by Danice Allen
She stepped down into the cubicle of rough stone that passed for the porch and threshold of the doorway. A half inch of water and a layer of dead leaves coated the bottom. A sour smell pervaded the small area, and Gabrielle was sure she wasn’t going to enjoy the time she’d be spending there. She gingerly settled her bottom on the cold slab of the top step and watched the door of the opposite building. What was he doing? she wondered. Who was he with?
Chapter Six
“How are you today, Kate?” Zach stood just inside the parlor, delighted to find Kate sitting in the chair by the fire, busily knitting. She wore a neat round dress of blue cambric, and her shiny blond hair was pulled into a tidy bun atop her head, but with a few pretty curls bouncing over onto her forehead and down her neck. Her bruises had nearly healed and, clean and sober, Kate was a fetching lass, with delicate features and a rosebud mouth. Her arms and legs were slim and shapely, indicating that she’d had a small waist before the onset of her pregnancy. In looks she bore an uncanny resemblance to Tessy.
It was a little unnerving for Zach each time he saw Kate, as each day the ravages of her hard living subsided a bit more, allowing her fine-boned beauty to show through. Kate’s personality was very different than Tessy’s had been, however. Kate was a spitfire, her temper easily ignited, her rights fought for with zeal, although in the past couple of days she’d been behaving with admirable restraint. She must have finally figured out that they were only trying to help her.
Kate smiled, her face alight with cheerful welcome. “Wickham! Ye’re late, ye scoundrel! Dinna ye remember that ye promised me a ride in the carriage today? I’m cravin’ me some fresh air.”
Zach laughed easily, glad to forget for a time the thoughts and doubts that plagued him continually at Charlotte Square. Gabby. He felt a pang of longing, of regret. He squelched it. He looked at Kate, drawing a measure of cheerfulness from her own high spirits. He removed his hat and gloves and laid them on the table by the door. Charlie, who’d stood by and looked on with mild interest up till then, yawned and left them alone.
“Yes, I remember,” Zach said. “I’m still a little leery of taking you out in public, though. Blake said it’s rumored your husband’s been asking about town for you. It’s only a matter of time before he comes here. He wouldn’t get in, of course, unless we want him in. But we want to avoid a disruptive scene.”
Kate grimaced. “Naw, he will’na come here. He dinna know ’bout the place. I dinna know ’bout it afore you brung me here.”
“But others know about it, and eventually someone will tell him you might have sought refuge here.”
Kate made a glum face and looked hard at her knitting. “I will’na go with him if he comes. Not yet, anyway.”
“You’ve changed your tune since that first day.”
“I’m thinkin’ much clearer now. I’ve my babe—” She beamed with unabashed pride. “My babes to worry about.”
“And are you missing your whiskey very much?”
“Certain, I do. But, though I know Blake tries t’ hide the fact from me, he’s told Mrs. Stark t’ slip some in my tea, a wee bit less of it every day, so’s I won’t go into fits.”
“You were near to fits those first days.”
“It was hellish, sure as sh…” Kate stopped herself from saying a most unfeminine word. “Pardon.” She grinned self-consciously. “’Tis hard to break old habits, but I’m bound t’ try fer Blake’s sake. He cringes so when I use me colorful language.”
Zach sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. He liked his conversations with Kate. They were always refreshingly honest. He liked to watch her improving day by day, and he was dreading the time when she’d return to her husband, Douglas McKeen. As Kate said, old habits were hard to break, and her husband had probably been beating her for a long time. Kate’s stay at the shelter might simply be a temporary respite from her misery. Zach didn’t want that to happen, and the only way to stop it from happening was to work with Kate on a solution that included her husband’s cooperation. So far, though she was honest to a fault on all subjects, her husband was one subject she refused to discuss.
“How badly do you want that carriage ride, Kate?” Zach tried to appear casual, flicking a bit of lint from the nap of his trousers, pulled taut across his bent knee.
Kate eyed him suspiciously, setting down her yellow ball of yarn and needles on the handy platform her stomach made. “I’m suspectin’ that ye’re tryin’ t’ wheedle some promises out o’ me, Wickham. There’s—how do ye say it?—stumpulations attached to this treat ye’re givin’ me, is there?”
“No, there are no stipulations, Kate, though I’m tempted to resort to bribery and blackmail to get you to talk about your husband.”
Kate took up her knitting again, so busy. Too busy to talk, apparently. Her mouth compressed into a pucker, a declaration of noncooperation.
“If you plan to make a home with this man again, Kate, if you mean to allow him to help raise your children, you must talk about him. There’s no guarantee that he’ll have been softened by your leaving, or that he’ll treat you any better when you go back to him. He may be angry and treat you even worse. He may harm the children.”
“Dinna ye talk so, Wickham!” She tossed her ball of yarn at him, unraveling several knots she’d made in the little blanket. She crossed her arms, resting them on her stomach. She scowled at him.
Zach sighed, picked up the ball, and automatically began to rewind it. “Whatever made him drink and be abusive toward you before won’t magically remedy itself while you’re gone. Don’t be fool enough to think he’ll be so enchanted by the babies, either, that he’ll turn into an angel overnight.”
“Douglas has had a hard time of it, Wickham. His troubles ain’t nothin’ like you’ve ever knowed in yer pretty little life.”
“Don’t be snide. I may be a flash cove, as you say, but I do have a modicum of intelligence and compassion. I think I might strive to understand Douglas’s problems.”
Kate’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry, Wickham. But I feel disloyal-like, talkin’ ’bout Douglas.”
“I’m not making judgments. God knows I’d be the last man justified to throw stones! I just want to help you work things out for when you leave here. Or do you want to separate from Douglas? We can help you find a position somewhere. We’ve trained women for many different situations, though I’d think you’d rather be home with your babies if at all possible.”
“I dinna want t’ leave Douglas forever. I told ye, I love ’im!’’
“Then talk.” Zach handed her the rewound ball of yarn.
Kate heaved a long sigh, taking the yarn and staring at it listlessly. “He lost ’is job as a smithy ’bout three months ago.”
“Why?”
“He was drinkin’ on the job. He bungled some things and made some blokes mad at ’im fer harming their cattle. He’s done odd jobs since, but they dinna pay much.”
“So the source of Douglas’s employment problem is not a lack of skills, but his inability to control his drinking?”
“Douglas drinks all day and all night, if’n he can get ’is hands on the stuff. He’s sold every decent thing we owned t’ buy liquor, even me mum’s weddin’ ring she left me.” Kate made a grim face. “I was fumin’ fer some time after he pilfered me mum’s ring right out o’ me special keepsake box. But when he can’t drink, he beats me. Without it, he gets mean.” She shrugged. “With it, he gets mean, too. There’s never a good time no more.” Kate turned pleading eyes to Zach. “Before he got the habit, Wickham, there were good times. Douglas was a good man. As good as they come.” She blushed. “As good as you.”
Zach winced. “I’m not sure that’s such a compliment, but I’m willing to believe your Douglas has redeeming qualities. He’ll have to break the habit before he’s safe to live with again, Kate.”
“How’s he t’ do it, Wickham?” Kate spread her arms, her eyes widening to match her gesture. “Who’s t’ help him? Is there such a
place as this for men?”
Zach pressed his lips together, thinking, wishing he could come up with something he’d never considered before in all his long ponderings of the problem. “Not that I know of.” He saw what she was thinking, and though he knew she’d be disappointed, he explained, “It would be impossible to bring him here. We’re not equipped at the shelter to deal properly with Douglas’s problems. We have to consider the women, too. They are our first priority. But, don’t worry, we’ll work something out, Kate.”
He assumed a bracing tone. “In the meantime, I won’t allow you to get overly upset. We’ll forget the matter for now and go on that carriage ride. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Malcolm I hear tooling the horses into the close. I sent him to the confectioner’s for some fresh sticky buns.” He stood up and extended Kate a hand, helping her to her feet. This was not an easy task. She pushed from the back, he pulled from the front, and finally she stood.
She frowned at him. “Sticky buns, Wickham?”
He raised a brow. “I thought you liked them. Craved I think was the actual word you used to describe your affinity for those sweets.”
“Sure and I do crave ’em. Even now my mouth’s waterin’ at the thought of ’em! But I’ll be big as a house ’fore the babes come!”
Zach laughed. “Get a wrap. It’s nippy out. We’ll drive down by Duddingston Loch and watch the skaters.”
Kate clapped her hands, looking like a schoolgirl—at least from the neck up. Zach watched her go, a hard knot of pain twisting in his chest. If only he could turn back time and bring the same sort of happiness and hope to another pregnant girl—to Tessy. But the child Kate carried wasn’t his, thank God. At least he didn’t have that burden of guilt, and had never had again since Tessy’s pregnancy.
His unruly mind, prone lately to unrelated images popping up suddenly, conjured a picture of Gabby, her belly as round as a grapefruit, but much larger. Gabby, appealingly gravid, wonderfully big with child. His child. Zach shook his head, dispelling the image, suppressing the desire.
Gray clouds had gathered in the last half hour and snow began to fall again, but just a smattering, the flakes more ice than snow. Gabrielle’s fingertips were starting to ache from the cold. She pushed back into the shadows when she saw the carriage return. She was at an angle that allowed her a clear view of the front of the building.
A few minutes passed, then the door opened, and Zach appeared. He was in the way as his companion walked out, and all Gabrielle could see of her was a voluminous brown greatcoat and a blue skirt swishing around small ankles as she stepped into Zach’s carriage. They were laughing and talking about something, something that Gabrielle couldn’t hear well enough to make sense of. But how could she concentrate on what they were saying when her heart pounded in her ears and her eyes stung with tears? Her worst suspicions had been confirmed. Zach had a mistress.
She waited till the carriage was gone, then she stiffly stood up, climbing out of the scummy little hole she’d sat in to spy on Zach. And all for what? To discover that he was meeting a woman every day, taking her out in his carriage, laughing and talking with her like they used to do?
Gabrielle moved to stand in the middle of the narrow lane, staring in the direction that the carriage had gone, though there was nothing left to see. She felt a stinging dampness on her cheeks and looked up at the sky. The intermittent clouds drifted quickly over the rooftops, dropping snowflakes into gusts of wind that dashed against her face. Were her cheeks damp with snow or tears? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
She started to walk. She would find another hack to drive her safely down the hill to New Town, but she couldn’t seem to organize her thoughts well enough yet to provide the needed motivation for such rational action. She was disbelieving and hurt. Maybe Zach traveled from town to town for the purpose of visiting different mistresses. Maybe he did lead a life of debauchery when he was away from Pencarrow, as many of the gossips back home had suggested. But for whatever reasons Zach was visiting this woman—though to Gabrielle it seemed pretty clear what those reasons were—there was obviously a side of Zach that she didn’t know. Zach had secrets, secrets that excluded her.
Douglas McKeen watched from the shadows of a low-hanging roof, his lean, wiry body pressed against the outside wall of the building, his dirty brown coat and trousers blending into the background. He’d been standing there since before that dandified, yellow-haired, good-looking, slick-talking swell had shown up in his fancy rig, then gone inside the building to the shelter.
The shelter. Douglas made a face, screwed his mouth sideways, and spat a mouthful of tobacco onto the cobbled street. Who the hell did this bloke Wickham think he was, paying lease on a place to keep women away from their rightful duties, from their spouses, for Christ’s sake? Damned criminal, it was. Who knew what the man’s real purpose was in being so philanthropic? And where the hell had he taken his Kate?
Douglas had searched for his wife for five days, then finally got a lead from a taverner nearby. For a coin—one he could scarce afford to part with—he’d been told everything the man knew about the women’s shelter and its founder and chief patron, Zachary Wickham, an “odd’un” who took it upon himself to save downtrodden women from self-destructive, vile habits and sometimes from destructive, vile men.
He’d been told that it was useless to try to storm the place, demanding Kate’s release. Wickham kept a Goliath type as a watchdog, and a goody buckle-shoed Quaker as overall manager and guardian. Since yesterday, all Douglas had done was watch the place and its comings and goings, impotent to do anything more active than prod his whiskey-befuddled brain to come up with a plan.
Douglas smiled to himself. Today he had a plan. He’d been seething with anger as he’d watched fancy-pants Wickham drive off with his Kate, and her all beaming with happiness, her face freshly scrubbed, her walk the straight, unwobbling gait of a sober woman. His heart had given a lurch at the sight of her. He was relieved to see her so well, then furious to find her existing so happily without him!
Then he’d seen the girl in the green, fur-trimmed coat. Quality, every inch of her. Pretty, too, even with her nose pink and her eyes runny from the cold and … tears. She stared after the carriage, long since disappeared round the corner, in the melancholy manner of the deeply besotted.
Ah, yes. Barter. That’s the ticket. He’d offer this little royalty type in exchange for his Kate. Yes, she looked like a princess in her plush toggery. Obviously she knew Wickham and had feelings for him. And Wickham, bleeding heart that he was, would be obliged to cooperate even if he didn’t care a button for the lass. Quality always claimed precedence over poor little street rats like his Kate.
Douglas reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. The moment demanded a celebratory toast. He lifted the flask briefly in the air, then took a long swig, never taking his eyes off the stylish figure of the princess who left Carruber’s Close, never knowing she was being followed.
Just steps from Carruber’s Close, Gabrielle found herself in the midst of a crowd, being jostled, elbowed, and pushed into the general flow of traffic. People stared directly at her, most hostile and envious, others pitying, as if she were a pigeon destined for somebody’s pie. Discomposed, she clutched her reticule close to her and peered through and around the crowd to try to find an unoccupied hack. So far she’d seen none at all.
The cords in her neck felt tight; her muscles were knotting from rising panic. She tried to stop and get her bearings, to remember the way the hack driver had taken her to the shelter, and then endeavor to retrace her way down the hill to New Town, on foot if necessary. But standing still in the crowd was difficult and drew more attention than seemed prudent. She decided that it was best to keep moving, even if she didn’t have a clue where she was headed, and to try to look as though she felt perfectly at home in her surroundings instead of rapidly becoming more and more frightened and disoriented.
Then it happened. Someone snatched he
r reticule, at the same time nearly pulling her shoulder out of its socket. Thrown off balance, she lurched to the side, skidding in a puddle of sludge. She would have fallen, but someone caught her arm and righted her with a tug, setting her solidly on her feet again.
“The lad’s gettin’ off with yer purse, miss.”
Gabrielle looked up into a pair of bloodshot blue eyes, set in the rather grimy face of a thin, dark-haired man of medium height in a brown coat. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco. He was standing much too close.
“If you were a gentleman, sir,” Gabrielle informed him, reduced to uncharacteristic testiness by utter frustration, “you’d have run after him and retrieved my purse!”
“And let ye fall, miss?”
Gabrielle rubbed her shoulder. The man still held her arm, but the gesture wasn’t reassuring. Though he had lent a helping hand, she mistrusted him. Perhaps she was being ungrateful, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from remarking petulantly, “I assure you I couldn’t feel much worse than I do already, so you might as well have let me fall!” Tears blurred her vision. She turned and blinked at the throngs of people still milling past her. “You said it was a boy who stole it? Oh, there he goes!”
Gabrielle saw her black beaded reticule rounding a corner clutched under the skinny arm of an ill-clothed boy. A part of her felt instinctive pity for the child. She knew he probably needed the money much worse than she did, but another part of her rankled at the indignity of having it taken from her so roughly and without her consent! Everything in her life seemed so out of control, so out of step with the way she’d planned it! First Zach, now this…
Gabrielle gathered her skirts in her fists, of half a mind to push her way through the crowd and risk life and limb pursuing the child. Even if she didn’t catch him, she’d have tried her best to, and that alone would make her feel much better. And if she did catch him, she’d just give him a severe lecture, then a portion of her purse.
