Summer of Scandal EPB

by James, Syrie

  And don’t miss the third book in the series, coming in summer 2019, featuring the third Atherton sister, Kathryn!

  Chapter One

  London, England

  May 8, 1888

  “One first-class ticket for Liverpool, please.” Alexandra Atherton managed a smile for the ticket agent behind the window.

  “One way or return?”

  “One way.” Alexandra anxiously made her way across the busy train station, hardly able to believe she was doing this: running away, dressed in her maid’s old clothes, bound for Liverpool and the steamship that would take her home.

  Her escape, she knew, would cause something of a scandal. Over the past few years, whenever her name or one of her sisters’ names had cropped up in the press, it was always followed by “the American heiress,” or “the daughter of multimillionaire banking tycoon Colis Atherton.” As if they were not actual people in their own right.

  Alexandra hated to feed the gossip, but after last night, what choice did she have?

  She had left a note explaining where she’d gone and why, which her maid Fiona was to “accidentally discover” later that afternoon. By then, it would be too late for her mother to prevent Alexandra from sailing. She just prayed that upon her reaching Liverpool, a berth would be available aboard the Maritime.

  The train platform was alive with the clamor of movement and conversation. Gentlemen in black frock coats and ladies in elaborate plumed hats darted to and fro, checking the printed timetables, studying the large clock hanging from the rafters, purchasing apples from a vendor and papers from the newsstand. As Alexandra wove through the crowd, she heard a high-pitched voice at her elbow:

  “Got a penny for a poor orphan?”

  She paused. Before her stood a raggedly dressed, dirty little girl. Alexandra’s heart went out to the creature, who gazed up at her with wide eyes, her hair all in a tangle.

  Alexandra wondered how a penny could possibly be of any help to a child in such need. Withdrawing her coin purse from her reticule, she offered the child a shilling. “Here you go, little one.” Suddenly, more children in similarly dirty clothing appeared and crowded around her.

  “Mine!” cried a boy.

  “No, mine!” cried another.

  A grubby fist flashed out and snatched the shilling from Alexandra’s grasp. She couldn’t tell if it was the first girl who took it or one of the boys; indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure what happened next. All Alexandra knew was that multitudes of small, filthy hands were striking at her as young voices erupted in raucous shouts. Her coin purse was suddenly wrenched from her grasp, and a second later her handbag was gone.

  “Wait! Give it back!” Alexandra cried, as the flock of children fled. “Help! Stop those children! They’ve stolen my bag!”

  No one made any move to help her. Alexandra pushed her way through the crowd, racing after the children, but the ragamuffin band vanished as quickly as it had appeared. At the end of the platform, she stopped to catch her breath. The whole incident, she saw now, had been cleverly played, the efforts of a pack of urchins who preyed on unsuspecting travelers.

  She searched for a policeman (what did they call them here? Bobbies?), but realized that even if one materialized, she couldn’t report the theft. She was dressed as a servant, in the act of running away.

  Alexandra stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by a crushing sense of horror and disappointment as the depths of her predicament became clear to her. Her handbag was gone. It had held all her money as well as her train ticket. She hadn’t been able to take anything else with her, and now had nothing left except the clothes on her back. Clearly, there would be no trip to Liverpool today, and no voyage to New York.

  Tears stung Alexandra’s eyes as she made her way back through the train station. What should she do now?

  She considered the English girls she’d met over the past five weeks of the London Season, but realized they’d be no help. Not a single one had responded to Alexandra’s attempts at friendship. They’d seemed to consider Alexandra too outgoing, too outspoken, and had eyed her with reserved and stony suspicion, as if she were there to deliberately steal away all the best men. The matrons Alexandra had met had all befriended her mother. Nor could she seek refuge from Rose Parker, a debutante from Chicago who’d landed her titled man the year before and was now the most miserable human being in creation, entirely under the thumb of her husband.

  As Alexandra exited through the train station’s high Doric portico, she wiped tears away. It was over. It was all over. Unless she wanted to starve on the street like the poor, ragged, toothless woman selling apples at the curb, Alexandra had no alternative but to go back to Brown’s Hotel with her tail between her legs.

  Even though it would spell her doom.

  Even though her mother would surely lock Alexandra in their suite again until she agreed to marry Lord Shrewsbury.

  Well, Alexandra told herself, as she hailed one of the waiting hansom cabs and climbed aboard, her ruse had worked this time. She would just have to think of something new and try again in a few days for another ship.

  “Brown’s Hotel,” she instructed the cabbie through the trapdoor near the rear of the roof.

  “That’ll be a shilling.” The man’s tone conveyed his distrust of such a shabby customer.

  Alexandra peered up at him through the tiny window behind her. “Sir, I’ve been the victim of a robbery. My handbag and all my money were stolen. I’ll see to it, however, that you are paid upon arrival.”

  “Cash in advance, Yank, or there’s no ride.”

  “Sir, my name is Alexandra Atherton. My father is a multimillionaire. If you will please take me to Brown’s Hotel, I assure you that my mother will pay my fare.”

  “And who’s your mother? America’s first lady?” A brief, contemptuous laugh escaped his mouth. “There’s plenty of folk who’ll be happy to pay in advance, girl. Go on, step down.”

  Cheeks flaming, Alexandra climbed down from the vehicle. She tried every cab in sight, but it was always the same story: no fare, no ride. Alexandra was incensed and humiliated. She was an heiress. She’d attended college! She’d been the belle of the ball at numerous events of the London Season. Yet she was being treated harshly, simply due to the clothing she wore.

  Alexandra realized she’d have to walk. How many miles lay between Euston Station and Brown’s Hotel? She had no idea. During the cab ride that morning, she’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn’t paid attention to their route.

  Pausing at a corner, Alexandra asked a shoeshine man how to get to Brown’s Hotel. His instructions were long-winded and delivered in a thick cockney accent. She was able to gather, though, that it was a journey of about two miles. Following his gesticulations, she began walking south.

  It was a gray, cloudy spring morning with the threat of rain. Although Alexandra had always enjoyed long walks in the countryside growing up, she’d never been enamored of strolling in a city. The sidewalks of London were jammed with men and women rushing about their business, and the streets were clogged with traffic. Horse-drawn carriages of every size and description jockeyed for position with hansom cabs, men on high-wheel bicycles, and buses topped with crowds of people. The air, heavy with soot and smoke, was further befouled by the stench of horse dung and urine that covered the street and lay piled up in heaps at the curb. A boy of twelve or thirteen dodged among the vehicles, struggling to scoop the excrement into a bucket, but it was a futile battle.

  Alexandra waited for an opening in the traffic, then raised her skirts and picked her way across the street. Thank goodness she’d worn her oldest, sturdiest pair of walking boots, the only shoes she possessed that wouldn’t have looked out of place with the plain black cotton dress she wore. Even so, by the time she reached the opposite curb, she’d had to scrape off the filth that clung to her soles.

  She plodded on, past a street locksmith’s stall, a man towing a barrel organ on wheels, and a fancy wear dealer selling por
celain ornaments from a wheelbarrow. Sandwich-board men crowded the curb, wearing signs proclaiming such slogans as TRY DR. CLARKE’S TONIC AND HAIR RESTORER and DRINK COLA: IT QUENCHES THE THIRST AS NOTHING ELSE WILL.

  Twice more, she stopped to ask for directions. Eventually, a clock on a bank building told Alexandra she’d been walking for two and a half hours, and she began to wonder if she’d made a wrong turn. She should have reached Brown’s Hotel by now. At the very least, she should recognize something of the neighborhood. But nothing looked familiar. Instead of elegant white houses, she saw rows of redbrick buildings and streets lined with shops and pubs.

  “Fresh muffins!” shouted a woman in a cheap dress and dirty apron who was selling bread and pastries beneath a makeshift tarp.

  The aroma of freshly baked goods made Alexandra’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, having planned to purchase something at the station. Although she’d never bought food off a city street cart in her life, she would have been happy to do so now, if only she had the money.

  Alexandra’s feet were beginning to hurt, and she was growing tired. She was more alarmed, however, by the darkening clouds and increasing chill in the air. Shivering, she noticed a chimney sweep leaning against a wall and approached him. “Is Brown’s Hotel nearby?”

  “Brown’s Hotel?” The sweep scratched his head beneath his cap. “Well now, miss, if you’re headed for Brown’s Hotel, you’d best take a cab. It’s a good three or four mile from here, and looks like rain any minute.”

  Alexandra’s spirits fell. Three or four miles! Clearly, she’d wandered very far out of her way. “I have to walk,” she replied with resignation. “Can you please point me in the right direction?”

  He barked out a few instructions, then indicated an alley just up the street. “You can cut through that lane beyond the Horse ’n’ Hound, it’ll save you ten minutes.”

  Alexandra thanked him, and they moved off in opposite directions.

  She turned into the narrow, refuse-strewn alley, and was halfway down it when a big man in a rough coat and cap emerged from a doorway and stopped directly in front of her.

  “Well, well, well, what’s the hurry, lassie?” he called out in a thickly accented voice which was slurred from drink.

  A foul stench emanated from his body. Alexandra wrinkled her nose, more irritated than afraid of this unexpected disturbance. “I’ve already been robbed once this morning,” she declared flatly, as she attempted to dodge around the man. “I have nothing left to give you.”

  He grabbed her forcefully by the arm, grinding her to a halt. “I wouldn’t say nothing, lassie.” With beady eyes, he studied her slowly from head to toe, then back up again, giving her a leer that exposed a mouthful of rotten teeth.

  Alexandra’s pulse now quickened with apprehension. “Please, let me go.”

  “Not until you gives us a kiss.” He pressed his free hand to her back and yanked her against his chest.

  “Don’t!” Panic surged through her as she turned her face away, struggling to break free.

  The man persisted, pressing fleshy lips against her neck. He reeked so strongly that Alexandra felt bile rise in her throat. Her arms were trapped, so she kicked at him, landing a good one against his shin. He roared in pain and fury. Still gripping her upper arm, he raised his other hand as if to slap her, when all at once the skies opened up and unleashed a sudden, cold, and very heavy rain.

  Her attacker started in surprise, the unexpected downpour causing him to loosen his grip. Alexandra took advantage of the reprieve to free herself and fled back down the alley. The pelting rain came so fast and furious that in seconds, she was wet through.

  At the lane’s end, Alexandra burst onto the sidewalk—and plowed directly into someone. She heard the sound of breaking glass, glimpsed a man’s startled face. Spinning in a half circle, she staggered backward into the street.

  What occurred next came all in a whirl: the clatter of hooves. A horse’s whinny. The sight of a vehicle bearing down on her. The world tilting as she dodged sideways. A sharp pain in her head.

  And then she knew no more.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Thomas Carlyle stared at his recent purchase, now smashed to bits on the sidewalk, the victim of a collision with a woman who’d raced out of the alley.

  As he stood there, pelted by freezing rain, he saw the woman careen into the street, directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle. He gasped in horror as the woman stumbled and fell to the ground, where she lay unmoving as the horse and carriage thundered past, narrowly missing her.

  Was she dead? He hoped not—the carriage didn’t appear to have touched her. A few people hurried by, huddled beneath their cloaks and umbrellas, paying no attention to the prone figure lying in the muck and mud.

  He ought to do the same.

  This is not your affair, an inner voice warned. He was cold and wet. He had work to do. He shouldn’t get involved. But another, stronger voice insisted, This is partly your fault. If she—whoever she was—had not run smack into him, she might not have stumbled backward into the road.

  Thomas spied a carriage rapidly headed in the young woman’s direction. She could be crushed in the next instant. With no time for further deliberation, he darted into the street and scooped her up. Once he regained the safety of the curb, he stared down at the limp form in his arms, rain dotting his spectacles as he noted several things in rapid succession:

  She was young and slender with long limbs and a pale complexion. Her black dress and worn boots marked her as a member of the working class. The bodice of that dress pulled tight across an ample bosom—a sight mere inches from his eyes, and from which he had difficulty averting his gaze.

  Those breasts, he saw now, were moving gently up and down. Thank heavens. She was breathing. She was alive. But what on earth had happened, to cause her to run full tilt like that out of the alley, without looking where she was going?

  Thomas peered down the alley from which she’d emerged. No one was there. He glanced back at the street to determine if she had dropped a handbag or any other item which might help identify her, but he saw nothing other than the sodden, trampled remains of a straw hat.

  The rain was coming down in buckets, rapidly washing away the street muck that had clung to the young woman’s hair and clothes. What was he supposed to do now? He considered dropping her off at the Horse ’n Hound, in the hope that someone would take pity on her. But no, that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. Besides, she might need medical attention. He had no idea, though, if there was a doctor’s surgery in the neighborhood.

  He couldn’t just stand there holding her in the pouring rain. He lived a block away. It seemed best to bring her there and let Mrs. Gill take over.

  When he arrived at the redbrick townhouse, unable to reach the key in his pocket, Thomas gave the dark green door a few solid kicks. “Mrs. Gill! A little help, please!”

  A moment later the door was flung open. His Irish landlady, her graying hair half-hidden beneath a white cap, was all astonishment. “Mr. Carlyle! What on earth?”

  “This young woman fell in the street,” Thomas explained as he brushed past Mrs. Gill into the compact foyer. “She was nearly run over by a carriage and appears to be unconscious. Pray, allow me to bring her into your parlor.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Gill cried, skirts rustling as she bustled after him. “The poor thing! Who is she?”

  “I have no idea. Forgive me,” Thomas added as they entered the small, overstuffed room, where a fire was blazing in the hearth. “We are both drenched through and dripping all over your carpets.”

  “Just you stand by the fire and wait, Mr. Carlyle. I’ll fetch towels and blankets before you set her down.” Mrs. Gill disappeared into the back room.

  Thomas moved to the hearth, grateful for its flickering warmth as he made a more comprehensive study of the woman in his arms. She looked to be in her early twenties, a few years younger than himself. She was prett
y, her oval face and delicate features reminiscent of Romney’s early paintings of Emma Hart. Her hair, too wet to determine its true shade, had come loose and hung in waves to her waist.

  He guessed her to be a shop girl or seamstress, or perhaps a servant on her day off. As he gazed down at the lovely yet helpless form he was holding against his body, Thomas felt an unexpected spark of interest and compassion. He hoped she was going to be all right.

  “Here we are.” Mrs. Gill returned, her arms full of cottony fabric. She draped several towels over the sofa, and Thomas laid the insensible young woman down.

  She was starting to shiver now, and so was he. Mrs. Gill removed the girl’s gloves and dabbed at her with a towel, then tucked a blanket over her, while Thomas dried off his own face and hair and wiped his spectacles clean.

  “You’d best take off that wet coat, Mr. Carlyle,” Mrs. Gill advised, “lest you catch a chill.”

  He obliged, shrugging out of the sodden garment, which she took and hung over the fire screen. “Now what? Shall I fetch a doctor?”

  “Let’s give her a minute. She’s young and healthy-looking, no doubt she’ll wake up soon enough. A doctor would cost a pretty penny, which you and I can ill afford.”

  Thomas flinched at this assessment. He had never told Mrs. Gill—nor any of his clients in town, for that matter—who he really was. If anyone knew, he would be treated differently; he certainly wouldn’t be able to stay here any longer, or to continue his work. But what she’d said was true. His finances were in a bad way. Ever since he was a child and aware of such things, he’d had the vague impression that money, for his family, was a problem. Now that he was twenty-eight years old and faced with all the sordid facts, his sense of mortification over the situation was acute.

  A soft moan issued from the direction of the sofa, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing over, he saw that the young woman was moving restlessly beneath the blanket—hopefully, a sign that she would soon wake up.