The task would surely be easier if the woman would just take advantage of the looking-glass, but it had been inexplicably covered with a cloth. Taking the brush from the woman’s hand, Lucy swiftly undid the messy styling, letting the woman’s dark tresses fall freely to her hips. Ever so gently, she began to brush the woman’s hair, starting from the ends to remove the tangles.
The woman closed her eyes. “You said you were a lady’s maid?” she murmured. Her earlier terror seemed to be dissipating. “For whom?”
“I worked for Master Hargrave, a magistrate,” Lucy said. “I tended to his wife and his daughter, Sarah.”
As she combed and pinned the woman’s locks, Lucy told her a little about her life with the Hargraves. “That was all before the Great Fire,” she said, remembering with a shiver the night that the inferno had begun. Things had happened that September night that still haunted her dreams. “I only lived with them a few more weeks after that. It was then that I took up rooms with my brother, Will, above Master Aubrey’s shop, and became a printer’s apprentice.”
“A printer’s apprentice?” the woman asked, her eyes flying open. “That is a rather unseemly occupation, is it not?”
Lucy pulled the comb through the woman’s hair a little harder than she intended. “I suppose some would say so,” she said, striving to keep her tone even. “Master Hargrave did not consider the occupation to be unseemly when I left his employ. Indeed, he equipped me with funds to keep myself on at the printer’s, since I am not a true apprentice, licensed by the guild.”
“Why ever did you leave the Hargraves, Lucy?” the woman asked, suddenly taking on a familiar demeanor, much the way a kindly mistress might inquire after the doings of a servant. “It sounds like they treated you well?”
Lucy’s fingers, which had been flying through the woman’s hair, slowed. Why had she left the Hargrave household? The question was simple, but the answer was far less so. The complication of living so close to Adam. The draw of the printer’s world. What to say? Instead, she gave the simplest, most direct answer. “My mistress had passed away, and the master’s daughter became a Quaker and left his home. There was no lady left to tend.”
“And you have not married? Have you no suitor, then? You are comely enough.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. The conversation was getting far too personal, and since she was employed by Dr. Larimer, and not by this woman, she decided she did not need to answer beyond what she had already revealed. “Miss,” she said instead, “what do you think? Does this suit you more?” She reached to remove the cloth that was draped over the mirror.
“No!” the woman exclaimed, stopping Lucy’s hand before she could remove the cloth from the glass. “I do not need to see for myself.”
“Why ever not?” Lucy asked in surprise. Mistress Hargrave, though a good and kind woman, had spent many hours at the mirror, as had her daughter, Sarah, at least before she ran off with the Quakers. Lucy assumed that was what noblewomen did. “You look lovely,” she said.
“Thank you, Lucy,” the woman said, blinking back a sudden tear. “I do not know what has come over me.” She slumped back in her chair, stroking the red lines that encircled her delicate wrists. Lucy recalled what Mr. Sheridan had said about the marks the day before.
“Miss,” Lucy said softly, mindful of setting the woman off into another fit, or even of prompting her to return to her more haughty and imperious self. “Those wounds on your wrists, they look as if your hands were bound together by something…?”
The woman looked down at her wrists then, her brow puckering. “I can scarcely remember anything.”
“But you do remember something?” Lucy pressed. “What do you remember?”
“I do not remember being bound. But I remember someone untying me. Someone who put salve on my wrists.” She touched her wrists again. “Someone kind and gentle.”
“Was it Mr. Sheridan?” Lucy asked. “James Sheridan? Is that who you are remembering?”
The woman looked confused. “N-no. I do not think so. It was someone else.”
“But do you remember Mr. Sheridan? From before, I mean.”
The woman clutched her head. “I am telling you, I cannot remember anything. Fleeting things—like smells on the air. Nothing I can grasp! Nothing that can tell me anything for certain! Please!” She banged her fists against her head. “I need to remember!”
“Please, miss! Do not strike yourself!” Lucy said, trying to restrain the woman’s hands.
Instead the woman broke away and began to pace about. She reminded Lucy of a cornered dog she had once seen, as it tried to find its way out of a penned-in yard. “I cannot breathe in here! I need air!”
There was a mad anxiety rising in her voice that Lucy sought to contain. “Miss, let us go outside, then. Let us breathe in some fresh air.”
“Outside? Yes, I should like that.”
Relieved, Lucy started to help her out, but at that moment the woman reached for her amulet, scratching at her throat. “Where is my amulet?” she said, growing agitated again. “Did I lose it? Where is it?”
“I have it here.” Quickly, Lucy sought to produce the amulet from her pocket.
“Why did you take it?” the woman demanded, watching her remove it from her skirts.
She could read the suspicion in the woman’s eyes. It hurt, truth be told. “I am no thief,” Lucy said, and then hesitated. She did not want to say why she had gone to the jewelry-maker. The woman might not appreciate her trying to discover her identity. “I thought the cord was dirty,” she said instead, dangling the amulet by its gleaming new silver chain.
Seeing the chain, the woman’s eyes welled up with tears. “How lovely, Lucy. Thank you for this. That was very kind.” She paused. “I have no money to pay you. And that seems quite strange. Do I usually have coins?”
“I would imagine so,” Lucy said, trying to smile. Uncomfortable with passing the jeweler’s gift off as her own, she opened the door.
“We shall just take a short stroll,” she announced to Mrs. Hotchkiss, who was looking at them both with a concerned expression. “We shall be quite all right,” she said.
When they stepped outside, the woman just stood on the street outside Dr. Larimer’s house, taking great breaths. Only when they started to walk did she begin to relax and move more easily.
They strolled slowly. The gentle breeze and unexpected warmth from the sun seemed to have a restorative effect on the woman. Indeed, after a little while, she even began humming in a happy, tuneless way.
“I am ever so glad to see spring return,” she said, a wistful tone to her voice. “The buds on the trees. The life around us.” She looked up at the sky. “I should very much like to be as a bird, flying from tree to tree. I would collect twigs for my nest, and hide from the world. Let me fly!”
To Lucy’s surprise, then, the woman took off and ran across the small meadow that lay between them and the next road. Lucy stopped and watched her for a while. There was something both childlike and feral in the woman’s movements, and Lucy did not know what to make of it.
Then, as she watched the woman, a hundred or so yards away, a man stepped out from behind a tree and began to speak to her.
Nervous, Lucy ran forward and stood close beside the woman. When she approached, the man held up his hands to show he had nothing in them. He wore the nondescript gray woolens of a tradesman, and he was mostly clean-shaven. He looked to be in his thirties. He was no one Lucy knew.
“Good morrow, sir,” she said, pleasant but wary. “We hope we are not barring your path. Pray continue on your way, as we shall continue on ours.”
The man smiled. “Ah, no. I have been looking for you. Or rather, her.” He nodded to the woman, who shrank against Lucy.
“Miss, do you know this man?” Lucy asked, cupping her hands to whisper in the woman’s ear.
“I do not know him!” the woman replied loudly.
The man cocked his head. For a moment he seemed to be stud
ying them both. Then he smiled. “She is my wife. I heard tell that she was under the physician’s care, and I have come to collect her.”
“Your wife?” Lucy asked, glancing at the woman, who looked very alarmed indeed. She whispered again. “Is he your husband?”
Before the woman could reply, the man stepped forward, extending his hands. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I have been so very worried. I have been looking for you, and only just heard tell of your whereabouts.”
The woman looked stricken. “I do not know him!” she said, backing away. “Please, Lucy! I do not know him. Please do not let me go with him.”
Though she was trembling greatly herself, Lucy forced herself to step in front of the woman. “What is her name? Can you tell us that?” she asked the man. “For she does not seem to know you.”
His brow cleared. “Oh, I see. She is having one of her little spells again? That happens. Loses her memory and wanders off. My poor sweet dear. It will come back to you soon enough. It always does, you will see. Then we will have a hearty laugh.”
His words startled Lucy. Indeed, he seemed familiar with the woman’s ailments.
The man continued. “My wife’s name is Erica. Erica Nabur. And I am Gunther.” Again he held out his hand. “Come, dear, it is time for us to go home. Let me take care of you.”
The woman was now clutching Lucy’s arm, painfully digging in her fingers. “I do not know him,” she whispered fiercely. “Please do not send me with him. I do not know him.”
“Do not be ridiculous, my dear wife!” To Lucy he said, “She knows not what she speaks. We have been married these past five years.” When his lips parted, she could see that he was missing a few teeth, and his grin looked a bit more feral. More menacing. “Come along, my dear,” he said to the woman. “We have tarried here long enough.”
Lucy began to pull the woman away from the man. “We were on our way to see the constable. If you would be good enough to show him your papers, then I am sure we can—”
She did not get a chance to finish her thought before the man grabbed the woman’s other arm and began to forcibly pull her away from Lucy. “How dare you try to keep my wife from me!”
Without thinking, Lucy began to slap and kick him hard. In the months she had spent selling books, she had learned quite a bit about how to land a blow that would hurt. At first, the man held on, but under Lucy’s relentless assault he broke away, stumbling a few steps back. Rather than running off, though, as Lucy expected, he just gazed at the women, leaving her oddly uncertain.
“Leave us!” Lucy commanded, fearful he might try to forcefully drag the woman down the lane.
At that, the man turned on his heel and strode away.
Lucy turned back to stare at the woman, both of them breathing heavily. “Are you all right?” she asked. When the woman nodded, Lucy took a step closer. “I do not believe for a moment that that growling cur was your husband. He was a charlatan, of that I am certain. But are you quite certain that you are not Mistress Nabur?”
The woman’s face went blank again, but she didn’t say anything. She began to rub her wrists as if she were cold. “I am not she,” she whispered. “That is not a name I know.”
“An odd thing, though, that he was so familiar with your fits,” Lucy said as they began to walk again, more quickly now. She kept darting glances over her shoulder, in case the man decided to follow them. “And yet you say you did not recognize him.”
“I cannot explain it,” the woman gulped. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead, and she had begun to breathe more rapidly.
Something else was bothering Lucy. “He also lied to you outright. He claimed to be your husband because—”
“Because he knew I would not recognize him,” the woman concluded. “He knew I would have no memory.”
Lucy frowned. “That must mean he knows you. But what he wanted with you is another question altogether.” Seeing the woman’s face blanch, Lucy took her arm. “Let us get quickly to the constable’s. He resides just a small distance away, on Fleet Street.”
* * *
Shortly after, they arrived at the constable’s jail, Lucy having kept a tight hold on the woman’s arm the entire time. She did not think anyone would try to tear the woman away again, but the strangeness of the incident made her wary.
The jail had been a candle-maker’s shop before the Great Fire, and was just to the west of where the Fire had stopped. The owner likely succumbed to the plague that had decimated London, or fled when the Fire started, for there had been no sign of the former inhabitant in the eight months since the Lord Mayor had allowed Duncan to set up a temporary jail. They went straight inside.
“Lucy!” Duncan exclaimed in obvious pleasure when he saw her. “What brings you here?” When she coughed, he became aware of the woman’s presence behind her. He flushed slightly, but drew himself up sharply. “Miss,” he said, bowing his head. “Good day to you.”
“I have just been assaulted,” the woman said.
“What?” Duncan cried, looking at Lucy. “Explain, if you would!”
“We are fine,” Lucy replied, hastening to reassure him. Quickly she explained what had just occurred.
“Are you certain you did not know him? That you are not his wife?” Duncan asked, repeating the same questions that Lucy had just posed.
“I am certain I am not his wife,” the woman replied. But she did not claim again that she did not know the man, Lucy noticed.
Duncan might have had the same thought, because he glanced at Lucy. “Let me escort you ladies back to Dr. Larimer’s. This assault does not sit well with me, and I should prefer that you are both somewhere safe.”
“Oh, no!” the woman exclaimed. “Please, I beg you. Not yet.” She looked at Lucy with pleading eyes. “Despite the mishap that just transpired, I should very much like to stay outside where I can breathe fresh air. I cannot bear to be locked up again.”
“Locked up?” Duncan looked puzzled. He glanced at Lucy.
“Miss, I can assure you,” Lucy said, trying her best to keep from scowling at the woman, “we have not locked you up.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Shall we go to the market? It will do you good. The constable can accompany us.”
Lucy gave Duncan a meaningful look. This might be the opportunity they were looking for to bring the woman back to where Lucy had first discovered her.
“Surely Constable Duncan has more important duties?” the woman asked. “You may attend me at the market.”
“What if that man is still about?” Lucy asked. “What if he tries to attack you again?”
Seeing the woman frown, Duncan bowed slightly. “I, like any of the king’s men, am entitled to an occasional break from duty,” he said. His tone was decisive. “I shall go inform Hank.” He headed into one of the back rooms to speak with his bellman.
Lucy and the woman stepped back onto Fleet Street. “I do not quite think it proper for me to be seen in the company of a constable,” the woman said, her tone once again sounding haughty. “I see, though, that I seem to have little choice in the matter.”
When Duncan approached, the woman did not accept his proffered arm. “No, thank you. I shall manage on my own. Which way?”
Lucy pointed in the general northerly direction of Holborn Market, and the woman began to walk quickly along the street, without looking back at either of them. Her gait was purposeful, and her stance was proud. All in all, she moved like a gentlewoman who waited on no one.
Duncan raised his eyebrow, and Lucy shrugged, following after the woman.
Mindful of Dr. Larimer’s instructions not to let the woman grow too tired, Lucy called out to her. “Pray, slow your step. I am afeared that you will be overtaxed by this short journey, and Dr. Larimer will not be pleased. He said not to let you grow exhausted.”
“Kind though Dr. Larimer may be,” the woman panted, “the whole place smells like physicks and medicines and reminds me how unwell everyone thinks me. I simply cannot sl
ow down.”
Lucy found herself a few steps behind the woman, with Duncan easily matching her stride. Naturally, he had not offered Lucy his arm, nor did she take it.
“A pleasant enough day,” he murmured, looking about.
Lucy agreed. The soft fog from the morning had long been dispelled, along with the chill in the air. In the distance, she heard church bells begin to toll. Once. Twice. Two o’clock.
Duncan put a hand on her arm. “Let us slow down a trifle. We can keep her in our sights.” He moved closer to her as they slowed. “Have you learned anything more of her identity?” Duncan asked, speaking softly so that his question would not be overheard.
Lucy shook her head. “Mr. Sheridan is still convinced that she is Octavia Belasysse. He remembers the birthmark on her wrist. But she still claims no memory of that name.”
Duncan snorted. “A recollection of a birthmark is little enough to go on.”
“Dr. Larimer is hopeful that her memory will be restored in time,” Lucy offered. “He is loath to cast her out, though, in case she indeed is the daughter of a baron.”
“And if she is Erica Nabur, wife of Gunther?” Duncan asked. “What then?”
Lucy shrugged. “She shall be released from the physician’s charge, and I shall return to Master Aubrey’s.” She gave a half smile. “I suppose, as Erica Nabur, she will have to give back Mistress Larimer’s dresses, too. Oh, how disappointed Mistress Larimer will be, if this woman does not turn out to be the daughter of a baron!”
They both laughed. Then Lucy turned back to something Duncan had said earlier. “You know, Mr. Sheridan also said she had always had fits. That is why he is convinced this woman is Miss Belasysse. I got the feeling they might have been closer once. He knew her brother, and her family, back at university.”
“I see,” Duncan said, guiding Lucy around a still-steaming pile of horse manure.
“And what’s more, she said his name in her sleep. ‘Leave me alone, James,’” Lucy said. “I just know she was referring to Mr. Sheridan. But naturally she claimed not to know him when I asked her about him later.”
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 8
