by Justine Cole
Quinn's smile was chilling; it never reached his eyes. "As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I've done something for you, something you've been asking me to do for a long time."
Simon stared at Quinn quizzically, not missing the grim line of his son's jaw. "Oh?"
"Yes, I've taken your advice. Wait here. I have a surprise for you."
Quinn left the room hastily and returned moments later with an apprehensive Noelle in tow. Simon gazed incredulously at the pitifully wasted creature decked out in scarlet rouge and a dirty gown. It was impossible! He had brought a vulgar trollop into his father's house.
Simon's voice was deadly. "What is the meaning of this?"
Eyes gleaming triumphantly, Quinn replied, "I'd like you to meet my wife. We were married last night."
The older man was speechless, his face a mask of astonishment as he took in the outrageous carrot thatch.
"The ceremony was unorthodox, but definitely legal." Quinn watched his father closely, savoring each moment of his revenge. "Tom Sully was the witness."
Outraged, Simon leaped from his chair, his jaw tightly clenched. "If this is your idea of a joke—"
"Oh, it's no joke," Quinn interrupted smoothly. "Remember, Simon, you were the one who wanted me to marry. You wanted me to settle down, become respectable . . . be just as conservative and stodgy as you are." His voice rose angrily. "Though why in hell you, of all people, have turned into a champion of marriage is more than I can fathom." He started to say more, to inflict another small jab of wound-opening memory, knowing even a light touch could make it fester, but he thought better of it, contenting himself with saying, "You were the one who wanted me to take a bride. Well, I did, and now you can have her. I hope you'll both be very happy."
He turned on his heels and walked to the door. As he reached out to grab the knob, he paused and turned back to face his father. "By the way, it took a great deal of persuasion to convince this lovely lady to marry me. She's accustomed to being paid for her services." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fat envelope and tossed it toward Simon. It flew through the air and landed with a slap on the desk top.
"Make sure she gets this."
Noelle could listen no longer. She went mad, leaping toward him with hands outstretched like claws and shrieking loudly, "You son of a bitch! I hate you! The fires of hell are too good for you, you friggin' bastard!"
Extricating himself from her flying fists, Quinn's face broke into a wide grin at her tirade. "Charming, isn't she?" The door slammed behind him.
Chapter Five
Without moving, Simon stared at the closed door. His face was gray and drawn, but he felt nothing—no anger or frustration or hurt or humiliation or any of the other myriad of emotions that would soon bombard him. He had been stricken a blow so unexpected, so devastating, that he was stunned; this was the tangible evidence of just how great his son's hatred was. Another man might have cried or prayed or screamed out, but Simon did none of these things because he did not know how. Too many years had passed since he had felt any deep sentiments.
Then the pain began.
Memories he had successfully blocked from his mind came rushing back: holding his son close, tossing him in the air, running with him. He remembered how the small child had haunted the Cape Crosse shipyard, sometimes sitting quietly and watching the carpenters as they worked but more frequently bombarding them with questions.
And then, the bitter years, watching the naked hatred in the same eyes that had smiled at him. He had been unable to confront his guilt because the boy was too great a reminder of the disaster Simon had made of his personal life, too great a reminder of the one other person they had both loved so deeply. For the first time in years Simon Copeland comprehended the depth of love he felt for his son.
Now he looked over at the woman who was the instrument of his son's revenge. She stood across the room from him, staring out the window. The glare from the late morning sun obscured her features, but she seemed quiet and calm. Her composure angered him. This slut was his son's wife! Could she really have been as reluctant as she had seemed?
He opened the envelope Quinn had tossed down so nonchalantly and pulled out a fat bundle of pound notes. She was certainly being well paid for her part in this charade. Had she somehow been responsible for what had happened? Simon thought of his strong-willed son and discarded the idea. No one could force Quinn into anything; Simon had firsthand knowledge of that. No, this girl was merely a catalyst, a pawn in Quinn's game of revenge.
A piece of stationery dropped out of the envelope. Simon opened it to find Quinn's bold handwriting glaring accusingly at him:
March 28, 1835
I hereby resign from my association with Copeland and Peale and renounce all claims I have on that company.
Quinn Christopher Copeland
London, England
Simon stared at the short letter in stunned disbelief and then reread it. Its terseness and impersonal tone revealed more than the words themselves. He knew with an unshakable certainty that Quinn was absolving himself not only of his association with the company, but also of any association with his father. He was walking out of Simon's life as he had done once before. Except this time he was leaving something behind.
Simon looked at Noelle and noticed that her chest was trembling slightly. She had turned so that the glare from the window no longer fell directly on her face, and Simon saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. Why, she was not much more than a child! She seemed so defenseless, her grief all the more pitiful because it was silent.
His logical mind took over, and he stuffed the pound notes back into the envelope. She was undoubtedly upset about her earlier angry outburst and afraid that she would now not be paid. His voice was calm but cold.
"There's really no need for you to cry. Here is the money you were promised. I suggest you use it wisely. This is a God-given opportunity for you to better yourself, to improve your station in life." Even to himself, he sounded pompous.
The girl regarded him directly, as though she were assessing him. She made no attempt to conceal her tears, nor did she move to take the envelope he proffered. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, as though she had looked inside him and found him lacking. Placing the envelope on the edge of the desk nearest her, he stood.
"Come now, miss, it's your money. Take it and leave. I'll have my butler show you out."
He crossed to the tapestry bellpull in the corner, but before he could touch it, her voice hissed at him. It was laden with contempt, all traces of the accent of the street erased.
"I don't want that money. I don't want anything from you or your son."
Simon's expression betrayed his surprise.
"You weren't expecting me to refuse, were you? You're both alike, the two of you." Once again the tears spilled over her lashes. "It doesn't even occur to you that there might be a human being with feelings standing in front of you. It doesn't occur to you that things aren't always what they seem. Keep your money. I don't need it."
With those words, she straightened her shoulders and walked proudly toward the library door.
Simon watched the girl's straight back as she crossed the room. Her honesty and dignity moved him, her diction puzzled him; he felt a strange reluctance to let her go. As she reached the door his voice rang out, abrupt and commanding.
"Stay right there. I want to talk to you."
She ignored him; her hand stretched out for the knob.
"Please." The word was out before Simon knew it.
She turned to him. For the first time he could see a questioning in her eyes, an unsureness.
"Please," he repeated, crossing to her, "I apologize for my rudeness. I would appreciate it if you would stay for a few moments and talk with me."
Noelle hesitated briefly and then nodded her consent.
"Please sit down. Over here by the fire so we can be comfortable." He escorted her to a thickly cushioned sofa. "Tea?"
She paused a moment and
then said, "Yes, thank you." Sitting gracefully, her back straight, she eyed him warily. He reminded her of his son. They had the same arrogant profile.
Simon strode to the bellpull, gave a firm yank, and returned to Noelle, settling himself in a chair opposite her. He took a moment to study her more closely. It was hard to imagine, but perhaps, with proper food and decent clothing, she might look less absurd.
"I didn't hear your name," he began tentatively.
"My name is Noelle Dorian." She spoke softly but watched him intently as though his reaction were a test of some kind.
"Pretty." For the first time, he saw a flicker of a smile cross her face. "Were your parents French?"
"No. My mother was English, but she loved everything French. She died seven years ago."
"Seven years ago! You couldn't have been much more than a baby. What about your father? Is he still living?"
"I expect so. At least, if all Daisy's stories were true."
"Daisy?"
"My mother. She was an actress when she was young. She used to tell me how my father was rich and handsome, one of the nobility." Suddenly Noelle was embarrassed. Why was she telling him all this? "But then, you don't want to hear me go on. Besides, Daisy wasn't above telling a few clankers. It probably wasn't true at all."
Simon wondered. Was it really so unlikely that a girl like this could have been fathered by an aristocrat? There was a certain dignity about her.
"Who took care of you after your mother's death?"
She looked genuinely bewildered. "Why, I took care of myself. Who else would?"
"But you were only a child."
"I wasn't all that young. I was ten."
"You rang for me, sir?" The butler's voice startled Noelle. She had not heard him enter.
"Yes, Tomkins. The young lady would like some tea. Serve it in here." Simon dismissed him and turned back to Noelle, as if there had been no interruption.
"So you're seventeen now."
"Almost eighteen."
"And you've been on your own since you were ten?" He shook his head in puzzlement and spoke almost to himself. "The English are a truly incredible people. They believe they are the only ones fit to govern the rest of the world, but they can't even tend to the injustices on their own doorstep."
"Here, now," Noelle cried, lifting her small chin. "Don't you say anything bad about the English, especially since you're an American."
"Oh, and what's wrong with being an American?" Simon was amused by her patriotic indignation.
"Why, they're savages," she sniffed haughtily. "Walking around practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces."
Simon chuckled. "Noelle, I think you picked an unfortunate example."
"What do you mean by that?" she questioned suspiciously.
Simon did not respond. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked her hollow cheek, showing her his scarlet-stained fingers. Then his eyes traveled briefly to her décolletage. "Practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces?"
Noelle looked in his eyes and saw them twinkling humorously. An angry retort sprang to her lips, but something in his face stopped her. Just as she had earlier judged him, she saw that he was now waiting for her reaction, testing her. He had made a joke at her expense, but she sensed instinctively that he was not mocking her. Her anger left her as abruptly as it had come, and she suddenly laughed, producing a merry tinkling sound that delighted Simon.
The American businessman and the English pickpocket smiled companionably at each other for several moments before Noelle realized she had carelessly let down her guard. Chiding herself, she quickly dropped her gaze and studied a ragged seam that formed an angry V in the skirt of her garment.
The silence lengthened, but she was determined she would not be the one to break it.
"Would you tell me how you've managed since you were ten?" Simon yearned to ask her how long she had been prostituting herself but couldn't think how to frame the words and did not want to challenge her stubborn pride.
"For the first few years I was a mudlark."
"Mudlark? What in God's name is that?"
"You don't know what a mudlark is?" Noelle was astonished that a man of Simon's wealth and station should be so ignorant.
"No, I'm afraid not." Simon smiled. "There are some gaps in my education. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to fill in this one."
"Why, the mudlarks go to the riverbanks and gather pieces of coal to sell in the streets. I was the only girl mudlark in London," Noelle boasted.
Simon looked suitably impressed. "And how did you accomplish that remarkable feat?"
Hesitantly Noelle began to tell Simon of her early days. He listened intently, totally absorbed in her narrative. Before she knew it, she was speaking of her times with Sweeney Pope and of his tragic death. Although she hardly spoke of Daisy, from the few remarks she did make, Simon was able to obtain a fairly accurate picture of her relationship with her mother. He was most interested to learn that Daisy had been a demimonde, not an old street crone as he had first imagined, for the germ of an idea was beginning to take root in his mind.
"When I was twelve, I knew I couldn't pass as a boy much longer, so I had to find another trade."
Simon leaned slightly forward in his chair. There was a tenseness about his handsome mouth; he found himself unexpectedly reluctant to hear what he knew she was going to tell him. It suddenly mattered to him very much that this spirited young girl was supporting herself as a prostitute. But the story Simon heard was not the one he expected.
Instead, Noelle told him how she had become a pickpocket, describing the old coat she had hung above her head in the tiny corner where she slept. She spoke of her hours of practice while the others who shared her cramped quarters were asleep—pulling a handkerchief out of various pockets, trying not to move the coat. For weeks she had repeated the movements until she was finally satisfied. Then she had substituted a smaller piece of cloth. Finally a stone that lay deeper in the pocket.
Noelle's forehead puckered as she remembered the months of practice. "That was a long time ago," she said, her tone dry. "Since then I've established a reputation for myself." Looking him squarely in the eye, she challenged, "Some say I'm the best pickpocket in Soho."
Simon swallowed hard at this. She seemed to have no conscience, no sense of having done anything wrong. My God, was she as proud of being a prostitute as she was of her times as a pickpocket?
Noelle defied his silent censure. "I didn't have any other choice, you know. It was picking pockets or being a whore, and nothing could ever make me be a whore." A shadow crossed her face. "Nothing, that is, until your son came along."
"My son!" Simon exclaimed. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I understand what you just told me." His eyes took in her costume. "Are you saying, then, that you are not a . . .a prostitute?"
"Mr. Copeland," she said softly, "until last night, I was a virgin. I only dress like this to distract the men so I can pick their pockets."
Simon was incredulous. What had Quinn done to this child? Although he barely knew her, he did not doubt her, for he knew his son too well. Somehow she had become entangled in Quinn's net of revenge, an unwilling victim who had been deeply injured.
He got up from his chair and settled himself beside her on the sofa. "Tell me what happened, Noelle."
Noelle looked into his handsome face. She did not want his pity, but he deserved to know what kind of man his son was.
She told her story ferociously, as if the telling alone would ease her anguish; it poured from her. As she repeated the conversation she had overheard between Thomas and Quinn, Simon's face set into hard, chiseled planes, and she was once again struck by the resemblance between father and son, especially as she saw a ruthlessness in the older man's face that had been absent before.
When Noelle described pulling a knife on his son, Simon felt a brief moment of regret that she had not found her mark. My God, he'd like to kill Quinn himself for this! Noelle had a
good memory and could accurately repeat most of Quinn's discussion with Thomas about marrying her. Simon appreciated what Noelle did not really understand—the stunning perfection of Quinn's revenge.
Was it so wrong for a man to take pride in his name? Simon wondered. To want that name to be respected? What was so absurd about asking Quinn to marry a woman of grace and breeding who would bear proud sons to carry on the Copeland name? God damn it! Quinn had made Simon's honest aspirations seem foolish and pretentious.
The idea that had been only the faintest impulse before began to take shape in his mind. If this was the kind of game Quinn was going to play, he would soon find out that he had badly underestimated his opponent.
Noelle's voice faltered as she began to speak of her arrival at Quinn's lodgings.
"You don't have to tell me about this if it's too painful." Simon spoke more gruffly than he had intended, but he did not want to hear any more.
"I have to tell you. You're his father." Noelle looked at him levelly, but not accusingly. "Whatever happened between the two of you has spilled over and poisoned me."
Again, her voice faltered, catching in her throat, but she was going to tell him, make him understand. She would speak about this ugliness she had kept hidden for so long. Only then could he really understand what had happened to her last night. She clenched her fists and dug her torn fingernails into her palms.
"After a while, Daisy's mind . . . She wasn't right in her head. She'd bring men back to our room. Lie with them. And they'd hurt her. They'd hit her and . . . and do things to her. She'd sometimes beg and cry. Other times, she wouldn't even make a sound, just lie there. I knew then that I'd never let a man touch me. That's why I carried my knife." Her eyes bored into Simon's. "I want you to know that I would have killed him and laughed when he died."