Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  “Got it,” Matt said.

  “Know where you’re going?”

  “I’ve been in London for a couple of weeks, now.”

  Northcroft stepped to a cabinet and pulled out a tattered map of London. “You know how much to charge?”

  “I’m only looking for one fare,” Matt said. He pointed to the intersection of Wathing and Bread Streets. “Start’s here, but I don’t know where it’ll end.”

  Northcroft grabbed a thick lead pencil and drew a series of widening circles on the Map. Each circle had a different price written next to it. “That should do,” he said. “We can settle up when you return.”

  “I’ll be back in the afternoon,” Matt said. He climbed up into the driver’s seat of the carriage, shook the reins and the horses jumped forward.

  **********

  Matt’s body trembled with expectation as he made his way along Charing Cross. He slowed as he drove by Craven. The Craven Street Irregulars, as he now called the boys in honor of Sherlock Holmes who employed bands of street waifs to help in his investigations, had resumed their position on the bench to watch. Matt fought the urge to give them a clever jab as he passed. At the least, the boys would tell Palmer about the strange cabbie who had shouted at them. Matt had already been too cavalier with the waitress at McAllister’s and had the overwhelming feeling that she’d sell him out as soon as she could.

  Matt drove the carriage up Strand, then to Fleet, past St. Paul’s Churchyard and then sat resting on the intersection of Wathing and Bread. The designated Hackney stand was a block away on Cheapside Street, but he hoped he could wait here. Matt had an unobstructed view of McAllister’s Pub where he had eaten the day before, and he could easily see Mrs. Palmer’s house.

  Matt sat there for ten minutes, lost in his thoughts when a man climbed into the carriage. “Take me to Westminster Abbey,” he said. He had bushy red hair, and a red mustache and beard. It took Matt a moment to come out of his daze. The thought came to him that this could be Mr. Palmer, but his accent was wrong. Matt hadn’t considered the possibility that random pedestrians would be interested in hiring a cab and so he hadn’t thought of an excuse. “Cab’s broken,” he muttered. “You’ll have to go up to the stand.”

  “Who you waiting for?” the man said.

  “My horses are lame,” Matt lied. “Won’t move.”

  “Both?” the man said incredulously.

  “We had a long trip yesterday…rough terrain.”

  “Seems damn odd.” The man stepped out of the carriage and then hopped from the footpad to the ground.

  Matt pointed down the block to the direction of the cabstand. “One block,” he called.

  “I know,” the man called back, irritated. He gave Matt another dirty look and then proceeded to walk down the street. Matt spent the next hour explaining that the carriage was broken, or that the horses were lame to almost everyone on Wathing. Eventually, though, Matt saw the black door of the tan rowhome open, and an attractive redhead stepped out into the street. Matt felt his blood pressure increase, hoping that she’d walk to his cab.

  “Are you for hire?” she asked up at him.

  “Certainly m’lady,” Matt said. “I just dropped off.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Gentleman. Red-haired like yourself.”

  “Ah, Mr. Barnard. Where did he come from this morning? ‘Tis usually the time he retires.”

  Matt hopped off his perch to open the door and help her into the carriage. “Where you going, then, m’lady?”

  “Jewelry District, and then to pick up my husband for the theater.”

  Matt closed the door behind her and climbed up into the driver’s seat. He wasn’t familiar with the Jewelry District, so he grabbed Northcroft’s map, but there was nothing labeled. “Street’s m’lady,” Matt said. “I need streets.” Matt turned around to see her through the forward facing windows of the carriage.

  The red-haired woman leaned forward. “Haven’t been doing this very long?”

  “I only recently purchased this carriage and these horses. Gets me out of the house.”

  “Hatton Garden and Cross Street,” she said. She leaned back again so Matt could no longer see her.

  Matt took some time to locate the intersection on the map. “I got it,” he said finally and set the map to the side. The location was about two miles northwest, across multiple city blocks, maybe a half hour away. Matt slapped the reins against the horse’s hindquarters, and the carriage shuddered forward. The clacking of their hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the rough cobblestones echoed between the buildings and made it hard to hear. The street smoothed and widened and then the noise of the carriage became bearable. The redhead leaned forward again, this time to offer advice. “I’d become familiar with the Jewelry District, certainly. ‘Tis one rum cull after another that goes.”

  “And you?” Matt asked. He hadn’t thought about the loaded nature of his question until it came out of his mouth. She was quiet for longer than was comfortable.

  “A lady must make her own way in this world. ‘Tis best if she is wealthy.” She sounded more thoughtful than irritated, and there was an undertone of sadness.

  “’Tis best if she is doing what she desires, and is around people she loves,” Matt corrected. “Gold usually cannot buy those things.”

  She went quiet again, and Matt entertained that he had struck a nerve, but then she peaked through the window. “A fellow’s wealth seems to be a prerequisite for a fine lady, at least in London,” she replied cynically. “Where’re you from, Mister—“

  “Bradshaw,” Matt replied. “Virginia. I moved here after my wife passed.” He felt strangely guilty in telling his lie.

  “So what can gold buy?”

  Matt stroked his fake beard. “Not saying it isn’t necessary, m’lady,” he replied. “An old man that I know says that gold is like air. You don’t appreciate its value until there’s none.”

  “Your old fellow is wise,” she said. “I have gold.”

  “And, of course, you are happily married.” Matt was weirdly regretting everything that came out of his mouth, and her long silences reinforced the feeling.

  “What is it that you did in America, Mr. Bradshaw?”

  “I was a tobacco farmer,” Matt replied. “I sold my land for a king’s ransom. I don’t need so much for the life I have.” The story seemed real in his mind, almost like this person was somewhere inside. It brought him back to the days when he was trying to convince everyone in Virginia that he was from Pennsylvania rather than some guy from the future who was sucked into a wormhole.

  “Why do you drive a Hackney?”

  “To meet interesting people like you and the fact that life is nothing without some useful pursuit.” Matt had stumbled on this truth when his business became successful.

  “I believe still that gold is a prerequisite for happiness, at least in London,” she said.

  “Do you have children m’lady? People pretend that family can fulfill a woman in ways she does not expect.” Matt felt a twinge of sadness. In another context, this intriguing woman might make an interesting friend.

  “I cannot fancy bringing children into such a cruel world.”

  “A charming and intelligent woman like yourself should not be so jaded.”

  “Jaded?”

  “Too many people say they don’t want to bring children into the world, but they should know there is nobility in getting up every day and confronting God’s creation, even for children.”

  “To do what?”

  “To make things better, certainly.”

  “Will you find another lady and begin again?”

  “Life has not defeated me.”

  “You are quite the philosopher,” she declared. “What would you have me do then, philosopher?”

  “I’ll repeat that you are a charming and intelligent lady. I say this as a teacher rather than as a man talking to a woman…if you can believe.”

  “You she
w your parts telling a lady what she wants,” she replied doubtfully. “You are trying to seduce me.”

  “If a lady wants to hear that life is only about responsibility and not about happiness, then my seduction is complete.”

  “Maybe this lady wants to hear that life is about happiness.”

  “Have you at least imagined your children?”

  “Of course I have, like all ladies.”

  “Would you want your son to be happy or would you want him to accomplish great and noble deeds?”

  “I’ve fancied a heroic destiny for my son. Many ladies would adore him for his accomplishments.”

  “A heroic destiny will be his defense against a cruel world,” Matt said.

  He stopped the carriage. They were at Hatton Garden and Cross Street.

  Chapter 52

  Inveiglement

  Matt waited with his carriage outside the Hatton Garden jeweler fingering the two shillings the redhead had slipped him before ducking inside to complete her business, which probably had something to do with the fake diamond hanging from the neck of the waitress in the pub. It was a stroke of luck that she had asked him to wait; it saved him the trouble of finding a good reason to drive her to her next destination.

  True to her word, the woman was outside in under fifteen minutes with a smile on her face. Matt jumped down to help her into the cab. When she turned to speak as she stepped up, her foot glanced off the step, and Matt caught her in his arms. She looked into his eyes and his body stirred; even so, something told him to beware. He scanned his mind for some stencil of the moment and briefly slipped into a vision, but Scarlett’s voice pulled him back to the present.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, smiling.

  Matt helped her again onto the step. This time, she made him grab her waist to boost her into the carriage.

  “You are very welcome, Miss…?”

  “Missus…Palmer,” she said. She winked. “Scarlett Palmer.”

  He waited until she was settled before closing the door, and then returned to the driver’s seat. “Where to now, m’lady?”

  Scarlett leaned forward to see him. “Do I look like the wife of a great lord?”

  Matt laughed. “I’d be remiss to say anything but ‘yes’,” he replied. “All women should be treated as such.” Unquestioned chivalry was one of his favorite things about the eighteenth century. The rules were defined and easy to follow.

  “So you say,” she said doubtfully.

  He waved it off. “Where to?”

  “To pick up Mr. Palmer. Then to the theatre. Keep track of the fare, though I assume you don’t want the money.”

  “I always take the money. The church will appreciate it.”

  “You don’t strike me as a religious man.”

  “How should a religious man strike?”

  “He’d not ask such intimate questions of a lady.”

  “I came late to the church,” Matt said jovially. “What streets?”

  “Three Dorset Street, down near the river. It’s close to St. Brides. Then we’re off to the Royal Theater. I can show you on your map.”

  Matt was already tracing the route on his guide. He knew where St. Brides was, and Dorset Street was well marked. Matt’s fingers trembled with adrenalin as he touched the destination and thought of meeting Mr. Palmer. He forced himself to calm down. “I know St. Brides and the Royal Theatre. I’ve seen performances there,” Matt said.

  He tucked the map under the seat, slapped the reins, and they were off. Once they were moving steadily, he said, “What play?”

  St. Brides Church

  “The Tempest. Are you familiar?”

  “Not so much. I have it in my library, but I much prefer the others.”

  “Hamlet,” she said, disappointed. “It’s every man’s favorite.”

  “I allow, though I did learn to appreciate Henry V. It was my father’s favorite. And yours?”

  “Much Ado About Nothing. I was much affected, too, by King Lear. My heart filled with such pathos watching the mad king with his daughters.”

  “Both Beatrice and Cordelia were resolute,” Matt replied, “Do you see yourself in these ladies?”

  Scarlet gave him a thoughtful laugh. “Perhaps a little,” she replied. “And what of you, Mr. Bradshaw, is there only tragedy?”

  “I like a good comedy,” Matt replied, “but it may have something to do with the smiles of the ladies as they watch.”

  “Smiles are so few these days.”

  “Most men I know would do anything to see a smile on the face of their lady.”

  When she fell silent again, Matt’s thoughts returned to his inevitable confrontation with a man who, likely as not, was an assassin. He spotted the spire and golden cross of Saint Bride’s in the distance and made the next right onto Shoe Lane. They still had a ways to go, but at least, now, he had a landmark. Shoe Lane was a busy thoroughfare, and it looked like it would take him all the way to Mr. Palmer.

  They waited forever to cross Fleet Street, but the traffic never ceased. Matt inched the carriage into the street expecting outbursts—and instead got irritated grins from drivers who expected no less. At Dorset, Scarlett peeked up through the window and pointed. “It’s number three. The brown brick with the white fence.”

  Matt stopped in front of a duplex with alleyways on either side.

  “Could you knock and let him know we’re here?” she asked. “It’s the left one.”

  Matt crossed the yard and let the brass knocker fall twice on the glossy black door. He heard footsteps on stairs, then latches moving. The door opened onto a man in a white shirt and dark grey breeches. Shadows partially obscured his face, and something about him was oddly familiar. He was Matt’s age, with an average height and build.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Palmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Palmer is in the carriage. I’m here to take you to the theater.”

  “You’re early. Pull in front of the alley. I won’t be but a moment.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Matt replied.

  The waitress at McAllister’s had mentioned Palmer’s accent, but he sounded like any other Londoner to Matt. Matt climbed back up to the driver’s seat and leaned down to his passenger. “He’ll be a moment, m’lady.”

  “There you go again,” Scarlett laughed.

  Palmer emerged through the back fence ten minutes later and walked through the alley to meet Matt’s carriage. Matt hopped down to open the carriage door, hoping for a clean look at the man he suspected of killing Patrick Ferguson’s wife.

  Palmer extended his hand. “Thanks, my fine gentleman. Name’s Dr. Brian Palmer.”

  “Adam Bradshaw,” Matt replied.

  Palmer looked squarely in Matt’s eyes as they shook. His face was strangely familiar, but this wasn’t Matt’s normal sense of déjà vu. He was sure he had seen Palmer in London somewhere. Palmer was less attractive and shorter than Matt predicted, especially considering the striking beauty of the woman awaiting him in the carriage, but he also radiated a strong and unnerving confidence.

  The cab shuddered as Palmer climbed up and he and Scarlett rearranged themselves on the single seat.

  “Royal Theater,” Palmer called to Matt.

  “Yes, sir.” Matt mounted the carriage and slapped the reins.

  The theater was ten or so blocks away through evening traffic, but once Matt emerged onto the quieter Fleet Street, he was able to hear their voices. They talked mostly about the play.

  Scarlett called, “Mr. Bradshaw, have you had the chance to see Shakespeare at the Royal Theater by Mr. Garrick?”

  “No m’lady,” he called back. “I’m quite new to London.”

  “Where do you hail from?” Palmer called.

  “America,” Matt replied. He’d intended to say very little; Palmer might recognize something that would give him away. “I’ve only been in London for a few months.”

  “Where in America?” Palmer asked. />
  “Virginia. I farmed tobacco until my wife died.”

  “I’ve heard that the American farm country is magnificent.”

  “It is, sir. But a lonely place for a widowed man.”

  “Mr. Bradshaw’s favorite play is Hamlet,” Scarlet interjected. “I so do wish Mr. Palmer enjoyed the theater enough to have a favorite play.”

  “In time, my dear,” Palmer replied. “Where do you keep apartments, Mr. Bradshaw?”

  Matt’s mind raced. Palmer already knew where Matt lived. “Salisbury Street, off of Strand. Comfortable enough for a bachelor.”

  “Will you remarry?” Palmer asked.

  “Time will tell, sir,” Matt replied. Every sentence risked Palmer recognizing him. Matt wished he had been less friendly from the start. It was a relief when they reached the Strand, and the rougher cobblestones allowed him to pretend he couldn’t hear them anymore.

  Matt turned right at Saint Mary-le-Strand Church and headed up Little Drury Lane to Drury Lane, one of the busier roads in London. They were now behind the Royal Theater. Matt circled the building, whose roof and white marble columns looked like a miniature Parthenon, and whose arches reminded him of a Roman aqueduct.

  The Royal Theater

  Matt halted the carriage in front of the theater and hopped down to open the door. He helped Scarlett, then Mr. Palmer, down to the cobblestones. Palmer dug a coin from his purse and gave Matt a shiny gold guinea. “This should cover it.”

  “The fare is half that,” Matt replied.

  “Keep it. Mrs. Palmer did so enjoy your conversation.”

  Matt accepted the coin and gave him a short bow. Scarlett stepped closer. “Safe travels, Mr. Bradshaw. I’m almost sorry to end our exchange. I’d like to speak more about confronting this cruel world.”