‘I know of the best stall on London Bridge,’ I say. ‘I shall step out and point your girl the right way.’
I step out into the Exchange to show Emily how she might find the stall I mean. And she scurries off in the direction of London Bridge.
I take a moment to stare into the whirling mass of the Exchange, with all its colourful characters. And suddenly I spot a familiar plumed hat in the crowds of traders.
Mr Vanderbilt.
My eyes follow him as he walks across the Exchange, his sword bobbing at his hip, his riotous buccaneer dress looking more in keeping in this part of town.
I am so delighted to see him, I cry out his name, running towards him without thinking if I am proper.
He turns, frowning, and then his weathered face creases deeply with pleasure. I pick through the crowd until I am close enough to clasp his hand warmly.
‘It is good to see you,’ I say. ‘Do you come to finish your business?’
‘Miss Elizabeth,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Yes, I am here to make some arrangements. Why, you look even more beautiful every time I see you.’
I smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Gold and green,’ he adds, taking a pinch of my skirt fabric admiringly. ‘Your dress alone should be enough to buy a fine ship. Are you here with Lord Hays?’ he adds in confusion.
‘Yes and no,’ I admit. ‘He is here for business. I am in the jewellers.’
‘Be sure his lordship buys you sapphires,’ he says. ‘You’ll find no finer than in the Exchange.’
‘I will …’ I pause and take a breath before ploughing on. ‘I wondered if I might ask a favour?’
His wiry eyebrows go up. ‘Anything within my power.’
I chew my lip, trying to think of how best to phrase my confession.
‘I will not be in Lord Hays’s company beyond this week,’ I admit, letting the inference sink in. ‘Our … arrangement will come to an end.’
Mr Vanderbilt’s wise blue eyes seem to take my meaning.
‘Is that so?’ he says slowly. ‘Well, you made him a fine lady, my dear.’
I give a half-smile.
‘You are kind,’ I say. ‘In my … my other life, I had a friend. A girl who worked at Mrs Wilkes’s house. By the name of Rose.’
Mr Vanderbilt nods patiently, taking the information in.
‘She was taken up by a suitor,’ I say. ‘His plans were to go overseas. Might there be some way of finding where they went? I should love to get a letter to her.’
Mr Vanderbilt rocks back on his heels, assessing the situation.
‘Do you have a name?’ he says finally. ‘Full name? For him or her?’
I nod. ‘Rose Savoir. And his last name was Stewart. He titled himself a captain.’
Mr Vanderbilt sucks his teeth. ‘If he told you his true name, then there may be a way,’ he says. ‘Those that travel sign their names with customs. I could take a look at the records for you,’ he adds.
I clasp his hand in gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I should only like to know where she went. So I might have a picture of her in my mind.’
He nods sadly at this and I wonder how many friends he has lost to far-flung places.
‘So you will not marry Lord Hays?’ he says after a pause.
I shake my head.
‘It is the talk of the Exchange, you know. London society is small. And there has been much said of Edward’s beautiful new friend. They have seen you together and think you have stolen his heart.’
‘No,’ I say determinedly. ‘Edward should not wish to give up the world for a girl such as me. And I should not wish the restrictions of his society. We are only together for a few days more.’
Mr Vanderbilt looks thoughtful.
‘Then he is a fool,’ he says roundly, patting my shoulder. ‘To have so little time with you. For you are a fine girl and worth ten of those society sneerers.’
He thinks for a time.
‘Do you have plans for when you part ways?’
‘I shall find a better place to rent,’ I say. ‘I live in Piccadilly for now. I should like to try my luck in Mayfair.’
‘Hmmm.’ Mr Vanderbilt considers this in his gravelly voice. ‘So you shall have a little capital?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘His lordship is very generous.’
Mr Vanderbilt pauses. ‘In my voyages, I have been to America,’ he says slowly. ‘And it strikes me as a fine place for a woman to start anew.’
His old eyes meet mine.
‘It is a young country,’ he adds. ‘A good country, perhaps, for a widow travelling with a little inheritance. America is a place where England’s old society holds no sway.’
Mr Vanderbilt winks at me and I understand his meaning. That I could start fresh in America. None should know me a whore. I could be respectable again. The thought thrills me more than I should have thought.
‘I should be happy to find you a good ship to sail on,’ he adds. ‘You should need forty guineas for the passage.’
The reality of his suggestion is buzzing around me. I will have fifty guineas after I part Edward’s company.
America.
‘That sounds very interesting,’ I say, thinking how far ten guineas might last me after my fare is paid. ‘Thank you.’
‘Think of it,’ continues Mr Vanderbilt. ‘You can always find Percy and me if you come to the Exchange. If you choose to take a ship, we would be sure you got the best price and were taken care of on-board.’
‘I am most grateful for the suggestion,’ I say. ‘Though I confess, the idea of a new country is frightening for a woman alone.’
Mr Vanderbilt takes both of my hands in his and squeezes.
‘And yet,’ he says, ‘it strikes me that a woman such as you must have been very brave in her past. Very brave indeed.’
For some reason I feel tears rise up. Mr Vanderbilt gives my hands a final paternal press and then releases them.
‘Good day, Miss Elizabeth,’ he says, making me a low bow.
‘Good day, Mr Vanderbilt,’ I say curtsying. ‘I am sorry for your ship,’ I add, not knowing what else to say.
He winks at me. ‘You need not worry yourself about an old seadog such as me,’ he says. ‘Life is always an adventure.’
And with that he vanishes into the main quadrant.
Chapter 39
I remain staring out after Mr Vanderbilt for some time. Until it occurs to me the jeweller might be wondering where I have got to. I turn, making my way back through the press of the crowd. In the past few minutes, the mass of people has suddenly thickened. And it is only then I realise that there are shouts coming from the main Exchange. They are rough cries, which put me in mind of when the mob rises in Piccadilly.
My heart begins to beat faster and I turn in alarm. The crowd around me seems to swell and charge, sweeping me towards the sound of men’s ugly shouts. In my fine clothes it is difficult to manoeuvre away easily.
A surge of movement strikes, like a wave of people has hit the crowd, and I am pinioned in among the bodies. A few moments ago people were milling. Now they are a thick eddy.
I swing around desperately, looking for the jewellers, but it has vanished in the crush.
A loud crash sounds, like a window breaking, and then all hell breaks loose. Missiles are being thrown across the crowd. Rocks and stones hit the shop fronts.
I cannot believe how quickly it has turned. The source of the discord is not easily seen, but I am in true terror now. For I am in no doubt it is a riot. Gasping with the effort, I push myself out of the swell and towards the fine shops.
If I cannot make it back, Edward will not find me. He expects me to wait in the jewellers. And besides, Caroline is nearby. First he must go to assure himself of his wife-to-be’s safety. To come to me first would be to insult her unthinkably.
I take in the other shops. Perhaps one will shelter me until the mob has passed. For I am finely dressed, after all.
But as I watch, I realise se
veral shops are already being looted. In the middle distance, a pack of men, roughly dressed, are smashing the glass front of an ivory shop. Its owner has grabbed up a hunk of wood and is waving it at the looters, but he is brought down by a heavy fist to the jaw.
With the owner down, the pack becomes a torrent. Ragged men are clambering hand over fist to loot from the broken frontage.
Other shopkeepers are grabbing up their wares and racing indoors, pulling down wooden shutters. My eyes scan desperately for an open shop. Perhaps there is still one that can house me safely.
I see one, a small dressmakers, with a clutch of pretty shop girls fluttering like panicked chickens to protect their stuffs.
I head gratefully for them, thinking they will come to my aid. But I am too late. Two men have made it ahead of me. They grab at the girls indiscriminately, pulling them to the floor. I catch only a flash of skirts and screams, and my hands fly to my mouth in horror.
Kitty warned me of riots. Of what men are capable of. But I can scarce believe the pack has descended so quickly.
Blind terror sends me racing in the other direction. I dismiss the hope of the jewellers. For having seen the other shops, I am no safer there than in the crowd. I spot a slim alley, which I think to be an exit, and hurtle towards it.
The alley runs between two shops and is mercifully empty. I plunge down it at a run. But instead of leading out of the Exchange, it splits into a warren of dirt tracks, which the shop staff use to relieve themselves and dump their refuse.
I am faced with two possible directions, so I pick the alley with a lesser stink to it. But as I run towards the end I realise I’ve made the wrong choice. Barring my way is a little pack of unkempt men, and I freeze.
‘Well well,’ says one, moving closer, ‘what have we here? A fine lady to have some fun with.’
He eyes his companions. ‘What sport we shall have.’
The other men close at his sides, like a pack of wolves advancing. I back away wishing I had some sort of weapon.
‘I am no lady,’ I retort, ‘and you could not afford what you seek from me.’
‘Seems to me, we do not need to afford you,’ says the leader.
His arm shoots out, grabbing me by the wrist.
‘Let me go!’ I shout, pulling my arm. But his fingers close tighter. I can see his face up close now. He smells of brandy and his nose is a network of broken veins. His eyes have the rheumy motion of a drunkard.
‘Get her on the floor,’ he advises his companions. ‘I’ll pull her skirt up.’
He looks around him to assure himself there are no witnesses. And in that moment I kick him squarely between the legs.
Since this is unexpected from a lady, my action takes him wholly by surprise.
He doubles over moaning and I push him bodily into his companions. They were drunker than I thought and the impact throws them off balance.
My eyes fall on the opening between them and I charge through, running along the urine-soaked alley. When I reach the end, I realise all I have done is double back on myself. Ahead of me is the boiling riot of the wider Exchange.
I glance behind, to see the men are giving chase at a rambling drunken speed. And so I plunge back into the crowd.
I’m greeted by a mayhem of noise and missiles. The tumult has reached fever pitch and the crowd is a boiling mix of screaming shoppers and shouting rioters. Almost immediately, the crowd shifts and I’m transported deep into the centre, like a ship on a strong tide.
The force of people on either side squeezes all the breath from my body and I cry out in pain. Then there’s a wave of falling bodies and I’m dragged down beneath a crush of people.
My face slams into the floor and I feel the weight of twenty people on top of me. In the tangle of waving limbs it’s impossible for any to stand and I am paralysed beneath the mass.
I try to take a breath but my chest is held tight. My eyes swim and black circles swirl in my vision. A vague awareness that my dress is being trampled drifts in my dimming consciousness.
Then I feel strong arms pull at me. And I’m wrenched slowly but surely out of the fallen mass, like a cork from a bottle. I gasp as my lungs are freed, and kick with my feet to try and establish firm ground.
‘Elizabeth!’ cries a voice.
I look up at the sound of my name and see Edward’s face. I suddenly realise that his strong arms are securely grasping mine.
‘Edward!’ I am so overjoyed to see him I can hardly speak.
‘Are you hurt?’ he cries, shouting above the crowd.
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t breathe,’ I croak, my hand to my chest, feeling as though I will cry.
With one sure movement he lifts me bodily into his arms. Then he carries me through the crowd, surefootedly pushing his way.
I press my face into his strong chest and start to sob. Frightened racking gasps shake me. I push into him like a child and his arms tighten.
We break out into the street and in a few moments Edward is loading me into the carriage. I open my eyes.
His dark hair is hanging free and there is a line of blood on his face.
‘You are injured,’ I say, my fingertips brushing his cheek.
He shakes his head. ‘I told you to stay in the shop,’ he says. But his tone is not angry.
‘I stepped outside for a moment and the crowd took me,’ I admit. ‘I was frightened to go back to the jewellers. Men were looting the shops.’
He shakes his head. ‘I paid some men to stand guard on the jewellers. I was gone but a moment. You should have trusted I would come back for you.’
‘You paid men to watch over the shop?’
He nods. ‘I did not want to alarm you by telling you there was a guard. But you were always safe. So long as you stayed inside.’
‘I did not think you would find me in the crowd.’
His fingers trace the line of my chin.
‘I would never have left you.’
I nod, feeling tears well up again.
‘Did you find Caroline?’ I ask, remembering he must have gone to her first.
Edward shakes his head, as if remembering his future wife for the first time. ‘I will go back now, to be sure she got to safety.’
He pauses fractionally and then he moves forward, kissing me on the lips.
‘I am glad you are safe,’ he says, pulling back. And an expression flashes across his face of fear and relief all at once. ‘I thought I might have lost you.’
Then he’s out of the carriage and I hear him issuing orders to protect its contents at all costs.
As men bearing swords come to stand outside either door, I wonder to myself.
Why didn’t Edward save Caroline first?
Chapter 40
In the carriage on the way home, I forget myself. I cling to Edward, not caring that I have no right to expect his comfort. I circle my arms around him as though I would never let him go. He strokes my hair and holds me close.
It is only when the carriage breaks from the busier streets, into the sanctuary of Mayfair, that I loosen my grip on him a little.
The day has moved to afternoon already and it occurs to me there will likely be some last entertainment to be endured this evening. This will be our final night together. I need to collect myself, for I owe Edward a merry evening.
The carriage pulls up in front of the large doors of the townhouse. He opens the door, steps out, but to my surprise, he doesn’t hand me out. Instead, he scoops me up and carries me into the house, like a bride over the threshold.
Mrs Tomkinson, who has opened the door for us, makes an uncharacteristic flutter when she sees us, clucking around me like a mother hen.
‘What happened to Miss Lizzy?’ she demands, taking in my ripped and dirtied dress. ‘Is she hurt?’
‘Elizabeth was caught in a mob at the Exchange,’ says Edward, walking past Mrs Tomkinson with me in his arms. ‘She was greatly frighted and needs rest. I will take her up to the parlour now.’
&n
bsp; ‘I will send a glass of wine,’ promises Mrs Tomkinson. She peers into my face anxiously.
‘You were not hurt? Those brutes did not hurt you?’ she asks.
I shake my head, overwhelmed by their kindness. I cannot remember the last time people were so solicitous of my feelings. They are treating me as though I have the sensibilities of a lady and not the hardened nature of a street girl.
Edward carries me gently up to the parlour and lays me on the bed.
He touches my face, looking into my eyes.
‘Do you have pain anywhere? In your body?’
I shake my head, a lump rising in my throat. I cannot think I would have been so shaken by a mob before. It is as though something in me has crossed over.
Very carefully, Edward unlaces my stays. I wince as they fall open.
‘You are bruised,’ he says, running his hands along my ribs, inside my stays.
‘Maybe a little,’ I admit. ‘I did not feel it when my stays were tight.’
‘You do not complain,’ he says, more to himself than me. ‘Most ladies faint for the slightest bruise.’
He takes my face in his hands.
‘You should make a greater fuss,’ he admonishes. ‘Or how am I to know you are hurt?’
I give him a small smile. ‘I was more frightened than hurt. And farm girls are not raised to make a hue and cry for a small bruise.’
Edward makes a grim smile in return.
‘Well, you should,’ he decides. ‘You are much more than a farm girl now.’
For some reason my eyes fill with tears. Why am I so emotional? It is as though my feelings have been painted on the outside of my body.
‘Shall I send for a doctor?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘It is just a few bruises,’ I say. ‘Mostly my pride is hurt that you had to come and rescue me.’
To my relief, Edward laughs at the joke.
‘I would rescue you a thousand times,’ he promises. ‘You need not be so prideful.’
There is a knock at the door and he distractedly gives permission to enter.
I am expecting Sophie, but it is Mrs Tomkinson herself who enters, carrying a tray bearing a decanter of red wine.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 20