bedroom at the back of the house. She entered, slamming the door behind her. A shriek drew her attention out the window, curtains fluttering in the spring breeze. Her window looked out onto the stable, paddock and pasture beyond, the main reason she’d years ago chosen this room as hers. She hurried over and yanked the chintz aside.

  Her heart lurched. A groomsman wearing dark green livery trimmed with yellow piping emerged from the pasture, pulling Princess in tow. Even from a distance, Kate saw the pony’s posture had a forlorn air, ears flattened toward the back and tail tucked. She dug her nails into her palms, helpless to do more than watch as the man walked Princess down the drive leading to the main road. Several times the horse dug in her heels and turned her head back, but the groom jerked on her bridle, forcing her forward. A stranger looking on might have dismissed the horse’s behavior as obstinacy, but Kate knew full well what it signified.

  Her friend was searching for her to say good-bye.

  Kate hadn’t cried since the day Bea was born. Her mummy had laid the squalling bundle in her arms and made her promise to be both mother and sister. Now she balled her hands into fists and scrunched them against her eyes, thinking to stop the tears from flowing like the little boy in the fairy tale who’d plugged the hole in the dyke with his thumb. It was no use. Water spurted from her eyes and slid down her cheeks and neck, the salted droplets dissolving into her collar. Her throat felt raw, and her chest burned as though she held her breath underwater and was coming to the end of her endurance.

  Only Kate wasn’t coming to the end, not nearly. She might be drowning in sorrow and thrashing in fury, but she was only at the beginning. Sobbing, she fisted a hand into her hair and tugged hard, fighting the urge to turn her futile anger inward and rip out great golden brown chunks.

  I’ll never forget you, Princess, and I’ll never stop loving you. Not now, not ever. And I’ll never forgive you, Papa, or forget. Not now. Not ever.

  Some time later, calm descended. She scrubbed her fists across her eyes and turned away from the window, her decision made. Never again would she open herself to such heavy heartache, such wrenching loss. Whether Papa won at cards or lost no longer mattered. She wouldn’t be accompanying him to Tattersall’s no matter how “flush” he might be. She was done with horses, done with losing precious things
she loved, done with loving period. The cost was too dear, the result too painful to bear repeating.

  The lesson, bitterly learned, would follow Kate into the ensuing years.

  When you loved someone, they always, always went away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “And I have thrust myself into this maze, Happily to wive and thrive as best I may.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, PETRUCHIO, The Taming of the Shrew

  Covent Garden Opera House

  February 1890

  ourke squinted out into the ballroom where guests were penned in like so many Shetland sheep. “You swore she’d be here.”

  Stepping back amongst his friends, Harry and Gavin, he yanked at his collar, the starched points of which had been stabbing into either side of his jaw for the past hour. If seen, the gesture would betray his commonness, but it couldn’t be helped. It was hot. Hot as hell, or best make that hot as Hades as his newly fashionable former Roxbury House friends, Gavin and Harry, had schooled him to say. The enormous crystal chandelier suspended overhead wasn’t solely to blame. Heat from incandescent burners spilled out from the tiered opera boxes, wilting the elaborate floral arrangements and glittering guests, thickening the air with the rank sweetness of dying flowers and ripening flesh, the stench calling to mind the undertaker’s front parlor where once he’d worked as a mourning “mute.”

  Since leaving the Roxbury House orphanage at sixteen, he’d worked any number of menial jobs—ditch digger, chimney sweep, and lastly railway navvie. The hard labor had broadened his shoulders and strengthened his back, as well as his will to make something of himself. When he’d entered the pub’s prize fight on a lark and stepped over the ropes to duke it out with the reigning contender, no one, including himself, had expected him to hold out for the requisite three minutes. He’d not only held. He’d won.