by Jaima Fixsen
Go back inside, Neil silently urged him.
“I think you should pick up these notices.” A slighter man stepped to the front.
“Don’t trouble him,” Samuel said. “If he doesn’t want bills here there’s other places. Will you help us?”
“I think men like him are the trouble,” another man said, folding meaty arms.
“Damn right! His kind don’t care. They’ve got food and money. Rest of us—”
“I’m never getting through this crowd,” another muttered. “Before we get close, banks’ll have closed the doors. They’ll be turning us away.”
“Money’ll be gone.”
“What’s he care? He’s got his!”
Someone shoved Neil from behind, spilling glue down his front. “Settle down!” he barked. “Do you want to bring the police?”
The shopkeeper shouted, waving them away. “Get out of here.”
A lean man beside Samuel stooped and picked up a rock. “Stop that! You can’t—”
“Can’t I?” The man smiled, his eyes narrowing to slits. He tossed the rock in his hand, spinning it in the air.
Before Neil could move, the man’s arm curled and popped like a spring. The stone hurtled into the air and smacked into the window.
“Fool!” Neil seized the rock-thrower, letting the glue pot smash to the ground. Someone slugged him hard and the man slipped free, vanishing like an eel in the struggling mass. Before Neil could blink, others scrabbled on the ground for stones. Everyone was shouting, and above that he heard splintering glass. In a minute, instead of stones, they’d be wielding shards.
“Sam!” No one would hear him in this uproar. “Samuel!” Neil shoved a man aside, looking for Samuel’s green coat and brown hair.
“Out of the way, lunkhead!” One fellow didn’t like Neil standing between him and the fight. Neil dodged an elbow and let the man by, grabbing hold of a brown-coated shoulder to keep his feet. It surged into him, shrugging him away.
Where was Samuel?
Rocks sailed in all directions. Neil heard whistles and pounding feet and nearly tripped from another forward shove. He stepped right, into a space that instantly closed around him. Something clawed against his side, tugged, ripping his coat, telling him his purse and watch were gone. A man was down, struggling to lift himself from the cobbles, his forehead veiled in blood, a sticky clot in his hair. Samuel. A man shoved him down again.
“Get off!” Neil surged between Samuel and his assailant, hooking his arms under Samuel’s shoulders and dragging him to his feet. His legs wouldn’t hold, sending them both staggering into the wall. Neil plowed away from the fight, returning jabs for every jostle. “Come on, Sam!” Panting, he towed him to the shelter of a boarded door.
“What happened?” Neil asked.
Samuel spat blood. Neil seized his chin, but his teeth were all there. The blood was from the cut on his head, then. “I caught a punch,” Samuel said. “Maybe a few. Last one might have been a rock. Stung like a wasp.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Neil said, trying to find the source of the blood.
“Stop prodding,” Samuel said with a wince.
“Can you stand?”
“It will be easier once I can see.” Samuel wiped his eyes with his sleeve, but the blood still ran.
Neil fumbled at his torn pocket, then remembered he no longer had a handkerchief. He dabbed at the wound with his cuff. “Doesn’t do much good.”
“Think I still have a handkerchief. No, in my waistcoat,” Samuel said when Neil pried into the pockets of his coat.
Neil wiped Samuel’s eyes, then handed over the cloth. “Press it on your head. Hard. We’ll make for that alley.”
Samuel blinked. “I don’t feel—”
“You don’t look well, either.” Neil kept his eyes forward, struggling through the crowd. He quickened his pace once they gained the fetid passage, ignoring the muck sliding beneath his shoes.
Samuel groaned and stumbled, flinging out a hand. “Let go. I need—”
“A rest?”
Samuel didn’t speak, just braced himself against the wall and retched onto the ground. “Leave off. I’ll be all right,” he said, slapping away Neil’s outstretched hands. His pallid cheeks glistened.
“Where’s the handkerchief?”
“Gone. How am I to know?” Samuel spat in the dirt, swearing viciously.
“It will be all right. Let me help you.”
Samuel bent and retched again, achieving nothing. This time he was too weak to fight. Neil slipped his arm around Samuel, thinking quickly. He’d no money. Samuel might still have his purse, but there’d be no hackneys, not here. Best not to be seen, not until they were a good distance away. Samuel’s injuries made it clear they’d been in the riot churning through the street behind them—if they ran into any police, that alone might be enough to land them in the nearest roundhouse. No doctors there, and Samuel needed help.
“Come on,” Neil said, with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. “Not far to go.”
It wasn’t really, but in Samuel’s condition, it might as well be miles.
Thirty-Five
Mary knew it would take her three quarters of an hour to walk to the bank on Fleet Street. To save her father from apoplexy, it seemed prudent to take a hackney. She could withdraw her money, deliver it to Annie, and be home before luncheon.
“Just yourself, miss?” the driver asked.
“Is that a problem?” Mary gave him a level look.
“Not at all, just there’s a right tumult brewing in the city.”
“Then get me there quickly.”
She shut herself inside where she could stew in relative peace—there was a bit in an old song about ‘twenty pounds will marry me’ so twenty-five would surely be enough to get Annie and Ben started.
They were well into the city before the halting journey and rising clamour demanded Mary’s attention. “What’s that noise?” she asked, rapping on the window. The coach slowed and stopped. Men ran past both sides of the carriage, banging on the walls, rattling staves and iron bars against the wheels.
“Stay back, fools!” The carriage creaked as the driver stood up on the box. The thumps got louder. Hands and faces pressed against the glass. “Miss—” the driver called.
“What is it?” Mary scooted across the carriage and inched down the other grimy window.
“We’re no gonna make it to Fleet Street.” He motioned down the road with his whip. Past their sidling horses an overturned carriage floundered in the torrent of people, blocking the road. “You’d best get yourself out of here. It will take me some time to turn and I don’t like this crowd.”
“I understand.” Mary unlatched the door, nearly tumbling to the street in her haste. She’d have to run, but safety couldn’t be far.
“Give me horses some room!” the driver shouted, and the carriage lurched. Mary sprang away from the wheels.
“Go on! Get yourself out of here!” Cursing roundly, the driver laid about with his whip, beating the passersby away from the plunging horses. The reins looked ready to snap. The horses backed, and a man fell to the ground and screamed as the rear wheel rolled over him.
“Stop! Stop!” Mary screamed, dropping to her knees. “Get him out of there!” She seized his shoulders, trying to drag him free, but the man clawed at her, gasping like he was drowning. “Help me!” Mary said, but the current of people swept on. The carriage rocked forward, jolting down the street. The horses reared, and the coach tilted wildly. Mary’s ears filled with screams. Fighting the injured man, Mary stumbled with him to the edge of the street. His feet still worked, sliding madly against the stones.
“It will be all right,” Mary told him, evading a flailing hand and gouging nails. She tried to ease him to a position of comfort, but he flopped, then went rigid, writhing soundlessly.
“Come now.” Mary slapped the broken man’s cheek. His enormous eyes were blank and terrifying. If he would keen or gasp or whimper…<
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He was so white. Mary chafed his wrists and tried to loosen his neckcloth, but when she bumped his ribs he quivered with pain. “I don’t know what to do,” she said to the air. No one was listening. “Please,” she urged, but he twitched feebly, his strength draining.
“Please help!” Mary called. She nudged his arm. It rolled, heavy as a bag of sand, to the pavement. Well, if pain wasn’t bothering him, she could attack the neckcloth. She pulled it free and started on his coat buttons. A hand darted past her shoulder, probing the pocket.
“Get away!” Mary slapped at it.
A thin, foul-breathed face pushed in front of her. “Can’t do nuffin’ fer this one. This street is mine.”
Mary scrambled back. “You aren’t going to hurt him!”
The face, grey and astonishingly young, cackled. “Can’t nobody do that. Get going. This isn’t your lay. I’ll make sure the resurrection men don’t get ’im.”
Dear God. She hadn’t even thought of that. What kind of place was this? Even the dead were in danger, prey to thieves and eager anatomists. The waifling grinned, urging her to go with a nod. Mary didn’t know if she should, but she went, scrubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her chin stung like it had been scratched.
For the first while she didn’t know where she went and let herself be borne along by the crowd, silent amid the shouting, the waving fists, and placards.
“What’s happening?” Mary asked when a tough-looking woman slowed beside her.
“Unions are saying no one’s to pay any taxes, and the King’s Guards have rough sharpened their swords.” She shrugged like this didn’t concern her. “I heard tell people are storming the palace and the banks.”
Mary stopped. “Wouldn’t we have heard shooting?”
The woman leaned closer. “Can’t hear much in this, can we?” Leaving Mary with an indifferent look, she went on. Mary looked at the buildings, trying to get her bearings. It was an unfamiliar street. More nervous now, she skirted along the edge of the crowd. All she knew was she was perilously close to the banks and the uproar, and a long way from home.
Something was wrong with Samuel and swearing didn’t help. Neil struggled through the narrowest streets, trying not to notice how swiftly Samuel tired. He peered around a corner, spotting a gang of angry men walking quickly and punctuating their talk with emphatic movements. Leaning Samuel against the wall, he tried to catch his breath. Better to wait.
When the way was clear he urged Samuel on again.
“Faster out here than in the alleys,” Samuel mumbled as they hastened across the street.
“So long as we don’t run into looters. Or a patrol,” Neil said. Just now, he feared them more than the alley kingdom’s feral inhabitants. But the ruckus was quieter now. Here, most people were inside, waiting. Some of the shops were open to customers, if there’d been any, and though many windows were shuttered, none had broken glass. London was recognizable again. “This way,” Neil said, directing Samuel into a side street. Next time they emerged in a broader thoroughfare, Neil saw their salvation—a battered hackney waiting on the pavement.
“Got any money?” he asked Samuel, not expecting a response. Samuel only mumbled, his eyes drifting shut. A quick search of Samuel’s pockets turned up his purse.
“No,” the driver told him when they hurried over. “I’m not having him casting up his accounts in my carriage.”
“There’s nothing left in him to lose,” Neil said. “He’s hurt. I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”
The driver was unmoved, but Neil silenced his objections with a weighty offering dropped into the driver’s fist. He hefted Samuel inside and swung up after him, barking the address at the driver. “Hurry!”
Samuel wasn’t even mumbling when they got to Wimpole Street. Neil dragged him up the steps and pounded on Mary’s door. “Help! I need a doctor!”
“Who is it?” The door opened a crack.
“Neil Murray. I’m here with your neighbour. He’s been hurt.”
The door opened and they stumbled into the hall. The doctor looked past them like he was waiting for someone else, but a glance down at Samuel drove him into action.
“Bring him in here.” The doctor picked up Samuel’s feet and they carried him into the consulting room. As they laid him on the sofa, Samuel roused. He blinked, looked round, and gradually settled his eyes on the doctor. “Course it had to be you. More carping at me?”
“Not today.” Dr. Buchanan leaned closer, listening until Samuel’s mumbling turned unintelligible. He looked up at Neil. “How long since he’s been like that?”
“He raved a bit, but now he’s making sense.”
“What happened?” Already Dr. Buchanan was peeling out of his coat and rolling back his sleeves. The haste with which he moved was both reassuring and alarming.
“Struck by a rock. Got caught in a fight on Fleet Street.”
“Riots?” The doctor frowned but wasn’t distracted as he methodically stripped away Samuel’s coat, tie, vest, and shirt. “Get me a basin and a lancet. The lower left-hand cupboard.” He peered grimly in Samuel’s eyes and listened to his heart. “We must be quick.”
Taking the blade from Neil, he lanced Samuel’s arm, spilling rivulets of blood over his skin. They dripped into the basin, thick and bright. Neil thought he could smell it. Without looking away from Samuel the doctor said, “I gather Mary wasn’t with him?”
Neil shook his head. “She’s in Bath. Isn’t she?”
Slowly Dr. Buchanan turned to him, his hands braced on his knees. “It’s an extraordinary circumstance when a man with lumbago carries another all the way from Fleet Street.”
Neil flushed.
“You are a friend, I take it, of Mr. Brown’s,” the doctor said.
“Yes.” Neil licked his lips. “And I don’t suffer from lumbago.” The man probably expected an apology. Well, he could just go on and wait. All he’d done was try and help Mary—something the good doctor should have concerned himself with more often. She shouldn’t have been so long neglected, so much alone. Duplicity aside, Neil concluded he’d done nothing very wrong. Nothing but fail to win Mary.
“Are you another writer?” Dr. Buchanan made the word sound profane.
“No. I really am an engineer. Just a friend of Samuel’s. I shouldn’t have pretended to be ill, but we were concerned about Mary. We’d gotten her into the trouble and—”
“I expect it wasn’t hard.”
It was cheap and cowardly to protest that he’d tried to stop her, so Neil kept silent.
“You pretended to court her. In Bath.”
Neil dropped his eyes. “I wasn’t pretending.”
The doctor’s eyebrows climbed.
“Don’t worry, sir.” Neil gave a weak smile. “She’d have none of it.”
Dr. Buchanan motioned with his chin at Samuel. “She loves this one, I take it.”
It hurt to say it but, “Yes. He’s a good man,” Neil added. “Though I know you and he do not agree.”
The doctor frowned, and Neil couldn’t guess where his thoughts had wandered. He almost seemed lost until he reached over to feel Samuel’s pulse.
“You asked if Mary was with us. I thought she was still in Bath,” Neil said, cautiously probing. “We both did.”
The doctor stared at the wall. “She arrived home last night and vanished this morning. I don’t know where she’s gone. I’m quite at a loss since she wasn’t with you. My sister doesn’t know. I—I don’t have the words to tell her.”
“She’s missing?” Neil leaned forward in his chair.
“Yes.” For the first time Neil recognized the signs of controlled panic: glazed eyes, automatic movements, the constant licking of lips. Dr. Buchanan was stricken. Only habit and the necessity of treating Samuel were seeing him through. “I was sure when I rang next door and no one answered that she must be with you.” Without realizing it he was feeling again for Samuel’s pulse, his fingers shaking.
“Stay
with Samuel.” Neil got to his feet. “I’ll find her.”
Thirty-Six
A quarter mile from home Mary heard church bells and realized how long she’d been gone. She started to run. Rounding the corner, clutching the stitch in her side, she saw Neil Murray fly down her front steps. He glanced left, right, and saw her, breaking again into a run.
“Mary!” Halting in front of her, he reached to grasp her shoulders, then thought better of it. “You’re safe,” he said, awkwardly dropping his hands. “Come quickly.”
“Did Papa send for you? Where’s Samuel?” Her other questions got no chance. Neil propelled her through the front door.
“I’ve found her, sir! It’s all right. She was nearly home.” A chair scraped. An instant later, Papa faced her from the consulting room door.
“You came back,” he said. Mary expected Vesuvius, but his sigh was like a summer wind.
“I’m sorry.” She must give some explanation. “I had to get to the bank. To give Annie some money. Ben Pickett is sacked too, and they can’t marry without work or money. Only there was a carriage overturned in the street, and everywhere people were running and shouting and—”
“I know. Thank heaven you’re all right.” Neil’s words, meant to be soothing, struck a hot spark. She wasn’t prepared for him, and her body felt breathless and rattled. “Why are you here?” Mary said, turning on him.
His face hardened at once. “Samuel was injured in the riots. I brought him to your father.”
“Samuel—?”
Papa answered her this time. “We shouldn’t leave him alone. Come, Mary.”
She followed her father into the consulting room and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth. She’d imagined a wrenched ankle or a broken arm, not a waxen body laid out like a corpse. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
They watched her closely, like they were weighing her down to the ounce. When he finally spoke, Neil wouldn’t look at her. “He and I were posting bills, urging people to protest the Lords voting down the bill. We were caught in a fight and someone struck him with a rock.” He turned to her father. “Are you finished?”