She peeked over her shoulder, deftly dressing behind the curtain in the room’s corner. Everything was still silent, thankfully. She slipped out and tip-toed across the floor, grabbing the folded undergarments she had removed from the windows, then packed into her blue valise.
Alex lay still in bed, his arm tossed above his head. The sheets were scattered across his waist, his shirt tugged up to reveal a sliver of his stomach. With his hair tussled and sleep softening his features, she almost felt bad about leaving this way. He had shown her kindness. That wasn’t something many thought she was deserving of.
Still, remaining here wasn’t going to lead her to what she wanted. Minnie might sleep in a whorehouse, but she’d never work in one. And as for the stages here in Whitechapel, those wouldn’t give her the recognition she desired. She didn’t simply wish to be on stage, she wanted to fall in love with it. She wanted to be wowed and wooed. She wanted that lie her uncle had told her as a little girl—that her mother had been a beautiful Russian ballerina.
All she remembered of her mother was a soft laugh, something like touching velvet after a cold day outside. She remembered the double string of pearls at her mother’s neck, interlaced with rubies. It had been a gift from Minnie’s father. She remembered little else. Only that in India she had felt love, even if it had been a grand illusion. Once she was in England, the world tipped, and with it, Minnie never found her place again. It didn’t help that she’d forgotten her mother’s face now. She couldn’t remember the last time she had remembered it fully. Maybe seven years ago? Eight?
Her hand rested at the foot of the bed as she studied Alex and all of his silent secrets. She found herself drawn to his lips; how for such a thin mouth, those lips held such power when spread in a smile. She found herself wishing to witness that miracle one last time just then. A fitting sendoff from the charming Irish pickpocket who came to her rescue.
Minnie slowly brought the covers up to Alex’s chest, gazing down at him, trying to puzzle him together. But it didn’t matter now. She shook her head, knocking away the curiosity clouding her mind, then stepped away.
“You’re leaving?” His voice was gravelly.
Minnie paused with her hand on the doorknob, counting the little bit of money she had left. She slipped enough to pay for the room onto the small table by the bed, then a bit extra for him, nearly emptying her reticule. “Yes. Keep sleeping.”
Alex didn’t move, nor did he say anything further.
“Go back to sleep. You need rest.” Minnie stepped outside, leaning against the closed door. Goodbyes were never easy. She preferred not to make them at all. It was easier to step away when you didn’t tether yourself to such a heavy word.
*
Alex smelled roses. And he thought he heard the sea, but then he was sure he was dreaming because that was a phantom of his past. The roses, though….
He sat up and stretched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense and tender from the day before. Light poured in from the grimy window, flooding the room with another day. It was always the same when he suffered what the orderlies had referred to as attacks. They claimed he was touched, that he was a danger to himself. What they never realized was that after the pain and thrashing about, the emptiness settled in. It nipped at him until he was numb and void of hope. It consumed him until he felt as though he were back in the basement again, locked away and left to die.
Some days, he wished he would.
He sank back down into bed, rolling over the lumpy mattress. The bed frame below creaked and groaned. He reached behind and shoved the pillow over his face, sighing in frustration. He had come to London for a reason; to discover his true name, to find a purpose. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything if he stayed in bed and let the world run over him. He’d fought too hard to allow that to happen. But his mind was often stronger than his will.
His muscles relaxed and he rolled over, laying his head on his pillow and shutting his eyes. Still in half a fog from the laudanum, it was far easier to let drowsiness sweep over him. Except, he had smelled roses…
Alex sprang up from bed, first noticing the money on the table, then Anne’s missing belongings. She hadn’t simply left, she’d left him.
He grabbed what little he had, dressed, then grabbed the money on the table, stuffing it in his pocket. He strolled through the whorehouse as if he hadn’t just left for good, then popped out onto the street. If she was wearing that ridiculous hat of hers, she’d be easy to spot. Then again, even in the short time they knew each other, he realized Anne was anything but easy.
Finding her just then was, however. Her voice rose over his shoulder, swallowed by the passing crowd as she argued with another.
“What are you doing, darling?” he asked, strolling up to interrupt the barefooted street sweep from sticking a hand in her face.
“He refuses to leave me alone. I only asked a question.” Anne pulled her shoulders back, hefting the valise to her side. “But I’m fine. No need to help, Alex.”
“She’s robbin’ me, mister.” The little boy leaned on his broom, waving his free hand at them both. “I ’elped. I want me money.”
Alex looked between Anne and the child. Anne simply shrugged. He dug into his pocket and fished out some coin. “Take this and piss off then.”
Anne set off before he could get a word, but then stopped, gawking up at the sky. Others bumped and crashed into her. She gave them all a glare, then returned to searching the sky for some unknown sign.
“For the love of all that’s holy,” Alex said, coming to stand next to her. “What are you doing? You’re in everyone’s way.”
“Rather, they’re in mine.”
And that, that was the true sign of Anne being a proper lady. She could try to play at this game of pauper, but fine things and manners were bred into her. There was no escaping that.
“You left.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not fully. His eyes settled at the collar of her serviceable dress. The fabric must be coarse. It left a red mark against the side of her throat, just below the healing slice from the knife blade. Alex wished he knew where she sold her finer dress. That was more fitting for her than the rags she wore now.
Anne turned, grimacing as another pushed past her roughly. “Hmm?”
“You. Left.”
Her gorgeous hazel eyes met his for a moment before a blush pinked the apples of her cheeks. “Well, yes. I wasn’t about to end my adventure there. And I must be going now, really. Goodbye, Alex.”
Alex stood, his voice lost as she walked away once again. It was damned confusing why he felt he needed to follow. He had meant to nick her purse and be on his way. Instead, he spent two nights with her. He had spent the little he had on securing a room for them both. He was the world’s worst thief, apparently.
Anne stopped at the end of the street, pausing at the busy intersection. Once again her eyes were trained to the sky.
Alex chuckled to himself as he casually strolled up to her, leaning close to her ear. “You’re lost.”
“Am not!” She whirled around to face him, pointing a gloved finger in his face. “I know where I’m going.” Anne bit her lip, gazing over his shoulder. “And I want to head north. So good afternoon. Good luck. And stop following me, Alex.”
She hurried off, heading east. He waited for her to catch her mistake, then laughed again when he realized she truly believed she was heading north. She’d end up in France if she wasn’t careful. Alex marched up and grabbed her bag, spinning her in the right direction. “I’ll take you to where you’re heading, then we’ll part ways. If I left you now, you’d wind up in the North Sea.”
She huffed, following behind his large stride. The streets were crowded, too crowded for Alex. He wished to be in bed. No, he wished to be in a dark room, on a bare floor, left alone. Out in the rare London sun, the world felt entirely too big.
If he had the money, he’d hail a hackney or they’d hop on the omnibus. At least that way he could be su
re she couldn’t land them in any more trouble. “Where are we going?”
“If you could slow down.” Anne came up beside him, elbowing him in the side. “I’m heading to Leicester Square. To the Alhambra, to be more precise.” She unfolded a map and handed it to him. “This should do the trick.”
Alex shrugged it off, made uncomfortable by the twisting lines of the London streets labeled with words he couldn’t read. “I’ll leave that to you. Just out point where we’re going. At least I have a better sense of direction.”
It was a long walk, longer than he expected. They passed the time in general silence, which was best. He didn’t have anything else to say to Anne. To know more would just invite her closer to him, and Alex hadn’t come to London to become friends with anyone. He came to discover who he truly was. He wished, above all, to know his true name.
“You know, you’re a terrible pickpocket,” Anne said finally.
Alex shrugged. There wasn’t much he was good at, but he wanted to be. And that’s what drove him to London, as well. When the hunger for more finally possesses a man’s soul, it’s unrelenting. “You were too easy of a mark. I like a challenge.”
“We might have been friends, Alex. If the world was different and time didn’t matter.”
She shuffled a few steps ahead of him, stopping short at a great wall of bird cages that towered above them at a pet shop. The air reeked of ammonia and sawdust. Anne stood in front of the cages, her hands held tight behind her back. She watched the tiny finches inside flit about their home of bars, her eyes wide, her mouth drawn into a frown.
This was the sad girl who had run away, the one who stared at the caged birds as if she were right there beside them.
“Don’t you miss your family? Don’t you want what they can give you? I mean, Christ, Anne. You’ve just slept in a whorehouse for two days pretending to be my wife. You’re wearing rags. And now I’m supposed to just let you walk away and fend for yourself as some ballerina girl. Didn’t you have the world at your feet?”
Anne silently stripped off her glove and wiggled her finger between the bars, clicking softly to a yellow canary sitting along on a perch while the other finches hopped around the cage. “I have a parrot named Raja with fine blue and green feathers. He came with me from India.” The bird edged closer, tilting its head toward her. A soft smile spread across her lips while her eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t you think we should let them all go?” She turned to Alex, a tear running down her cheek. She didn’t move to brush it away, she simply looked at him, imploring him to fix the world for her. And damn if he didn’t want to do just that.
Alex scratched the back of his neck before stepping closer. He wished to say yes, he wanted to say yes to bring back her smile and he didn’t understand. Before Anne, there had only been his mother and the mysterious woman who helped him and Danny escape. But Anne was different. Anne clouded his head and put a strange pressure against his chest, and that black mood that was slowly consuming him was held off by her soft voice. No doubt she could tame the rowdy crowds of London with a voice such as hers. She was a beauty through and through. A rare rose.
“No one sets a caged bird free, darling. I suppose that’s what makes them beautiful.”
Anne wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and straightened. “Of course. How foolish.” She turned and continued on her way, her head held high as she passed the towers of cages, a kingdom of kept creatures.
“If you stay out of trouble, perhaps we can sneak back one night and do so.”
She glanced back over her shoulder and stopped, looping her arm around his. She dropped her head against his shoulder for a moment, one searing moment that set his body on fire. “Wouldn’t that be lovely? Even if we never do so, what a pretty thought to think of all those birds flying off under the cover of night.”
They walked side by side until the theater rose from across a busy square. He slowed, following Anne’s lead as she took in the scene before them. The intersection was busy, the cafes crowded, and the air smelled of tobacco and garlic. Peddlers yelled, shouting for passersby to buy international newspapers. The square itself was shabby, the grass sodden, and the iron fence surrounding it rickety.
“La vie de bohème,” Anne whispered, unlinking their arms. She stopped in front of the theater and took a deep breath, her arms on her hips. “This could be the start of everything, Alex. Can’t you feel it?”
He shrugged, unable to take his eyes off her. Regretfully, he handed her her bag. “Listen, Anne—”
She waved him off, spinning in a circle instead and nearly tripping and collapsing to the ground.
He reached out his hand and steadied her. “I wish you the best.” He reached into his pocket, already feeling the loss of what he was about to do. He filled her palm with the money she left on the nightstand. “Try to keep out of trouble. I suspect I’ll be finding myself by the docks. If you’re in need of a friend.”
Anne quickly took the money and stuffed it inside her reticule, then looked up, beaming. “You know, you could always come find me. I’ll be the one onstage.” She winked, then spun around, leaping through the air before she laughed and knocked on the door.
And that was it of Anne, the girl he meant to rob blind. She didn’t put any food in his stomach, but she had given him something far more—a fire in his belly to conquer London.
CHAPTER FOUR
Minnie rented a bed not far from the theater. It had been an age since she was over on the continent, but she adored how international her new home was. She roomed with three others who also worked as ballerina girls. As luck would have it, a new ballet was about to begin and the theater needed more dancers.
Her flat mates often slept in on the mornings, then left for their day full of dance, not returning until well past midnight after attending the soirées dansantes. In the little time they spent in the room, they laughed and chatted among themselves, sometimes practicing their moves with the aid of a chair. Minnie watched, ever the outsider. They had barely spoken to her since she moved in. When she dared ask for advice, they laughed and told her to return to her fancy balls, mocking her posh accent. They told her that the waltz while husband hunting would be the only dance she’d ever experience.
Without their help, she expected lace and tutus during auditions. She expected something far grander than the room that met her, filled with dancers in their walking dresses. They shed their bonnets and shawls, but kept on their gloves as the ballet master begin drilling them all.
The cane chair squeaked beneath her as Minnie tapped her toes in a fluttering beat. The chaperones sat on the other side of the room, looking dire, always watchful of their charges.
She bent down to retighten the ribbons on her new ballet slippers for the fifth time. It had been a luxury to buy them new, but she was required to buy all of her costume, including the silk stockings. Minnie didn’t think chasing after one’s dreams should be done in second-hand shoes.
“At the barre,” the instructor cried.
This was going to be the start to a very long day if Minnie couldn’t shake the tremble that haunted her limbs. Her hand curled over the wooden barre as she listened to the teacher calling out positions. She kept her middle tight and straight as if a string were attached to her head, pulling her upward toward the ceiling. Her body matched the instructor’s demands, bending and arching into the perfect illusion of a ballerina. Through each movement, she couldn’t help but focus back on the group of chaperones.
Her stomach knotted. What would it be like if Clara had agreed for her to pursue dance as she encouraged Minnie’s sister, Grace, to play piano? She’d still have her family, she’d have a place to go return to and be truly at home. Maybe she’d have the funds for a meal instead of having to ration some bread and rotting fruit for the week.
When Minnie was younger, when she had traveled from India to England the first time, newly an orphan and under the care of her wild uncle, and Clara had arrived at Burton Hall to be the
ir new governess, it seemed as if she had found a caring friend. But Clara’s concern over Minnie’s clumsy balance as a small girl quickly transformed into nagging as Minnie grew and traveled with the family back to the East once her uncle was appointed a diplomat to India.
No one understood. No one cared what Minnie wished for in her own life. No one paid attention to her accomplishments, as they had with the rest of the children. Their concern was with dressing Minnie up like the rest of the debutantes and forcing her to behave for the sake of a silly title. As if a title could limit one’s ability to live. A title was trivial compared to the passion and fire that dwelled inside her, the passion to truly live a full life outside of stuffy salons and overcrowded ballrooms.
She stumbled, allowing her thoughts to get the best of her.
Focus, focus.
Arm there, leg stretched, fingers curled like so. The violin played in the small room, the chalk dust clouding Minnie’s eyes as she blinked and stifled a cough.
She survived the first round of auditions, and after a brief break for lunch, of which Minnie had none to eat, they lined up to dance a short routine. The music thrummed in her veins. Her body moved forward, her mind memorizing the positions, her heart beating them into life. While her other flat mates were out, she had practiced alone in her room. And when they were asleep, she rose with the sun to do the same. She imitated the moves they practiced from time to time, and then just practiced what she remembered of the few ballets she had attended with her family while traveling.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself on stage, wearing a beautiful costume, the lights hot on her skin as she floated over the stage in a graceful attitude derrière. Her fingers arched out in a gentle wave, soft, as the instructor demanded. She stretched her arm upward, pushing up onto her toes into a perfect petit fouetté.
It was flawless until her extended foot slipped and struck the metal can behind her. Water splashed over the floor, pooling at her feet. Her slippers slid and she collapsed, spoiling her only decent walking dress. The violinist stopped, then silence filled the room.
A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) Page 4
