by Karen Odden
“Because he wants to pretend that I don’t exist . . . and I—” He shook his head and the words came out in a rush: “I just want to tell him that I don’t need his money—I don’t even want his money. What I’m making at the Octavian is plenty for my needs . . . and”—his voice dropped so I had to lean forward to hear the rest—“all I want is to be his son again.”
There was a plaintive tone in his voice that struck me as self-pitying; but then I considered the resentment and frustration I would surely feel if I had been unjustly thrown out of the Royal Academy and imagined it would color every story I told, too.
“I understand that,” I said gently. “I hope he can forgive you.”
He nodded and set aside his spoon. “Now, I don’t want to talk about all this anymore,” he said. “Tell me about your studies.”
“Oh, my story isn’t anywhere near as engrossing as yours,” I said. “I had lessons with Mr. Moehler until he passed away, and now I’m hoping to study at a conservatory someday.”
His eyes lit with interest. “Here or abroad?”
“Here, I think. I wouldn’t want to leave my brother. He’s my only family.”
“Is he a musician, too?”
I smiled, amused at the thought. Matthew wasn’t quite as tone-deaf as Dr. Everett said, but he couldn’t play a tune to save himself. “No. He works at Scotland Yard.”
Stephen gave a quick, involuntary movement. “Really? Is he a detective?”
“Yes. He’s been there for about a year now. He was in uniform before that—”
Suddenly Stephen’s eyes jerked away from me, and his hand, which held his wineglass, stopped on its way to his mouth. I turned to find the object of his gaze. Walking through the archway from the back room was a tall, prosperous-looking man with slightly stooped shoulders and silvered hair. His face was impassive, but he was moving quickly and purposefully toward the door. I glanced at Stephen and my suspicions were confirmed: Mr. Gagnon knew exactly where his son was sitting.
I watched as Stephen rose and moved to intercept him, his face hopeful. “Good evening, Father,” he said and laid his hand on the older man’s arm. I saw them both in profile, and it was as if they were mirror images—one older than the other, but with the same high forehead, the same fine cheekbones, the same chin. Then Stephen said something I didn’t catch, and a look of contempt came over his father’s face. Mr. Gagnon spoke a few words that erased Stephen’s smile, then continued toward the door without a backward glance.
Stephen stood still for a moment, seemingly taken aback. I saw that several other diners in the room were watching, and some had raised their napkins to conceal their amused expressions. After a moment, Stephen noticed them as well. The blood rose to his cheeks, and his spine stiffened just as the maître d’ appeared at Stephen’s elbow to direct him back to our table.
He sat down and took a large swallow of his wine. I watched him carefully for a moment before I spoke. “I’m sorry, Stephen. What did he say?”
“To stop embarrassing him in public,” Stephen replied shortly.
It seemed another instance of his father’s injustice. “That hardly seems fair. It isn’t as if you assaulted him or started a row in the middle of the room. You simply tried to speak to him.”
His eyes were dark with fury, and I realized with a start that his face wore the same expression I’d seen the first night at the Octavian, when the crowd had jeered him.
His fingers tightened on his wineglass. “He’s never been fair. But this is the end of it. I shan’t take any more pains with him.” He looked with disdain at the last of the soup, congealed in the bowl. “I’m not hungry anymore. Do you mind if we leave?”
“Not at all.” The other patrons were still glancing our way, and I didn’t relish the scrutiny.
Stephen paid for our dinner, and in a matter of minutes we were outside, in the chill night air.
“I’ll get you a cab,” he said. “What’s your address?”
“Dunsmire Lane, number fourteen.”
“This way.” We walked together toward the corner, and he raised an arm.
He seemed wrapped in his own bitter thoughts, and I suddenly felt weary to the bone and wishing I’d never come. We stood together in silence until a cab stopped. Stephen gave the address, and I wished him good night and climbed in, relieved to feel the jolt of the wheels against the road.
The church clock struck three times. I held my breath, waiting to hear nine more chimes for midnight. But there was only silence.
“Driver,” I called. “What time is it?”
“A quarter to one,” came back at me.
I groaned, realizing the folly of what I’d done.
Well, one thing was certain, I couldn’t have the cab rolling up to my door. “Driver! Could you let me off at Cork Street instead?”
“Aye. Same to me.”
“And please hurry!”
The cab rattled a bit faster over the cobbles, and then drew up. I climbed out, paid the fare, and scanned Cork Street. There was no one about—only a cat prowling along the wall, its eyes shining in the darkness—and no lights on inside our house.
Did that mean my brother was still at work? Or already in bed? Or—the worst possibility—had he found me missing and, terrified of what might have happened, gone out looking for me? The last thought had me running the rest of the way to the back door.
I turned the key in the lock with painstaking care. My heart pounding, I stole inside, closing the door so the sound was barely audible. I held still and listened. Nothing.
In the dark, I hung the key in its proper place, took off my boots, and made for the hall in my stocking feet. In my haste, I nearly knocked over the umbrella stand. I snatched at the rim and set it upright with shaky fingers. That would just do it, if Matthew were home—the copper cylinder crashing to the floor, him flying downstairs in his nightshirt, finding me in my masculine garb—
But as I rounded the banister, I saw that the coatrack was empty, and I gave a sigh of relief.
Boots in hand, I started up the stairs. I’d just reached the landing when the clock struck the top of the hour, and behind me I heard the key turn in the front door. I took the remaining stairs two at a time and dashed into my room. Frantically, I flung the boots under my bed, fumbled my hat off and under my pillow, and got between the covers.
I heard Matthew’s footsteps come up the stairs and pause in front of my door. And then—what made him do it tonight of all nights, when he had never done so before, to my knowledge?—he opened the door and looked in. My back was to him, so all he could see was the lump of my body and my hair. Something about him waiting there made me want to squirm, but I held myself still.
At last I heard my door close, followed by his, a muted echo of mine, at the end of the corridor.
Chapter 8
As I’d promised Dr. Everett, I went to the hospital the next day. In the foyer, I was handed a note in his hand, asking me to come to his office. I went reluctantly, dreading a continuation of our argument. But I found him standing at his desk, preoccupied with sorting a tall stack of papers into piles.
“Ah, Nell.” He waved me toward him. “I wanted to speak with you before you go in to see our anonymous patient.”
He sat down, his hands interlaced at his waist, a frown of concern on his face as he looked up at me. “This morning, Mr. Oliven told me something odd that happened last night. After I left, a man came to the guardhouse, asking if a girl had been brought here last week with injuries. He had a description of her, and a name: Marceline Tourneau. He says she’s an acrobatic performer, from a circus in France, and he claimed to be her father.”
Feeling my heart begin to race, I looked down and began to undo the buttons of my coat to conceal my consternation. So far as I knew, Marceline had been raised by her grandparents. Was this man really her father? Or merely pretending to be? Either way, it was someone who knew her and knew of her injuries. What if this was the brute who had injured her? A
nd how on earth had he known to come here?
I sat down and draped my coat across my lap. “Was he admitted?”
“No, of course not. Aside from the fact that it was after visiting hours, Mr. Oliven didn’t like the looks of him. And when he was refused entry, the man became irate and threatened to break in. You can well imagine how that went.”
Yes, I could. Mr. Oliven was not only a burly man with a formidable expression and a bellowing voice; he carried both a truncheon and a pistol, and he took his responsibility for the safety of the hospital and its inmates with absolute seriousness.
Dr. Everett rubbed at his temple. “Apparently the man cursed Mr. Oliven roundly before he left, threatening that he’d be back.”
“Has he returned?”
“Not yet. But the day guard has an eye out, and I sent a note to Matthew, asking if we might get a bit of extra attention from the police.”
“Matthew?” I echoed in surprise.
“Well, yes.” His eyebrows rose. “It’s the simplest way. Not that I need to tug on that string very often, thank goodness. The last time was when that wretch was throwing rocks through our windows. Do you remember him?”
I nodded perfunctorily. “The girl doesn’t know, does she, about this man coming?”
“Oh, she’s the last person I’d tell. But I do wish we could discover if that is indeed her name and profession.” He frowned and tapped his forefinger to his lips. “It’s been nearly a week, and she’s making progress, but her head is still healing. If we push her too hard to remember, she could become frustrated or frightened and suffer a relapse. On the other hand, she may recall a good deal more than she is admitting.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Well, it’s splendid how quickly you’ve earned her trust. This morning, she reiterated that she didn’t want to speak with anyone until she saw you.” His smile conveyed genuine admiration, and I felt a pang of shame at my deception.
“Perhaps it’s because I’m closer to her age. And I’m not anyone official,” I suggested.
He shrugged. “At any rate, her jaw is healing and the swelling is down. I have her on a low dose of laudanum for the pain, so she may be a bit sleepy. But it’s safe for her to talk.”
Safe. The irony of the word was as bitter as horehound on my tongue. I had a feeling Marceline would never be safe from dangerous men so long as she could talk. But of course, that’s not what Dr. Everett meant. At any rate, I simply nodded, and slipped out of his office, leaving him to his papers.
MARCELINE’S EYES WERE BOTH UNCOVERED NOW, and Nurse Aimes was applying salve to one of her hands before she rebandaged it. I couldn’t help but stare; the skin on Marceline’s palm was torn to bits. I imagined her trying to grasp a trapeze bar and winced as I realized that both of us relied on our hands to make our livings.
“Hello, there,” I said.
Marceline smiled a bit and Nurse Aimes said cheerfully, “Good afternoon, Nell.” She finished wrapping the hand in gauze. “There. Is that better?”
Marceline nodded. “Thank you.” Her voice wasn’t much over a whisper, but she was trying.
Nurse Aimes beamed down at her and patted her shoulder gently. Then she looked over at me. “You are in charge of getting some broth into her.”
“Yes, mum.” I sketched a mock salute and shot a small grin toward Marceline.
Nurse Aimes left, drawing the curtain around the bed, and I perched on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling? You look much better.”
She nodded. “I am. People have been very kind.”
I glanced over at the tray with the bowl. “Do you—?”
“Please.” Her brown eyes were intense, serious. “I’d rather talk first.”
“All right.”
“Tell me what happened the night you brought me here.”
Quietly, so we couldn’t be overheard, I recounted it in as much detail as I could remember. When I finished, I fell silent, just watching, as she worked to order the events in her mind.
Finally, I asked, “Marceline, what happened before I found you?”
A shudder ran over her, and she looked away for a moment.
My voice was a whisper. “Who did this to you? Was it Sebastian?” I hated to think of it, but I had to ask.
Her eyes widened in indignation. “Of course not! He would never hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.” I rested my hand gently on her arm. “I didn’t mean to doubt him. It’s just that when I came last time, you made it quite clear that you didn’t want me to find him—and I thought . . .”
Understanding flashed across her face. “No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t want him found. But that’s because I’m afraid for him, not of him.” She swallowed. “You said you’d help me. Will you?”
“Of course, as much as I can,” I promised.
A frown knit her brows. “I’m not sure about everything that happened.”
“That’s all right. Just tell me what you can.”
“I had left our flat, and I was walking to the Octavian,” she began slowly. “It was just half past six, or a bit later. Two men came toward me, and before I knew what was happening, one of them had put his hand over my mouth and pulled me into an alley. The other followed.”
“Where did they take you?”
“To a house not far away. They dragged me upstairs to a room that I could tell was right under the roof because the ceiling was peaked, and I could see bits of light through the cracks. The room was long and narrow, with wooden crates stacked several deep at the far end and a few chairs and a stove. There was a metal pole, and a small rectangular window.”
“What did they want?”
She gave me a look. “At first I thought they wanted . . . to . . .”
A lump formed in my throat. “I understand,” I said hurriedly, so she wouldn’t have to say it.
“But they didn’t want me.” She paused. “They asked me where Sebastian was.”
A shiver went down my back. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing, of course.” Her eyes met mine, and I could see her fierceness shining there. “I knew some places that were likely. But I’d have let them kill me before I told.”
“So they beat you,” I whispered.
She nodded. “They tied me to the pole.”
I turned away, swallowing down the bile that rose in my throat. “Good lord, Marceline.”
“He’s all I have,” she said simply.
The very rawness of her words made tears burn at the corners of my eyes. “I know,” I said, my voice ragged. “I feel the same way about my brother.”
She nodded.
“Did the men say what they wanted with him?” I asked.
“Just that he owed them something. They didn’t say what.”
“Money?”
She shrugged.
“But if it was money, why not just say so? Or ask if you had it?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that Sebastian has been keeping something from me. He’d go out at night sometimes, not tell me where. And we had more to spend than we were used to.”
“Do you think he was gambling?”
Her face screwed up in denial. “No. That’s not like him.”
But the tension in her shoulders told me that this train of thought was distressing her, so I shifted topics. “How ever did you manage to escape?”
“They left me, and I sawed the rope off on a sharp bit of the pipe.”
“That must have taken hours!” I was aghast at the thought of her locked in that room, trying to free her hands, all the while listening for the men coming back.
“I don’t remember, honestly. I just knew I had to do it. I think it took an hour, maybe two. And there was a small window. I couldn’t open the hasp, it was so rusted. So I broke the glass and climbed across the roof. There were shingles, so it wasn’t slippery.”
Broken glass and shingles.
“No wonder your hands are torn to bits,” I said. “How did
you get down?”
“A drainpipe. My hands slipped, and I must have fallen.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything else until I woke up here.”
Not for the first time, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had found her.
Nurse Aimes popped her head in and pursed her mouth disapprovingly when she saw the untouched tray. “It’s not going to be any good cold, you know. Here, let’s get you up.” She deftly adjusted the pillows so that Marceline was almost sitting normally, and I tucked the napkin over her waist and removed the cover from the bowl. I dipped a spoon in, and Marceline opened her mouth obligingly.
“Is it still warm?” Nurse asked.
Marceline nodded after she swallowed. “It’s very good.”
Nurse paused to watch a few more spoonfuls go in. Then she seemed satisfied and left us again.
“Is she a friend of yours, too?” Marceline asked, a little wistfully.
“I suppose she is, yes,” I said, somewhat surprised by the question. “I’ve known her for years. She’s a good sort.” I paused. “Would it be all right if I told her your name? Right now, they call you ‘our anonymous patient.’”
I saw another hint of a smile, but she hesitated.
“Just the doctor and Nurse Aimes?” I suggested.
She nodded.
I smiled. “Toast?”
She nodded again, and I buttered it for her, then watched as she ate with extreme care, taking small bites and chewing gingerly, as if she were trying to find the way it hurt least.
Getting the soup and toast into her took the better part of half an hour, and by the time she’d finished, she seemed to feel both physically and emotionally more at ease. I hoped that she would be open to what I had to say next.
I set the tray aside. “Marceline, I know you don’t want me to go looking for Sebastian, but what if I were to contact a friend of his? Someone you trust, who might know where he is and could get a message to him secretly?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but I reminded her gently, “He has to be half out of his mind with worry. Especially if he’s in danger himself and can’t go looking for you.”