“Does it matter?”
Ned carried her as quickly as he could without jostling her toward a larger street, where gas lamps pierced the gloom. He realized now that she was not a girl, but not yet much of a woman—maybe nineteen or twenty years old. She wore a lady’s gown with shiny patches of satin, smooth under his hands. He sometimes helped Mrs. Beecham, the costume mistress at the theater, and knew something about fabrics.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
“And where, may I ask, is home?” She asked the question as if it were the most natural thing in the world that she was a young woman of obvious status, alone in London, dressed in a gown made for the drawing room, her face webbed with blood.
“My lodgings. Hart Street.” He was starting to puff with the effort of keeping her still while he walked. “Or have you got somewhere you go at night? Mrs. Gellie’s maybe?” He threw out the name of one of Covent Garden’s more prosperous madams.
“I am not acquainted with that lady.”
Ned almost laughed out loud. Fancy Mrs. Gellie being described as a lady. “Ah well, you did say you’re not that sort.”
She did not reply, and Ned didn’t press her further. If she didn’t have a madam, then she must work for a man, which meant he’d best get her out of sight as soon as possible. At least he’d be able to keep her safe until she healed. The next day was Sunday. With the theater closed, he’d have time to get her settled and patched up.
* * *
Grace had never been carried in a man’s arms, or at least not since she was a child. This man was large and broad shouldered—she could tell that much even in the dark. The coat fabric scratching her cheek was wool, thick, but not as fine as what her father wore. She smelled sawdust—he had to be a working man. On his way home from the tavern? Drunk? No. His breath did not stink of spirits—she knew that odor better than most. He was definitely not a gentleman. His accent was rough, but he didn’t sound mean—not like the first man. His voice had a gentle tone to it, as welcome as silk on her torn nerves.
The man shifted her weight, and she clenched her teeth against pain so new she didn’t know what to make of it. A smashing fist—the shock of it connecting with her flesh. Why had her father hit her now, after so many months? She closed her eyes, but that was worse than the darkness of the street. Just above her head, she sensed the man’s breath coming fast—blooms of vapor in the darkness. Pain and anger rippled and swelled with equal measure.
They walked for a few more minutes. The man’s arms shook with the effort of holding her steady, but he did not falter. Grace had no idea where or how far she’d run before collapsing, but she thought she might have come south toward the Piazza at Covent Garden. A church bell close by tolled one—Saint Paul’s, Covent Garden. She knew it was called the Actors’ Church because so many actors worshipped there, and many found their final resting place in its quiet churchyard. The man set her down in front of a skinny, tall house abutted on either side with other houses, rough looking, seedy even. A brothel? She knew of such places, although she was not wholly clear about what was done in them. The man held her steady with one thick arm around her shoulders while he unlocked a wooden door.
“Can you manage the stairs, miss?”
She nodded and stepped into total darkness, her only guide his hand on the small of her back. She shuffled forward.
“Bannister’s on your left.”
She nodded, reached out, gripped the bannister, and then bumped her toes into the lowest step. He followed close behind, his bulk comforting.
“How many floors?” she gasped.
“Three,” he said. “Sorry, miss.”
She gritted her teeth and continued upward, trusting her feet to find each step. Her thin evening slippers would be ruined after her run through the muddy streets. She almost smiled. Fancy thinking of footwear when here she was climbing stairs in a dark lodging house in front of a man whose face she had not yet seen. As each step brought her closer to an unknown fate, she had to trust that it could not be worse than what she’d left behind in her father’s house.
The man reached around her waist to steady her as together they stepped onto a landing. She smelled sawdust again and candle smoke and another sharp smell that reminded her, incongruously, of paint.
“Here we are, miss. I reckon Alec’s still out, so we got plenty of room.”
They entered a small room and she waited in the darkness while the man fumbled for several minutes with a flint and tinder to coax a flame from the stub of a tallow candle. He held it aloft to reveal two narrow beds—one made, the other a tangle of dirty blankets. A table under the only window held two plates filmed white with grease—the reek of stale bacon still thick. An empty grate crusted black with coal dust nestled inside a small brick fireplace. Plaster walls striped with damp were bare of pictures; pegs held some clothes. Grace saw poverty in the bareness of the room, but not squalor. The men who lived there were employed. She was sure of it and felt less afraid.
“You can have my bed,” the man said. “If Alec don’t come in, I’ll take his.”
“And if he does?”
“Then I’ll kip on the floor.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry about me, miss. Best get you settled and warm.”
Grace could not say why, but she knew this man would not harm her. His face in the flickering candlelight had an honest, open look, like he’d found satisfaction with who he was and didn’t need to hit a woman to be a man. She turned quickly and bumped her thigh against the bedstead. Her gown cushioned the blow, and she felt only a dull thud. She’d had enough of pain for one night.
“Careful, miss.” He motioned to the bed that was made up—the brown cover threadbare in places but clean enough, the pillow striped and uncovered. A darkened halo showed where he lay his head every night.
She sat down on the bed; the mattress was hard and thin—nothing like the thick mattress she slept on in her father’s house. “You’re very kind to have me to your home,” she said formally as if she was visiting a new acquaintance in Mayfair.
“Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down and get a bit of sleep? In the morning, I’ll bring up water and do somethin’ about yer injuries.”
“Thank you, Mr.—”
“Ned will do just fine, miss. And I ain’t doing nothing more than anyone would.”
Grace lay back and lifted her feet with a groan. She knew she should pull off her muddy slippers but could not summon the strength. Instead, she let the man cover her gently with another blanket—this one smelling strongly of sweat. He sat down on the bed opposite and began pulling off his boots, his expression calm in the candlelight. A terrible exhaustion settled over her. She closed her eyes and saw her father’s enraged face loom and then recede.
Grace knew she would have to go back to Russell Street.
But for now, it was good . . . yes, good . . . to feel safe.
Chapter 2
Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Hamlet (1.2.72–73)
She told Ned that her name was Grace, but not much else, not even her last name. He guessed that she didn’t want him to know where she’d come from, and he didn’t pry. It wasn’t unusual at the theater to work with people who had thrown off a past that no longer served them. The girl was not as young as he first guessed, perhaps two or three and twenty, a good eight years younger than he was.
She let him dab at her wounds with a cloth dipped into a pail of cold water that he brought up first thing in the morning from the pump on the street. Fortunately for her, the cuts on her face were up near her hairline and not deep. Her hair would hide any scars. The cloth Ned used on her was none too clean, certainly not what she was used to, but she didn’t recoil or play the lady with him. She thanked him and smiled, revealing white, straight teeth.
“You ought to see a doctor,” he said.
“Thank you for your
concern, but I do not at present have sufficient funds for a physician.”
Ned thought that might be an understatement. So far as he could tell, she didn’t have sufficient funds for anything unless she had coins sewn into her underthings, which he thought unlikely. “I got some money put by,” he said. “Yer welcome to it.” After so many years living hand to mouth, Ned couldn’t believe he now had money to spare.
“Thank you, but I do not have need of your money.” Grace pushed herself up so she leaned against the wall. “I don’t believe any of my bones are broken, if that is what worries you. My ribs have been bruised quite badly, but they are still whole. You have been very kind.”
“Ain’t no trouble, miss. And being as it’s Sunday, I got all day to see to it that you’re comfortable.”
“What is your work? I surmise that you are gainfully employed.”
Ned grinned. “You talk as fancy as a lady.”
“I assure you I am not.”
“I am gainfully employed,” he said, mimicking her accent.
“You are making fun of me.”
“Maybe.” She was not at all pretty—not like Olympia at the theater. Her face had too many strong angles—cheekbones and chin sharp, eyes intense and wide spaced. She looked not frightened exactly but sort of yearning—like she saw something just out of reach that she wanted and couldn’t ever have. He regretted teasing her. Someone had hurt her badly, and it wasn’t right for him to make light of it. He opened his mouth to apologize and then closed it when the lines of pain and anger scoring her face relaxed into a smile.
“I suppose I deserved that.”
“No, miss. I shouldn’t have teased you. I’m the one what’s sorry.”
“You may as well call me Grace. We’ve just spent the night together, after all.” She laughed. “Forgive me, but I believe I may have shocked you. I didn’t mean to suggest that you’ve been anything other than honorable.”
“I ain’t got no intentions, if that’s what you mean, miss. I know my place and all.”
The watery light streaming through the one small window played across her hair. It was blonde, like his, but a fair bit cleaner, with curls and braids that must have been arranged by a maid. Some of the hair had escaped in tangled wisps from its pins, giving her a tousled look, like she’d been standing in a wind. She smoothed the blanket over her knees. “Are you going to tell me what you do the other six days of the week?”
Before he could answer, she raised her hand. “No, let me guess.” She grimaced as she shifted her position and then fixed him with a steady stare that tracked the length of him from head to feet. Ned sat down hard on Alec’s bed, his face flushed. “Your clothes are relatively clean, so you are not engaged in laboring work, and I detect a gentleness in your speech, which leads me to believe that you often speak with women, even ladies. I shall guess that you are some kind of clerk, perhaps at a bank where you have contact with customers? Mind you, I have to say that you don’t look like someone who enjoys laboring over columns of numbers.”
Ned laughed. “I’d sooner kill meself than be one of them pasty-faced pillocks. Plenty of ’em come to the theater of an evening, and some get rowdy in the pit. Just cuz they paid their shilling, they think they got a right to do what they please—even yellin’ at the actors if they don’t like how they play their roles.”
“The theater?”
“That’s where I work,” he said. “I’m backstage at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, keeping everyone organized, like. Do you know it?”
“You’re at the theater?” Her eyes were shining. “I’ve only been once to the theater, in Bath, when I was much younger, but I long to go again. My mother—” She stopped talking suddenly and sucked in her breath and then flinched at the pain in her ribs.
“Careful, miss—I mean Grace. Those ribs are going to ache somethin’ fierce for a while yet.”
Grace waved one hand dismissively and then sat forward. “Do you know Mrs. Siddons?”
Ned smiled. Everyone always wanted to know about Mrs. Siddons—and sometimes Mr. Kemble too, although not as much. Ned had often pushed past ladies and gentlemen clustered in front of the stage door waiting for a glimpse of the great actress. “I wouldn’t say I know her, but I work with her now and again. She’s real popular, like.”
“I would like nothing better than to see her act. I’ve read about how she can make people swoon!”
“Ain’t no one comes close to Mrs. Siddons for tragedy, except maybe her brother.”
“You also know Mr. Kemble?” Her eyes were intense, staring at him as if he was the most important person in the world. Ned wished Olympia would look at him like that. “Mr. John Philip Kemble?”
“’Course I know him. I told you I work at the theater, and Mr. Kemble’s one of the managers. He’s as fine an actor as ever walked onstage, in my opinion, though he rants something fierce.” Ned grinned. “You know the gentleman?”
“Good heavens, no! I’ve never even seen him act. But I’d give a great deal to—and his sister.” Grace sighed heavily. “You will think me foolish, but I envy you working in the theater.”
“Mostly it’s a lot of hard slogging. You’d be surprised at what we got to do backstage so’s people go away satisfied at the end of an evening.”
“I’d like to be onstage.”
“You might change your mind about that if you knew what it was like for most of the girls. Not everyone can be Mrs. Siddons. Mind you, she’s had more than her fair share of troubles.”
“Everyone has troubles, Ned.” Her smile faded.
“Aye, well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. I’ll tell Alec to stop over at Mrs. Gellie’s, or he can kip at the theater, so long as Mr. Kemble don’t find out, and I can make sure of that. Do you have someone I could fetch?” She had to know people in London who cared for her. Now that he’d had a chance to talk with her and get a good long look, he’d swear on a stack of Bibles that she wasn’t a whore, or even a housemaid. She was a lady—or at least genteel enough to know nothing about hard work.
“I suppose you must be curious about me,” she said, looking up. “I present rather a pitiful sight.”
Ned saw nothing pitiful about her. Innocent she was—and a bit unworldly. She seemed more interested in the actors at the theater than her bruised ribs and cut brow.
“If you will be so kind,” she said, “I’d appreciate trespassing a little longer on your hospitality. May I also ask that you not press me for information?”
“I ain’t inclined to press you. I just want to know what I can do to help. You can’t want to stay here, not if there’s folks in London you can call on.”
“I assure you there is no one in London whom I wish to call upon.” She sat back against the pillow, her lips twisting into another wince.
“You must be hungry. I’ll go fetch a couple of pies from the market.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Ah, well, I knows where to go. Will you be all right until I get back?”
“Yes, Ned. Thank you.”
As he left her to walk down the stairs to the street, Ned reflected how quickly life could change. Yesterday, his biggest worry was keeping Mr. Renfrew’s drunkenness out of sight of Mr. Kemble and hoping for a kind word from Olympia. Now, he had a lady sleeping in his bed, who wasn’t like any lady he’d ever met. Mr. Harrison was right about Ned—he wouldn’t let himself get too close to women—even the whores. A few times, Alec got him out to the stews around Covent Garden to take a turn or two, but Ned never really enjoyed himself. He hated the misery he saw in the eyes of the girls who serviced him, and suspected they despised him as much as they needed his money.
He wondered what Olympia would think if she knew that he was letting a woman stay in his room. Glumly, he acknowledged to himself that she probably wouldn’t think anything at all.
* * *
As far as Grace could tell from the way the watery spring sun slanted through the one window in Ned’s room,
the morning was not yet far advanced. Her father never rose before noon when he’d been drinking—and he’d been drinking more than usual the night before. Once he did rise, he’d spend most of the afternoon alone in his study and then go out for the evening. If he was in a foul mood and not inclined to inquire after her, she’d not be missed until the next morning unless Betsy alerted him, and that was not likely. Three months earlier, when she and her father had arrived from Clevedon in Somerset, Mr. Johnson had brought with him Grace’s maid, Betsy, and then hired a housekeeper who came by every day to cook the evening meal. Betsy was scared of her own shadow and wouldn’t dare tell the master that Grace was gone, even if she’d heard all the commotion the night before—or maybe because she heard it.
Kind as Ned was, he could not keep her in his lodgings for more than a few days. The elusive Alec would surely want his bed back. Her bruised ribs would heal soon enough, and the scratches at her hairline fade to nothing. Thank God her father’s rings had not done any lasting damage to her face.
At the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, Grace sat up and drew the blanket around her bare arms. She needed a plan.
* * *
“I found hot pies,” Ned said as he pushed open the door. He glanced at the tiny coal grate—empty as usual. He and Alec rarely bothered getting coal for a fire since they spent most of their time at the theater. But it wasn’t right to keep a girl like Grace in a place with no heat. He handed her one of the pies and then sat on Alec’s bed.
“I’ll get coal for the fire soon as I’ve eaten,” he said. “You’re cold.”
One slender white hand emerged from under the blanket and reached for the pie. She nibbled delicately at the flaky crust, careful not to drop crumbs on the blanket. “This is very good,” she said. “Thank you.”
He acknowledged her with a wave of one hand. She was a great one for thanking him, which he didn’t mind. At the theater, people rarely remembered to thank him.
The Muse of Fire Page 2