The Lord I Left

by Scarlett Peckham

  “People request such things?” he’d asked, looking queasily at a riding crop.

  “Men ask for what?” he’d marveled, gaping at a dildo.

  But in the middle of the tour he’d stopped talking altogether. And then, suddenly, he’d shoved past her and gone bolting up the stairs, looking so utterly disgusted you’d have thought she’d offered to rut him for a sixpence, and had foul breath besides.

  At first, she’d been certain she’d done something wrong and landed them all in gaol. But then, when nothing came of it, she’d realized he’d not been so much scandalized as revolted.

  And it made her bloody angry. For who was he, to come to their place, and judge them?

  But now he was buying her cakes and coddling her health and begging for the privilege of praying for her mother?

  Perhaps she was not the odd one in their traveling party.

  She put the book aside and closed her eyes. They felt heavy from a day’s effort not to cry. From the bitter cold. From life itself.

  Her mother had liked to scold her as a girl that there were always pleasures to be had, if one could find the strength of will to look for them.

  She focused on the quiet crackling of the fire, the faint pressure of the quilt above her body, the pit-pit-patter of the rain. How nice it was, she forced herself to notice. How pleasant, despite everything, to be warm and snug in bed when it was cold and wet outside.

  Her mother had been right.

  She let her comfort carry her away.

  And when she awoke it was to darkness and the aching quiet of the countryside and the bleakness of the future. The awful, awful truth that this silence would be her life now.

  Empty. Hopeless.

  She gasped against the weight of fear that pressed the air out of her chest.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Chapter 7

  After a light supper, Henry put on his coat and went outside for his evening constitutional. The rain had stopped at last. He walked along the carriage road, using a lamp to light the way. These days, he never slept unless he’d walked at least five miles, careful to observe Reverend Keeper’s prescriptions for building ramparts against sin.

  “You’ve lived too long amidst low morals, Henry,” the reverend had pronounced, not unkindly, that awful night six months ago when Henry showed up at his door, shaking and stricken from what he’d very nearly done. “’Tis a noble thing you’re doing, helping rid our city of its sinful ways. But you must buttress your faith against Satan’s temptations, lest they overpower you.”

  Reverend Keeper had advised a rigorous course of biblical perfection to ward off the worldliness that had crept into Henry’s thoughts and habits during his years of secular work. A daily regime of exercise, prayer, Bible study, meditation and rigorous abstention from worldly pleasures, all carefully recorded in his journal.

  The routine—the same one he’d observed when he’d first joined an evangelical fellowship at University—gave him more strength. But it had done little to relieve his growing doubts about his mission to the House of Lords. With every passing day, the report, and the quandary it posed, seemed a heavier millstone about his neck.

  Should he, as Reverend Keeper so fervently believed, use his power to suffocate the flames that fed prostitution, and its attendant vices? Or should he be more conscientious to the argument Alice had made so forcefully in the curricle. Whoredom is not caused by a lack of faith in God. It’s caused by the desire to eat.

  He had done enough research to know that, in the practicalities, Alice was not wrong.

  But did such practicalities matter, when it came to making laws? Should law protect the body or the soul? Reflect the highest ethics of the nation and of God, or protect its weakest parties, even if that necessitated turning a permissive eye toward sin?

  Surely it was closer to the spirit of Christ to be compassionate? But how could he in good conscience remove obstacles to vice? Leaving aside his own morals, his credibility as a reverend would be laughable if he openly advocated for fornication.

  And he wanted to be a reverend.

  Didn’t he?

  (Yes? Should the answer not be clearer? Should it not even merit question? Oh Lord, help me.)

  Did he not feel most weightless when he put himself in God’s hands, and most dutiful when he shared His word? Did he not enjoy counseling, worshiping, preaching?

  (He did! He did!)

  But then, if he was meant to be a man of God, what was it that had flared in him when he’d followed Alice Hull through the hallways of Elena Brearley’s club? Why had he nearly choked for air?

  Well, he hadn’t, not at first. The first room she’d shown him had been a kind of dungeon, with stone floors and a wooden rack against a wall fitted with iron bars and shackles.

  “A place for torture?” he’d asked, unsettled.

  “A place for pleasure,” Alice had contradicted, laughing softly when he’d shuddered.

  “Many of our members join the club because they’ve heard rumors of this room. I’ve seen men fall to their knees upon entering, in gratitude, because of how closely it matches what they’ve dreamt of.”

  He’d wanted to say that desiring the act did not excuse the sinful nature of it. But she’d turned and unlocked another room across the corridor, a chamber lined in burgundy velvet. It contained a number of poles and hooks, across which were strung an elaborate network of ropes, like the web of a spider.

  “Some of our members enjoy suspension. Some enjoy tying others, or being bound.”

  He’d hardly been able to look.

  Another door, this one a schoolroom. “For when a governess has caught one of our dear members being naughty.”

  He wrote senseless notations, trying to keep his expression neutral, so as not to betray his shock.

  Another door revealed a bathing room with an elaborate mirrored dressing table. “Some guests enjoy performing acts of service. Playing at being a lady’s maid or a valet. Others like to command—to be pampered and groomed like a king.”

  That was when he’d begun to doubt himself. When his squeamishness had begun to feel like something else. For the bathing tub had sparked a memory of the night that had sent him racing to Reverend Keeper’s.

  He’d quickly retreated to the hall, not wishing to linger in a place that ushered in unwanted memories of dissipation that would awaken what should not be in his heart.

  He’d been relieved when Alice led him to the last room in the corridor. Until she’d opened the door, and the hall had filled with the scent of something spicy and familiar.

  Incense.

  He’d felt a presentiment of dread, but he’d followed her inside and found himself frozen at the unholy sight of what was in that room. Stained glass panels on the walls. Kneelers. And at the front of the room, an altar.

  Of all the things. It was a sacrilege to put an altar in this place. A fake church in a house of sin. What kind of person would—

  (He would. He would.)

  He could hardly breathe, shocked that the execrable, sinful, sacrilegious stirrings he loathed himself for sometimes feeling might be shared by other men. Enough of them that there was an entire room devoted to it in a whorehouse.

  “What happens here?” he’d forced himself to choke out.

  “Acts of worship,” Alice had said quietly. “And acts of penance.”

  His mind swam with ideas of such rank sinfulness his skin prickled, and he turned his back away from the image.

  But the thoughts had come anyway.

  Hands on him. Perfumed ablutions. A woman kneeling at—

  Hellfire.

  Hypocrisy.

  Damnation.

  That’s when he’d gone lurching for the door.

  He was hot, just recalling it. He shrugged off his overcoat, never mind the flurries of ice that had begun to drift down from the sky.

  He walked in the icy night and prayed. He walked, and prayed, and walked, and prayed until finally he was cold again,
and his mind was clear, and he was so exhausted it was all he could do to climb up the staircase of the inn and remove his boots and collapse into his bed.

  He was nearly asleep when he heard a cry through the wall.

  He stilled, straining to hear.

  “No,” the voice whimpered.

  He lifted his ear to the wall above his bed, between their rooms.

  It was Alice. She was gasping. Sobbing in such a way she strained for air.

  Poor child. He ached to hear her.

  “Alice,” he said, making his voice deep and loud so she could hear him through the wall.

  No response, save for the sound of crying.

  He pounded the wall with the heel of his hand. “Alice, don’t despair. I’m here, and God is here.”

  The sobs continued brokenly.

  He thumped the wall again. “Alice, that’s my hand. Knock back if you can hear me.”

  After a brief pause, there was a wan, hollow-sounding tap.

  “Good girl. Good girl.” He thumped again. “Hold your hand there, and I’ll do the same, and we’ll pray.”

  He pressed his palm against the plaster, willing calm and God’s grace and succor to her, willing his spirit to pass through to her, so she might take comfort. Even if she did not share his faith, he wanted her to know she was not alone. If she could not perceive that God’s arms held her, she could at least know Henry’s were only through the wall.

  “Alice, pray with me,” he murmured. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.”

  He heard no speech, only whimpers. Nonetheless he recited the psalm. And when he was done, he recited it again.

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil,

  For you are with me.

  He continued to recite the words long past the time her sobs abated, almost as if he said them to himself.

  Chapter 8

  Alice awoke as she’d fallen asleep: on her stomach, with her fingers resting against the wall next to her head.

  The room was frigid with no fire, and she could see her breath. She snatched her hands beneath the covers and blew on them for warmth.

  It was dark outside, but she could hear the sounds of horses and people in the stable yard. Henry would no doubt be eager to leave, but the very idea of stepping into the frigid air was painful. She heard her mother’s voice, that old refrain from childhood. Out of bed, my slug-a-lag. The day’s half wasted.

  She smiled. Oh, Mama. The sadness that had pierced her the night before felt less unbearable with the promise of a new, fresh day.

  Or perhaps it was the lingering comfort of Henry Evesham’s prayer.

  She did not know why it had calmed her so. Maybe the repetitive nature of the psalm. Maybe the simple kindness of Henry, a near-stranger she’d been rude to, trying to assuage her grief in the middle of the night. Maybe the memory of praying with her mother as a child.

  Whatever it was, it had soothed her.

  It shook her, how much it had soothed her.

  She wanted to thank Henry for that small peace.

  She supposed she could begin by getting out of bed.

  She closed her eyes and threw off the counterpane, yelping at the icy air. She danced across the floorboards as she pulled her dress and boots over her stockings, cursing, and hastened downstairs. She found Henry in the dining parlor, eating gruel.

  It was strange to look at him in the morning, boyish and young after a night’s sleep. He glanced up and saw her coming and his face changed. He looked at her like she was the one dying.

  She detested pity.

  She strode forward with a jolly, stomping gait, rubbing her hands. “Ah, bless the fire in this room!” she said loudly. “Woke up frozen from toes to tits.”

  She expected her vulgarity to shock the sympathetic expression off his face, but he ignored her cursing and just looked at her with worry. “Alice. How are you?”

  His voice was so concerned that she felt embarrassed by what he knew about her.

  “Hungry as a bear,” she said, turning to look for a serving girl so that he would not see her blushing.

  “Were you able to get any rest?” he asked.

  The intimacy in his tone made her more mortified, but there was no serving girl about, so she slapped a smile on her face and nodded. “Oh yes. Quite comfortable, this inn. Better than the ratholes I grew up with. Though chilly on the waking.”

  He pushed a basket of warm bread and rolls toward her, looking worried. She busied herself slathering butter and preserves over a puffy, fragrant roll and taking an eager bite.

  The mingled tastes of yeast and cream and tart, sweet berries hit her tongue, and she sighed with pleasure she didn’t have to feign. She wondered that Henry ate only porridge, despite the bounty of delicious confections for the taking.

  “Oh, you must try this jam! Heaven.”

  He shook his head politely. “I prefer a simple diet.”

  She shrugged and poured milk—fresh, not the watered kind—into her mug of coffee. She took a sip and let the warmth restore her.

  Henry had not stopped watching her. She wondered if he was inspecting her table manners.

  Well, better that than remarking on her hysterics the night before.

  And if he watched her, she could watch him, which she would not mind as he had a pleasant face to look upon as one took the morning meal. He’d shaved and combed back his hair—which he wore unfashionably long, without a wig. It suited him.

  He noticed her observing him and flushed a bit. She smiled rather boldly, just to see how he’d react.

  He coughed.

  She laughed softly into her roll as she lifted it up to her mouth.

  Henry took a timepiece from his waistcoat and grimaced. “We should get on the road before there is a queue in the stable yard.”

  He was right. She swallowed and stood, brushing crumbs off her dress. “I’ll settle with the innkeeper.”

  “No need. I’ve paid our bill.”

  She reached into her pocket for her coin purse. “How much do I owe?”

  She hoped it wasn’t very much. She was already concerned about the expense of the funeral. She sent her wages to her mother, keeping little for herself. She had not planned for a disaster and had nothing to fall back on, no reserve.

  Henry waved her coins away. “It’s no trouble.”

  She bristled. “I will not accept your charity. You must let me pay my share.”

  It was clear that Henry did not live in poverty—his clothing was well made, if modest, and he had the hearty build of a man who was not starved. Still, she doubted he had much wealth to spare, being a public servant and a member of the low church, with its emphasis on charity. Besides, she was not his responsibility. She was already taking more of his benevolence than she liked by accepting his ride home. Not to mention his politeness, in the face of her poor manners. His prayers, murmured through the wall. His kindness, which made it difficult to remember he was a threat.

  Rather than answering her, he stood up. “We should set off.”

  Very well. She would leave coins tucked in the pocket of his satchel when he next stopped to change the horses.

  They stopped in the cloakroom to retrieve their winter garments. It was bracingly cold away from the fire. A shock to the chin and the nose.

  She yelped at the assault of the cold air and buried her face in her ermine.

  Henry frowned. “I should have warned you. It’s bitter cold today.”

  “You’ve been outside?”

  “I always begin the morning with a stroll. It’s good for the constitution.”

  “But it’s scarcely six o’clock. When did you rise?”

  “Four. I always rise at four.”

  It must be some kind of predilection of the rich and educated—making a study of self-denial. She’d seen such tastes on Charlotte Street—a hunger to pretend to be lower than one’s station. She hoped that were she ever possessed of ab
undance she would have the good sense to enjoy it. To dine on cream and sleep ’til noon and buy a pianoforte and play the dreamy songs that always filtered through her thoughts. She’d buy a cozy house of her own in London and a hundred books.

  She’d live in a nest of music and ideas, answering to no one.

  Henry helped her into the curricle. “Are you warm enough?” he asked, climbing up beside her.

  “Toasty as a roasting lamb,” she sputtered through chattering teeth.

  He frowned, seeming unsure how this was possible. “You’re … over-warm?”

  “No, Henry. It would be impossible to be over-warm in this weather. I was attempting to amuse you with irony.”

  She burrowed deeper in her ermine, so that only her eyes were exposed to the cold air. Her body ran cold at the best of times. She longed for warmth.

  Henry, she noticed, barely seemed to shiver. A man of his build no doubt generated as much warmth as a brazier. She stole a look at his coat—an expensive wool by the looks of it—and ardently wished she could crawl inside it. Nothing like the warmth a man gave off, when one was freezing.

  She slid a little closer to him, wondering if she might steal a bit of his heat for herself. She paused, waiting for him to object, but he did not seem to notice. She edged a little closer, until she could make out the feeling of his arm against her cloak. She paused, hoping if she went very, very slowly she might snuggle even closer, when a gust of wind came at them and buffeted her face with icy air.

  “Bleeding cursed cockles,” she hissed, shrouding her face in Henry’s shoulder.

  “Alice, please don’t curse,” Henry said so sharply she looked up.

  His expression was aghast, though she could not make out if it was at her language, or at his own outburst, or at the fact that she was nearly in his lap.

  She had not meant to shock him, nor to pounce on him. But now that she had, well. She rather liked it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s like the frozen steppes of Hell out here today.”

  He gasped.

  Literally gasped, like someone had punched him in the ribs.