Mad Miss Mimic

by Sarah Henstra

  Will turned down James Street, cut across an alley, rounded two sharp corners, and scampered the length of a row of cattle stalls. He must have declared himself beyond danger then, for he dropped to a slow trot. I was growing very warm in my embroidered jacket and shoved my bonnet back from my head. My shoes were not meant for such an escapade; twice I nearly turned an ankle on the slippery cobbles.

  The streets narrowed and, in places, were nearly blocked where window shutters stood open. The clamour of the market gave way to the crying of babies and the baying of dogs. Coal smoke and the stench of sewage choked the air. We went down a stone staircase and crossed a courtyard with high, mudded walls, stables, and a dovecote. Will turned into a narrower alley still. If I entered after him, it would be obvious I was chasing him.

  “Will! D-do stop!” I called. “I m-must speak with you!”

  The boy paused and turned. I knew he recognized me by the way he tilted his head, frightened but also curious. He’d heard me use Hattie’s voice, after all. I closed the distance and went to one knee before him so that our faces were level. Dirt streaked his cheeks, and his sandy hair fell into his eyes. I resisted the urge to tuck it under his cap.

  With dismay I spied in Will’s pocket the round impression of another gentleman’s watch. During the chase I’d nearly convinced myself that the theft was the impulsive mischief of a wild boy. He’d been standing very still but now, following my eyes to the evidence of his crime, he gave a little quiver, as might a rabbit cornered in the garden. “They’s for Tom, mum, I swear to you!” he said, so quickly that it was a moment before I understood.

  “Why does T-Tom need p-pocket-watches?”

  “I can’t say, mum. If Tom’s nicked he’ll be sent to Aus-tray-lia!” Will’s eyes grew round as he invoked the name of that terrifying country.

  “If you’re c-caught it will go b-badly for you as well,” I reminded him.

  He drew himself up in a ragged approximation of pride. “I’m never caught!” he declared.

  Until that moment I’d been driven by nothing but a kind of urgent curiosity. Now I was overcome with confusion and doubt. Tom Rampling wasn’t a thief. He seemed so dutiful, so serious, always. And I’d seen his gentleness with children; he would never trade on the naïve bravado of a child for such a base and cowardly purpose. Would he?

  Young Will took advantage of my hesitation and darted farther down the alley, vanishing through a narrow archway.

  I followed, wondering whether the boy was meeting Tom directly. Past the arch the alley dropped downhill. Boards were laid over runnels of oozing mud, and I had to go gingerly, steadying my balance against the brick wall. Farther down the slope the way was blocked by an overturned wagon. I realized there was nowhere Will could have gone but through a curtained doorway I had already passed on my right.

  I turned back just as a girl emerged from behind the curtain. Her soiled bodice revealed much of her bosom, and her hair hung in coils over her heavily rouged cheeks. She leered at me through scarlet-painted lips. “You lost, mum?”

  “I … I w-was at Covent G-Garden,” I said, stupidly. “I’m l-looking for young W-Will.”

  “Ain’ no ‘young Will’ here, mum,” she said. “Not when he comes home all inna fright, nohow. I’m his sister. You’s speakin’ to me, not him.”

  “He s-stays at Hastings House, with Dr. D-Dewhurst,” I tried to explain.

  The girl’s blue eyes widened. “Is it you, the one Tom tells about? The stumbletongue girl? Is you, ain’ it?”

  I coloured in confusion.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Tom Rampling. My sweetheart,” she enunciated, as if explaining to a small, stupid child. “He works for Dew’urst, too. He tol’ us all about you. How they keep you penned up in that big house, an’ treat you hard. You ain’ altogether as pretty a thing as he likes to tell it, mind.”

  She was interrupted by a low snarl, and a toothy snout emerged beside her as a massive dog advanced, growling, toward me. I backed hastily against the opposite wall.

  “Oh, don’ mind him, there. Rufus! Drop off it!” the painted girl yelled, spurring the hound to intersperse his growls with wheezing barks and ferocious snaps of his jaws.

  A shout echoed within the house, and the girl called into the darkness over her shoulder. “Aye, Mrs. Clampitt! Here’s a lady after our Will!”

  Sweeping aside the curtain, an aged parody of the younger woman emerged into the alley. She wore grey ringlets, and her rouged mouth made a thin circle of red around gapped and blackened teeth. Shrivelled breasts were propped and puckered into a semblance of cleavage, with a yellowed lace kerchief spilling from between them.

  “What’s here?” Mrs. Clampitt said. “Ah, Daisy, you’ve found a lost lamb!” She threw her arms wide, revealing a dark stain on each armpit of her gown. “And what a pretty, nervous thing. White as snow, this one! What soft fleece.”

  “She’s the one as Tom tol’ us,” said Daisy, sounding rather sullen about it now.

  I slid a few inches along the bricks, the rough surface catching at my jacket. The dog stalked me, stiff-legged, snarling. Saliva pooled between his front feet.

  Mrs. Clampitt advanced, too. “Don’t be skittish, lass; there’s a good girl. Rufus can smell fear. Dogs, you know, can’t help but take an interest in a lamb. You best come in now. Come and rest your poor feet. Godssakes, and just look at those shoes for walking!”

  “D-does M-Mr. Rampling live here?” I said.

  Mrs. Clampitt took my arm. “That boy is family to us, even since he’s gone up in the world. After his poor mamma died in that jail ’twas me took him in, you know. Him and Daisy here grew up like twins, they did. You come in now, and I’ll tell you it all.”

  Daisy drew aside the curtain, and I stared into the dank interior. A man with a red face and a crooked nose sat with a glass and bottle on the table in front of him; beyond him I could see nothing but shadows. Fear bloomed in my belly. I knew I could not enter that dark space.

  I took another step sideways along the wall and cowered behind my arms as the dog lunged forward. I heard a thud and a whine. I peeped out to see Rufus slink beneath Mrs. Clampitt’s skirt.

  Beside me stood a whip-thin man with lank hair and drooping whiskers. Where he had come from I could not say. The man carried a stick, which he swept in an arc to show me how he’d struck the dog.

  “Now, Mr. Sears, this here’s our guest,” said Mrs. Clampitt. “It’s Dr. Dewhurst’s sister-in-law, ain’t that right, lass?”

  “’Tain’t no guest o’ yours,” the man sneered. He took hold of my arm, leaning close to my face, and I closed my eyes against his fetid breath on my cheek. “Dewhurst’s kin, izzit? I wonder what ’e’d say to us ’avin’ her. I wonder, wouldn’t ’e offer us ’is services at a greatly reduced price, if we was to inform ’im?”

  I crossed my arms and gripped my elbows to curb my trembling. “P-please, l-let me g-go.”

  “You daft man.” Mrs. Clampitt clucked, sounding more amused than angered by his scheming. “Kidnapping won’t pay for your morbid cravings. That doctor’s got us all over his barrel, and well you know it!”

  “Aye, but maybe we’ll send ’im a token, at least. Give us your purse, love,” he said, and snatched my reticule from my hand.

  “Please, I have n-nothing.”

  This produced giggles from Daisy and Mrs. Clampitt. “Oh, my poor lamb,” the woman crooned. “But you have so much! Your lovely pelisse, for one.”

  “And that bonnet,” added Mr. Sears. “Share with us, and we’ll let you be quick on your way.”

  I shook my head more vigorously. The dog had commenced barking again, this time in excitement. More girls were pouring through the doorway now, each painted and costumed like Daisy.

  “Would ye need ’elp?” Mr. Sears suggested, reaching for my hair. I shook him off and yanked on the ribbons to release my bonnet into his hands. Then, terrified beyond reason and stupidly eager to believe his lie about letting me go, I shrugg
ed out of my jacket and tossed it to Mrs. Clampitt.

  Mr. Sears drew a sharp breath. “Them’s pearl buttons on that dress!” And with a twist of his filthy fingers he plucked one from my waist.

  One of the girls darted forward and made a snatch at a button. She received a blow from Mr. Sears’s stick. Mrs. Clampitt slapped him hard in retaliation—and then I was crowded all round by grasping, tearing hands. Lace, buttons, and hairpins were torn away, and I couldn’t breathe for the panic pressing in my chest.

  “Her shoes!”

  I was shoved into the bricks, my shoulder scraping the rough surface as I fell. My forehead hit the downspout, and my vision wavered and dimmed.

  I opened my mouth and screamed, and did not—found that I could not—stop.

  EIGHT

  It was more than a scream. Mimic had called up the most harrowing human sound I knew. The crest of it was sheer fright and desperation, but it gained momentum from something much darker than my own emotions of the moment. It told of something much more dire than the theft of a silk jacket and a few buttons, and it went on and on. And on.

  Mimic’s sound rose and fell and rose again like a riptide. The screaming blasted the soot-stained walls and foamed up to the wan slice of sky above us. It lapped against my own skin, raising the small hairs on my neck and chilling me to my core.

  My attackers drew back as if physically buffeted. One of the smaller girls fell into panicked tears, and Mr. Sears’s fingers scrabbled for purchase against the bricks like he was being dragged by an undertow.

  And then Tom Rampling was there, saying my name and glaring round at the faces now peeking timidly from behind shutters and around corners. “You might have stepped in!” he shouted at the red-faced man who stood, now, in the curtained doorway. “Don’t you know who she is?”

  The man crossed his arms and grinned. “Don’t much care,” he retorted, “but she makes a good fuss, don’t she?”

  “He will care, when you tell him,” Tom said. Gently he drew together the torn edges of my bodice. Gently he clasped an arm round my shoulders and led me, stumbling and swaying, from the alley.

  “Milady,” he murmured, “there now, milady,” and I realized the scream had stopped but had left behind a kind of panting moan that must have been almost as alarming to Tom’s ears. I forced myself to be quiet, fighting the tight, agonizing pressure in my throat.

  Tom shepherded me several blocks in this stumbling fashion, until I had to stop and lean forward, hands on my knees, to ease the dizziness.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I said, and the word became a sob.

  “No,” he said. “No, no need.” He looked at me, and his fingers brushed my cheeks as if he might save the tears before they fell. Then he patted my hand and said, in a deliberately light tone, “I should call you Lady Luck. I’ve never heard of Mr. Sears’s gang falling back once they’ve snared someone in their alley. I should think your name will be famous in Seven Dials for years to come.”

  I couldn’t quite smile. Seven Dials was part of the St. Giles Rookery, one of London’s most notoriously dangerous neighbourhoods. It had been beyond foolish of me to wander this way alone. “If I am lucky it is only b-because you c-came upon me. I thank you for your r-rescue.”

  Tom shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been able to call them off without your … your voice.” He hesitated. “It wasn’t by luck I found you, either. The boy, Will, snuck out the back way and fetched me. He said you’d followed him into the Dials, and I thought I had better come see you safe.”

  I remembered then why I’d been pursuing the little boy in the first place. My rescuer was not, perhaps, the gentle hero he pretended. He might instead be the basest kind of criminal: a pocket-picker who got innocent children to do his vile work. And that painted girl—Daisy—had called him her sweetheart. Another wave of faintness swept over me.

  Tom touched the sore spot on my forehead, and I winced. “You’ve had a shock atop injury,” he said. “You need a rest. Something hot to drink. Please, let me take you to my grandmother’s rooms. She lives not far from here.”

  I thought of refusing, but I could not see how I would last long enough to make it all the way back to Hastings House on foot. And some part of me still refused to believe Tom guilty, or still trusted him despite the possibility of guilt. Whatever he is, I reasoned foggily, he isn’t dangerous. At least not to me.

  Ten minutes later I found myself seated on a thread-bare sofa in a tiny sitting room, sipping warm cider, nibbling a biscuit, and being introduced to Tom’s grandmother, Mrs. Alcott. The old woman’s grey braid snaked over her shoulder and struck my lap as she leaned to cup my face in her hands. She was nearly blind, Tom had told me, and her clouded eyes were sunk deep into her leathery cheeks. “She’s pretty, is she not? Tom, is hers a pretty face?” Her voice was girlish and kind.

  “Yes,” Tom said quietly. “Yes, very pretty.” I couldn’t see him past Mrs. Alcott’s body.

  Her hands hovered at my head. “Her hair is quite wild for a lady.”

  I shuddered, recalling the stolen pins and the violent pulling.

  “Tom, come put this to rights,” Mrs. Alcott said, and Tom circled the sofa and, without ceremony, began to smooth my hair, combing it with his fingers and rearranging the remaining pins. He seemed oblivious to any strangeness in his attending me like Bess would. His touch was light as a caress, and I couldn’t suppress a sigh.

  “Clever fingers, that lad has got. Braids, twists as fast as you please!” Mrs. Alcott settled into a rocker by the window. “And, do you know”—she leaned forward conspirato-rially—“he is also a first-rate lockpick and cutpurse!”

  I blinked. It occurred to me that Mrs. Alcott’s mind might not be wholly sound, and a quick glance at the way Tom bit his lip confirmed my suspicions.

  “Show her your spoils, Tom!” she persisted.

  “Grandmamma, I hardly think Miss Somerville—”

  “Look to that table, my dear, just beside you.”

  I looked. Laid out across the table’s surface was a gleaming array of miniature brass gears, wheels, and springs. And three or four gold watch cases.

  Tom took a chair across from me. His usually pale cheeks were crimson, and his eyes were fixed on the floor.

  Now you should speak, I silently begged him. Now you should redeem yourself.

  Mrs. Alcott continued, unaware of her grandson’s discomfort. “My Tom can fix anything, build anything from nothing. Look there! Built that one just last week, he did.” She pointed at a small wooden box on the table.

  “Grandmamma, really. Miss Somerville will think me a braggart. Or a lagabout.”

  “A braggabout!” Mrs. Alcott’s laugh was heartier than her speaking voice. Despite the circumstances I felt my mouth twitch into a smile.

  Tom’s ears were still red, but he brought the box over to me and wound a tiny handle on its side. He clicked a switch, and I squeaked in surprise. A tune played, and a pair of glass birds with metal beaks whirled and tilted to tap out a tinkling rhythm on a copper plate.

  Tom moved to switch it off again, but I stayed his hand. “A m-moment more,” I begged, and held the box tight between my hands.

  It was like light captured in a net of sparkling sound. It was like a kaleidoscope of colour behind my eyes. Though the melody was delicate as thrushsong, I was sure that Tom and I could not speak to each other and be heard. The birds’ waltz was erratic, but I knew it obeyed the dance master of the clockworks beneath the plate. The innards of the box beat and whirred through my fingertips like a racing pulse.

  Certain that the tiny room should be glowing, that the mildewed wallpaper and greying cushions should be washed clean and gilded with angelic light, I looked up and gave a shaky laugh.

  Mrs. Alcott had fallen fast asleep in her chair.

  Tom’s gaze followed mine, and then we looked at each other. I felt another smile tug at my mouth and saw colour rise in his cheeks and an answering smile, shy and supremely vulnerable.

/>   In that instant I wished more than anything that I could forgive Tom Rampling for being a thief. The music box was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And this fine-boned man, whose sharp knee nudged into mine when he shifted on the cushion? He was beautiful, too. The curve of his pale cheekbone, the bluish vein at his temple, the fine, luminous skin—he appeared to me to be constructed of the same ethereal magic as his creation.

  Tom was watching the music box in my lap as its music and movement wound down. “It is not what you think,” he said, and inclined his head toward the table spread with watch parts. “I am not—”

  “I saw Will d-do it,” I interrupted, eager to stop him before he lied to me.

  A muscle moved in Tom’s jaw. “He never did it before today. I swear it to you. And I told him he must never do it again.”

  “These are all your own s-spoils, then.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are they for Mrs. C-Clampitt? Do you b-bring them there?”

  “No! Miss Somerville, it is not what you think,” he repeated. “’Tis not simply a lark.”

  I turned the music box over and watched the tiny gears tick to a halt.

  “I bought the parts for that one,” he said quickly.

  “Larks?” I said, turning the box upright again. “Is that what these b-birds are?” Then, with Mrs. Alcott’s precise degree of fondness and mirth, Mimic said, “Braggabout!” and I laughed Mrs. Alcott’s hearty laugh.

  Tom replaced the music box on the table and perched again on the chair opposite me. “If you are not haunted, why do you do it?” he said. All signs of shyness and vulnerability were gone.

  “I c-cannot help it.” My cheeks were very hot. “It c-comes un-b-bidden, when I do not know w-what to say.”

  “Your screaming, that scared off Mr. Sears—”

  I nodded. “That was Mimic too.”

  “Who?”

  “My s-sister’s name for it. ‘Mimic.’”

  “No. I meant who were you mimicking, when you were under attack?”

  It was the first time someone other than my cousin Archie had asked me about Mimic’s sources. In fact I was a bit ashamed at the misery Mimic had called up in the alleyway, at the way I’d traded on another person’s woes to free myself. When I’d apologized and wept after he rescued me, my apology hadn’t been wholly for Tom Rampling. I’d been sorry, rather, for using another person’s sorrows in my own interest.