Vennor chuckled. ‘She can tell you about all the people who live in her house. She can give you variety and quantity to choose from, Marianne. As for respectable, don’t let the name fool you. I don’t think there’s ever been a Mr Broadham. She says he’s at sea, but he hasn’t been home since I’ve known her. Mighty long voyage, if you ask me.’ He paused, his worry returning. ‘You know I can’t go with you. I can’t sit there with you. It would give too much a way.’
It would be too dangerous as well. Not everyone liked the Vigilante—the barkeep she’d met the first night had not lied. Those who liked crime, who made their living from lawlessness, were not friends of the Vigilante’s cause. He stayed alive because he kept moving, because no one could ever predict when he’d turn up.
Marianne nodded her understanding. ‘I’ll be close by, though.’ He reached across the darkness and squeezed her hand. ‘You should be safe at the boarding house.’ She thought he said that as much for her as for him as he handed her out of the carriage.
* * *
The boarding house, she noted, was in Blackwall, not far from the East India docks. From the sounds in the streets, the Vigilante would have his choice of fist fights, drunken brawls and robberies to select from tonight. Vennor saw her into Mrs Broadham’s care before disappearing back out into the streets.
‘What would you like to see first?’ Mrs Broadham’s voice was brisk with the roughness of the docks. ‘The Vigilante says you’re a reporter wanting to tell stories about people who live in the East End.’
‘That’s right.’ Marianne stood a little taller at the realisation. Tonight she was a reporter, not a debutante. It was the first time she’d thought of herself that way. She’d have to remember to thank Vennor for that. What a gift he’d given her. ‘A tour of your establishment would be welcome.’ Marianne pulled out her notepad and pencil. ‘I’ll just take some notes as we walk.’
‘Humph.’ Mrs Broadham made a sound through her nose and Marianne gave a surreptitious twitch of her cloak to cover up any tell-tale signs of her skirts. Mrs Broadham narrowed her gaze ‘I’ve never met a woman reporter before.’ Marianne did not reply. In all likelihood, Mrs Broadham hadn’t met any reporters before, male or female.
‘A story could be good advertising for your boarding house,’ Marianne offered, gingerly stepping past a hole in the wall that might very well be home to a family of mice.
‘This is the dining room.’ Mrs Broadham gestured to the spacious room off to the left of the hall. It was plainly furnished with a set of two long, scarred wooden tables, their planks grey with wear, but their tops scrubbed clean. Various shapes and sizes of chairs were pulled up to the tables. ‘We can feed twenty-four people and we do when the house is full of boarders,’ she boasted proudly. ‘Two meals a day.’
They toured the sitting room where guests gathered in the evenings. The steps creaked beneath Marianne’s feet and she noticed the treads were worn. ‘So close to the water, it’s hard to keep the damp from settling in,’ Mrs Broadham explained. Marianne nodded, writing as fast as she could. The roof was in no better shape. Several of the rooms held buckets that collected drip water. In spite of Mrs Broadham’s pride in her establishment, the place was run-down and in need of repair it was unlikely to get. The boarders’ rooms were small, holding a cot and perhaps a small set of drawers that stood next to the bed, lit with a single tallow candle, if they were lit at all.
‘Boarders supply their own candles,’ Mrs Broadham pointed out. ‘And their own extra furniture if they want it.’ Clothes hung from pegs nailed into the walls and rooms smelled stale, and not all the rooms had windows. Some of them housed four people, or whole families.
Mrs Broadham knocked on one door and it was opened by a birdlike woman with wispy, faded blonde hair. ‘Mrs Simon, I hope it’s not too late for a visitor.’
Mrs Simon juggled a toddler on her hip, a little boy of maybe four clung to her skirts, and an older girl sat on the single bed in the room, peering shyly at Marianne. Marianne smiled back as she stepped inside. ‘This here is a reporter. She’s doing a story about the boarding house,’ Mrs Broadham explained to Mrs Simon, who looked all too glad of any visitor who was over the age of eight and embarrassed at the same time. The small room was even tinier with six people in it.
‘Lila, off the bed, let the lady sit down.’ Mrs Simon made a shooing gesture with her free hand.
‘No, that’s not necessary. I’m happy to stand,’ Marianne offered, partly out of a desire not to discommode poor Mrs Simon any further and partly out of a sense of self-preservation. Regardless of Mrs Simon’s best housekeeping efforts, Marianne wasn’t entirely sure she trusted those blankets. ‘Mrs Simon, may I ask you some questions?’
It turned out Mrs Simon was quite talkative once she got over the surprise of having a guest. ‘And Mr Simon?’ Marianne asked as the interview progressed. ‘Does he work here on the docks?’
Mrs Simon juggled the toddler, asleep now in her arms. She’d not put him down yet. There was no crib, no trundle. ‘No, ma’am. Mr Simon is dead. He was killed in Greece two years ago with the English troops. We’re fortunate he left us provided for, though...’ her eyes were misty when she looked up ‘...thanks to my widow’s pension and we have a roof over our heads thanks to Mrs Broadham.’ She offered a smile of gratitude to the landlady.
‘Now, Sally, don’t be making me out to be a saint, ’cause I ain’t.’ Mrs Broadham’s tone was brisk and thick. ‘You’re a paying customer like everyone else, that’s all.’ But Marianne’s instinct hinted otherwise as a smile passed between the two women. Whatever the widow’s pension didn’t cover, Mrs Broadham clearly overlooked.
But what about clothes for the children? Marianne thought. What about medicine when a child took ill? What about toys and the occasional luxury? The pension wouldn’t cover incidentals as well. Yet Mrs Simon was grateful for her little room and the leaky roof over her head. Marianne offered her thanks and let Mrs Broadham usher her out of the room to complete the tour.
She hoped her emotions didn’t show on her face. She’d seen poverty before. There was plenty of it in Cornwall and she saw it when she delivered baskets and Christmas presents with her sisters. But city poverty felt different, she was realising. There was a hopelessness to it, an endlessness, and it made her angry. London was one of the largest cities in the world, with resources galore. How dare a portion of its citizens go hungry, go sick, go cold.
Vennor had warned her that she knew nothing of this world. She’d been so sure she was prepared for what she might find, but she had not been prepared for this—and this wasn’t even the worst of it. How did Vennor do it? How did he stand it night after night? How did he convince himself he could make a difference when the scope of the problem was so vast?
Mrs Broadham concluded the tour of the house and invited her for tea in the kitchen while they waited for the Vigilante to return. The tea was warm if not aromatic. The leaves had been used several times prior, but the warmth was all Marianne needed as she wrapped her hands around the chipped cup. ‘How did you come to be acquainted with the Vigilante?’ It had occurred to Marianne that there might be more than one story here, even if she couldn’t tell it to the papers.
Mrs Broadham smiled, her harsh features softening at the mention. ‘Two years ago, he cleaned out a gang of “insurance men” on this street. The men were charging money to make sure no one broke our windows or set fire to our homes, or brought harm to our persons when we went out. Of course, the people they were really taking money to protect us from were themselves.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘The price kept going up, too. A couple of my neighbours couldn’t afford to pay.’ The woman’s voice caught and Marianne nodded in empathy. She’d seen the burnt-out remains walking up to the boarding house. ‘I just knew I was going to be next. I barely had enough boarders to make my own rent, let alone enough to pay the insurance men.’ Mrs Broadham shook he
r head. ‘No one wanted to stay on this street once word got around about what was happening. The insurance men were driving themselves out of business, only they were too stupid to realise it.’
‘What did you do?’ Marianne probed gently.
‘I left a note for the Vigilante. Anonymous, of course. I couldn’t let the insurance men know it was me. Can’t get caught, though. Not everyone likes him. The post is covered in broadsheets, so it’s easy for other notes to blend in. I wasn’t sure he’d see mine, but he did and within a week the gang was gone. They haven’t been back since.’ She was beaming now. ‘In a very real way, he saved my life.’ She gestured to the house. ‘This is all I have. Where would I go? What would I do? I owe him more than I can say.’ And she’d passed that kindness on to Mrs Simon and who knew how many others. The Vigilante’s justice was like ripples on a pond.
A knock at the back door interrupted their discussion and Marianne stood up hurriedly. It would be Vennor and he’d want to be off quickly, stealthily. The two hours had flown by. At the door, the Vigilante pressed a small bag of coins on Mrs Broadham and they were gone, disappearing into the night, silently hurrying towards the coach on the perimeter of Blackwell.
Inside, the coach was warm and safe. Marianne leaned back against the squabs and shut her eyes, letting the tension that had kept her alert all night seep out of her. Vennor’s clothes rustled with movement. He must be taking off his mask. ‘How was it? Was Mrs Broadham helpful?’
‘She was extraordinary. You were right, it was a good place to start.’ Marianne paused. ‘You were right, too, that I know nothing of that world.’ She clenched her fists, the anger returning. ‘How can we let people live like that? I met Mrs Simon. She and her three children living in that tiny room. And yet that room was a gift.’ She punched the fine leather of the seat. ‘I want to send a basket to her tomorrow, a braided rug for the floor, new blankets, clothes for the children.’ She shook her head. It would be easy to do. There was a surplus of things at Treleven House to send. ‘But it wouldn’t be enough. It would bring them comfort, but not change.’
She felt Vennor’s hand close over hers. ‘Send the basket anyway. You can tell her it was in gratitude for her story.’ Marianne opened her eyes at his touch, seeing his face for the first time since they’d left the docks. ‘Oh, my heavens, you’ve been hurt!’ He had a bruise starting to blossom on one cheek. It was going to be a bad one if she could see it from here in the dimness of the carriage. She reached a hand out instinctively to touch it.
‘Ouch!’ Vennor drew back with a gasping laugh. ‘Why do people do that? Touch something that’s clearly injured.’ He put his own hand to it, cradling his jaw. ‘I’ll have Honeycutt put a steak on it. The other men looked worse.’
‘The other men? How many were there?’ That was cause for alarm. She didn’t like thinking of Vennor set upon and outnumbered, no matter that she’d seen him in action and knew he could handle himself.
‘Three, maybe four.’ He shook his head. ‘But I couldn’t let them steal the young man’s pay. He was little more than a kid, home at last from sea. The boy was about sixteen and skinny as a stick.’
Marianne peered out the window at the mention of Honeycutt. They were going the wrong way, back to Mayfair. She wasn’t ready to return. ‘No warehouse tonight?’
‘No, we need to get you home.’ Vennor reached beneath the seat and pulled out the box where he stored his valuables. He retrieved his watch and put it back in his pocket, but not before he checked it. ‘Half past two. Your parents won’t suspect a thing. We’ll have you back before the Tetlow ball winds down.’ Vennor’s tone dropped, becoming more confidential. ‘Are you glad you went?’
‘Glad, mad, and I can hardly wait to go back. I understand now why you do it. There is so much to do, Ven. People need to know about this.’
Vennor gave a sharp snort. ‘They do know, Marianne. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’ll publish a story and people will suddenly see what’s been there all along.’
‘This time it will be different, though. M.R. Mannering has a male audience, Ven. This isn’t just an article talking about charity projects to women,’ Marianne insisted, her excitement rising. ‘Men have the power of legislation, the power of real action.’
‘Marianne, they already know. They simply don’t care. I don’t want you to be disappointed. I sit in the House of Lords and argue with these men for every inch of reform I can get.’ There was quiet realism in Vennor’s tone. She chose to ignore it. Quiet realism had never done anyone much good in her opinion except to create lives of silent desperation.
‘This time it will be different,’ Marianne repeated defiantly, thinking of poor Mrs Simon and her three children. ‘I will make them care.’ First, she had to make her editor care. He had to want to print her story. Well, she would find a way, that was all there was to it.
She could feel Vennor grinning in the darkness across from her. ‘If anyone can, it’s you, Marianne. It’s what I admire most about you.’ Tonight, she wanted a little more than admiration from him. She wanted him to leave his proper seat and sit beside her. She wanted him to take her in his arms, pull her against the muscled strength of his body, to kiss her again. She would have liked to have gone to the warehouse tonight instead of back to the Tetlows’. It somehow seemed wrong, hypocritical even, to return to chandeliers and champagne after the squalor of the boarding house.
‘It’s what the ruse demands,’ Vennor said softly in the darkness, reading her thoughts. ‘We have to go back.’
Marianne reached beneath her seat and retrieved her own box of valuables. She pulled on her gloves and threaded her dance card about her wrist with a sense of surrealism. ‘Will you dance the Roger de Coverly with me?’ It would be the last dance of the evening. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the thought of being in anyone else’s arms. Perhaps he couldn’t either. His answer came out in a husky single word.
‘Yes.’
Chapter Twelve
He must be out of his mind to involve Marianne like this in the secrets of his life, but once begun, there was no going back. She’d been out with the Vigilante three more times since that first visit, interviewing like mad. There was no going back in other ways, too. That much was patently clear as Vennor sat down to breakfast amid the delicious assault on his senses: sausages and eggs tempered with the aroma of brewed coffee and the fresh-baked yeastiness of Cook’s cinnamon buns. All his favourites. Someone must have made the suggestion to Cook. That someone was likely also the one who’d suggested the curtains be drawn back. As a result, the spring morning drenched the parlour with all its sunlight and warmth while a tall vase of long-stemmed tulips in a profusion of colours stood sentinel on the crowded sideboard.
It didn’t take long to guess who was responsible. Marianne’s stamp was everywhere these days. Vennor sorted through the newspapers left beside his plate, pressed and ready, until he found what he wanted: the newest edition of Gentlemen’s Weekly. He turned immediately to M.R. Mannering’s column and smiled.
Dear Readers,
Along with my usual report on the doings of the ton, this will also be the first instalment of a new series regarding other citizens of London with whom we share the city and with whom we should also share the burden of living...
Vennor drew a breath. She’d done it, then. She’d got the story published. Well done, Marianne.
Of course, Marianne would complain. She’d had to share column space in order to get it printed, but if he knew her, she’d find a way around that, too, given time, just as she’d found a way into his home with her cleaning and sorting and flower vases.
You invited her in, his conscience prompted.
Yes, indeed he had, but he’d never bargained on how much impact that invitation would have. The house sparkled these days. It had always been clean—his staff would tolerate no less—but the house had its life back now. More t
han that, it was slowly becoming his. Marianne had adroitly seen to it and was still seeing to it. He’d been informed there was wallpaper to select.
Vennor set aside the column and tackled a second serving of eggs. He’d need his strength. Marianne was due here at noon and he could well imagine what the afternoon would entail. His own eagerness to see her gave him pause. He’d just seen her a few hours ago. They’d gone into Seven Dials last night, sneaking out of Lady Hardcastle’s masquerade, and sneaking back in before the masquerade concluded. Marianne had interviewed a prostitute with remarkable sensitivity, drawing the nervous girl out with her questions. He’d watched from the shadows, impressed.
He had to be careful of his eagerness, had to be aware of its source. Was it from the excitement of sharing his secret life with someone at last? Was it in being released from his self-imposed loneliness? Or, did his eagerness stem from those kisses in the East Docks? The intimacy in the warehouse apartment? They’d not repeated that intimacy in the two weeks since then and his body was hungry for more. Nor had he addressed it with her. Neither of them had brought it up.
He debated whether or not he should at this late date. Perhaps the window for discussing it had passed. But the aftermath lingered, suggesting otherwise. He felt it when they danced, when they touched, when their gazes met. His body thrummed with it. But he could not pursue it. He could not be the man she needed until he understood himself, until he settled his own debt with the past. Nothing could come of it but disappointment for them both.
* * *
No good could come of this. Something was brewing and at his expense. Things had been off these past weeks with Marianne and he was determined to know why. Hayes drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk in an angry tattoo. ‘Is there anything else to report?’ He glared at the two men he’d hired to watch Marianne Treleven. Information was everything. No one would take him by surprise, certainly not the Duke of Newlyn who had insinuated himself into Marianne’s court and was now insinuating himself into much more.
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 10