The same two toughs loitered, leaning on either side of the doorway that led into the small smelly darkness within, like matching black-toothed sentinels. Their faces were scarred and unfriendly. Their eyes held nothing of recognition. They did not remember him, but he remembered them and everyone else who had been there that night. They sized him up, not sure what to make of his shabby sea attire, or Bob sitting on his shoulder, and, most of all, of the cutlass that hung by his side.
He had thought it would be difficult to stand here and face it again, but it was not. He had thought he would feel that old terror that had haunted him for so long, but he did not. He felt almost disappointed in its ordinariness. Three years ago, it had been anything but. Extraordinary. Exciting. Dangerous. Just like the rest of Whitechapel that surrounded it. But the places that Kit had spent the intervening years made Whitechapel look safe and salubrious.
‘Is Stratham within?’ he asked, gesturing with his head towards the dark passage. The air seemed to hum as he waited for their reply.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘An old friend,’ he said, and never took his eyes from the biggest man’s gaze. He saw the man’s eyes flicker down to where his hand, through force of habit, rested upon the handle of his cutlass.
When the eyes returned to his face once more, the man shook his head. ‘You ain’t been around these parts for a while, mister. Stratham’s long gone.’
He should have been relieved, but what he felt was a curious sense of disappointment.
‘You going inside, fella?’
‘I will pass on the invitation, this time,’ he said.
One of them gave a nod of acknowledgement. The other just watched him with sullen eyes. In the memory that had played a thousand times in his mind, they had been taller, bigger, tougher, and Old Moll’s Place a dark enticing den of iniquity. The men were not so very different from the man he had become, and Old Moll’s just a hovel where Whitechapel men went to ease their hard lives. And the man, Stratham, whose face Kit could recall in detail, from his dark blond hair to his bright-blue taunting eyes and cold sneering smile, was gone.
He should not have been surprised. Someone had probably slipped a blade between the bastard’s ribs in a darkened alleyway late one night; just as they should have done to Kit Northcote.
Whatever it was he had expected, it was not this. Stratham was gone. And Old Moll’s was nothing. But he had done what he came to do.
He made his way back on foot, walking from the narrow dirty streets of Whitechapel with its poverty and danger all the way across town to the wealthy haunts of the ton. He walked the same streets he had walked three years ago, walking past places in which he had gamed and womanised and drank, past the homes of those who had been his peers and his friends.
* * *
The watch was calling midnight by the time he approached the house he had rented in Grosvenor Street.
No light burned behind the curtained windows of Kate’s bedchamber. All of the house was in darkness save for the lantern left burning to guide his return.
He dismissed the footman who was curled up in the hallway chair waiting for him and climbed the grand staircase.
It was his wedding night, but he did not hesitate by the doorway that led in to where his wife slept. Instead, he walked straight past and on into the master bedchamber. But he did not go to bed. He stood by the window looking down on to the empty street. Tomorrow it would begin. All that he had returned to London to do.
He slipped the neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. The money was earned. By hard honest labour.
Tomorrow it would begin and he would face it alone.
He thought of Kate Medhurst asleep in the room through the wall, not Northcote, but Medhurst.
And for all that he thought he had grown as a man, for all that he thought he had learned of himself in Johor, he realised that he had not learned that much at all. He had not learned that he would be jealous of a dead man.
Chapter Twelve
Kate watched Kit across the breakfast table the next morning. They were married, living in the same house yet it seemed that there had never been a bigger distance between them.
He was polite enough, considerate of her welfare, but there was a part of him that was closed off to her, a part that she could not reach. As if they were two strangers rather than two people who had sailed across half the world together, who had shared their bodies and their secrets; who had risked their lives for one another.
Gone were the shabby leather coat, the cutlass and black shirt, the worn buckskin breeches and those kicked-in boots that looked as though they had walked a thousand miles. North the Pirate Hunter was gone and in his place sat Mr Kit Northcote, a gentleman she barely recognised. He was clean shaven, his dark hair cut short and tidy, his dark eyes guarded.
‘You look like a different man.’ He seemed like a different man. It seemed as if everything between them was different. ‘You are a gentleman in truth.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he answered. ‘I am no gentleman, Kate.’
‘And yet your family is gently bred and one of the oldest in all England,’ she said softly.
‘It is, but neither of those facts makes me a gentleman.’
Her eyes moved over the dark tailcoat that was tight across his shoulders, the white shirt and cravat, the white waistcoat and dark pantaloons that were snug around the hard muscle of his thighs.
He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I arranged for a wardrobe to be readied along with the house when we landed at Plymouth.’
‘This house was not always your home?’
‘No.’
She thought of what Gunner had said about meeting Kit in Portsmouth. ‘But you are from London?’
‘I am from Johor.’
‘And before Johor?’
‘There was no North before Johor.’
‘And Kit Northcote?’
‘Kit Northcote ceased to exist a long time ago.’
‘Then to whom am I married?’ Her eyes held his, wanting to understand him.
He glanced pointedly at the worn gold wedding band upon her finger. ‘Wendell Medhurst, I believe,’ he said softly and, rising to his feet, threw a heavy purse of money on to the table between them. ‘Speak to Matthews to recommend a respectable dressmaker. Buy yourself whatever you need. London society is a deal different from Raven.’
She stared at the purse, Wendell’s name still ringing in her head.
‘There is somewhere I have to go this morning. If you will excuse me, ma’am?’ He bowed and made to walk away.
‘I do not excuse you,’ she said, stopping him in his tracks.
She rose from her chair and faced him with her heart beating so hard that he surely must be able to see it through the black-silk dress she was still wearing. She knew she had to stop him; she just was not sure how to do it. Everything was wrong between them and she needed to make it right.
‘What of the Admiralty’s spies? Or did you lie about them watching us?’
‘I did not lie. I have not lied for the past three years.’
‘Then what when they see you going out alone? Again.’
‘They will follow me for my visitation and they will understand.’
A sense of foreboding whispered down her spine. ‘Where are you going, Kit?’
‘Home,’ he said. Without her.
She held her head high, too proud to let him see how much that hurt.
He crossed the room until he stood right before her, so close that the toes of his slippers brushed the hem of her skirt, black merging with black to become one, as husband and wife were supposed to be.
‘I have to do this alone, Kate.’
She nodded as if she understood, but she did not; not really. ‘To w
arn them that you are married to an American pirate,’ she said, trying to make light of it.
‘I would give the world that it were so simple,’ he said quietly. His eyes studied hers and in their dark depths she caught a glimpse of something so painful that it made her want to weep.
He leaned in and brushed a kiss against her lips. ‘I would be proud were you truly my wife, Kate. Never think otherwise.’
And with that he walked away.
She looked down at the ring on her finger and at the skirts of her black dress, the symbols of her love for Wendell and, screwing her eyes shut, tried to conjure the memory of his face. But it was hazy and indistinct. The face that haunted her, the face she saw when she closed her eyes, and when she opened them too, was not Wendell’s, but Kit North’s. She pressed her hand to her heart to stop what was there from bursting out and making a mockery of the vow she had sworn: to stay true to her first husband.
* * *
As his carriage came to a halt in Berkeley Street Kit sat there for that tiny moment before the footman opened the door. This was it—the thing that had driven him through the years and made him choose survival over the easy darkness of death; the chance to right the wrongs he had done, at least in part. It had been over three years since he had last been in this street, outside this house. Three years and in one respect it felt like three times a lifetime, and in another, only three beats of his heart since he had turned his back on them and walked away.
Now the time had come. Kit had returned home.
The carriage door opened. Taking a deep breath, Kit stepped down from the carriage and went to face them, but even as he walked towards the bottom of the stone stairs that led up to the black-painted door he could see that his journey had been in vain. For where the gleaming brass door knocker should have been there was nothing. The striker had been removed, indicating that the family were not in residence.
He climbed the steps just the same, knowing that a caretaker member of staff would have been left in place. But the thump of the edge of his fist upon the door brought no answer. Only when he was this close did he see the street dust that clouded the black of the paintwork and the glass of the windows. From where he stood on the doorstep he could see into the drawing room. There was no furniture. Where paintings had once hung were only empty hooks. But most telling of all was that the red-patterned wallpaper he remembered so well had been replaced with something else. Of his family’s possessions not one sign remained.
He made his way to the front door of the neighbouring house in the smart terraced row. This time the brass knocker was intact. He gave it a loud thud.
Old Carter, the Fredericksons’ butler, answered.
‘I am looking for the Northcote family. They lived next door.’
Carter looked at him suspiciously as if he had not a clue as to the identity of the man who stood upon his master’s doorstep. ‘I am afraid they are no longer in residence, sir.’
‘Where have they gone?’
Carter’s lips pressed firmer together. ‘Away.’
‘That much is evident. Might you shed any further light on their removal?’
‘I cannot, sir.’ Then Carter peered at him closer, screwing up his nose in the effort to see. ‘Is that you, Master Kit?’
‘It is, Mr Carter.’ Kit held the old man’s gaze.
‘You look different, sir. I barely recognised you.’
Kit said nothing.
‘So you came back, after all,’ the old man murmured almost to himself.
‘I came back.’
The old man just looked at him as if he had seen a ghost.
‘My family’s removal...?’ Kit prompted, hoping that now the old butler had recognised him he would get on with answering the question.
For the tiniest of moments something flickered in the old servant’s eyes, before he lowered his gaze to the toes of Kit’s boots. ‘As I said, sir, I would not know anything of that.’
‘Is Mr Frederickson at home?’
‘I am afraid he is not presently at home, sir.’
‘And were he at home, would he be able to answer my question?’
The old butler still would not meet his gaze. ‘I could not say, Mr Northcote. If you will excuse me, sir...’
‘Of course,’ said Kit coolly. He expected nothing less once people knew who he was. Contempt. Condemnation. Turning away, he made his way down the stone steps to where his carriage waited. His footman opened the door ready for him, but before Kit climbed inside he glanced back at where old Carter still stood watching. Carter was finally looking at him but, contrary to what Kit had thought, the look in the old butler’s eyes was not contempt or condemnation, but pity.
The Fredericksons’ front door closed with a quiet click.
And a cold finger stroked against Kit’s heart.
* * *
‘How did it go? With your family.’ Kate saw the distant distracted look in Kit’s eyes as he stood by the window looking out over the streets in the drawing room and recognised it as worry he would never admit.
‘It did not. The house was empty. They have moved to reside elsewhere.’
Whatever resolution he had hoped to effect, whatever reunion he had planned, had evaded him. ‘How will you go about finding them?’
The question seemed to pull him back from the dark place in which he brooded. His eyes met hers. ‘Ever practically minded.’
She gave a shrug. ‘It is my nature.’
He gave a little smile at that, brief and small, but real.
‘My mother has a cousin in London, a Mrs Tadcaster. She will know where they have removed to.’
She nodded. ‘Kit...what happened to make you lose touch with them?’
‘Life happened. Change happened. Kit Northcote died.’
‘And Kit North was born?’
He smiled again, but this time it was hard and bitter. ‘Indeed. If you will excuse me, I will pay a call upon Mrs Tadcaster.’
Wasting no time. He might pretend a relaxed indifference, but she was not fooled. He needed to find his family. She could feel the tension that emanated from him at just the mention of them.
‘Take me with you,’ she said on impulse.
His gaze moved to the untouched purse of gold upon the dining-room table, before meeting her own.
‘Unless you are ashamed of me,’ she challenged softly, her gaze holding his, never backing down for a minute.
They looked at one another across that sunlit drawing room, all sorts of subtle tensions playing between them, until he said, ‘If you would care to accompany me, I would be honoured to introduce you to my mother’s cousin.’
‘I will fetch my shawl,’ she said, ‘and bring Tom along for the ride. A boy needs fresh air, especially a boy used to sailing the ocean. ‘
He gave a nod.
She felt his eyes on her as she walked from the room.
* * *
Kit drew a similar response from Mrs Tadcaster’s manservant as he had from the Fredericksons’ butler. Making his way back to the carriage, he saw young Tom’s face watching him and Kate’s, so calm and strong.
‘She left two days ago to take the waters at Bath and is not due to return for a couple of weeks.’ He took his seat opposite Kate and Tom, seeing the boy’s pride in the fact that Bob had settled upon his narrow shoulder.
‘Will you wait that long?’ she asked, the look in her eyes telling him she already knew the answer to her question. She thought like him. She was not a woman to sit back and wait for life to happen to her, but one who went out and did what was required.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There are men one can hire to find people.’
She just gave a nod of understanding and did not ask for any details in front of the boy.
Tom stared around
him with obvious curiosity and excitement, making Kit realise that Kate was right—a boy did need fresh air. Kit’s problems were his own to solve. Neither Tom nor Kate should suffer because of them.
‘What say you to a trip to the park?’ he asked them both.
‘Yes, please!’ Tom grinned.
Kate’s eyes met his in shared pleasure. She smiled. ‘A trip to the park would be a fine way to spend the afternoon.’
‘Hyde Park is just round the corner.’
The carriage rumbled round the park’s paths, the breeze catching at the dark ribbons of Kate’s bonnet and the tassels of her parasol. Her eyes were soft silver in the sunlight and there was something in them when she looked at him, which was often. The sunlight brought colour to the freckles that had faded across the bridge of Tom’s nose.
The boy held up his face to the sun and took a great big deep breath of air. ‘It smells different here, not a hint of ocean or waves.’
‘What do you smell?’ Kit asked.
‘Grass and horses, dung and rot, chimneys and...’ He sniffed again. ‘Sunshine,’ he finished.
They all laughed.
Kit stopped the carriage, and they climbed out and walked along the path. Bob flew off to some nearby trees and Tom ran off chasing him, detouring around every bush and park bench he could find.
Kit and Kate walked side by side, close but not touching.
Kit offered her his arm. ‘Admiralty will be watching and we need to look the part.’
She accepted his offer, resting her fingers on the crook of his arm, holding on to him, as if they really were a couple who had just married for love.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘A boy needs fresh air.’
[GOD08] The Lost Gentleman Page 19