“Are we almost there?”
“Almost. We’re on Fleet now. Incidentally, Cam,” he added, “I had my man purchase a few things for her and take ’em to your digs. Shoes and stockings, petticoat, frock—I told him she was about my Cousin Lucie’s size. If they don’t fit, we’ll send him for more.”
“Thoughtful of you.”
“Can’t have her running about naked. Catch her death of cold.”
Shame about the clothes, I thought, but duds like them would only get me into trouble in St. Giles. Wouldn’t Big Moll’s eyes pop out of ’er ’ead when I told her about my adventures, and wouldn’t the girls turn green when I told ’em about Richard Bancroft and his velvet suit and the sack of sugared almonds. They’d never believe the carriage and the coachman and groom in tan velvet livery with gold braid. Wouldn’t believe it myself, come to think of it. Leaning against the plush upholstery, my stomach full, I sighed, enjoying myself immensely.
Through the window I could see booksellers’ shops and printers’ establishments and cozy-looking coffeehouses, wonderful places with fancy brick fronts and plate glass windows. Archways led into intriguing courtyards. Harried-looking chaps with flapping coattails and windblown hair dashed about waving papers or carrying armloads of books. Plump, distinguished gents in gray wigs and sensible frock coats stood in front of the coffeehouses, arguing ardently over some heated literary subject. Critics and publishers. Poets and journalists. Newsboys waving the latest editions. This was Fleet Street, the famous thoroughfare that daily provided the city with a flood of words, dozens of newspapers and journals, a barrage of broadsheets, books by the score, an unending cascade of printed matter. Heaven it was. I’d have to explore it one of these days, maybe steal some of those books settin’ out there on tables on the pavement.
The carriage turned off Fleet onto Holywell and a few moments later halted in front of Number Ten, a great, shambly building four stories high with an archway in front leading into the courtyard. Ancient yellow brick. Fancy wooden balconies strung across the front. High pitched rooftops and tall chimneypots. A chophouse, a tavern and a butter and cheese shop on the ground floor. Folks who lived at Number Ten wouldn’t have to go far for victuals. Through the narrow archway I caught glimpses of a pump and strings of washing billowing in the breeze. Looked wonderfully cozy, I thought. Nothing like it in St. Giles. More’s the pity.
The groom opened the carriage door. Bancroft climbed out and reached in to take my hand. I alighted, sweet and submissive as could be. Gordon joined us, stern, wary. I smiled at him. Bancroft let go of my hand. Gordon reached for me. I seized his hand in both my own and sank my teeth into his palm. He let out a roar. I tasted blood. Quick as a wink I let go of his hand, slammed my fist into his breadbasket and, when he doubled over, clipped him on the jaw for good measure.
“Take that, you bully!”
And then I started running. I ran fast as the wind, feeling a wild elation as my bare feet slapped the pavement. Both men took off after me. I could hear them behind me, boots pounding. I laughed, darting around a corner, flying down another street, leaving them far behind. They weren’t about to catch me. Duchess Randy wudn’t about to be no one’s property. No indeedy. Bloody Scot ’ud just ’ave to find ’imself another slave.
16
Dark orange rays slanted down across the rooftops, spreading thick shadows over the streets. It was growing darker by the minute, colder, too, and I was eager to get back to my coal cellar. I could see the spires of St. George’s up ahead now, the top parts gilded a blazing orange-gold, the lower deep blue, shadowy. I was vastly relieved. I had eluded my pursuers easily enough—after chasing me a few minutes they lost sight of me completely—but in doing so I had lost my way, and it seemed I had been wandering about unfamiliar streets for hours. I was on home ground now. I hurried along, shivering as an icy cold wind swept down the street.
The spires of St. George’s had lost their gilt when I finally reached the church, the majestic stones shrouded with thick blue-black shadows, the faintest glimmer of white marble visible. Beyond, St. Giles crouched like some gigantic brown beast with jaws wide open, ready to swallow me up. I’d be safe in the belly of the beast. Bloody Scot’d never be able to find me. As I scurried past the church I heard a rustling noise. Someone stepped out from behind one of the columns, moving quickly toward me.
“Randy? Is that you?”
It was Sally, plump, jolly Sally with the riotous black curls. She didn’t look very jolly now, though. In the dim, fading light her round face was drawn, her large brown eyes full of fear. She was wearing a tattered pink cotton frock, a flimsy gray wool shawl thrown loosely around her bare shoulders and half-naked bosom. Glancing around apprehensively, she took hold of my arm and pulled me into the shadows.
“Sally!” I exclaimed. “You look like you just seen a ghost.”
“’Ere, get be’ind this column with me. Jesus! I been waitin’ for ’ours an’ ’ours. Waited yesterday, too, all afternoon long an’ ’alf th’ evenin’, an’ then Nan spelled me.”
“You—you’ve been waitin’ for me?”
Sally nodded, black curls bouncing. She pulled me deeper into the shadowy recess behind the column, cautioning me to silence as someone walked past. When the footsteps died away, she heaved a deep sigh of relief.
“Big Moll sent us, said you’d ’ave to pass by St. George’s to get ’ome an’ said for us to stop you. ‘Don’t let that child step foot in St. Giles,’ she ordered. ’E—’e’s after you, Randy.”
“’E? What’re you talkin’ about, Sally?”
“Black Jack Stewart. ’E seen you yesterday mornin’, found out who you were an’ started askin’ questions. ’E—’e found out where you sleep, an’ ’e knows you come to see Big Moll. ’E ’as men stationed both places, waitin’ for you to turn up. ’E—’e wants you.”
I was silent, shivering again, and not from the cold.
“’E came to th’ ’ouse ’isself, ’e did. Slapped Big Moll around, askin’ ’er questions about-ja. All ’is men ’ave a description of you, an’ they’re turnin’ St. Giles upside down, lookin’ for-ya. ’E—’e told Big Moll you were goin’ to be ’is main girl, said ’e was goin’ to break you in ’isself.”
I remembered the tall, skeleton-thin figure in the bottle green breeches and black satin frock coat with dirty gold braid. I remembered the great beak of a nose, the leering lips, the shiny black patch over his right eye, and I remembered the way he had stared at me with his one good eye. That eye hadn’t missed a thing. Alf, the baker’s apprentice, may not have given me away, but it hadn’t taken Black Jack long to find out who I was. I shivered anew, thinking of that stare and what it meant.
“’E means to ’ave you,” Sally said in a shaky voice.
“’E idn’t,” I replied. “’E ain’t about to.”
“Black—Black Jack, there ain’t a man in Lun’on powerful as ’e is. When ’e sets ’is mind to ’ave somethin’—”
“’E ain’t ’avin’ me!”
“Big Moll, she’s awful worried. She says you can’t come back to St. Giles, Randy. It ain’t safe. ’Is men’re combin’ it right now, like I told-ja. You’re in terrible trouble.”
“I know,” I said.
My voice was calm now. I knew what I had to do. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it’d be a ’ell of a lot better than workin’ on my back for Black Jack Stewart. Sally gripped my arm, pulling me close as someone else passed in front of the church. The last dark orange rays had faded now. I peered at the narrow alleyways of St. Giles, a few flickering yellow lights beginning to shine amidst the black brown squalor. I smelled the stench. If I entered that filthy labyrinth I knew so well, Black Jack’s henchmen would nab me for sure.
“What’re you goin’ to do, Randy?” Sally asked.
“I’m skippin’,” I told her. “I met a man yesterday. ’E’s a bad ’un if ever there was one, but—it’s a long story, an’ I ’aven’t time to go into it now, luv.”
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“You’re goin’ to this man?”
I nodded. “Give—give Big Moll my love, Sally. Tell ’er I’ll miss ’er.”
“We’re all gonna miss you, too, Randy,” Sally said. Her voice was quivering with emotion. “You—you’ve been like one uv th’ family. You take care-a yourself, you ’ear.”
She gave me a big hug. Her cheeks were damp with tears. I squeezed her tightly, wanting to cry myself, and then I sighed and squared my shoulders and told her good-bye. Sally stayed huddled behind the column as I hurried away into the darkness, away from St. Giles, away from a life of bondage far worse than that awaiting me on Holywell Street. Cam Gordon was going to be surprised when I turned up on his doorstep, would probably give me a dreadful beating, but I’d be safe with him, far from the clutches of Black Jack and his crew, and I could always run away from him again when things calmed down a bit.
Damn, I thought, trudging along the pavements, retracing my steps. Life was bloody ’ard sometimes. I thought of my beloved Shakespeare book, hidden beneath the floorboard in Hawkins’s coal cellar. I hated leaving it behind. It was my only link with the past, with my mum. I really wanted to cry now. I wanted to bawl. It was rough, bein’ a fighter, bein’ strong and self-sufficient all the time. A scruffy-lookin’ gent in a dark topcoat gave me the eye as I passed an alehouse. He started after me. I whirled around and tole ’im to shove off if ’e didn’t want a dose of th’ clap. A girl couldn’t let ’er guard down for a single minute, couldn’t even walk down th’ street feelin’ sorry for ’erself without ’avin to play the fierce alleycat. Men! Bugger ’em all! Who needed the bleedin’ sods? World ’ud be better off without ’em.
It took me over an hour and a half to find Holywell Street again. A man in the chophouse on the ground floor of Number Ten told me sure, he knew Cam Gordon, chap came in lots-a times, surly bloke, always scowlin’, never ’ad a kind word to say to anyone. He lived on this side of th’ courtyard, on the top floor. He would, I thought, climbing up the stairs. The stairwell was poorly lighted, the wooden steps creaky. I could smell cabbage cooking. A baby was squawling in one of the flats. A light-looking blond in frilly skirts was tussling with a muscular chap on one of the lower landings, giggling merrily as he thrust his hand down her bodice. Nice place, this. It wudn’t all that different from St. Giles after all, just cleaner an’ not so dangerous.
I found the flat. I stood in front of the door, panting a little after all those bloody steps. I could hear voices within. Gordon wasn’t alone. Perhaps he was entertaining the beauteous Lady Evelyn, I thought. No, both voices were male. I caught my breath, straightened my hair a bit and then knocked smartly on the door, bracing myself for the worst.
He opened it. He stared at me. He had removed his frock coat and the maroon neckcloth. His white silk shirt was thin, rather threadbare, open at the throat. The sleeves were full, gathered at the wrists, the tail tucked loosely into the waistband of his snug black breeches. His right hand, I noticed, was bandaged. He held a pewter mug in his left.
“’Ello,” I said pleasantly. “I’ve come ’ome.”
“You have, have you?”
“I wudn’t really runnin’ away,” I explained. “I just wanted to tell all my friends good-bye.”
“Who is it?” Bancroft inquired. He was out of sight, but I couldn’t fail to recognize that voice.
“Guess,” Gordon said.
Bancroft got up and came to the door, standing just behind Gordon. I gave him a smile. He looked utterly dismayed, then delighted. Cam Gordon looked extremely perturbed, and I couldn’t really blame him. When I bite someone I bite hard.
“Ain’t-ja goin’ to ask me in?” I said.
Cam Gordon grabbed my arm with his bandaged hand, jerked me into the room and slammed the door so hard the walls shook. I wasn’t alarmed. I expected a bit of rough treatment.
“I say, this is a surprise,” Bancroft remarked.
“She’s going back!” Gordon thundered. “First thing in the morning I’m taking her back to Fletcher and telling him to hang her!”
“Easy, mate. No need to get carried away.”
“Little savage! The doctor said I might be infected. He smeared medicine all over my hand before he bandaged it. Smarted like hell.”
“I ain’t rabid,” I assured him.
“Shut up! She’s going back, Bancroft. First thing in the morning.”
“What are you going to do with her in the meantime?”
“I’m going to tie her up so tight she can’t move, cram a gag down her throat and lock her in the wardrobe.”
“Why don’t we have another mug of grog first?” Bancroft suggested.
“I should never have agreed to this ridiculous scheme of yours, Bancroft! You and your goddamn good deeds!”
Richard Bancroft grinned, not in the least disturbed by his friend’s heated state. He’d obviously seen Gordon this way a number of times before. Mouth curling merrily, brown eyes amused, he sauntered across the room to pour himself another mug of the mulled wine. It smelled delicious. A fire crackled in the dusty gray-brick fireplace. The room was very large, incredibly messy. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Books and papers littered every available surface and spilled over onto the floor. There was a skylight with cracked panes, stars visible in the sky above. Beneath it, a large wooden table was cluttered with paper, quills, a huge pot of ink, more books. There were cobwebs, balls of dust, stacks of dirty dishes. No wonder ’e couldn’t keep a maid!
“Here, Cam,” Bancroft said, taking Gordon’s empty mug, replacing it with the one he’d just filled. “Calm down. After all, the wench did come back. I think you should give her another chance.”
“I’m going to strangle her!”
Bancroft glanced casually around the room. “I’d wait a day or two,” he said, “let her clean the place up first.”
Gordon snorted and flung himself into an overstuffed green chair with the padding coming out through a split in one arm. He drank his mulled wine with an angry furrow between his brows, chucked the empty mug aside and looked at me with fiery blue eyes. I moved over to warm my backside in front of the fire. Bancroft perched lazily on the arm of a disreputable blue sofa with sprung button, watching us both with amused eyes.
“You’re going to work your tail off!” Gordon told me.
“Yessir,” I said meekly.
“You’re going to obey my every order.”
“Yessir,” I said sweetly.
“Is that quite clear?”
“Clear as can be.”
“Take off those filthy rags. Toss ’em in the fire.”
“Up your arse, you bleedin’ lecher! You ain’t seein’ my teats an’ my tail, not bleedin’ likely! No man’s ever laid eyes on ’em, and you ain’t about to be th’ first!”
He got out of the chair. He stalked across the room, flung open the door of an enormous wardrobe, pulled down a rumpled maroon satin dressing robe. He marched over to me, thrust the robe into my hands and said he’d give me exactly sixty seconds to take off those stinking rags.
“Turn around,” I snapped.
He scowled. He turned around.
“You, too,” I told Bancroft.
He looked very disappointed, but he turned his back, too. I peeled off my ragged violet-blue dress and the filthy petticoat beneath and tossed them both into the flames. Naked as the day I was born, I slipped on the robe. It was much too big, of course, and it smelled of dust and camphor, but the satin was delicious-feeling against my skin. I knotted the sash around my waist, pushed the long sleeves up over my elbows and told the men they could peek now.
Cam Gordon seized my wrist and dragged me roughly into another room, a kitchen of sorts. A huge, ugly fireplace with hooks for big black pots to hang over the flames. An immense cupboard, doors hanging loosely on the hinges. A wooden table heaped high with dirty dishes, cheese rinds, empty bottles, a hunk of sausage dried up hard as leather. The dark, smoky walls were adorned with mildew patterns. A large tin bat
h set against one wall. Gordon pointed it out to me, eyes flashing blue fire.
“There’s the tub! There’s a pump in the courtyard. Take those kettles over there down and fill ’em up with water. Bring the water back. Heat it. Fill the tub. Scrub yourself until every layer of grime is gone.”
“I couldn’t go down to the courtyard like this,” I informed him, ever so reasonable.
Blue flames flashed. Mouth tightened. Hands looked as though they longed to fly at my throat. I smiled sweetly, meek and submissive. Cam Gordon didn’t explode, not quite. He took the kettles down to the courtyard himself, and Bancroft helped me drag the tub into the other room and place it in front of the fireplace. Much too cold to bathe in the kitchen, we explained when the irate Scot returned. The water was heated, poured into the tub. Gordon gave me a hunk of soap, a towel, then brought in the clothes Bancroft’s man had brought earlier on.
“Bathe!” he ordered.
“You an’ th’ other gentleman’ll ’ave to leave the room.”
“Jesus! I’m going to do it. I’m going to kill her!”
“Look, Cam, why don’t we pop over to The Red Doe and have something a mite stronger than this wine. You could use a few, mate. We’ll leave the wench to perform her ablutions in private. You can lock the door behind us.”
Gordon agreed reluctantly. He would have preferred to stay and choke the life out of me. They left. I heard a key turning in the lock. I whipped off the robe, grabbed the hunk of soap and climbed into the tub. The water was deliciously warm. I scrubbed and scrubbed, reveling in the luxury of sweet-smelling soap and thick, foamy lather. Layers of grime vanished. Skin began to take on a lovely glow. The flames crackled in the fireplace. An old brass clock on the mantle tick-tocked lazily. I continued to scrub, losing track of time. I washed my hair, rinsed it, washed it again, and when I finally stepped out of the tub over an hour had passed.
Naked, curiously content, I dried off and idly examined the clothes Gordon had tossed onto a chair. Wonderful soft-blue kid slippers with heels two inches high. Fine white silk stockings so thin they were almost transparent. A white silk petticoat, thicker silk, rich and creamy, the skirt like billowing petals. A muslin frock, pale lime green sprigged with tiny, darker green leaves and tiny blue flowers. Jemminy! Must-a cost a bleedin’ fortune, an’ brand new! I fondled the garments, rubbing the glorious silk against my cheek, stroking the soft leather, hesitating a long time before daring to put them on.
Once More, Miranda Page 22
