A strange twist of possession swept over Minnie, clutching at her chest. She forced her smile to stay while inside a storm brewed, one fed on lies and one tiny truth—she’d been charmed by Alex Marwick, even captivated.
*
She’d been charmed sure enough in the beginning. But as another month passed, the attic grew to be an oven, and Alex grew to be a bear in between the days where he could charm a nun into bed with that smile of his. The mattress stuffed with bits and bobs was lumpy, and her ankle still ached as she climbed up and down those steep stairs.
Minnie grew tired of smelling of rotten fish. It sank into her skin, clung to her hair. The crime of it was that she almost grew accustomed to the smell. She missed smelling of roses and her fine dresses. She missed having proper meals with meat instead of only once or twice a month. Between the bread Mrs. Bowen made and the few scraps of potato peelings, Minnie was lucky if she could sink her teeth into something that was fresh and not rotten.
But nearly every time she returned to the attic along the Thames, she lost her resolve to return home.
A week after her arrival at Mrs. Bowen’s, Minnie had searched for a job. She couldn’t be a seamstress, she never took her needlecraft seriously. She applied at an agency who had yet to find her another position after she quit the first one. Minnie didn’t possess the patience needed to be a shop girl. She helped Mrs. Bowen with the laundry until she had quite literally stumbled into a music hall as a summer deluge of rain poured from the skies while she ran errands one afternoon.
The proprietor, one rotund and bald Mr. Simons, laughed at her when she asked if he needed any additional dancers. When he asked if she could pull a pint, she had replied, “With a smile, sir,” even as her eyes remained trained on a few dancers performing the can-can.
She’d been a barmaid since, even a maid when Mr. Simons demanded it. She scrubbed the floors, mended costumes (even if the mending was poor), assisted the dancers, pulled pints, and flirted with the customers. Some days, when she missed Grace and James, it was hard to pretend her life was going according to plan. But pint after pint, she kept her eyes on that stage. One way or another, she’d be up there someday.
Minnie plunged her hands into the filthy water, scrubbing until her black hands went red. She frowned at the scrapes along her knuckles, the way her once-soft hands now included nails that would not scrub entirely clean, the way her skin became rough.
She’d spent the night cleaning up after a rowdy group of gentlemen, avoiding their well-aimed slaps at her bottom, blushing not out of lust but of embarrassment as they eyed her cleavage in the uniform Mr. Simons made all the female workers wear. It was a brilliant eggplant, the dress fine enough, but the cut was too low for Minnie. She felt all legs and arms.
And now on top of fish, she smelled of stale beer and cigars. She expected Mrs. Bowen to march upstairs any night now and toss her out for being a tart. Minnie wouldn’t blame her. She felt cheap as she scrubbed off the rouge on her cheeks and the little she had dabbed on her lips. The beauty mark she had drawn on her cheekbone with kohl refused to budge. It was a phantom mark; another reminder of how she failed to be what was expected of a girl like Minnie Ravensdale.
She hadn’t run away to become a barmaid.
Minnie drew back the thin curtain to an empty room. It had been three nights since her husband had left and hadn’t returned. Minnie hated that she was quickly turning into one of those “wives,” the ones who worried and fussed.
She sighed, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the attic. This wasn’t like she imagined it would be when she ran away, but needs must. It wasn’t like Alex to leave her alone, but he’d disappeared, not returning to Mrs. Bowen’s for two days now. He never let her walk to work by herself. He was always there, watching over her as if the world would swallow her up in his absence.
Except he had left.
There was no time to fuss over someone, no matter how helpful. She started this alone and if he had truly left, then she would continue on her own. Like one does. As one must. Tears built at the back of her throat, a choking thickness that threatened to break her stern exterior. But that wouldn’t do. Minnie whacked the limp pillow with her fist, a few feathers flying out upon impact. When it wouldn’t give, she punched it again. And then once more, her knees now up on the bed. She imagined Alex’s smug face and punched again. The stubborn, annoying man.
Ha, left her. Well, Minnie would show him.
The door opened as her fist was suspended in midair, ready to strike the unsuspecting pillow once more.
“Right in there, now, Mr. Marwick.”
Minnie froze, as a group ushered Alex into the attic. She didn’t bother to cover herself in her nightdress; she was too preoccupied with the state of her fake husband.
“Missing something?” someone asked her. She knew it was one of the women who worked at the tavern on the corner, but she couldn’t remember names just then. Laughter crowded around her, but there wasn’t a thing funny about the awful sight stumbling into the room. “Mr. Hawkins said he found him in some alley.”
Minnie vaulted from the bed, dragging Alex by his untucked shirt away from the others standing in their room, staring at them both with pity.
“A new husband already lost to drink,” one said. “I never would have guessed,” another chimed in. “He seemed like the good sort. Besotted, even.”
“Young love,” the other said, nodding.
Mrs. Bowen climbed the stairs, praying to God and cursing the devil. “Alex Marwick isn’t a drunkard like the rest of them,” she shouted, catching her breath as the entered the room. “I won’t believe my own eyes. Set him straight, Anne. I won’t tolerate behavior—”
“Enough,” Minnie cut in forcefully. “I can handle things from here.” Their commentary added nothing but trouble, and she had enough in the grip of her hand.
“Oohhh,” they cackled, “Mr. Marwick, you’re in a hot spot of trouble, you are.”
“Mrs. Marwick,” Mrs. Bowen said, drawing her apron up to her nose as Alex wavered on his feet in the middle of the room. “I’ll be collecting my rent this week, no matter if your husband drank it all away.” She shook her head and made the sign of the cross, then darted out of the room, yelling at the others to get out of her house.
The door slammed shut behind the women, leaving Minnie behind to face the unnatural quiet of their room and a horrible stench.
Alex’s eyes were blank, his face all but rearranged in bruises and cuts. Fighting, no doubt. More like the lack of fighting, by the looks. It didn’t appear as if he attempted to defend himself.
She shoved her hands against his chest, driving him back a step. He fixed his gaze on her but didn’t speak.
“Fine,” she mumbled. She stormed behind the curtain strung up in the corner and grabbed the dirty bowl of water, dumping it out the window before returning it to the washstand and pouring in fresh water. “Clean yourself up.” She threw a rag at him, but his hand remained at his side.
He should have caught that rag. He caught everything thrown in his direction. She had suffered his stupid game of catch with that rubber ball often enough to know.
“You’ve been gone for three days,” she said, approaching him with care. Alex looked as if he belonged to another world, his body slack, his eyes all but lifeless pools of blue like stagnant puddles of rainwater. Regret and something stronger, fear perhaps, gripped her stomach. With his shoulders slumped forward, he didn’t appear so tall now, nor as strong.
“Sit down.” He studied her as if she were a stranger. Minnie reached out and placed her fingers over his swollen and bloodied lips. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but you need to clean up.”
Finally, Alex nodded.
A sliver of hope wedged its way into her chest. She guided him to sit as she brought over the washbasin and sank to her knees. “When I said you should act the role of the straying husband, I didn’t mean for you to disappear on me.” Not a hint of a smile or a wicked gleam in his eye a
s she tried to lighten the mood. She swallowed and plunged her hands into the cool water, half relieved he’d returned, half dismayed at his condition. “I see you’re talkative as always.” She bit back the anger edging up within herself and washed his face clean. She gently dabbed the cloth over open wounds and more bruises, then grabbed his hands and did the same. Minnie frowned as the water darkened with blood and soot. She dumped out the water once more, than refilled the basin and placed it behind the curtain. “You can see to the rest.”
His hand hovered above her shoulder, his fingers frozen with indecision to tuck her loose hair behind her ears. Alex remained still, stuck between the worlds of the living and that of his own mind.
Minnie hauled him to his feet, his body tensing against hers as if her touch was painful. No doubt it was, by the swollen blue and black patches etched into his skin. “Go on,” she coaxed, pushing him behind the curtain. The shadow of his body didn’t move. “I’ll not clean up the rest of you. You’re capable of it.”
He bowed his head and sighed.
She watched from bed in the opposite corner, the covers tucked underneath her chin. Minnie drew in a breath as he pulled his shirt over his head. Her eyes traced the outlines of his body’s shadow, wondering how his skin would feel beneath her fingers. If it would be soft or rough like his hands. She wondered if he had other tattoos, if his body was bruised and bloodied like his face. Minnie wanted to wash it away—the pain and dirt, if that were true.
She wanted…what was she thinking? He had left her without a word.
Minnie flipped over, staring at the wall as she listened to Alex wring out the rag, water falling into the washbasin in a slow drip.
She was drifting asleep when he reemerged. His quiet footfalls filled the tense air in the attic as he staggered to turn down the lamp’s flame by the wash basin.
“I couldn’t remember,” he said, barely a whisper.
She waited until he settled onto the floor on his heap of grain sacks before peering over the edge of the mattress. Alex lay stiff over the dirty floorboards, staring up at the ceiling, his hands braced across his stomach.
It hadn’t mattered before now whether Alex was in or out of her life. True, she had missed him while she was trying to dance. And yes, she had grown dependent on his ability to make her laugh after a rough day. She even looked forward to the end of her work shift not because the day was done, but because she knew he’d be outside, leaning up against the wall with his cap drawn over his face, chucking that rubber ball of his up and down.
But it had mattered these last few days. It mattered tonight when he returned and all she wanted to do was hug him, maybe even kiss him. She always was dreaming of kissing Alex.
She grabbed the pillow from beneath her head, then the ratty blanket at the end of the bed, and dumped both on top of him. “Go to sleep, Alex.”
*
It was the shame of it that unsettled Alex. Especially when he woke up to Anne sprawled against the mattress they had stuffed with rags. Her hands dry, her lips chapped. The light had gone out of her, and he felt entirely responsible.
And to think he might have left her? What if he had ended up dead in alleyway? It was possible considering his black moods. There were days and hours of his life he couldn’t remember. Faces and places slipped from his mind and he’d awake, as if beginning life anew. Except this time he had been returned to Anne. This time he didn’t want to start anew. The only thing he had wanted to do last night when he remembered the truth was crawl into that sorry excuse of a bed and kiss her. He’d dreamed of it, ached from the wanting of it.
Of how her face would fit in his hands as he gently cupped her cheeks. Of the way her eyes would lit up in challenge as they volleyed flirtations back and forth. But mostly how it would feel to have her lips against his until he knew what it was to share something special with a woman. Something far grander than he knew.
He left before she stirred. Guilt stabbed him in the gut as he shut the door to the attic. She had been so upset he had left, and now he was doing it yet again. But he had to puzzle together what had happened the past few days. And though he’d rather be back in that attic, sleeping until the end of the week, he walked out into a hot, foggy morning, and headed for the docks.
It wasn’t quick work. The hours bled into each other. Alex was exhausted when he returned, artfully dodging Mrs. Bowen in the kitchen. But that hadn’t mattered because as he climbed the stairs, Anne was spinning in the hallway while women from the neighboring houses cheered her on. She wasn’t their pretty pet, though she was plenty naïve to eat out of their hands at their easy compliments. The women smiled at his approach, sending elbows and whispers this way and that. But Anne was still spinning, her legs exposed as she lifted her skirts higher, laughing at some private joke.
“What on Earth are you wearing?” he yelled.
The spinning stopped, next the laughter. Her smile fell as soon as she faced him. Anne was about to say something, no doubt a sassy retort about his interruption, but he didn’t give her the opportunity. He dragged her up to the attic.
Anne stuck her nose high in the air as soon as they passed through the doorway. “Tabitha loaned me a dress.”
“For Christ’s sake, cover up.” Alex yanked the blanket from the bed on the floor and chucked it at her.
She stumbled backward, her hands flailing as she removed it from her face. “Alex! Really.”
Chatter echoed in the hallway, and stifled laughter as he pawed at Anne’s chest to cover up. She swatted him, tumbling backward into the chair. He rushed forward with the blanket again, trying to cover her up.
Anne kicked him in the shin, her arms akimbo. “You’re being ridiculous!”
“You can’t leave dressed like that.”
“This is a very nice dress,” she said, leaning around him to address the chittering audience in the hallway. “Thank you again, Tabitha,” she shouted. “The color is lovely.”
“Anytime, pet. You’re a picture.”
“She’s good enough to eat,” Mrs. McWilliams shouted back. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Marwick?”
Alex stalked to the door and slammed it shut on a chorus of jeers and giggles.
“Give it to her, Mr. Marwick,” they yelled. “It’ll look even better off!”
“Remember what we told you, love,” Tabitha yelled.
He spun around to Anne. “What did they tell you?” He raked his hand through his hair, throwing down his cap in defeat. “No, don’t tell me. Forget everything they said and put on another dress.”
“Or what?”
“I won’t let you leave.”
Anne balled the blanket up in her hands. “We need money or I’ll be in the streets at the end of the week.” As she lofted her nose to him once more, a piece of hair fell loose from her updo and softly framed her face. “Am I wrong in guessing you’ve lost your wages?”
He didn’t have a coin to his name, and that was the damned truth. He’d spent it on only God knows what. And the foreman on the docks had informed him he no longer had a position. Apparently he had started a brawl that injured a few men. How, Alex couldn’t guess. He wasn’t much of a fighter. He only knew that the natural response of his body was to fight. There was a large difference between the two.
“You can always go back to wherever you ran from.” Though he doubted they’d let the devil back into hell.
She stormed around him and tossed the blanket back onto the bed. Anne ran a hand over it until the wrinkles were smooth, then fluffed the pillow. That dress of hers made him too uncomfortable. He preferred to keep it uncomplicated. Not think of her in such a way, as a man thinks of a woman. Even if he did dream of kissing her. What as a man like Alex ever supposed to do with a girl like Anne? He didn’t know the first thing about loving someone.
“What’s your plan then?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. The heat trapped in the attic all but strangled him as he dragged in a breath of hot air. “I’
m sure you can do it without looking like that.”
Anne spun around, her skirts twirling out around her. “If my dress bothers you, turn your back. I didn’t ask for your approval, nor do I need it.”
“Your plan?” It was an annoying habit of hers to answer only when it served her purpose.
“Well, I won’t be boxing,” she replied tartly. “Although you do look rather sporting.” She stuck her tongue out and made a dash for the door, but he was quicker and held it shut.
“It’s nearly dark.”
Anne peered over his shoulder then met his angry stare. “It appears so. Lucky for me I don’t have to work this evening.”
Alex threw his head back toward the ceiling. He wasn’t a religious man by any means, but he prayed for divine intervention just then. “I thought I would try my hand at fighting to earn a bit extra.”
The lie had just fell from of his lips as easy taking a breath. He cringed as her shoulders dropped.
Anne narrowed her eyes at him, nervously biting on the edge of her lip. “Well, you proved that you’re not a proficient prizefighter. You scared me returning in the state you did.” And just as the wind picks up, she was full of gusto again, wagging her finger in his face. “So that leaves me. Now, if you would move aside, I have to be on my way.”
You scared me.
If he wasn’t so stunned, he might have caught her as she swooped under his arm and slipped out the door. “Where?” he yelled after her as she rushed down the stairs.
“The casino. The nice one by the hospital. I’m going to try my hand at cards.”
Bloody. Perfect.
“That’s a gentleman’s club.” Alex ducked back into their attic room for his worn coat, then rushed after her. “You’re not going alone,” he said, taking two stairs at a time to catch up.
“Of course I am.” Anne floated into the busy dining room, taking care to evade his reach. “I can’t have you with me, looking like that.”
Alex glanced down at his clothes, confused. He brushed back his hair and tugged at his coat. It would be a cold day in Hell before he allowed her outside, dressed as she was. At night. In Whitechapel, of all places. Alex sure as hell was going.
A Proper Scandal (Ravensdale Family Book 2) Page 7
