Only to have him wake instantly and clamp one hand crushingly over her wrist, tightening his grip cruelly until she whimpered.
“The on’y time ye don’ sleep wi’ me, wife,” he growled, “Is when I tell ye thet ye don’. Yeah?”
“Aye,” she whispered, tears pouring down her cheeks.
He went back to sleep almost immediately. She lay there until dawn, shaking with fear and crying silently until her eyes were as sore as the rest of her.
• • •
Lionel was awakened at the crack of dawn by impatient pounding on his door. What in the name of—he thought as Mrs. Buckthorn answered it, then, to his startlement, he heard heavy footfalls—stumbling, limping in a way that sounded excruciatingly painful, up the stairs to his bedroom. The door burst open, and Jack stood there, disheveled, looking as if he had just tossed whatever clothing came to hand on, eyes wild, teetering on his wooden leg.
“He’s got her!” his friend wailed. “He’s got her!” And then he collapsed. It was obvious that he had run—or what passed for running—the entire way from his flat to Lionel’s house.
Mrs. Buckthorn had been hard on his heels, and between the two of them, they got him onto Lionel’s bed. But it was some time before they could get anything coherent out of him, and even then, Lionel had to piece it together, a sobbed word here, a gasp there.
Jack’s Elementals had awakened him out of a deep sleep, and—here Lionel wasn’t entirely sure what Jack meant—showed him Katie being beaten by a man. Somehow they had conveyed to Jack that this man was Dick Langford, the dreaded, brutish husband.
“We have to get her away!” Jack shouted, grabbing Lionel by the lapels of his nightshirt and shaking him. “We have to—”
“That’ll be enough, Private!” Lionel snapped, in his best imitation of a military officer. “Control yourself!”
As he had hoped, the long stint in Africa had instilled an automatic response; Jack froze for a moment, staring blankly at his friend, then covered his face with his hands.
“What, exactly, are we supposed to do, Jack?” Lionel asked, harshly—because he had considered these very things ever since he had learned of Dick Langford and what he was. “The man is her husband. He has every right to do what he likes with her, and the law will support him. If we go storming over there now, he may very well manage to kill us both, and the law will support him in that as well. Think, man. What do we know?”
Jack was white and shaking at this point, but there was sense in his eyes again. “Nothing,” he said, voice rasping.
“And what do you do when you know nothing? You go and find out.” Lionel really didn’t have any clever ideas at this point, but he did know this much; the best thing he could do, if there was going to be a confrontation, was to stage that confrontation when there were plenty of witnesses, and to go dressed like a gentleman—because Dick Langford certainly would not be. That meant arriving on the door fully kitted out, at the time that the clerks and insurance agents and lawyers and all the other professional men who worked in those offices all around were arriving. “You are in no state to go, and if something should happen, you can’t run,” he said bluntly. “I’ll go pound on the door and demand Kate for rehearsals. He doesn’t know we don’t rehearse on dark day, even if he’s found something out about how we do things in the hall on performance days. You see what you can find out by means of your Elementals. I can’t scry; see if you can.”
Jack was still white-faced, but given something to do, he nodded.
“Meanwhile put that first-class planning mind of yours to work. If we’re going to get her away from that brute, it’ll take both of us.” He turned to Mrs. Buckthorn, who, thank heavens, was not in the least flustered by being in the same room as her employer in his nightshirt. “Get him a brandy, would you? It’ll steady his nerves. I’ll get myself put together.”
He retired to his dressing room and kitted himself out as the Professor again. Merely putting the suit on made him feel pompous and superior. He hoped that Dick would react to the façade by going subservient; bullies often did, at least if they weren’t drunk.
Now, should I take the trap, or a cab? The trap would be more convenient and less costly . . . but . . . that wouldn’t convey what he wanted to convey. A gentleman never drove himself. Dick Langford was from the circus, which was nearly the bottommost range of entertainment. He should be impressed by a man who could arrive to scoop up his wayward assistant in a cab.
In theory, anyway.
And right now, theory was all Lionel had to go on. This would probably be the most important piece of improvisational theater he had ever done.
Let’s just hope I’m good at it . . .
Satisfied by his appearance, he checked on Jack, to find the man staring intently into a candle-flame. Well good; he was doing something. Best for Lionel to do the same.
He headed out into the street to find himself transportation.
The cab pulled up in front of Katie’s cottage at exactly the right time, when the street was full of men soberly and similarly dressed making their way to their offices. Instructing the driver to wait, Lionel put on an air of affronted impatience, climbed the three steps to Katie’s door, and pounded on it.
Curtains are closed tight . . .
He continued to pound until the door was suddenly wrenched open by a giant in nothing but a pair of trousers with the braces hanging down over his hips. Lionel was assaulted by a wave of stale sweat and beer-smell as the man—stubbled, yet with a crude sort of dark good looks about him—raised a fist—and it was all Lionel could do to maintain his expression of suppressed rage and not turn and run.
Then the man did a visible second take, took in the suit, the air of superiority, and the equally wrathful expression on Lionel’s face and lowered his fist again.
“Wot yer want?” emerged from the oddly sensuous face. “’Oo be ye?”
Lionel drew himself up, trying to look as if he’d been insulted by such crude questions. “I am Lionel Hawkins, not that it’s any of your business, fellow,” he said, in his poshest of accents. He even contrived to look down his nose at the brute, even though the man towered over him. “Where’s Kate Langford? She’s overdue for rehearsal.”
As he had hoped and prayed, the bully responded to this by being taken aback, at least for a moment. But unfortunately, he rallied again, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his formidable, and bare, chest. “She ’on’t be comin’,” he replied.
Lionel made himself go pop-eyed, as if with thwarted rage. “What do you mean by that, fellow?” he spluttered. “Who are you? Where is my assistant?”
“Oi’m th’ lad wut is tellin’ yer she ’on’t be comin’,” he repeated, with a smug expression on his face. “Dick Langford is ’oo Oi am. ’Tis dark day. Yer got no roights to ’er toime on dark day. She’ll be takin’ care uv ’er ’usband as she should be.” He nodded, as Lionel feigned fuming in impotent rage. “Oi know me roights.”
Lionel pretended rage for a few more moments, then shook his finger in the strongman’s face. “She had better be at the hall at nine in the morning on the dot. I can get myself another assistant like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And what’s more, I can have her replaced as the Russian dancer quickly enough, just by informing the papers of what she really is, a cheap little circus acrobat masquerading as a ballerina!”
Finally he made an impression on the man, who went from smug to alarmed, and put on a placating expression. “’Ere now! No need ’o thet!” he said, and Lionel knew he had found at least one feeble weapon to hold over the brute in this strangest of wars. Money. He’d try to confirm this with Katie later, but he was certain that fear of losing Katie’s wages was what had suddenly turned the strongman from arrogant to cowed. “She’ll be there. But yer got no roights over ’er toime on dark day, an’ a man’s
got a roight t’ ’is woife!”
Lionel tried to make himself swell up. “Just—see that she is!” he exploded, and stamped his way back to the cab.
He held his persona until they had turned several corners, then allowed himself to collapse in the corner of the seat.
Dear god, the man’s a monster. Huge. Huge and brutishly intimidating. Like something out of a penny-dreadful. Think, Lionel. What did you learn?
Well . . . whatever had happened last night, the brute hadn’t killed Katie, and he’d been half afraid that was exactly what had happened. And unless Katie did something to provoke Langford, his lust for money was probably going to keep him from killing her, or even damaging her.
But the clock was ticking, because while this might be true while the man was sober, Lionel had no idea how controlled he’d be when he was drunk—and the smell of beer on him had suggested that the man was likely to be drunk as often as he could afford.
But if he’s drunk enough . . . he’ll be too drunk to hurt her. That was an idea that had some merit. He tucked it away for later.
By that time the cab had reached his home; he paid the driver and dashed into the house. Maybe Jack had learned something—or thought of something.
• • •
Katie huddled in terror on the bed from the moment that the pounding started on the door. In all the time she had been here, there had never once been a visitor, or even someone looking for another address. There were only two people likely to come here and knock with that much urgency, and both of them were going to be in deadly danger from Dick—
She wept—silently—with fear when she heard Lionel’s voice. She was certain at every moment that Dick was going to break his neck—right up until she heard Dick’s tone abruptly change as Lionel threatened to sack her and get rid of her ballerina act if she didn’t turn up at the proper time in the morning.
Then she nearly wept with relief. Lionel had somehow found the only thing he could use to hold over Dick’s head. Money. And that was a—not a weapon, but a defense in her hands. Dick would never kill her, and probably wouldn’t cripple her, as long as she was bringing in plenty of money.
And at last her mind started working. Just get through today. Tomorrow, she’d find some way to tell Lionel that Dick had an informant in the hall. One thing at a time. Concentrate on the next hour, the rest of the morning. Survive that . . .
She got out of bed as Dick closed the door. “Breakfast?” she said, timidly, not daring to reach for any clothing until he allowed her to. Oh, how she ached! She had gotten used to not hurting . . . the pain of movement came as a shock, and reminded her of what she had to do—keep her voice, her head down. Be meek. Never contradict. Offer every possible comfort. “There’s bacon, eggs—”
She glanced up through her hair to see Dick grinning. “Learnt yer lesson, then? Aye. Food, ’oman. Put s’thin’ on. Thet skinny carcass uv your’s like to kill me appetite.”
Given permission to dress, she did, quickly, and hurried over to the stove, where she fried up every rasher of bacon she had, all the eggs, and made fried toast in the grease, and brewed a strong pot of tea. She loaded up two plates with the bounty, and brought it all over to him. She didn’t expect to share in the feast, and that was just as well, since he ate every bite, wiping the plates clean with the last bites of toast. “That was the last,” she said in a whisper. “I’ll have to buy more at the shop.”
He was in a good mood after such a breakfast—at the circus, Andy Ball’s cook doled out the food with a scrupulous hand, and no use asking for second helpings. Dick had gotten more than anyone else, of course, but she’d still needed to make him elevenses, a big tea, and often a supper after he’d come back from the pub. “Aight,” he said agreeably. “Yer kin do thet, while I hev a bit more sleep.”
And with that, he turned over on his side and was soon snoring.
When she was certain he was soundly asleep, she quietly pulled down the cabinet-bath and carefully ran cold water into the tub, trying not to let it splash. It was already too warm in the cottage, but she didn’t dare open the curtains to let air in, and chance waking him. She stripped herself, soaked in the cold water, and scrubbed and wept, trying to scrub out the vileness she felt in herself.
But she did it all silently. Everything must now revolve around Dick, if she wanted to escape as many beatings as possible. There was no Andy Ball here to restrain him. He might remember that she was the only bread-earner, but if he was really in a rage, he might not.
Then she did the dishes—he would explode if she left dirty dishes. There were two kinds of people that lived in caravans; the scrupulously clean, and the slovenly. Travelers were always scrupulously clean, and oddly, when it came to the caravan, so was Dick, though he seldom washed himself. The one and only time she had ever left dirty dishes for an hour or two, because he had eaten late and she had been too busy with the show to get to them immediately, she had been met with the one and only blow to the face—a blow that left her with half her face blackened. Andy Ball had had a right fit over that when he saw her—he’d raged at Dick for an hour because he couldn’t put a bruised girl out in front of an audience, and Dick had been mightily put out because she hadn’t gotten any pay until she was fit to look at again.
That was when Dick had learned to hurt her where it didn’t show, and he had become almost scientific about it. He’d also learned never to hurt her in a way that would keep her from performing. She only hoped he hadn’t forgotten what he’d learned.
. . . and what a dreadful thing, to be reduced to hoping that her husband “wouldn’t hurt her too much.”
Maybe it was a good thing that it had taken him so long to find her. Right after she’d run, he probably would have murdered her. With so much time passing, the red-hot rage had cooled enough that when he’d found her, from what he’d said already, he’d taken the time to find out what she was doing, and discover that she was worth a lot more to him alive.
Right now, he was in a good mood. He’d established his ownership of her. He would not have to work as long as she was able to. He was full of good food, he was tucked up in what was probably the best bed he had ever slept in in his life, and he was “in the cream.” The longer she could keep him in that mood the better. Maybe she could even keep him happy enough that she could go a full month or more between beatings.
He hadn’t troubled to do more than count the money she’d been collecting in the unused toby jug that had come with the oddly assorted dishes left in the cottage. She knew he had counted it, because the money was stacked in groups of five by denomination all across the front of the shelf. He hadn’t cared to hide it or take it, because he knew she wouldn’t dare touch more than he allowed—and he had just given her permission to shop for food for him. She took more than she thought she’d need, dressed herself with more care, and went out silently with a big shopping basket.
The corner shop was not where she went for “decent” food, but they were well stocked when it came to the sorts of things Dick liked. When she came back, she had all of his favorites; sausages, ham, and lots of bacon. More bread, cheap little cakes, and packets of sweets. Tinned baked beans. Tinned mushy peas. And she had something she hoped would make her life easier; two bottles of gin. Dick was not used to strong drink; he’d not been able to afford it, and it was easier to get a beer or a lager or a cider out of the country-folk at the local pub or inn than it was a bit of strong drink. They’d pay a beer to watch him bend an iron bar. They’d not pay for a tot of gin for the same pleasure. Many of them equated strong drink with sin, anyway; beer was food, beer was something you could (and many of them did) make at home, just like bread and out of the same ingredients, but strong drink was evil, and led to vice—so their preachers told them every Sunday, at least.
When he woke, she already had luncheon ready for him—and she had seen how he had gotten into h
er locked cottage, when she had taken a chance and peeked through the curtains.
He’d been more than usually cunning, and that suggested he had actually been watching the cottage to plan how to get in. That iron grating over the windows had been no match for his strength. He’d simply gone to the back and pulled the grating for one of them out of the cottage wall. There were no passers-by in the rear to see him and call for a constable, and of course if she had seen a grating gone from a front window when she’d come home, she would never have gone in the front door in the first place.
It was just more evidence of how cunning he could be when he put his mind to it.
As he ate she made a careful accounting of every penny spent, just as she’d had to at the circus. He sat there, silently chewing his ploughman’s lunch of ham, cheese, and thick bread and butter, his black brows furrowed as he counted up what she had spent in his head. He was very good at counting money, too. He could do sums in his head as easily as she could on paper.
He interrupted her a couple of times. “That’s too much—” he’d say.
“It’s the shop,” she’d reply. “Here’s the bill-of-sale, see? It’s very dear to shop there. There’s cheaper shops, but they’re farther away, some of them you have to take the bus to reach, and you didn’t give me leave to go that far.”
He’d grunt, but at least he didn’t cuff her.
Finally she came to the last. “And I got you these,” she said, putting the gin bottles on the table. “I thought you’d like some Blue Ruin. I’m making money enough, and you should have good things to drink.”
His entire face lit up and she knew that she had pleased him. He didn’t say so, of course.
He never gave her anything like praise.
He drank almost half a bottle, then, tipsy, went back to bed after luncheon; she already knew what her duties were. To clean the cottage in complete silence, then make a big tea for him. As she cleaned, she cried, longing with all her heart for the quiet cool of Lionel’s house, for the magic, for the things she learned. . . .
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