On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  “Pardon me,” Charlotte said, looking down, her entire body cringing in mortification.

  “Have no fear—I am quite unharmed.” He had a musical voice, the words sliding up and down in register.

  Charlotte bobbed her head. “Good day.”

  The man took a step sideways, just far enough to block Charlotte’s path.

  “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

  The first flicker of worry tickled Charlotte’s chest. Her success depended on speed: getting what she wanted and getting away. The longer she spoke to this man, the more time he’d have to realize what she’d done.

  “My mother, she’s sick,” Charlotte said, with genuine apprehension. “I’m off to the doctor for her medicine.” She heard the flimsiness of the lie as she said it.

  “Your poor mother, at death’s door.” The man sighed melodramatically. “Is that why you need this?”

  In a single swift motion, he grabbed her upper arm and twisted it, bringing Charlotte’s right hand up and forward, still clutching his leather billfold.

  Charlotte had an arsenal of weapons: her shaky voice; her terrified expression; her feet, if he’d let go long enough for her to make an escape.

  “Sir, I swear on my mother’s life . . .”

  “Let’s not bring your mother into this, shall we?” the man asked cheerfully. “Or your ten starving brothers or sisters, or the old lecher who’s made an assault on your virtue. I can see from your dress that you’re not destitute, and from your delightful figure that you’re not starving. So tell me, why exactly did you make a play for my money?”

  She looked into his face, a face that looked more curious than angry, and decided on a tactic she’d never tried before. Honesty.

  “For the fun of it.”

  The man burst out laughing. “How charming! You’re very good, you know. Most fools wouldn’t have realized what happened until you were long gone.”

  “You’re not a fool, then.”

  His smirk acknowledged the compliment, but he still hadn’t let go of her arm. A tightly coiled energy seemed to hum through him, as if his thoughts and emotions ran at twice the speed of everyone else’s.

  “Let’s say I have some experience in your line of work,” he said. “I should haul you off to the nearest copper. Do my duty as a good citizen.”

  Charlotte already knew he wouldn’t. She remembered what her mother had said about men taking advantage of innocent girls, and she wondered if that was what this gentleman had in mind. She was more curious than scared. How did men proposition girls they thought were in their power? How would she trick him into letting her go?

  He released Charlotte’s arm and opened the billfold. It was empty.

  “I’m afraid your little escapade would have proved disappointing,” he said. “I keep my funds far more secured.” He flapped open the left-hand side of his jacket and waved a finger toward the bottom corner, where the small seam of a hidden pocket was barely visible. As if he were daring her to try again.

  “It would be a shame to squander such talent,” he said. “I have a proposal that could benefit us both.”

  Charlotte could have run. She didn’t.

  “There’s a gentleman of my acquaintance who owes me rather a lot of money,” the man said. “I had a good run at cards, and he was unable to meet his obligations. I have his signature on a paper, stating what he owes, but my attempts to collect have been unsuccessful. I have been pondering alternative methods of pursuing my claim, and I believe you could prove most helpful.”

  He explained his proposed solution and Charlotte’s role in it. It would take only a few minutes, and she’d walk away with a pound once the debt was collected. But it meant trusting this stranger to do what he promised.

  “No later than quarter to ten,” the man said. “He always goes to the ten o’clock church service. Pious bastard.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  The man swept off his hat and bowed. “Then it’s time we were acquainted. Reginald Evers. At your service.”

  “Charlotte Digby.”

  Like an apprentice at a master’s knee, she wanted to ask him how he’d started pickpocketing. If he’d ever been caught. But he was already stepping away, back to his mysterious, no-doubt-disreputable life. Even before he was out of her sight, Charlotte began to miss him.

  On the day they’d arranged, Charlotte wore her shabbiest dress, the one she reserved for housecleaning. She told her mother she was headed out for a walk before it grew too hot, and when she reached the street corner in Kensington, she unfastened her top two buttons. Reginald had instructed her to look for a round red-faced man and his equally rotund wife, and Charlotte recognized them as soon as they came strolling along, arm in arm.

  When they were nearly in front of her, Charlotte called out, “My darling! How can you be so cruel?”

  The man and woman stopped abruptly, their confused stares mirror images of each other. Charlotte stepped toward them, her hands dramatically clutched.

  “You said you’d take care of me and the baby! You said you loved me!”

  The wife’s face shifted to anger. “Who is this?” she demanded, glaring at her husband.

  “I don’t know! I’ve never seen her!”

  Even to Charlotte, who knew it for the truth, his words sounded unconvincing. Perhaps he was thinking of another woman he’d wronged. She scrunched up her face to hide the fact that her sobs were not accompanied by actual tears. She heard footsteps behind her, then Reginald’s voice.

  “Harry!” he called out. “What’s all this?”

  “Reginald!” the man exclaimed. “This . . . creature, whom I’ve never met, is causing a scene. There must be a misunderstanding.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell her, I swear!” Charlotte protested. “Only you didn’t send the money you promised, and how am I to pay for our little one’s food?”

  Harry’s wife removed her hand from the crook of his elbow and watched Charlotte with horrified fascination.

  “She’s lying!” Harry snapped.

  “Of course she’s lying,” Reginald said. “You always pay what you owe, don’t you, Harry?”

  Charlotte watched Harry’s eyes widen with understanding.

  “Allow me to assist, if I may?” Reginald asked. “I would hate for your wife to suffer any further humiliation.” He gave Harry a meaningful stare as he took hold of Charlotte’s arm, pulling her aside.

  “Yes, yes,” Harry muttered, his feet shuffling on the pavement. “Much obliged. You may be assured of my gratitude.”

  “Why don’t we toast your gratitude tomorrow? The Three Bells, at noon?”

  Harry nodded curtly, and his wife scurried behind him as he hurried away. When they disappeared around the corner, Reginald looked at Charlotte and let out a triumphant laugh that made his chest shake. Charlotte felt weightless, as if a rope that kept her tethered to everyday life had been snapped. For a few exhilarating moments, she’d been transported into a different body, a different life. She and Reginald had played off each other like dancers, the lies coming as easy as breathing. Charlotte had never been lonely as she schemed her way through the London streets, but she knew she would be the next time, without him.

  “He’ll have my money tomorrow, you can be sure of that,” Reginald said. He reached into his jacket and pulled a pound coin from one of his hiding places. “Unlike dear Harry, I always settle my debts.”

  “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Charlotte said, fixing Reginald with her best flirtatious smile. “When can we do it again?”

  And with that, an unofficial partnership was formed. She couldn’t have Reginald come by the flat—Mother would know him instantly for a ne’er-do-well—but he visited Charlotte at the shop, making her laugh so hard that Mr. Thornton asked pointedly if the gentleman would be buying anything, and if not, it was time for Charlotte to sweep the storeroom. Not long after, Reginald arrived with a proposal: a friend was taking up a collection for poor orphans, and
would Charlotte make an appearance at a charity drive as a penniless urchin made good? There was no orphanage, of course, and the only needy souls who’d benefit from the scheme were Reginald and his friend. And Charlotte, if she agreed.

  The falsehoods multiplied from there. Charlotte told her mother she was attending educational lectures during her evenings out (where, she implied, eligible young men were in ready supply). She told Mr. Thornton her tortured feelings for him were affecting her health, which allowed her to shorten her working hours while stoking his vanity. She and Reginald concocted story after story: one day they were a missionary and his sister raising funds to build a church in China; the next they were newlyweds recently arrived from Australia, with opportunities to invest in a copper mine. Her favorite ruse starred Reginald as an earnest country vicar who was building a home for wayward young women and Charlotte as the reformed fancy girl he’d rescued. Her performance was particularly appealing to wealthy old roués, men whose consciences were susceptible to tales of ruined virtue. She’d sidle up to them with an innocent smile, even as the movements of her hips and chest hinted at the lewdness of her past. It was an irresistible combination, and donations flooded in.

  For six sparkling months, they were Lottie and Reg, companions who understood each other on a primal, wordless level. With a glance or a nod, Charlotte could send Reg a message—This fellow’s suspicious—and Reg would swoop in with a slap on the back and a whirlwind of words that rescued Charlotte from awkward questions. She trusted him utterly, yet she knew almost nothing about him. He lived in a lodging house in Chelsea, where she occasionally sent messages but was dissuaded from visiting. He had a large circle of friends—friends he played cards with (and cheated, when he could); friends he dreamed up schemes with; friends he drank with and fought with and accused of taking his fair share. But none of them knew the real Reg any more than Charlotte did; he’d even hinted, once, that Reginald Evers wasn’t his real name. Like a conjurer at a country fair, he dazzled through misdirection, deflecting questions to protect his secrets.

  With each swindle, discovery became more likely; defying those odds was half the fun. And then it all began to go wrong. It started with Mother, asking skeptical questions about Charlotte’s lectures and wondering when the new friends she’d been making would come to call.

  “You’ll be nineteen next month,” she warned. She’d taken to coughing dramatically to emphasize her supposedly precarious health. “I will not leave you an old maid. If you can’t find yourself a husband, I’ll do it for you.”

  Not long after, Reg, masquerading as “Lord Cavendish,” was spotted by the brother of a man he’d cheated, resulting in a mad dash out the servants’ entrance of the Empire Club.

  “Time for Lord Cavendish to emigrate, I think,” Reg told Charlotte the following day. “India, perhaps?”

  Charlotte was disappointed; they’d been planning to go to Harrods and charge a new set of clothes to the Cavendish account.

  “I’d best make myself scarce, in any case,” Reg said. “I’ve gotten rather greedy and made myself a few enemies.”

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m going to leave London,” he said. “Allow tempers to cool.”

  They were walking in Regent’s Park, their favorite place to hatch plans and savor their triumphs. Charlotte had allowed herself to believe the two of them would stroll down these paths forever, in a vaguely imagined eternal future.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Reg held up his hands in an amused show of helplessness. “Who can say?”

  Charlotte didn’t have the heart to smile back. She was angry and hurt, and all she could think was that she had to get away from all the people around them, to find a place where she could calm the dirgelike thudding of her heart. With abrupt resolve, she stepped off the path and across the grass, still damp from the previous night’s rain. She could hear Reg behind her, but she didn’t look back. Didn’t want to face him with her teary eyes. When Charlotte reached a high point among the trees, she stared down at the muddy hem of her dress. Reg’s spattered boots sidled up next to her. It must mean something, for a man who took such care with his clothes to follow her this far.

  Charlotte waited glumly for Reg to speak. She wanted to tell him not to go, that she couldn’t face the emptiness of a world without him. But Reg wasn’t one for such sentiments.

  “We’ve had fun, haven’t we?” Reg spoke in his usual cheery tone, but the words came out hesitantly.

  “The most fun I’ve ever had.”

  “You could have fooled me, from the way you’re carrying on.”

  Charlotte knew she was supposed to laugh, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Today, for the first time, she didn’t want to play a part. She didn’t want to be Lady Cavendish, or Pippa the orphan, or the missionary’s sister. She didn’t want to be pretty, devilish Lottie, who gleefully took strangers’ money and laughed about it afterward. She had never realized until that moment how exhausting it had become.

  Charlotte looked up at Reg, at the smile she’d seen dozens—hundreds?—of times. Reg used his smile to charm and disarm; it was his greatest weapon, and his greatest disguise.

  “We couldn’t have gotten away with it forever,” Reg said. “Sooner or later, there would have been a copper round the corner at the wrong time, or a woman doing her shopping who recognized you at the shop. I knew, every time, that I’d have to put a stop to it sooner or later.”

  “I wish we’d had a bit longer,” Charlotte said.

  “You can still make something of yourself, Lottie. You’re clever and you’re beautiful. You can do anything you want.”

  In the early days of their acquaintance, Charlotte had been prepared for Reg to grab her or kiss her, but he never had. He’d treated her with the protectiveness of an older brother, and he was looking at her the same way now. It wasn’t the money or the adventure she’d miss, Charlotte realized. It was Reg’s faith in her. The way she felt when he was at her side.

  All at once, in a dazzling rush of certainty, Charlotte knew what to do. She’d always thought love would overtake her like a sickness, leaving her helpless and weak. Her affection for Reg was something else entirely: a force that strengthened and sustained her. And wasn’t that what every woman hoped for in a husband? She remembered the evening they’d spent acting as the Australians, selling mining shares. Their conversation had come so naturally, it was as if they were already married.

  Reg was likely to laugh if she began spouting grand declarations. So Charlotte did what her body urged: she rose up on her toes and kissed him. His lips pressed back against hers; his arms encircled her; his chest pushed against her with such force that her back collided against a tree. For those few, breathless seconds, Charlotte felt how much he loved her.

  Then, with a jolt, Reg released her and stepped back. He made a show of adjusting his hat, composing himself, then shot Charlotte a look of wry amusement.

  “Good gracious,” he said. “My apologies.” As if he’d spilled his tea or bumped against her in the street.

  “No,” she stammered, “I was the one . . .”

  “My dear Lottie, I am enormously flattered. But you must see—this won’t do.”

  “Why?” she asked, reeling with confusion.

  Reg was an expert at reading his marks; he must have known he’d hurt her. “I am greatly flattered,” he said again, gently. “But you should save your kisses for someone who deserves them.”

  “There’s no one else. You’re the one I want—I know it.”

  “Ah, you’re young! You think you aren’t, but you are.”

  “And you’re such a wise old man?”

  Charlotte realized with a start that she had no idea how old Reg was. Twenty-five? Thirty? He carried himself with a confidence beyond his years.

  “I am richer in life experience,” Reg said. His lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. “And that vast store of knowledge tells me you’re meant for a b
etter man.”

  “I don’t care,” Charlotte insisted. “I love you. I want to marry you.”

  “Oh, Lottie.”

  Reg looked terribly sad, and understanding sank over Charlotte like a weight. “You’re already married.”

  “No.” Reg’s voice turned harsher. “I am terribly sorry, but I have no interest in the chains of matrimony. I value my freedom too highly.”

  Charlotte realized, with sickening regret, how badly she’d misjudged her own appeal. Why would Reg, a man of the world, marry a girl who lived above a cheese shop? For all she knew, he had a harem of women who provided all the comforts he desired. He was looking at her with pity, which only made it worse. From now on, he’d always see Charlotte as the silly girl who’d made a fool of herself by kissing him.

  The humiliation was total—and unbearable. Charlotte turned and ran, tears blurring her vision as she fled across the park and stumbled along the streets. How could she have put so much faith in someone she barely knew? All her memories of Reg had become tainted, like photographs splashed with water. He was a blur, a mystery that resisted being solved, and she had only herself to blame for her disgrace.

  The next day, Charlotte was looking out the front window of the shop when she saw Reg approaching. She muttered a quick excuse to Mr. Thornton and scuttled out the back door before Reg could see her. She made a similarly swift escape when he returned a few days later, and after that, he stopped coming.

  It was two years before they spoke again, in the spring of 1912.

  Mother’s cough turned out to be serious. For months, it worsened, from discomfort to pain. Charlotte’s life was restricted, every minute given to serving customers at the shop and Mother at home. At night, she lay sleepless as their shared bed shook with Mother’s groans. The Charlotte who had once shape-shifted with mischievous glee was worn out and worn down; the few times she caught glimpses of herself in a looking glass or shop window, she was shocked by her gaunt reflection. Heads no longer turned when she passed, because beauty without light veers perilously close to tragedy. Charlotte’s air of suffering kept others away.