The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

  Another meeting in public. Her uncle’s eyes narrowed as though recognizing what she was up to and wondering why.

  “I’ve never been to the theatre before,” Tillie said, as though eager to try the experience.

  “Of course you have,” Luke said. “We’ve been many times.”

  Tillie rubbed her forehead. “Oh, dear, this is so distressing, so disorienting. Where did I go to the theatre?”

  “In Liverpool, of course, and in London.”

  “I’ve been to London?”

  “Only last year,” her uncle said.

  She cast him a quick smile. “I will keep trying to remember.”

  “That is all we ask,” her uncle said, smiling back.

  But of course, it wasn’t true. The last thing he wanted was for her to remember and make accusations among people who could hurt him. Which was why he would be quite capable of hurting them first.

  *

  Tillie lay awake most of the night trying to think of ways of stopping her uncle and cousin before they could hurt anyone. However, her solutions became increasingly fanciful, and by the time she rose, she had achieved little but a pale and wan look, with dark circles beginning to form under her eyes.

  “At least I look ill,” she muttered to the glass.

  Mrs. Grant obviously thought the same, for there was a concerned look in her eyes over breakfast and she suggested a visit to the pump room to take the waters. Tillie hesitated, for if Dove came back today and called at the vicarage, she wanted to be there to greet him. On the other hand, she knew she would drive herself mad pacing the house until she had to face her uncle again at the theatre, so she fetched her cloak and accompanied Mrs. Grant.

  They walked to the pump room with James, a large footman trailing behind them. Although Tillie was glad of him, she wondered what had possessed her hostess to bring him, for she didn’t normally go out in this manner. In fact, Tillie was sure the vicarage hadn’t employed any footmen at all when she had first come.

  This morning, the pump room contained mostly elderly ladies, although Tillie’s heart beat a touch faster when she glimpsed Captain Smith among them. He rose and bowed as they passed him with their glasses of water, and on impulse, Tillie paused to speak to him.

  “I hope you suffer no ill effects from the late storm,” she said.

  “Indeed, I don’t believe so. At my age, I merely seek to stave off the inevitable. And if I remain healthy with a glass of water…”

  “I’m not sure it works that way,” Tillie said doubtfully. “Otherwise, the population of Blackhaven would be incredibly old.”

  Captain Smith cast a significant glance around the other clientele, and Tillie laughed. “Well, perhaps you are right. How long will you remain in Blackhaven, sir?”

  “Until I can board another ship.”

  “Is there one to be had in Blackhaven?”

  “Several, if you know the right man to ask.”

  Alban. He meant Captain Alban. “Then I hope you are successful.”

  “I’m just awaiting the arrival of my vessel in Whalen. I hope to be gone the day after tomorrow.”

  “Then I wish you well, Captain.”

  “And I you, ma’am.” He frowned as though just recalling the oddity. “Though I still wonder what on earth you were doing aboard my ship.”

  “We all wonder that,” she said sardonically.

  At that moment, someone else walked in. Her uncle and cousin. She was sure their feet faltered as they caught sight of her in cozy conversation with Smith.

  Mrs. Grant, who had stopped some distance away to talk to a group of ladies, began to extricate herself. “Come, let’s sit, Tillie.”

  But her uncle and cousin stood on either side of her, hemming her in. For an instant, she could not breathe, for the memory of the darkness and the terror. But she forced it down and merely stepped back to give herself space.

  “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my niece, Captain,” her uncle said.

  Smith’s jaw dropped. “Your niece?” he uttered in astonishment that came close to fear.

  “How do you do, Mr. Dawlish?” Mrs. Grant said civilly, taking Tillie’s arm. “Sit over here, my dear. You’ll never get well if you don’t rest… Interesting,” she added as soon as they were sitting with a modicum of privacy. “They know each other, but Smith does not know you.”

  *

  Dove had not called by the time they returned from the pump room. Nor had there been any sign of him before they left. So, once more with James, the large footman, she went to the hospital to visit Annie.

  She found her friend a little less cheerful than usual. In fact, she seemed almost tearful, though this may have been due to the fact that as little George’s health improved, so did his appetite. She got little sleep from having to feed him so often.

  “We can’t stay here forever,” she said once. “And George—Big George—he isn’t coming back, is he?”

  “Don’t worry about that just now,” Mrs. Grant said. “Dr. Lampton wants to be sure both of you are well before he lets you go.”

  “What can we do for her?” Tillie asked as they walked home in the winter sunshine.

  “Not much,” Mrs. Grant admitted. “Even if I could persuade one of the landowners to let her have a cottage rent-free, there would be talk. And she still would have the problem of working and caring for the baby at the same time.” She frowned. “I’ve been thinking about your creche idea, though. I wonder if it’s possible at the vicarage?”

  “It would be a lot of noise,” Tillie said doubtfully.

  “Hmm. And poor Tris trying to write sermons and discuss people’s bereavements and spiritual problems. Perhaps it is not such a great idea. Not at the vicarage anyway. But there may be a solution in there.” She glanced at Tillie. “You remember the noise? Or you just know babies cry?”

  “I think I remember the noise,” Tillie muttered. It was difficult to keep straight in her mind the things she could and couldn’t know, and she felt increasingly uncomfortable about lying to her friends.

  “Did you work there, then? Forgive me, you seem to speak too well to be a mere nurse, but perhaps you are a governess?”

  “They could not afford the services of governesses! These places were not schools, but cooperatives, run by the women themselves. Blackhaven is different. You have no large concentration of workers in one place. Everything is scattered.”

  “And yet, it seems there is the need of something.”

  “It seems there is,” Tillie agreed thoughtfully.

  *

  Blackhaven’s theatre was not large by London, or even Liverpool, standards. But it gave a pleasant atmosphere of coziness, almost as if the actors on stage were playing in a private drawing room. The Grants had their own box from where Tillie could see the rest of the audience as well as the stage. She could easily have lost herself in the plays, almost feeling herself to be part of the action, except she could not quite lose awareness of her uncle and cousin in the box directly opposite. Just wondering when they would descend upon her kept her sitting on the edge of her seat.

  They did not come until the end of the pantomime, and even then, seemed to be in such good humor from the hilarity of the performance that Tillie was almost soothed. They mostly discussed the comedy of the pantomime, and the possibilities of the tragedy to come, impersonal topics that didn’t strain Tillie’s nerves too far. Besides, they were diluted for part of the time by other visitors to the box.

  In all, their visit was so innocuous that Mrs. Grant invited them to return in one of the subsequent intervals. Tillie understood her purpose was to imply some improvement in their relationship with Tillie, to keep them hanging, as it were, until her memory returned to make everyone comfortable.

  Only it wouldn’t. It didn’t.

  At least they did not come in the next interval, although Tillie saw their box was empty. She hoped they had gone home, for she couldn’t see them in her sweeping glances around the other boxes.
And so, she flirted with Captain Grantham, since he seemed so inclined, and deflected the curious questions of some of the Grants’ friends who had clearly heard some kind of rumor of her connection to the Dawlish men.

  “Oh dear,” twittered a rather deaf lady as the play began again. “I have talked so much I did not notice…”

  “See the next act with us, Miss Muir,” Mr. Grant said kindly.

  “But I have taken Miss Tillie’s chair.” She began to stand, but Tillie waved her back down.

  “I can see perfectly well from here, ma’am,” Tillie assured her. “Sit and be comfortable.” She moved her chair back to get the cooling draught from the passage outside. Even on this wintry day, the sheer number of candles made the theatre over-warm.

  Tillie tried hard to concentrate on the play, but in truth, her mind wandered all over the place, seeking solutions and wandering down paths that led nowhere. Only curtains separated the boxes from the passage, and when the one beside her gave a little swish, she welcomed the cool air.

  Until a gloved hand closed over her mouth and she was yanked suddenly out of her chair and straight into the passage.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tillie twisted and wriggled, trying to lash out, but her hands were trapped by one of her captor’s arms, and she couldn’t scream for his hand over her mouth. She could not even get a decent bite at his gloved hand, for it was too hard against her teeth. All she could do was kick.

  He grunted as she connected with his knee and shin, but it didn’t slow him up. He simply dragged her along the empty passage and through the door to the back stairs.

  She knew who he was, just by his smell. Luke Dawlish, her cousin.

  “Stop it!” he said fiercely. “Don’t make me hit you.”

  Tillie was beyond caring whether or not he hit her. Under no circumstances would she go anywhere with him if she could possibly avoid it and she meant to. It was a deadly struggle on the stairs, with her doing her best to trip him, push him or otherwise injure him to make him let go. But he was bigger and stronger, and even though she managed to slow him up and annoy him, their progress was inexorable.

  Eventually, when she got in a particularly vicious kick to his shin and then hooked her foot around his ankle to trip him, he lost patience.

  “Damn it, woman,” he muttered savagely. For an instant, her body was freed as he reached upward, but before she could take advantage, he simply pinched out the candles in the wall sconces above his head and the stairwell was plunged into darkness.

  Her breath escaped on a sob, muffled in his hand as the terror flooded her, paralyzed her. Hours of hellish darkness, still and dreadful or spinning and heaving. She couldn’t stand it again. She would lose her mind.

  But she could not give in to this, not again. Dove needed her. She would be with him and she would not let them win, these vile creatures who called themselves her protectors. It took her until she made out the glimpse of light through the door at the bottom of the steps, but this time, she did manage to think through the terror.

  She went limp in his hold, as if she had finally succumbed. He grunted with relief, although she made herself as heavy and floppy as possible.

  Only when he hauled her through the door into the main foyer—no doubt he meant to tell the doorman and anyone else who happened to be there that she was ill—did she spring up again.

  Wrenching her mouth free of his mercifully slackened hand, she cried, “Help me!” and lashed out with her fists, twisting violently.

  “My wife is having a turn!” he said grimly. “Please hold the door. My father is waiting outside with the carriage.”

  Tillie stamped hard on his foot, forcing him to let out a howl of pain, and then suddenly, he was torn away from her and she was free. Someone had Luke by the collar and struck him hard, sending him sprawling back against the wall.

  As his attacker turned, the blurry light resolved, and she saw that it was Dove, his fist still clenched and poised.

  She smiled tremulously. “It’s you,” she said happily, and then his arms were around her, safe, secure, and wonderful.

  But only for a moment, for this was a public place. The doorman stood in the middle of the foyer, as if he’d skidded to a halt there when Dove had hit Luke. And her uncle walked through the door from the street, stopping dead when he saw his son staggering to his feet, and a no doubt badly tousled Tillie clinging to Major Doverton’s arm.

  “What the devil?” Mr. Dawlish exclaimed. “Sir, what have you done to my niece?”

  “Unhand my wife, sir!” Luke panted, holding on to his jaw. “I swear I shall challenge you for this!”

  “Forget duels,” his father said impatiently. “Call the Watch!”

  “With pleasure,” said the doorman. “They’ll have the young gentleman clapped up in no time. Major, perhaps you’d like to take the young lady into the office.”

  “The man is mishandling my sick wife!” Luke raged.

  “The only mishandling I saw was yours,” the doorman retorted. “I knows the major very well, and I’m glad to see he still plants a decent facer.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” Dove said mildly. “Perhaps you’d show these gentlemen out.” He turned his kindling gaze on Luke. “I’ll give you a hand if you like. Or a boot.”

  Luke glared, though he gave Dove and Tillie a noticeably wide berth as he made his way to his father. “My challenge stands!”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Trying to steal my wife!”

  Dove laughed. “Then send your seconds if you must. I’m sure Captain Grantham will act for me. Watson, can you find me a cab? And then send word to Mr. Grant’s box that I’ve taken the young lady back to the vicarage?”

  There was so much Tillie wanted to say, needed to say, but first she had to stop the trembling of her limbs. It almost felt like the night he’d plucked her from the box in the sea when she’d thought she’d never stop shaking again.

  The cloakroom maid handed over her cloak, and Dove placed it tenderly round her shoulders before ushering her outside and into the waiting cab.

  She clung to his hand, resting her head on his shoulder as it moved off.

  “How much are you hurt?” he asked. His voice shook.

  “I’m not, not really. Except when he doused the lights. I’ve always been afraid of the dark and he knows it, uses it. I couldn’t let him do it again. I couldn’t let them take me away from you.”

  He lifted their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Forgive me for not being there. It just seemed suddenly urgent that we find out the truth.”

  “I came to tell you the morning after the ball, but you’d gone.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That I remembered everything during that night. That I know the truth.”

  He stared at her, frowning. The lamplight flickered over the planes and hollows of his face, casting shadows that reminded her how little she truly knew him. Although she had always, instinctively trusted in his protection, she’d never imagined him hitting Luke like that. Not that she was sorry.

  “Then Grant knows?” he said with odd grimness, perhaps because Grant had taken her to the theater and exposed her to her cousin’s villainy.

  “No, none of them know anything,” Tillie said, giving his hand a little shake so he would pay serious attention. “In fact, once I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I should even tell you. Only now that you’ve hit Luke, they’ll suspect you know anyway. But you mustn’t tell the Grants, Dove, not even Dr. Lampton.”

  “Mustn’t tell them what? That that blackguard offered you violence, tried to abduct you?”

  She plucked at her lip with her free hand. “I suppose we must tell them that. The story will be all over town by tomorrow anyway.”

  “You misjudge Watson.”

  “Perhaps. At any rate, it will be put down to a husband’s impatience or jealousy or something. What you mustn’t tell them is that I remember, that I have my memories back.”

&
nbsp; “Why the devil not?” He put his arm around her. “My waif, have you done something bad?”

  For no reason, she wanted to cry. Because she knew from his voice that even if she had committed some crime, he would still look after her, still love her.

  She shook her head wordlessly. “No, it’s not for me, but for their own safety.”

  Any further confidences were curtailed as the carriage halted at the vicarage. Hastily, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to hide the disarray of her hair, and Dove handed her down. He paid the driver while she walked down the path to the front door.

  In no time, they sat together before the drawing room fire. At Dove’s request, the maid brought her a cup of tea.

  “Look,” Tillie said, stretching one arm out with pride. “I’m not shaking.”

  “I would have spared you that if I could,” he said hoarsely. “I should have been there.”

  She shook her head, and without a word, he began to pin up her hair, using only the pins that still clung to it by some accident.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Quickly, if you don’t want the Grants to know.”

  She took a deep breath. “My name is Matilda Dawlish. My mother was Matilda, too, but everyone called her Tillie, which must be why the name clung to my mind when nothing else did. My father was Francis Dawlish who made a fortune from cotton mills in and around Liverpool, and then another by wise investments on the London exchange. Or something. I don’t really understand that part. When he died a year ago, I inherited most of his fortune in trust until my marriage.”

  She looked at him. “Matthew Dawlish is my uncle. He was left one of the mills near Liverpool. He and his wife and son were my only family, since my mother’s side would have nothing to do with us.”

  “Why not?” Dove interjected.

  Tillie shrugged. “Snobbery. My father was a weaver’s son, and they thought he wasn’t good enough for her. Her father disowned her, and she had no contact with him or her brother or sister from the day she married my father. Even when she died, they ignored us.”