The Cockney Sparrow

by Dilly Court

  Clemency dodged past her. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Don’t think you can fool me, my girl.’ Nancy glared at her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I – I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t put on that innocent face with me. I could see it coming a mile off. I thought you was up to something when you didn’t come down for supper last night.’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ Clemency started to back away but Nancy caught her by the sleeve.

  ‘You leave Jared alone. I’ve looked after him since he was a little boy, and I don’t want to see him get hurt by the likes of you.’

  ‘How could I hurt a man like him?’

  ‘He was born a gentleman, and you was born in the gutter. You’re encouraging him in his bad ways. If he keeps on after that bloody foreigner, he’ll end up dead like his poor father. For some reason he’s soft on you, girl, and you’ve got to talk him out of his obsession with that man. It ain’t healthy.’

  Clemency bit her lip. Nancy knew Jared better than anyone and she loved him too. Perhaps she was right. ‘Is he upstairs?’

  Nancy shook her head. ‘There’s no one in except you and me. Miss Isobel sent a message saying that she’s staying in Half Moon Street for another night. Ronnie and Augustus are bound to be late, and your mum ain’t showed up yet. I knew exactly how it would be, and I’d have to do supper all on me own. You can forget your airs and graces and give us a hand in the kitchen.’

  Reluctantly, Clemency followed her downstairs to the basement. She donned an apron and began peeling potatoes while Nancy cut up some rancid-smelling mutton and tossed it into a pot on the hob. ‘When he comes in, I wants you to promise me that you’ll try to talk him out of his madness.’

  ‘I will. Of course I will, but where is he?’

  ‘How should I know? He could be floating in the Thames, bloated and swollen with the fishes eating his eyeballs for all I know.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that.’

  ‘You’ve been encouraging him, so it’ll be your fault.’ Nancy stabbed a piece of gristle with the point of her knife.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ Clemency cried, tearing off her apron.

  ‘And where d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘Away from you and your nagging. It’s getting late and I’m going to meet Ma. I don’t like her roaming the streets with the Ripper still at large.’

  ‘That’s silly. What could a skinny little thing like you do to protect either of you from a madman?’

  A vision of Todd Hardiman flashed through her head, and Clemency rammed her hat on her head, securing it with a hatpin. ‘He’s never attacked two women at a time. If I go now I’ll be safe enough. There’ll still be folks heading home from work and I’ll run all the way.’

  ‘Jared won’t like it,’ Nancy said. ‘He’ll be mad as fire with me for letting you go out on your own in the evening.’

  ‘According to you, I’m a bad influence on him anyway. So you should be glad if I’m out of the way.’

  ‘He cares for you, you stupid girl. What do I tell him when he comes home?’

  Clemency snatched up her reticule. ‘Tell him what you like, but I’m going anyway.’

  She left by the servants’ entrance and ran until a stitch in her side made her stop to draw breath. The streets were much quieter now and the sun had plummeted in the west, leaving the sky streaked with crimson and purple. She continued at a slower pace, casting nervous glances into the openings of the dark alleyways, and looking over her shoulder to make sure that she was not being followed. Clouds of steam hung in a pall over Liverpool Street Station, but the sound of chugging engines, whistles and the general hubbub of a busy terminal were oddly comforting. She crossed Bishopsgate, and entered a different and more sinister network of streets that were little more than dark canyons between tall buildings. She jumped at every small sound, and eyed the men who were slouched in doorways with suspicion. She did not know if she was more afraid of the Ripper or Hardiman. As she neared Flower and Dean Street, the denizens of the night were appearing as if from nowhere. Prostitutes hung about on street corners. Sailors of all nationalities strolled along with their rolling gait as if the deck of the ship was still pitching and tossing beneath their feet. Dockers, navvies and clerks with leather patches on their elbows disappeared through open pub doors that exuded the smell of stale beer, sweating bodies and tobacco smoke.

  Clemency hurried on until she reached Flower and Dean Street. Dusk had swallowed up the last glimmers of daylight, and the lamplighter was doing his rounds. She could have cried with relief when she reached the lodging house. She opened the gate that led down to the area. She would go in through Jack’s old room and give Ma and Mrs Blunt a pleasant surprise. She ran down the steps into almost complete darkness. She felt her way to the door, and was groping for the handle when a pair of calloused hands closed around her throat. She kicked out with her feet but the vice-like grip tightened. She could not breathe. She knew that she was about to die.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clemency opened her eyes, but she could see nothing. Her throat felt bruised and sore, and her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed to be stuck to her palate. Her head ached, and she couldn’t move her hands or her feet. Noise filled her ears: a deafening rumble of wheels and the thundering of horses’ hooves – she was being tossed from side to side against the leather squabs of a moving carriage. The fog of fear and pain cleared slowly from her brain, and she realised that she was bound hand and foot. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she could just make out the figure of a man seated opposite her. She opened her mouth to scream, but all she could utter was a feeble croak.

  ‘Make a sound, and I’ll finish you off this time.’

  She closed her eyes again, praying that this was a nightmare, but when she opened them she could see that it was Todd Hardiman who had abducted her. She licked her dry lips, forming the word with difficulty. ‘Why?’ He leaned towards her, and she retched as she caught the overpowering odour of his unclean body.

  ‘Got a sore throat, ducks?’ He took a hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the cap, holding it to her lips. ‘Drink.’

  She gulped thirstily. The liquid had a strange taste. Dimly she wondered if he had poisoned her, but her head was swimming, and the interior of the carriage was spinning round and round. The sound of his laughter grew fainter until it became a distant echo.

  When she opened her eyes again, she was almost blinded by the bright light of day. As she came slowly to her senses, she realised that she was no longer in a carriage. She was lying on a bunk in a room that moved up and down. She squinted into the source of the light. Through the porthole she could see water, grey-green waves flecked with white foam. She tried to sit up, but fell back against the pillows, overcome by a wave of nausea. Was this part of the same nightmare? Or was she really on a ship at sea? The cabin door opened, and Hardiman squeezed into the small space. His mouth curved in a contemptuous grin. ‘Not feeling too well?’ He jerked her roughly to a sitting position, and thrust a mug into her hands. ‘Here, drink this. I don’t want you puking all over me boots when we land.’

  ‘Wh-what is it?’ Clemency sniffed the brown liquid. It smelt like tea, but she vaguely remembered drinking something in the coach that had made her sleep.

  ‘It’s tea. Drink it, or do I have to pour it down your throat? Don’t think I won’t do it, neither.’

  She sipped the tea. It was strong and sweet, and it soothed her sore throat. Surprisingly it also settled the queasiness in her stomach. She peered at him over the rim of the mug. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Hardiman made a noise in his throat, halfway between a growl and a chuckle. ‘If it was just for meself, I’d have pitched you into the river. But I got orders from the Frenchman.’

  Clemency’s heart seemed to leap into her throat, choking her. She could barely breathe. ‘M-Marceau?’

  He produce
d a length of cord from his pocket, and, taking the mug from her hand, he lashed her wrists together. ‘He’s paying me well to bring you to Paris in one piece. But if you gives me any trouble, I’ll enjoy giving you what for, and bugger the Frenchie.’ He left the cabin and she heard the key turn in the lock.

  She lay back on the bunk and closed her eyes. Her head ached miserably and she had a terrible taste in her mouth. She was too numb with shock to feel frightened. All she could think about was Jared. He wouldn’t know where to look for her. She might never see him again. Ma would be frantic with worry. She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

  Every time she opened her eyes, she was in a different place. The cabin gave way to a white-walled room that smelt strongly of tobacco, only not the kind that Jack smoked at home. There were people chattering in a foreign language. A woman wearing a huge white headdress that flapped like a seagull’s wings was feeling her forehead. Clemency thought dimly that she must be a nun. She tried to beg for help but no one around her seemed to understand. The nun made sympathetic noises, and held a glass to her lips. She did not want to drink, but her throat was parched and she sipped the bitter-tasting brew. The kindly face and the white wings spun into a vortex and disappeared.

  When she struggled back to semi-consciousness she was once again in a horse-drawn carriage. She could not keep her eyes open: her lids were heavy and all she wanted to do was to sleep. Wheels rumbling over cobblestones – pounding hooves – Clemency had the sensation of hurtling through space.

  Then all was silent and the movement had ceased. She opened her eyes, blinked, closed them and slowly opened them again, one at a time. She was lying on bed looking up at a painted ceiling. Fat little cherubs cavorted with brightly coloured birds amongst gilded flowers. She raised herself on her elbow and gazed in amazement at walls covered in silk and hung with oil paintings. The furnishings would have graced a palace, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. The door opened and a maidservant entered the room. She approached the bed, smiling shyly.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ She plucked a diaphanous garment from the chair beside the bed, and held it up so that the material shimmered in the candlelight.

  Clemency sat up slowly. She felt light-headed, and the gilded cherubs seemed to be laughing at her. She realised, with a shock, that beneath the satin sheets she was stark naked. The maid seemed to want her to get up, and she did not want to spend another moment in this grand, canopied bed. She attempted to stand, but her legs felt weak and she sat down again, shaking her head. Eventually, with the aid of sign language and a helping hand from the maid, she managed to walk into the marbled-tiled bathroom. Hot water gushed out of taps shaped like exotic fish into a huge cast-iron bath, filling the air with scented steam as the maidservant poured coloured crystals into the water. She helped Clemency to bathe, as though she were quite incapable of doing anything for herself, which in her present state was very near to the truth. Even in her weakened condition, she could not fail to be impressed by the unimaginable luxury of her new surroundings. There was nothing like this even in the house in Finsbury Circus. The thought of home made her throat constrict, and she ducked her head beneath the water to wash away the tears that flowed freely from her eyes. She might never see home again. She was a prisoner, trapped like a canary in a golden cage. She allowed the maid to help her from the tub, and to dry her with soft fluffy towels. At any other time she would have refused, and tried to force her way out of this place, but the effect of the drugs had not completely worn off; she felt listless and malleable like an obedient child.

  She put on the negligee without a murmur, and she managed to walk into the bedroom unaided. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and Clemency sat on a chair by the ornate fireplace, watching the flames lick up the chimney while the maid combed her damp hair so that it fell about her shoulders in a mass of shining curls.

  She was half asleep when Marceau strode into the chamber. The maid bobbed a curtsey, and left hurriedly. He stood a little way from Clemency, eyeing her critically, as though she were a prize cow up for sale in the marketplace. ‘Stand up.’

  Moving like an automaton, Clemency did as she was told. The feeling of unreality persisted: she could not believe that this was really happening. In a moment she would wake up and find that it was all a terrible dream. He walked round her, silently and without touching her, but she could feel the heat of his body and smell that all too familiar aroma that clung to him. ‘Better than I anticipated,’ he said at last. He took her by the shoulders and spun her round to face him. ‘You do know why you are here, don’t you?’

  She nodded dully. ‘You want to get your own back on Jared.’

  ‘That too. But I think I am going to enjoy my revenge.’ He tugged at the sash of her robe, and it fell to the floor so that she stood before him naked.

  Somehow nothing seemed to matter. She suffered in silence as his eyes raked her body with a hot look of desire. She expected the worst. There was nothing she could do to stop him. Then, to her surprise, he bent down and retrieved the filmy garment. He wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘You have courage, mademoiselle. Most young women in your position would be on their knees crying and begging for mercy. But not you.’

  She tied the sash around her waist, eyeing him coldly. ‘It would do no good.’

  He laughed. ‘Quite right. However, we will dine first. I am a civilised man, but I am ruthless when crossed. Remember that, and we will do well together.’

  ‘I’m not dressed for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, but you are. I shall feast my eyes on you while I introduce you to French cuisine. You English eat like pigs. When I am done with you, Mademoiselle Clemency, you will be a French-woman, through and through.’

  She did not argue. She held her head high, and, moving in the unreal world that she now seemed to inhabit, she allowed him to lead her down the grand staircase, past Grecian statues holding lighted lamps, and across the entrance hall to a dining room that could have seated fifty people at dinner, and still had room for more. The vast mahogany table was groaning with silverware, and epergnes filled with flowers and fruit, but a smaller table had been laid for two in front of a blazing log fire. She knew what was to follow their meal; there was no escaping it, not tonight anyway. Marceau summoned the servants with one tug on a bell pull, and they appeared almost instantly, bringing one course after another. Clemency ate with a surprisingly good appetite; she could not remember the last time she had eaten and she was ravenous. Tomorrow she would find a way to freedom.

  Marceau ate very little. He watched her eat with an appreciative gleam in his eyes, and he kept her glass filled with wine. She drank until he reached out and took the glass from her. ‘No more. I think you have had enough.’ He rose from the table. ‘Come. Tonight you start repaying your debt to me and that of your lover, Jared Stone.’

  ‘He is not …’

  ‘No? Then that is his loss. He is more of a fool than I took him for.’

  Throughout the long night, she attempted to detach her mind from her body. There was nothing that she could do that would prevent him from taking her again and again. She cried inwardly, loathing every minute of it, but she was determined not to let him see how much she suffered at his hands. He could use her body for his pleasure but he could not touch her heart or her soul. They belonged to Jared, and she prayed silently that he would understand and forgive her, if she ever saw him again. But even if he understood that she had been taken by force, she knew that she was now damaged goods. Jared had been so careful to protect her virginity, and it had been taken by his worst enemy. She was a fallen woman. History had repeated itself, and she was now like Ma. Tears of pain, shame and humiliation trickled down her cheeks as she wept silently, hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking Marceau who lay by her side, snoring loudly. If she had had a knife, she would have plunged it into his wicked heart. She stared up at the ornate canopy over the bed, until at last she too fell into a sleep of sheer exhaustion.

&n
bsp; When she awakened, she found that he had already risen. She could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. She raised herself on her elbow, uttering a cry of dismay as she saw Hardiman sitting in the chair by the fireplace. He turned his head to look at her, and he licked his lips at the sight of her naked breasts. ‘I hope he done you over good and proper, you young harlot. Just wait until he gets tired of you. When it’s my turn I’ll show you what it’s like to have a real man. You’re even more tasty than Edie was years ago, and that’s saying something.’

  She pulled the sheet up to her chin. ‘Get out of my room.’

  ‘Don’t give me none of your lip, girl. I’m here on the guv’s instructions. I’m not to let you out of me sight all day. Where you goes – I goes.’

  Clemency leapt out of the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. ‘Well, you’re not watching me take a bath. I’m telling you that now.’ She ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

  She was as closely guarded as any prisoner in the Tower of London. During the next few days Hardiman was constantly at her side, only going off duty when Marceau finished his daily business, and demanded Clemency’s company. On the first day, he took her in his private carriage to the House of Worth in a fashionable quarter of Paris, where he ordered a complete new wardrobe, choosing each item himself. One thing that Clemency learned very quickly about him, apart from the fact that he was extremely wealthy, was that he had impeccable taste. He knew exactly what colours suited her and what style to pick. She tried desperately to think of a way to escape, but she was trapped as much by her inability to communicate as by Hardiman acting like a guard dog.

  As soon as the first garments of her new wardrobe were delivered, Marceau selected the gown that he wished her to wear that evening. He sat and watched while the maid helped her to dress. He even instructed the girl as to how to style Clemency’s hair, and which ornaments to place in her upswept curls. When her toilette was completed, he came to stand behind her, studying her reflection in the mirror. From his pocket, he took a jewel case. ‘Tonight I am going to show you off at the opera, Clemency.’ He thrust the case into her hands. ‘Open it.’