Cracking the door just far enough to see down the hall, she confirmed the man who sought her was gone and stepped into the hall. Emmeline could hear her aunt and Lord Rose talking as they had before, though the conversation had turned to their Christmas holidays. At the top of the steps, she took a moment to smooth her dress and flatten her hair where it caught under the bed’s frame. She pulled out her handkerchief and trotted down the stairs, but as she reached the angel with her torch raised, she looked down at her hands. The ring was gone. For a moment, she thought about running back upstairs and scrambling under the bed to find it, but it was too risky after being nearly caught the first time. Immanuel’s necklace would have to do. Taking a deep breath, she let out a huff of frustration and stomped back into the parlor, still fussing at the stain with her handkerchief.
“Ruined! Absolutely ruined!” she cried as their eyes fell upon her.
“Don’t worry. I am sure the washerwoman can get it out,” Eliza replied as she eyed the stain. “She has gotten much worse out of my clothing.”
Alastair Rose cleared his throat. “As I was telling Mrs. Hawthorne, your part in the project is a simple one. All you must do is read something that belonged to Prince Albert and assure Her Majesty that everything is all right. Can you do that?”
It really wasn’t a question. When she looked into his eyes, she saw the mesmeric stare of a predator, daring her to defy him. She wanted to ask what if the object told her everything was not all right, but she dared not. “Of course.”
Chapter Thirty-Two:
The Horrors of Mortimer Street
The steamer chugged down Mortimer Street, passing façade after façade of bland, red brick. Adam's eyes trailed from the piece of paper to the brass house numbers. The night before Hadley stuffed it into his hand after returning from dinner with Lord Sorrell. With a hissing lurch, the cab stopped only a few feet beyond the shabby intersection of Mortimer and Cleveland Street. The once well-tended Ionic columns and weathered bricks had been overtaken by ivy. In the winter cold, the leaves had fallen away leaving only creeping veins from which sallow icicles clung. The naked windows were coated in grime as was the moldering, peeling door. Turning to the man beside him, Adam watched his companion’s breath quicken.
“Is this the right place?”
Immanuel’s eyes stayed locked on the cold brick beyond the steamer window as he whispered, “I don’t know. I was unconscious when I was brought in and blindfolded when I left.”
Seeing a tremor pass through his companion’s hand as he curled inward against an unseen force, Adam’s heart sank. He kept one eye on the driver and put his hand over Immanuel’s. “Stay in the cab. I am going to take a few photographs and come right back.”
Cradling the his late-brother’s boxy Kodak under his arm and slinging the tripod against his shoulder, Adam stepped onto the pavement and kept his head down as he made his way to the front door. The street was oddly quiet. The midday sun was bright enough to chase away the chill, yet no one was milling on their porches or struggling to hail a steamer. An occasional careworn laborer or grey man clad in dark wool hurried down Cleveland Street but no one paid the man with henna hair any mind.
Adam leaned into the door, ready to throw his weight against it, when the knob easily turned in his grasp. It had not even been locked. As he stepped inside and shut the door, he listened in the stillness for any signs of life but heard only his heart beating in his ears and the gurgle of the steamer idling outside the door. Walking through the front rooms, he confirmed the house was empty save for the cloaked furniture. His eyes trailed to the stairs, but Immanuel and Emmeline both agreed neither had gone upstairs during their confinement. In the hearth, the ash from numerous fires had been left behind, mixed with half-burnt paper. Prodding the singed bits of wood and parchment with the poker, Adam could faintly make out long, loopy writing, but the pieces were so small, he couldn’t tell if they pertained to Immanuel or Emmeline at all. He was about to leave when a larger fragment appeared beneath a coating of ash. Brushing it off, he held it up in the dim light. Claudia Leopold Rose. Adam could not place the name but stuffed it in his pocket anyway. Emmeline knew more of the lowlife’s affiliations than he ever would.
Old boot-treads cut through the layers of dust, carving a path into the kitchen. Stopping at a decorative panel in the wall, he drew back the door. The sour smell of long-spoiled meat and vegetables drifted from the dumbwaiter, but as Adam slammed the compartment shut against the nauseating odor, his eyes trailed to the footprints that veered around the corner and down the steps to the servant’s quarters. Emmeline said she had been held there, and much like the floor above, the rooms below had been deserted long ago. The main chamber was empty, but one door stood open with its knob embedded in the plaster. Hesitantly, he walked past the other dumbwaiter hatch and the empty bathroom. Stepping into the bedroom, his eyes fell over a pair of torn lace and boning wings. A trail of smashed clockwork parts lay scattered across the floor, mingling with sheets of paper and penny dreadfuls that trailed from an overturned armoire only to slip through a hole where the floorboards had been removed. Beside the bed on the far wall, dates tumbled down the plaster in harsh scratches.
Adam set the camera up a few feet into the door to capture the torn wings from Emmeline’s costume as well as the graffiti and missing boards. Putting as much of the room in focus as possible, he snapped the shutter and cranked the film to the next available frame. Emmeline Jardine had been held there for nearly a month, and now he saw why she did not suffer nearly as much as his companion. The room was practically as well furnished as his, and apart from the mess and what happened below, it seemed like any other bedroom. As he carried the camera back into the hall, his eyes fell upon the window above the toilet. Had anyone guessed at the horrors happening in that house? With the neighbors only feet away, could they hear Immanuel’s piteous cries each time Lord Rose landed a blow?
Beneath the boards, where even light didn’t dare enter, Immanuel spent months at the mercy of a madman. A part of Adam wanted to collect his camera, return to the safety of the cab and leave with some semblance of innocence, but he had to know where Immanuel was kept. It would give him some insight into the horrors he suffered and give a backdrop to the nightmares he refused to speak of. Maybe if he saw it, he could be able to help. Adam scanned the floor of the servants’ hall for a trap door or anything that would lead to the cellar, but as he was contemplating slipping between the boards in Emmeline’s room, he spotted the closet under the stairs.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a taper and a book of matches. With his free-hand, he held the flickering candle as he opened the door and stepped into the fetid air. Keeping his elbow against the bare timber wall, Adam crept down the stairs. The air and shadows closed in as the bricks and crooked planks shifted under his weight, threatening to send him and the camera to the bottom of the shaft at the slightest misstep. Growing nearer to the open cell door, Adam’s eyes and nose burned from the reek of ammonia while his throat jumped in revulsion at the overpowering stench of sewage and copper.
Standing at the threshold, he stared into the darkness just beyond the flame. A few faint rays drifted from the missing boards, illuminating the makeshift shelves at the end of the dungeon and the penny dreadfuls that had escaped Emmeline’s chamber. His shoes sunk into the dirt and offal as he swept the light over the bricks where a trail of handprints and smears clawed at the grout before falling back to the floor. Stepping further into the shadows, his light fell over a broken plate half-buried in the muck before coming to rest on the remnants of a chair. Its dismembered body lay in ruins amongst the refuse, splintered, cracked, and spattered with blood. Adam set the camera in the doorway and clicked the shutter. As the flash erupted from the pan, he saw the room in daylight with its trails of blood and filth streaking the walls and maggoty food strewn in the corners.
How could anyone have done this to another person, let alone Immanuel? Adam’s chest tightened as rage cli
mbed up his throat and tensed his lips into a tight line. Immanuel had done nothing to deserve this. His eyes trailed back to the handprints. How long had he fought to break free before finally being resigned to the idea that he would never get out alive?
What would he do if he saw Lord Rose before him now? His molars ground together at the thought of having him at his mercy. If given the chance, would he hold the nobleman’s own cigarettes to his back until the flesh incinerated, or would he lock him away and force him to live in his own feculence? He swallowed hard and sighed, watching the specter of his breath dissipate into the aether. Exacting revenge would do nothing to help Immanuel and would only show him that his lover and his tormenter were more similar than either would care to admit.
A board whined behind him, but when he whipped around and nearly snuffed out the wick, Immanuel’s ashen face peered around the edge of the doorway clutching a stack of penny dreadfuls. “Immanuel, you didn’t have to come in. I would have returned in a few minutes.”
Adam watched as his companion’s eyes unfocused and stared through him before running along the beams and boards of the ceiling. “I remember the beams from when he brought me here.”
Finally they came to rest on the chair at Adam’s feet. “Immanuel, are you—”
His cracked eye clouded. “How could I ever forget that smell?”
***
Shutting out the horrors of their trip to Mortimer Street, Adam closed the door behind them. The entire cab ride home they hadn’t said a word. What could he say to make it better for him? Nothing he did would change what happened to Immanuel. He had seen a glimpse of his experiences in captivity but knew it paled in comparison to what Immanuel had gone through. The clawing, desperate handprints on the wall told a story more dreadful than anything his imagination could have conjured. After all that, Adam was ready to return him to Wimpole Street to allow him time to rest, but then he saw tears building in his eyes as Immanuel crunched and rolled his scarf between his fingers and bit at his lip. His companion was suffering again, reliving some awful memory Adam would never know about, and he couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Adam leaned the camera against the wall and pulled off his coat.
“Would you like some tea, Immanuel?” he asked softly.
Immanuel paused from unwinding his scarf but kept his eyes locked on the people and steamers passing the front window.
Touching his arm, Adam watched Immanuel lurch back with wide eyes, but upon seeing his friend’s familiar features, the panic momentarily abated. “Tea?”
“Oh. Yes, please.”
The accountant lightly pulled the scarf from Immanuel’s hand and removed his coat, knowing if he didn’t, he would still be standing in the hall when he returned. “Go sit. I will bring it to you when it is ready.”
Immanuel nodded and blindly wandered into the parlor, his eyes slipping out of focus once again. With a silent sigh, Adam hung up the limp coat on his way to the kitchen, feeling the dampness at the collar where sweat collected despite the winter cold. Filling the tea pot and loading the tray, he lingered beside the stove. He never knew what to say in these situations. His sister and Immanuel were better with words, and when he went into the parlor, he knew he would have to say something. There were no platitudes or ready-made phrases to make Immanuel feel better. The kettle whistled, and he mechanically transferred the water to the porcelain pot and returned to the parlor. He would have to say something.
Raising his eyes as he turned the corner with a measured smile, Adam froze. The room was empty. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Immanuel’s wool coat still hung over his own in the hall. A soft, sharp inhalation cut through the empty air. Carefully placing the tray on the end table, Adam inched closer to the fireplace and listened as one quick breath followed by another broke from the far side of the sofa. Tucked into the corner between the upholstery and the wallpaper, Immanuel sat with his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes locked onto the window. His body trembled and his chest heaved as he hyperventilated. Immanuel’s nearly iris-less eyes were transfixed on the glass, but when Adam followed his gaze, he saw nothing that should strike such terror in him, only a parade of shadowed steamers and faceless people.
“What is the matter?” he asked, keeping his voice calm as he dropped to his companion’s side. Reaching out to touch his arm, he hesitated, afraid he would spook him. “Immanuel.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the window and croaked, “He’s out there. I know he is.” His thin form rocked with each sudden inhalation. “He knows who I am, and he is going to find me. He— he is going to hurt me again. Please, please, don’t let him find me.”
Adam’s eyes burned at Immanuel’s plea. With one final look at the window, Immanuel buried his head in his knees and collapsed into hiccupped sobs. What could he do to make things better for him? For a second, Adam was not certain he should leave him in that state, but without hesitation, he rose and walked to the window. He looked up and down the street to confirm Lord Rose was not there before tugging the curtains shut. Going from room to room, he locked every window and door and blocked out the world. Now it was only them within the familiar confines of 124 Baker Street.
Kneeling down in front of his companion, Adam reached out and laid his hand on his arm. He jerked away without looking up, but when Adam rubbed his shoulder, he did not resist. “Immanuel,” he said, swallowing down his own fear, “I know you are afraid. I would be too, but you must believe that I would not let any harm come to you. You are safe here. Would you please come out of the corner?”
He shook his head and held his knees tighter. “He will find me.”
“I locked the doors and covered the windows. I promise, he cannot see you.”
“Don’t leave me, Adam,” Immanuel whispered, his voice thick with tears.
“I won’t. Now, give me your hand.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Immanuel held out his hand and allowed Adam to pull him to his feet. The muscles of his thighs locked and quavered as Adam led him to the sofa, and his ribs ached from the strain of hyperventilating and sobbing. All he wanted were the tears to stop and Lord Rose to leave his mind, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes, he was still there, lurking in every half-glimpsed shadow. Adam still held his arms even though he was safely deposited onto the couch cushions, yet he could scarcely see him through the tears gumming his eyes. How could Adam stand him when he was being such a fool? With a whimper, his lungs convulsed back into a series of sharp, shallow breaths.
“Sssh. Immanuel, you need to take a deep breath or you are going to faint.”
His face and chest burned with fevered heat, yet his neck was clammy as Adam loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Adam’s hands slipped around his shoulders and tugged the jacket from his arms before draping it over the back of the armchair. With his eyes locked on Adam’s, Immanuel forced the air down one slow, constrained breath at a time until finally his chest loosened enough for him to speak.
“I’m— I’m sorry, Adam.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. Let me get you some water to wash your—”
Immanuel’s tear-burned eyes widened as Adam rose to leave. “Please.”
“I’m not. I promise.”
Grabbing the now cold teapot, Adam dipped his handkerchief into the water. With light strokes, he wiped his companion’s sticky cheeks and swollen eyes. Immanuel stared miserably at his lap as he steadied his breathing. Thoughts swirled through his mind, surfacing as broken images of the catacomb and pangs of smell or pain, but thankfully, his head was pounding too much for any of them to be pursued. Adam swept the curls out of his companion’s face, running his fingers along the curve of his cheek where the heat finally began to dissipate.
“Why don’t you rest? You will probably feel better after.”
“Will— will you stay with me?”
A small smile spread across his lips. “Of course.”
Wrapping his arms around him, Adam pulled him
closer until they were cheek to cheek. Immanuel closed his eyes and gave into the reassuring pressure. There was no question in his mind that Adam would do anything in his power to protect him even if the monsters only lived in his imagination. No one else would be so patient with him during these fits of hysteria when reality slipped away only to be replaced by a nightmarish scene. The familiar smell of lavender and the inherent spices of Adam’s skin quieted him as he buried his head against his neck. Adam ran his hand down Immanuel’s side until his thumb settled into the knick in his ribs. When his companion finally met his gaze, Adam pressed his lips to his and ran his fingers through his soft curls with his free hand. There was so much he wanted to say, but instead, he pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over Immanuel’s legs.
“I will be right here while you sleep.”
Immanuel’s eyes rested on his companion as he settled into the armchair less than an arm’s length away. “Thank you.”
As he pulled the blanket closer, he reached out and Adam took his hand, rubbing it between his palms until finally his breathing fell into a slow, sleepy rhythm. Watching Immanuel’s face finally slacken, Adam released a sigh. Though the fear had finally left him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever be free of Lord Rose or if he would always cast a shadow over Immanuel’s life.
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Vulnerability
Hadley paused with her hand on the front door, waving as Eilian smiled at her from the back of his steamer. She kept telling herself it was only a few more months of dealing with his mother and her endless litany of questions she couldn’t answer. Only a few more months and it would all be settled. When the steamer finally disappeared into the evening gloom, she tried the knob but found it locked. As she rummaged through her carpet bag, the door opened to reveal her twin staring back at her with tired eyes.
The Winter Garden Page 24
