B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  As watch and ward over a certain sickly arm of society, Daisy had paid her own money to watchers when one of her girls died. When poor Mary Catherine was brought to the straw and bled out in an hour. Daisy was particularly saddened. Labour had come early, hence the baby did not live much longer than its mother. (Mary Catherine’s liberal-minded boyfriend made himself scarce lest he be looked to for any outstanding bill.) Daisy had the young mother and babe placed in a carved mahogany coffin with the baby wrapped snugly at its mother’s bosom. Daisy then paid the yellow-skinned old man who emptied her chamber pots an extra shilling to stay with the body and laid out two more to the caretaker at Moorfields Roman Catholic Chapel to see that Mary Catherine’s remains were not thereafter stolen.

  Daisy knew that it was heedless to have trusted the old man. She had dismissed him once for filching silverware. Second-chancers were never a good risk. He and his obligations never made it to the cemetery.

  The poor little maid was likely wrapped in a shroud, sitting somewhere ready to be loaded for her trip to King’s College Anatomical Department. The most shameful part of the crime was that the baby had been stolen along with its mother’s corpse. Anatomists did not pay well for infants. (In their part of London, foetuses were too easy to come by.) No doubt it had been discarded like so much rubbish.

  “If a man would put a spade in a grave, they would not scruple against anything else!” Daisy exclaimed.

  Not a soul took exception to that statement.

  What the old man was paid for selling the girl’s corpse would likely keep him insensible of his betrayal for weeks. Daisy Mulroney, however, would not stand for such business. The old man could go hang himself, but she knew where to go to get the body back and she meant to do just that.

  It was common knowledge that bodies were hauled through the streets concealed in hampers of certain straw and weight. Unafraid of any man (and damn few dogs), Daisy knew the most likely culprits and headed directly to the Fortune of War to demand Mary Catherine’s return.

  With cigar in the corner of her mouth, and her new fox tippet thrown over her shoulder, she stood in the middle of the Fortune’s floor and bellowed, “What’ve ye done with her? I know ye got ‘er back ‘ere behind the bar. Tag on her toe, no doubt. She ain’t fresh no more, by gawd, and I’ll have her back now or know who says otherwise.”

  After that ejaculation, she withdrew her trusty pistol and clapped it down on the bar. Anyone who thought to ignore her took notice of that. From thence furtive glances flickered to a partially concealed alcove behind the bar. It was covered by nothing but a tatty curtain. Replacing her gun in her waistband, Daisy walked across the floorboards. The place went silent and each step she took echoed a bit. With great care, she drew the curtain aside. Sure as the sunrise, two hampers lay side by side. Her hope that both mother and child might be recovered was for nought. In one basket was a boy, no older than sixteen. Opening the lid to the other, Daisy recognised the quickly-decaying remains of Mary Catherine. Mid-day heat meant the resurrectionists had to move fast else their bounty would go bad on them. A fresh gash on the girl’s forehead had not bled. Daisy noted that it must have chanced when her body was off-loaded. The baby was gone—Daisy could not let herself think of that. It was most likely thrown in a ditch.

  She shook her head. A feeling came over her that was new to her. In time, she would recognise it as despair.

  It was undeniable that she had become a bit of a gull for a sad story. Not only was she taking in every female with a bad chest, a bad leg, or bung up her pipe six months gone, she was paying known thieves good money to do honest work. Disgusted, Daisy slammed the lid shut and stomped out of the alcove and into the room of drinkers.

  Angry at... the loss... the insensitivity... the bloody, worthless men who traded in such horrors, she pushed her way back through the crowd. Several well-muscled, small-headed men had lined up as if to intimidate her. The publican waved them off. He was a smart man. Bloodshed would bring the law and they didn’t much want the law eyeing what was laying in the back room. They might be accused of murder. As a woman of property, Daisy knew her word on it would have some weight.

  “Out of here!” she told them all. “Scat or I’ll give yer a topper!”

  The men separated, several leapt out the door. Daisy stepped briskly towards the same door, waving her gun and barking orders as she did.

  “Get that hamper with the girl. I’m taking her to Moorsfield cemetery now. And if you know what’s good for yer, find that baby and bring it or I’ll come lookin’ for yer!”

  Her toe caught the corner of a box lying at her feet. It capsized, sending twenty or so teeth scattering across the floor. Daisy picked one of them in her hand and eyed it.

  “How much you get for a full set of these?” she asked holding up a tooth.

  Reluctant to be seen making arrangements with someone out of the trade, the publican stood mute. So did his patrons.

  “The Guild of Cadavers,” she sniffed at the bunch of them.

  Apathetic and callous, their hands flopped loosely at their sides. Ashes to ashes, stripped bloody bare. Daisy saw theirs was just an extension of her former trade. Dead flesh, however, brought a better price.

  Two men lugged the hamper behind her as she stomped out. The footman she had purposely left to guard her carriage leapt down and scurried to help. With surly gazes at the wretched alehouse, they tied the hamper onto the back. Still furiously puffing on her cigar, Daisy eschewed help and climbed into her carriage by herself. She ordered her driver to walk on, but a sedan chair blocked their way. Ready to issue all manner of curses to make it move, something made her hold her tongue.

  From the chair, a well-shod gentleman stepped onto the walkboards. He paid her no mind whatsoever. As befitting a gentleman entering such a place, he wore his hat low, his countenance partially hidden behind his collar. He was well-tailored in a nut green coat with white piping and did not look as if he belonged amongst these squat working men.

  She knew the type. No doubt he was fresh with tips of new “subjects” and warnings of the law. Certain professions often overlapped. No doubt this man took his share off the top and bugger the rest. When he was not rousting the dead, he was most likely rousing the irate in the street.

  The Fortune of War pub-keeper did not see the gentleman as he alit. He was too busy crawling about the doorway collecting the scattered teeth. Pivoting on his walking stick, the gentleman gingerly stepped around him. As he did, his limp was pronounced.

  .

  Chapter 33

  Pearls Have Their Place

  With candle in hand, Darcy crept down the steps from the nursery.

  The Master of Pemberley was not obliged to see that his children were fast asleep in their beds. It was a duty he chose to undertake nonetheless. The peace therein was a reassurance. To have spent his day in the saddle and an evening with family and friends suited his notion of true contentment. Once he fell into his wife’s arms and reminded her of the many ways he loved her, his day would be deemed perfect, indeed.

  As he entered their bedchamber to attend to that obligation, his nostrils flickered. The scent of his wife’s favourite perfume meant that she had preceded him. Yet, it was unusual for her to bedew herself with scents at bedtime. That alerted him to the possibility that something unusual was afoot. His interest piqued and his ardour kindled, he looked about the darkened room to ascertain what libidinous delights she might have conjured. Had she donned his breeches? A French corset?

  He espied a large lump beneath the bedclothes. Was he prepared himself to be sent reeling with lust when he threw the covers back, he was to be disappointed. Truth be told, he was even a bit befuddled.

  His wife lay beneath the counterpane with her knees drawn to her chin. Not only was she not in a French corset, she wore a plain, high-necked nightdress, last seen when she had taken to her bed with a nasty cold. Not an hour ago, she was quite well—and looked to be in an amatory mood.

  Any di
staste he had for her night dress could be dealt with by claiming a pre-emptive right to dispose of it. However, her expression did not invite familiarities. She appeared to have been affrighted. Her eyes were wide as dinner platters—but not with fear. Taking her trembling hands in his, he realised that they were cold as ice and rubbed them briskly. Her alarm was genuine.

  Ere he had leave to inquire, she burst forth, “You shall never believe... I cannot believe... I am mortified beyond all reclamation!”

  Despite being pleased that she was merely embarrassed and nothing sinister was involved, her disconcertion disconcerted him.

  “Pray, tell me—what can be the matter?”

  “I am such a blunderer! I made a ghastly error! I am humiliated beyond measure!”

  “If you cannot gather yourself.... Wine! I shall get you a glass of wine!”

  “I need no wine!” she moaned. “I need only to become a mouse. A mouse, I say... to hide in a little, tiny mouse-hole for the rest of my days.”

  Given of her last remark, Mr. Darcy understood that if his wife’s life had been threatened, it was through mortification. Yet, he could not coax her into telling him what befell her. When he asked again, she fell back upon the mattress and, groaning, drew the counterpane back over her head.

  With an expression that suggested extreme impatience, he awaited.

  Reluctantly, she tossed back the bedclothes. Taking a moment to speak, she groped to think of a way to describe what occurred without her humiliation of her own making.

  She said, “I did not give instructions for my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner to be put in the Blue Room.”

  Darcy returned her gaze, but did not speak, for he could not disagree with that assertion.

  She continued, “I gave particular instructions that they were to be in the Gold Room! When they are here, pray tell, are they not always taken to the Gold Room?”

  “Indeed, they are.”

  At that moment, she held up a crumpled note.

  She said, “This was for you.”

  Unfolding the missive with all due diligence, he read it aloud. It was quite economical.

  It read, “D, Pray come to the Blue Room, love E.”

  His brow furrowed when he looked at her. She widened her eyes, twice for emphasis. For a man of quick wit and exceptional understanding, it took him far longer than it should have to comprehend what had come to pass—or at least that was what he pretended.

  She said, “I repaired to the Blue Room to await you, dearest!”

  He was silent.

  “Regrettably,” she explained. “I was preceded.”

  “By the Gardiners?” he said finally. “I am sure they can forgive so small an intrusion....”

  “When I entered, they were in bed,” she said

  As he did not respond, she emphasised the specifics of the encounter.

  “They were—in flagrante!” cried she.

  Said he, “Forsooth.”

  As his rejoinder was not issued in the exclamatory form, she was miffed. To her great vexation, he remained collected. There was but the barest flicker of amusement in his gaze. Clearly, he did not understand the full nature of the event.

  “In flagrante, Darcy! In flagrante!”

  He announced, “It has long been my ambition to have no part of those situations which offend dignity.”

  Such a remark was unhelpful.

  She explained further, saying, “They were not in the bed, but on it. He was in her nightdress; she in his nightcap—!”

  Rare are there visions of such humour as try the countenance of a man of Mr. Darcy’s taciturnity. Yet the image as described by his wife did just that. He had to smoother a laugh. Drawing herself to her knees, she slapped at his hand.

  Despite all proof otherwise, she insisted, “This is in no way diverting!”

  He overcame his mirth long enough to ask, “However indelicate, I must inquire—were you observed?”

  “I cannot say,” she answered.

  That was understandable. The Gardiners may well have been otherwise occupied.

  She said earnestly, “I pray not.”

  “I then pronounce that you were not seen. If you were not seen, it did not happen.”

  Thinking about it logically, Elizabeth believed her husband had made a good case for how such an embarrassment, for all parties, should be dealt with.

  Darcy wondered, “Why, pray tell, did you want to meet in the Blue Room?”

  She sighed, “I had amorous leanings myself.”

  He raised one eyebrow, “These leanings could not be consoled in our own chambers?”

  Raising her own eyebrow in return, she said, “Is it not said that variety is the very spice of life?”

  “This is quite true,” he answered. “Albeit, I bend to your will in all matters, in this I one I shall have my say—you may wear a nightcap to your heart’s content, dearest. However, I absolutely refuse to wear your nightdress.”

  Voice lowered, she said, “It was my fervent hope that you should wear nothing at all.”

  Kicking off his boots, Darcy proved he was not a man to over-think a point, especially when they were so obviously of like minds. That was one accommodation that she was more than happy to make.

  His wife lay upon her stomach, happy to watch him as he removed each piece of clothing. He had always been remarkably untroubled to be observed in such a fashion. (Under his scrutiny, her colour always rose.) His insouciance was not guileless. It was visceral—even primitive.

  When he joined her upon the bed, he stretched out beside her, settling on his side. He did not speak. His expression alone explained that he awaited her to rid herself of her fustian nightdress. Her buttons were many and she undid but a few ere she slid into his arms. She meant only to linger long enough for a single kiss—for she did not want to be lured from a well-planned scheme (one she meant to implement in the Blue Room).

  At one time, they took love in the oddest of locations—the stairwell, the larder, even the scullery. Upon this occasion she had desired variety, but also was in want of privacy. Theirs would not be a hasty lifting of skirts and a fare-thee-well. She meant to have a lengthy (and circuitous) engagement. The Blue Room would have been superb. It had a lovely little alcove with a cushioned chimney corner. It was fortunate that the Gardiners had retired first. Otherwise, it might have been the Darcys who had been found in flagrante—bechancing another mortification altogether.

  Although thwarted in her initial design, another portion of her scheme had not been ruined. As her husband was unmindful of her true intentions, she had to struggle to disengage herself from his arms.

  Abruptly, she sat upright.

  “Pray, a moment,” she said.

  He, a bit miffed, returned to his side and made himself comfortable by propping himself upon an elbow. Smiling impishly, she slipped her hand beneath the pillow case. With great delicacy, she withdrew a string of pearls. It was as long as a man’s arm—her husband’s arm. The clasp was of diamonds. The necklace was quite precious.

  “I found this trifle in my sewing box. Pray, did an elf leave it there?”

  It did not occur often enough for it to be called a habit (perhaps just a whim), but her husband liked to leave exquisite gifts for her to find quite by chance. His gallantry was incomparable. He gave extraordinary gifts with the same casual grace that he gave of himself. Whilst it was possible that he overheard Caroline Bingley’s snide comment about the lack of fashionableness of certain pearls, it was exceedingly unlikely that he paid her heed. If her husband gave her pearls, it was from his heart, not at another’s instruction.

  He made it quite obvious that he cared not to engage in discourse about the necklace. He did not speak of this preference. Rather, he drew her near and began to kiss her neck.

  As his tongue flicked around her earlobe, her eyelashes fluttering wildly and her eyes began to roll upwards. The pearls almost slipped from her fingers. It was only then that she caught sight of another, far more estimable e
ndowment. (One she had admired and enjoyed many times lo these many years.) Despite how often she had witnessed it, she never tired of watching his manhood tumefy from somnolent suzerain to impatient warrior. At times, merely the promise of what it would become arrested her breath. As it lay just then half-erect against his thigh, she was reminded of the plan she had conceived to show him her gratitude for the necklace.

  However, the pearls had slid beneath her hip and it took great care to retrieve them without suspension of the favours he was paying to her ear. Only when she had them again did she redirect his attention.