‘Well, then,’ Helen said, scrunching her bare feet against the damp wood. ‘Go tell Mrs Gunn that I am ready.’
Darby departed the machine at its beachward end, a brief flash of sunlight dazzling Helen’s eyes before the door closed again. She smiled; poor Darby couldn’t get out fast enough. She turned and stood in the dim, cool box, her breath quickening a little in anticipation. Her mother and father had drowned at sea, either by accident or, if Pike was right, by ill deed. The prospect of stepping into such an expanse of water by choice seemed entirely mad.
A thump against the wall and a loud ‘Ahoy’ from Martha heralded the first lurch forward. Helen pressed a hand on either wall, steadying herself as the machine rocked its way across the shingle. The weights sewn into the hem of her gown thudded against her ankle bones in a stinging rhythm that matched the slow, grinding progress.
‘Steady,’ she heard Martha call, and then came the slap of the surf against the wooden walls. Cold water oozed through the planks beneath her feet.
‘Orright!’ Martha yelled. The machine stopped moving. The clank and jingle of the harness sounded again; the pony being walked around to the beachward side. Another thump, this time on the seaward door, and then Helen heard Martha call, ‘When you are ready, my lady.’
Helen stepped across to the door and opened it, a spray of cold water wetting her face. She blinked in the bright sunlight. Below, Martha Gunn stood in the glinting surf, an unmoving anchor against the pound of the waves, her navy gown swirling around her sturdy body. They were a good twenty yards or so from the next bathing machine, where two young ladies clung to the steps, shrieking as their dippers tried to prise them from their safe hold. Beyond them, at least ten other machines were lined up, dippers and clients bobbing in the surf.
Martha beckoned to Helen. ‘Just come on down the steps, my lady. I’ll be here to keep you up.’
Helen stared down at the lapping water. Dear Lord, she could not see the bottom. At the next machine, the screaming ladies still clung to the step. She could understand their terror, but she would not allow her own fear to humiliate her in such a manner. Gathering her resolve, she stepped down onto the wet wood. Water enveloped her feet and she drew in a startled breath. So cold! On the next step, the icy water rose up her legs and wrapped the weighted hem around her shins.
‘Right you are,’ Martha said.
Helen felt the dipper’s strong hands take her forearms. She yelped as her body plunged up to her neck into the freezing water. The gown billowed and then collapsed, the wet cloth dragging her down. For an instant, Helen felt dizzying panic as a wave washed over her head and filled her nose with salty water that stung the back of her throat, and then Martha’s hold changed. One large hand gathered flannel at her back, while an arm circled her waist. Helen groped for the dipper and found a meaty shoulder. A few panicked kicks and her feet were free from the tangle of her hem. She felt the sandy bottom beneath her soles, thank God, and dug her toes in, bracing against the buffeting waves.
‘Do you wish to go right under?’ Martha’s voice said near her ear.
Helen thought she had already done so. ‘No!’ she gasped.
‘We’ll stay as we is then.’
With the bulwark of Martha at her side and her feet dug into the sand, Helen took a few deep breaths and looked back at the beach. At least thirty yards of rolling, foaming, depthless water away. Quelling a rise of panic, she forced her mind to the business at hand.
‘Mrs Gunn,’ she said, raising her voice above the screech of gulls and women, and the crash of waves, ‘Lord Carlston says you know everything there is to know about Brighton and its inhabitants.’
‘That be right,’ Martha said. ‘And all the whereabouts too, from Shoreham to Eastbourne. It’s why his lordship recruited me. Hold on now, here’s a big one.’
A harder wave hit, sending them staggering back a step. Martha laughed, the sheer joy of it bringing a smile to Helen’s face. It seemed even after sixty-odd years of dipping, Martha still revelled in the sea and its caprices.
‘We are looking for a man by the name of Lowry. Or for any of his people,’ Helen said, regaining her footing. The water no longer felt bone-chillingly cold and, as long as she could touch the sand with her toes, it was not too frightening. ‘He grew up in the Brighton workhouse.’
‘Lowry?’ Martha’s wet, wrinkled face furrowed into more lines as she pondered the name. ‘Nobody of that name in Brighton.’
Helen licked her lips, the tang of sea-salt seasoning her disappointment. Had Lowry lied? Perhaps she had remembered amiss and it was not the Brighton workhouse.
She tried another tack. ‘He was Samuel Benchley’s Terrene. You know what a Terrene is, don’t you?’
‘I do. His lordship told me all about hisself and the Deceivers. And yourself too.’ She leaned closer, eyes solemn. ‘You and he be marvels to keep us protected from them creatures. What’s it like to have such power, my lady? I’ve always wanted to ask his lordship, but it’s not the kind of question you ask him, is it?’
Helen blinked. No one had ever asked her what it felt like to be a Reclaimer. ‘Well, it is … I mean, at times it is wonderful … and other times it is not.’
Martha nodded. ‘Good and bad, like most gifts from the Almighty, and harder for you, I imagine, being a lass. It be like this job — only for them that’s got the pluck. There’s none braver than his lordship, but I seen the look that comes into his eye. Right haunted it is. You be careful not to get that look, my lady.’
Haunted. Helen silently agreed with the old dipper’s assessment of his lordship’s eyes. Ever since he had collapsed there was a shadow upon his every look and gesture; perhaps the knowledge that he could no longer count upon his own control.
‘Watch out now!’ Martha called. She swung in front of Helen, taking the brunt of a sly wave against her broad shoulder, then said, ‘This man you want is Samuel Benchley’s Terrene, eh?’ Raising a dripping arm, she tapped her forehead as if urging a slow clock to turn. ‘Ah, I know who you mean. He came back here a year ago with Benchley. But his name weren’t Lowry growing up. It was MacEvoy. Bartholomew MacEvoy.’
‘Bartholomew, yes, that is his Christian name.’ Helen looked up at the sky, sending a quick, fervent prayer of thanks. ‘Does he have any family in Brighton or somewhere nearby?’
‘A sister, Katherine. Married a man by the name of Holt, right here in Brighton.’ Martha regarded Helen with a doubtful brow. ‘These ain’t good folk, my lady.’
‘Where does she live?’ Helen asked.
Martha rubbed her chin. ‘Well, now, like I said, Kate Holt ain’t a respectable woman. What I got to say ain’t for gentle ears. Maybe it’d be best if I tell his lordship.’
‘No,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Lord Carlston wants me to find Lowry’s relatives. You must think of me as a Reclaimer, Mrs Gunn, not a lady.’
The old dipper nodded. ‘It’s like I tell my Stephen: when I’m in me water dress, I’m more man than woman. Got to be if I’m to keep you ladies safe. Well now, about Kate Holt. If you be forgiving my bluntness, she used to trade on her own bottom, and now she and her man run a bawdy-house down in the Lanes. Have you an idea of what that is, my lady?’
Helen did, and she could not keep the shock from stiffening her face. Kate Holt was a bawd and kept a brothel. Dear God, was Lowry hiding the journal in a house of ill repute? How could she go into such a place?
Martha viewed an incoming wave with narrowed eyes. ‘Hold tight,’ she advised, then jumped, pulling Helen above its crest with practised ease. They landed back on the sand, one side of Helen’s gown puffing up around her.
‘Brighton’s got more whores and bawdy-houses than you can shake a stick at, what with the Army nearby,’ Martha continued. ‘And when you Quality folk come to town, even more open their doors. Kate Holt’s house does for those men who want a flogging or a bit of throat-squeezing. I’ve heard tell too that she has rooms for those who like the boys, and that the Duke of Cum
berland has even visited.’ She regarded Helen with a shrewd look in her dark, triangular eyes. ‘Understand what I’m saying?’
Helen nodded. It was rumoured that the Duke of Cumberland, the Prince Regent’s younger brother, had killed his Italian servant two years ago after the man had discovered him fornicating with his valet. An inquiry had found that the Italian had committed suicide, but many believed the man had been silenced.
Helen could feel the blush heating her face and willed herself not to look away. ‘Where is this place?’
‘In the Old Town. Do you know the Quakers’ Meeting House on Ship Street?’
‘Yes, I have seen it.’
‘Kate Holt’s is down the next lane, Union Street. At front it’s a coffee-house, but the real business is done out the back.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Kate’s no saint, that’s for sure, but she ain’t the worse of them. She’s got a son with a vestige in him — almost insane now, poor child — but she stands by him and won’t put him in the madhouse.’
Helen stared at Martha. ‘Her son is an offspring?’
‘Aye. Not by her husband, Holt, mind you, but from one of her culls when she was whoring. When you London folk come down, so do the Deceivers. Kate’s brother and Benchley tried to reclaim him a year back, but it didn’t work. That’s how I know your man Lowry is really Bart MacEvoy. Benchley told Kate that her son is one of them Unreclaimables. He was going to put the boy out of his misery, but MacEvoy — or should I say Lowry — wouldn’t let him do it.’
Helen frowned. As an Unreclaimable, Kate Holt’s son came under the most troubling mandate of the Reclaimer oath: To reclaim them back to humanity when possible, and when it is not, to save them from a life of torment.
‘Are you and his lordship going to try to reclaim him again, my lady?’ Martha asked.
It was no doubt their duty, but she could not tell his lordship about the boy. It would mean telling him about Lowry’s sister, and by that leading him to the journal. And if the boy was Unreclaimable, she did not want to be faced with the task of killing him.
‘At present, all of our attention is on finding Lowry,’ she said. ‘Do you know if he has visited his sister recently?’
‘Not that I know of, but I know a girl in Kate Holt’s house, Binny — she’ll keep a lookout if I ask. She wants to get out of whoring and learn how to dip. I’ll give her the chance if she gives us the nod and keeps mum. My boys will hunt up information too.’
‘If he is found, could you send word to me immediately?’
‘Of course, my lady.’
Helen had a sudden opportunistic thought. ‘There is another man I am seeking too. His name is Philip. He used to be my footman. A tall, handsome fellow, over six foot, with red hair and freckles. Wears a grey beaver. Can your boys look out for him too?’
Martha nodded. ‘Six foot, red hair, grey beaver.’
Helen tightened her grip on the dipper’s forearm, remembering to moderate her strength; she did not want to break the old woman’s bones. ‘If you find either man, send word to me only. Any time of the day or night. It is of the utmost importance. I am at 20 German Place.’
‘Yes, my lady. You have my word.’
Helen had the feeling that Martha Gunn’s word was inviolate. ‘Thank you.’ At least she and Hammond now had a way forward: an address where the journal might be hidden. And if Philip was located, possibly a way to retrieve the Colligat.
For a few moments, she and the dipper were silent, the sea rocking them on their feet. Helen squinted into the endless horizon, the warm blue of the sky meeting the cold navy of the water in a long hazy strip of light.
‘It looks like it goes on forever,’ she said.
‘She’s a beautiful thing, the sea,’ Martha said. ‘But a right bitch too, if you be forgiving me language. Me mam always said, “Never turn yer back on the sea, and remember what’s hidden beneath her is always more deadly than what’s in plain sight.”’
Helen looked down into the dark water. ‘Like the Deceivers.’
‘Like the Deceivers,’ Martha Gunn agreed. ‘And like people too.’
Chapter Twelve
Lady Dunwick’s rout was set to start at nine o’clock, and by that time clouds had rolled over the sky, threatening the balmy evening. The original plan had been for the four of them to walk to the gathering in Marlborough Place — Lord Carlston was making his own way there — but Lady Margaret decided to bring the town coach around in case of rain. Nankeen boots were quickly untied and replaced by satin dancing slippers, the matching satin pochettes abandoned. There was no need for such protections when they were to be delivered to the Dunwicks’ front door by carriage.
On the way out of the house, Helen managed to hang back with Mr Hammond in the foyer. It was the first time she had been alone with him since she had spoken to Martha Gunn.
‘Lowry has a sister,’ she whispered, pretending to fuss with her gold silk shawl. ‘A harlot who has a bawdy-house in the Old Town Lanes.’
Mr Hammond’s brows lifted. ‘A bawdy-house?’ He considered the news. ‘A clever place to find refuge.’
Helen nodded. ‘I have told Martha Gunn to send word to me if Lowry is seen thereabouts. She knows a girl inside the house.’
‘Michael!’ Lady Margaret called from the steps outside. ‘Where are you? Where is Lady Helen? You hold us up.’
‘I shall be there directly,’ he called, turning back to Helen with a frown. ‘Do we wait for that message, or should I go in and search?’
Helen felt a moment of raw relief; he did not expect her to go into such a vile place.
‘I doubt that he would leave it there. Even if he did, we would not know where to look. I think we must wait until he makes an appearance.’
‘I agree. We do not want to tip him off too soon.’
‘For goodness’ sake, hurry up,’ Lady Margaret said, peering in the doorway. ‘The sooner we go to this awful affair, the sooner we may return.’
Helen sat next to Delia in the carriage, her friend eagerly pointing out various silhouetted landmarks on the seafront as they made their way towards the Steine.
Helen’s sight, however, had turned more inward and was a great deal more critical. Since Monday and that disturbing conversation with Lord Carlston, she’d had at least three opportunities to speak to Darby about the rule forbidding love and had shrunk from them all. When had she become so weak-willed? She could not bear the thought of bringing Darby heartbreak; and perhaps, if she were honest, there was a little self-interest at play as well. Darby might very well leave her to serve his lordship in order to stay with Quinn. The possibility had only occurred to Helen after seeing Darby’s silent staunch support of the Terrene in the drawing room.
And, of course, she was guilty of another kind of weakness as well. She could not find the steel within herself to quell her attraction to his lordship. Well, now she must. He had made it very clear that self-control was the duty of a Reclaimer.
The coach turned up South Parade and made its way towards Edward Street. On Helen’s side, Donaldson’s Library was bright with candles and lamps and she could see an audience seated on rows of gilt chairs. One of their famous musical recitals.
On the next corner, three young gentlemen in evening wear stood outside Raggett’s Club and peered insolently in the coach windows as it passed. Helen drew back from their stares. Was the Duke inside the club? For all his vow of continued devotion, she had not seen him for a week. Perhaps he had finally realised the futility of his pursuit. Or perhaps he had been called back to London on Parliament business. Helen chewed the inside of her mouth. What was she going to do when her brother finally arrived? She could hardly ignore him in a town this size.
The line of waiting carriages outside the Dunwicks’ caused some delay, but finally it was their turn to move up and alight. Geoffrey opened the door and let down the steps, handing out Lady Margaret first. Helen descended next and stood for a moment to take in the handsome neo-classical frontage of the house. A
ccording to Pug, her father, the Earl of Dunwick, had secured the Brighton residence at the beginning of the Prince Regent’s patronage of the seaside resort. A canny investment, for it now sat close to the ever-expanding Royal Pavilion, the Prince Regent’s favourite palace and the venue of some of his most scandalous parties. In the shadow of such notoriety, the Dunwicks’ house was a suitable location for her own intrigue, Helen thought wryly. And for her first proper tête-à-tête with a Deceiver.
She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to ease the nervous fluttering that turned within. Somewhere inside that house she was going to stand beside his lordship and bargain for his sanity with one of their sworn enemy. She could see the necessity of dealing with the creature, but even so, his lordship was dragging her into questionable deeds and unholy alliances. All behaviour that seemed to confirm Pike’s allegations.
Delia stepped down beside her and clutched her arm. ‘It feels so long since I have danced. I do hope I am asked.’
‘You can be assured of Mr Hammond,’ Helen said, glad to be diverted from her dark thoughts.
Inside the residence, a footman ushered them and Lady Margaret to a well-appointed library that was doing duty as the ladies’ retiring room. They quickly deposited their wraps and returned to the foyer to greet their hostess. It did not take them long to move down the line of arrivals, and with a quick curtsey and ‘Good evening’ to Lady Dunwick, and a delighted squeal of welcome from Pug, they were on the way up the staircase to the salon.
Lady Margaret was stopped at the top by an acquaintance and she waved Helen and Delia onward.
‘This is a much larger party than I was expecting,’ Helen whispered. ‘I thought it was to be a few select families.’
Delia giggled. ‘The Dunwicks do everything on a large scale. I think the entire Brighton Barracks has been invited.’
Helen stifled a smile. It was true, but Pug’s generosity and kindness did not deserve such ridicule. ‘At least so many people will obscure our purpose. If there were fewer guests, an extended conversation with the Comte d’Antraigues would look rather particular.’
The Dark Days Pact Page 17