The din was incredible. Hawkers cried their wares with shrill insistence, urging passersby to purchase sausage rolls, paper windmills, beads, copper pots and pans, tasty chestnuts freshly roasted. Horribly deformed beggars pleading for pennies were coldly ignored or harshly shoved aside by finely attired gentlemen who strode briskly along pavements as congested as the street itself. London was a city of great excitement and even greater contrasts, gorgeous, majestic buildings back-to-back with slums, quiet, lovely parks sheltering serenely amid densely overpopulated neighborhoods. It was a city of theaters and palaces and cathedrals, brothels and gin shops and flophouses where, for pennies, destitute vagrants could sleep in squalor four to a bed. Thieves and pimps rubbed elbows with clerks and advocates and the frenzied gentlemen of Fleet Street. Gaudily dressed prostitutes moved brazenly past aristocratic ladies in towering hats and rustling satin gowns.
It was invigorating, it was stimulating, it was a colorful, confusing panorama. Foul smells assailed the nostrils, amazing sights captured the eye, and the noise was incessant, splitting the air. It was all new to me, for as governess to Lord Robert Mallory’s children I had been restricted to the elegant confines of Montagu Square, with an occasional, carefully planned afternoon with the children in the park nearby. I had never wandered down the streets, had never seen the gorgeous buildings, the gigantic piles of rubbish, the filth and splendor that gave London its unique flâvor. But the proprietor of the White Hart had given me specific directions, and I felt sure I could find the coaching station easily enough.
As I moved down the street, besieged by beggars and accosted by hawkers who thrust various wares in front of me, I wished I had dressed a little less grandly. The taffeta gown with its broad black and white stripes and red velvet waist hugger was inappropriate, to say the least, as were the long red velvet gloves and the hat Lucille had especially created to go with the outfit, black and white plumes dripping over a broad black taffeta brim, an enormous red velvet bow holding them in place. Hat and gown were constantly imperiled as women dumped slops from second-story windows, and the lavish attire marked me as easy prey for the beggars and appallingly aggressive hawkers.
Jeremy had volunteered to see to the arrangements for me, but it was better this way. The streets of London were alarming, yes, but I wasn’t in any danger. The beggars, the hawkers were merely an irritation, and, after all I’d been through, a relatively minor one at that. I could fend for myself, and I certainly didn’t want Jeremy hiring the coach that would take me to Hawkehouse tomorrow.
He had been distantly polite ever since that night on board Le Bon Coeur when he had left me alone at the railing. The rest of the journey had been arduous indeed. The weather had grown steadily worse, culminating in a treacherous storm that had lasted for three full days. The ship had been damaged, and we had limped slowly on to France, arriving over a week late. The political situation between France and England being what it was, we had encountered a barrage of difficulties, and it had been necessary to make several hefty bribes before we could safely cross the channel. I had felt enormous relief when the towering white cliffs loomed out of the morning mist. Jeremy had hired a coach in Dover, and we rode in silence, polite strangers, arriving in London late in the afternoon and taking rooms at the White Hart Inn.
I hadn’t joined him for breakfast this morning in the tap room, but he had come up to my rooms afterward, standing stiffly in front of the mantle in the sitting room and coldly volunteering to hire a coach to take me to Hawkehouse. Remote, restrained, he gazed at me with chilly eyes, waiting for my reply. Polite, as remote as he, I had informed him that I was perfectly capable of making my own arrangements, and, nodding curtly, he left. I knew that he had left the White Hart immediately afterward. Did he have friends in London, business to attend to? I wondered if I would see him again before I left tomorrow morning.
I hoped not. It would be much easier for both of us if … if he would just stay away until I was gone. I couldn’t take any more of that distant manner, that polite, clipped voice, those blue eyes so frosty yet filled with pain. Being with him had become an ordeal, both of us strained, separated by an invisible wall of experiences recalled, words unspoken, emotions unexpressed. We had been through so much together these past months, and in many ways I had been closer to him than I had been to any man, but … it was over now. In a sense we had said our goodbyes that night on Le Bon Coeur.
Dodging a splattering downfall of slop as a woman emptied a bucket overhead, ignoring a beggar with twisted leg and horribly scarred face who shambled over with hand extended, I turned a corner and made my way down another street, looking for the great brick archway leading into the yard of the coaching station. I found it at last. Passengers were disembarking from a coach as I crossed the yard, and another coach was being loaded with bags. I entered the office. It was extremely crowded, the harried clerk barking orders to an underling, turning the pages of a ledger, trying his best to fend off passengers who besieged him on every side. One woman had lost her luggage. A fat man in a brown top hat demanded immediate transport to Brighton. People shouted and argued, pushing around the counter. Several drivers came in, one of them obviously tipsy, all of them barking instructions. I waited patiently, standing to one side, until finally all the others were gone. The clerk looked at me with belligerent eyes and asked me what I wanted.
“I’d like to hire a coach for tomorrow,” I informed him.
“A ’ole coach? You wanna ’ire a ’ole coach all to yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“Might be one available, I’d ’ave to check. It’d cost you a pretty penny, though, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”
“You do hire private coaches.”
“When folks’ve got th’ means, yeah, we do, providin’ there’s one available. You don’t wanna pay that much. I can book you on a regular coach. You’d ’ave to share it with other passengers, but it wouldn’t cost you a bloody fortune.”
“I’m perfectly prepared to pay whatever it costs.”
He eyed my black and white taffeta gown, the red velvet gloves, the elaborate hat, and his whole manner changed. A look of calculating greed glowed in his eyes as he studied me, clearly wondering just how much he could take me for. Putting on an official mien, he opened a ledger and asked me where I wanted to go in a ’ole bloody coach all by myself. I gave him the name of the village, and he ran his finger down a list on the page in front of him.
“Six ’ours it’d take you. You leave at eight o’clock in the morning, it’d get you there around two in th’ afternoon. Six ’ours goin’, six ’ours gettin’ back to London, that’s a ’ole day for coach an’ driver. Cost you plenty.” He ran his finger down another list and then consulted a schedule. “The driver’d probably want extra, drivin’ all that way with just one passenger.”
“I’ll gladly pay the extra fee.”
“In a ’urry to get there, ain’t you?”
“Is a coach available?” I asked sharply.
“Let’s see—mmmmmm, Ogilvy’s free, but we don’t want ’im—” He continued to study the schedule, his face growing more and more crestfallen. “Damn!” he finally exclaimed. “Ogilvy’s th’ only one! It ’ud ’afta be ’im, wouldn’t it, an’ all th’ other chaps eager as I am to make a bit of—Maybe I can talk ’im into—” He scowled and pushed the schedule aside. “You wait right ’ere.”
He stepped out into the yard. He planned to charge me an exorbitant fee, I could see that. The fact that I was female and expensively dressed made me an easy mark. It didn’t matter. I merely wanted to be done with it. Hearing loud, angry voices outside, I stepped to the door. The clerk was arguing vehemently with a tall, muscular man wearing polished brown boots and dusty brown livery, a heavy black cape falling from his massive shoulders.
“I told you, Arbutt,” the man thundered, “I ain’t ’avin’ any parta your crooke’d dealin’s. I ’ave my pride. I ’ave my ’onesty.”
“But she’s rollin’ i
n money. She’s in a ’urry, too. We could charge ’er at least—”
The clerk turned and saw me standing in the doorway. All the air seemed to go out of him. He sighed and shook his head, returning wearily to the office with the driver behind him.
“’Ere’s Ogilvy ’imself,” the clerk announced, “just in from Oxford. ’E’s free tomorrow, all right, says ’e’ll be glad to drive you.”
Ogilvy nodded politely. In his late twenties, he had thick, unruly blond hair, rough-hewn, ruggedly attractive features and sky-blue eyes that were surprisingly gentle. He gave me a bashful smile, and I smiled back, liking him immediately.
“I’ll be glad to take you, ma’am,” he said in a gentle voice, “an’ there won’t be no extra charge, either.”
The clerk snorted, plainly disgusted. Ogilvy gave him a fierce look. The two of them had obviously tangled before.
“I’d like to pay in advance,” I said.
“Might be a good idea,” Ogilvy agreed, eyeing the clerk.
The clerk told me what it would cost, and I gave him the money. He took it begrudgingly, put it away and made an entry in the ledger, all under the stern eye of the strapping driver.
“Goin’ all that way, it’d be best if we left early,” Ogilvy informed me. “Where shall I pick you up?”
“I’m staying at the White Hart Inn. Do you know where it is?”
Ogilvy nodded. “I’ll be there shortly before eight in the mornin’, ’elp you with your trunks an’ things. Don’t you worry none, ma’am. You’re goin’ to be in good ’ands.”
“I have the feeling I will be,” I replied. “Thank you, Ogilvy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The clerk snorted again as I left the office. I felt certain he and Ogilvy were going to start arguing again as soon as I was out of the way. As I crossed the busy yard and passed under the brick archway, I felt an enormous relief. It was done now. All the arrangements had been made, without Jeremy’s help. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I would be away from this noisy, alien city. Tomorrow I would be on my way to Hawkehouse. After all this time, I would finally be reunited with the man I loved.
The flood of joy I should have experienced at that thought failed to sweep over me. Curious. My heart should be dancing. There should be silent music inside, and I should feel a glorious, heady elation. Later. It would come later, when I was actually on my way. The constant strain of these past weeks with Jeremy had left me depleted, incapable of feeling anything but a bewildering combination of anxiety and aggravation and something strangely akin to guilt. Why had he insisted on accompanying me? Why had I ever allowed it? Why hadn’t I told him to go straight to hell? I had, as a matter of fact, on more than one occasion, but it hadn’t helped at all.
Ignoring the beggars, snubbing the hawkers, I made my way back to the White Hart and went up to my rooms. The door to Jeremy’s bedroom stood open, and as I passed I could see Tibby, the tiny, energetic maid, making up his bed, humming as she did so. So he hadn’t returned yet. It was almost four o’clock as I stepped into my sitting room. Sunlight streamed in through the opened windows, making brilliant pools on the polished hardwood floor, reflecting in the glass of the framed hunting prints that hung on the walls. Removing my hat, setting it on a table, I moved over to one of the windows and peered out.
Tower Bridge reared up in the distance, silhouetted against an indigo sky, and the glorious dome of St. Paul’s was visible far to my left. From this vantage point, London was a breathtaking panorama of majestic buildings, brown and rust, pale tan and gray marble, of wavering, leafy green trees and slanting, sooty rooftops and quaintly tilting chimneys. The festering slums were not visible, the filth and squalor concealed. Across the way, beyond Oxford Street, the park was a sanctuary of calm, trees clustered on green lawns, ponds sparkling a silvery blue in the sunlight, people strolling leisurely along the winding pathways.
Why did I feel so out of place? Why did I feel like a foreigner in an alien land? This was my homeland, the country of my birth, and yet … and yet something seemed to be pulling me, calling me, an inexplicable force originating from that vast, sprawling country across the sea. I thought of New Orleans and of the ruggedly beautiful countryside of Texas that had impressed me far more than I had realized at the time. I thought of Em and Randolph in their lovely hacienda, and I remembered the night sky so full of stars, dazzling, flashing, flickering stars so brilliant, so bright. I remembered the night all the stars in the sky seemed to explode inside me.… No, no, I wouldn’t think of that. I mustn’t. I must harden myself, banish that memory entirely.
Leaving the window, I moved briskly into the bedroom and began to repack my trunks and the small bags, laying out the clothes I would travel in tomorrow. I was merely killing time. I realized that. It was much too early to go down to the taproom for dinner, and I had nothing to read. I refolded the last chemise, closed the last bag. Footsteps rang out, moving down the hallway. Jeremy? I went into the sitting room and waited for the knock at my door, but the footsteps moved on down the hall. I told myself I was relieved. I tried to believe it. I didn’t want to see him. We had nothing more to say to one another. Restless, growing more so by the minute, I put my hat back on and left the inn, heading for the park.
I had to harden myself against him. I realized that. I had to harden myself against the memories and those feelings that came upon me when I least expected them. I was fond of him, I couldn’t deny that. He was infuriating and thoroughly exasperating, moody, mercurial, flippant one moment, grave the next, and one never knew what to expect, but.… Yes, I was fond of him, but I loved Derek. Pausing on the pavement as the traffic rumbled up and down Oxford Street, I frowned, damning Jeremy anew. There was no reason at all why I should feel guilty. I hadn’t asked him to come along. I had protested vehemently and at length. He had insisted.… I had to put it out of my mind. Seeing a momentary break in the traffic, I hurried across the street, paused for a moment to catch my breath and then entered the park.
It was lovely indeed. The trees cast long shadows on the lawns, limbs leafy overhead, and as I moved deeper into the park the jangling noises of London grew muted, a background to the rustle of leaves, the pleasant warble of birds. Neatly dressed little boys played with toy sailboats at one of the ponds while their governesses sat on a bench nearby, gossiping quietly and clicking their knitting needles as they kept watch over their charges. Ladies in beautiful gowns walked arm in arm with men in top hats and elegant frock coats, nodding as they passed acquaintances. The air was fragrant with the scent of grass and rich soil, and flowers grew in colorful profusion, adding their own perfume. An atmosphere of serenity prevailed, something I badly needed.
I strolled slowly, pausing now and then to admire a bed of flowers, to lean against a tree trunk, to watch a little boy racing over a lawn with kite string in hand, the kite waving overhead like a gigantic red butterfly with wings outspread. People stared as I moved under the trees, past the fountains, the women critically examining my black and white striped taffeta gown with its red velvet waist hugger and matching gloves, the men displaying another kind of interest altogether. Lucille had done herself proud, I reflected, for the gown and the hat with its red velvet bow and sweeping black and white plumes were as fashionable as anything I had seen in London.
An hour and a half must have passed before I finally decided to start back. The shadows were beginning to lengthen, gradually changing from deep gray to violet-blue, and the sunlight sifting through the tree limbs was thinner, no longer so bright. It would soon be twilight, I thought, passing the pond where the little boys had been playing. I would have a light dinner in the taproom, and then I would go to bed. Perhaps I could sleep tonight. I hadn’t been, not recently. Sleep had evaded me, and the nights had been long, full of restless tossing and turning, full of memories I managed to avoid during the day.
The cries and clattering noises grew more pronounced as I neared the Oxford Street entrance. A tall, rather hefty middle-aged man was just coming
into the park, looking disgruntled and disoriented. He wore no hat, and his hair was badly powdered, a dull pewter-gray with black showing through. Although his clothes were well cut, they had a worn, rubbed look, just this side of shabby, the purple waistcoat soiled, the charcoal breeches and frock coat decidedly shiny. Puffing slightly as he moved up the pathway toward me, he had all the earmarks of a gentleman who had fallen on hard times, and as he drew nearer I suspected the reason why. He reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat as well. I looked away, moving toward the entrance. The man mumbled something to himself and then looked up, noticing me for the first time.
He stopped. His flushed cheeks grew pale. He stared at me as though I were a ghost.
“Marietta?”
I was startled, rather alarmed as well. The man knew my name, yet I had never seen him before in my life. He was blocking my way now, standing there with an incredulous look in his eyes. I stared at him with a cool, haughty gaze, prepared to cry out if necessary. People were passing back and forth on Oxford Street only a few yards behind him. Although the man looked much too besotted to present any serious threat, I wished Jeremy were beside me.
“Is it really you?” he asked in a shaky voice. “Is it really Marietta, or am I seeing things?”
I looked at that fleshy, once handsome face, and recognition slowly came. It seemed altogether too incredible to believe that I should have accidentally encountered him on my first day in London, yet Lord Robert Mallory was actually standing there before me. It was one of those improbable coincidences that fate presents us far too frequently, and Lord Robert seemed far more bewildered and upset than I. My initial alarm had evaporated, and I gazed at him with a surprising indifference. I had every reason in the world to hate him. This man had raped me and branded me a thief, hiding an emerald necklace in my bag and watching with a sardonic smile as the Bow Street runners took me away. He was directly responsible for all the misfortunes that followed, yet I could summon no emotion whatsoever. He shook his head, frowning, befuddled.
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