by Y. S. Lee
She bolted into the larger room, her voice high and sharp with fright. “You, guard! Call a physician!”
The guard blinked, curls of tobacco swirling lazily about his head. “You all right, miss?”
“I’m fine, but the prisoner is dying. For pity’s sake, call a doctor, now! You must have one somewhere in this hellhole.”
The guard blinked again, as though she was speaking gibberish. “A doctor, miss?”
“This instant. Please!”
He seemed to move at a fraction of his usual sluggard’s pace, but eventually he levered himself up and could be heard lumbering down the stairs. Mary considered charging after him and going for help herself — she would be so much faster — yet she couldn’t bear to leave Lang to suffer alone. Her medical training was rudimentary, but even she could see that he hadn’t long to live. A few hours? Perhaps a few days, if he was an exceptionally hardy and stubborn soul.
She mopped his brow with her handkerchief while the occasional tear splashed the rotting straw mattress. This was always to have been Lang’s fate, she admitted now. Ever since she’d seen that jagged cut, she’d been afraid of it. Denied it. Hoped against fate. But blood poisoning was almost inevitable in an injury like his, left to fester untreated for days. And he was a frail man, his body older than his years.
Had the escape plan merely been an elaborate way to avoid thinking about her future? A deception that cushioned her unwanted knowledge that things were not entirely right at the Agency? Or perhaps merely a desperate romance built on the discovery of family? A father who’d reappeared only to vanish once more.
She knelt beside the mattress and took his parchment-thin hand. They were entirely alone now. No guard idling at ten paces, no future to fear. She drew a breath and said, very softly, “Father.”
His bruised eyelids trembled, struggling against their own weight. His eyes, when they opened, were those of Frankenstein’s monster — jaundice yellow, crazed with veins of red. But they were still her eyes, too. He blinked once, very slowly.
She focused on keeping her voice steady. “Father.”
Another of those rattling breaths — a wrenching attempt, she realized, to clear his chest. He was too weak to cough. “Mary.”
She opened a vial of laudanum and held it to his lips, cradling his head gently as he swallowed its bitter contents little by little.
After a second small bottle of the tincture, his breathing eased and a little of his agony seemed to fade.
“Father, I came for you. Are you sure you don’t want to run away?”
The faintest of smiles stretched his lips — an enormous effort, she was sure. “Tomorrow.”
She was crying now, utterly unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Father, look.” She fumbled for the jade pendant. “I wear it all the time. Every day possible since I found it.”
He looked at the pendant, but only for a moment. Then his gaze returned to her face, drinking in her features. “You know.”
“Why you went away?” She shook her head. “The pendant survived through luck — I took it first, and was going back for the papers. They were burned in a fire before I could read them.”
A long silence. Then he blinked, a slow and painful movement. “Best.”
Lang’s mysterious departure. His so-called mission. The ruin that had befallen him: all things she would never know. Not to mention tender tales of her childhood, the story of his marriage to her mother, the privilege of knowing her father as an adult. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her chest as she grasped the irony of her situation. A dead father who came back to life. A man who refused to acknowledge his paternity until it was too late. A man with the answers she craved but who was too weak to speak them.
He half raised a shaking finger. “My mother’s.”
“The pendant?” She thought she detected a nod. “What does it mean?”
A pause. If she wasn’t wrong, a slight frustration. “Too much.”
Whether she was asking too much, whether it meant too much — they were one and the same now. And that was fine, because it would have to be fine. She dabbed his forehead once more with her handkerchief. Summoning her courage, she bent and kissed him. And, oddly — but perhaps it was entirely to be expected — beneath the stale sweat, the dirt, the sweetness of laudanum and the stink of infection, he smelled familiar. He smelled like her father.
As though her kiss was the benediction he’d awaited, his eyes slowly closed and his breathing seemed to ease. A wave of panic rose within her, and she clutched at his hand. “Father!” She wasn’t ready for this — not yet. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, when the time would be right, but it wasn’t now. Couldn’t be now.
His face contorted. She must be hurting his hand. But when she released her tight grasp, he merely said, “Shhhh.”
She obeyed, not without difficulty.
In the stillness that followed, she heard a new noise below: footsteps. Or, more precisely, boot steps. Her heart beat double time: a doctor, at last. She squeezed Lang’s fingers gently. Disentangled herself and stood. Mopped her face, blew her nose, and hoped that the single dim candle would cover the rest of the damage.
Yet the footsteps ascended the tower staircase at a stately pace, neither sluggish nor hurried. And by the new guard’s — the stand-in’s — hasty response, as he knocked over his chair in his haste to rise, this was a person of some eminence. Even had the jailer kept his head, she would have known from the voice: deep, authoritative, and crisp. “I require a word with prisoner Lang.”
“Y-your name, sir?” The turnkey’s voice was tentative.
“Never mind that.” There came the faint jingle of coins changing hands. “Now. Where is he?”
Mary frowned. She’d heard this voice before, and quite recently at that. Whether that made his refusal to identify himself more or less ominous, however, was unclear. As the footsteps came toward the cell’s entrance, she stood and turned to face it. The two men filled the narrow doorway, and the deep-voiced gentleman recoiled half a step, visibly surprised to see her.
“Who are you?” His voice was sharp with angry surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Mary curtsied. “Miss Lawrence, of the St. Andrew’s Church Ladies’ Committee. I’ve been ministering to prisoner Lang in his time of need.”
The man’s eyes raked her, cold and analytical. “I don’t see your prayer book.”
“The prisoner requested a silent companionship.” Mary hoped that the guard would be too overawed to contradict her on this; he must have heard the rise and fall of conversation from the cell. “And you, sir?” Her voice was sweet enough but crisp, too — the tones of a middle-class woman unaccustomed to rude treatment.
“I?” He seemed unprepared for the question, but as he glanced about, the guard’s lantern illuminated his face clearly and Mary felt a surge of terror. She recognized the man now. Had first seen him at Buckingham Palace. He wasn’t wearing full uniform — his blue tunic was stripped of insignia and he carried no truncheon — but it was the same man: Commissioner Russell of the Metropolitan Police. “Russell. Alfred Russell, on a private matter. If you would be so kind, ma’am, as to allow me a brief interview with the prisoner. I shan’t be long.”
Mary’s impulse was to refuse, to make some sort of absurd, futile stand. All her instincts screamed at the notion of abandoning her father to the commissioner of police. But caution prevailed. She would be of no use to Lang unmasked and shamed. And so she inclined her head, a trifle haughtily, and stepped from the cell with her chin high.
After a moment, Russell said to the guard, “He’s lucid?”
“I — don’t rightly know, sir. The lady might.”
Mary turned. “He is.”
“And he understands English, Miss Lawrence?”
“Perfectly.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The stunned guard followed her after a moment, clearing his throat. “Afraid there’s no place fit
for a lady to wait, ma’am.”
“This will be sufficient,” she said, stopping in the antechamber. “Thank you.” She willed him to remain silent, not to torment her with explanations and clumsy small talk. All her senses were trained on the cell. She heard Russell — the name he’d given was similarly stripped of rank — clear his throat. There was a long pause. Then, stepping out of the cell, he said, “Here. Guard. Send for a physician.”
“Already done, sir. The lady — Miss Lawrence — asked earlier.”
“Well, tell him to hurry up. This man is dying.”
Such corroboration ought not to have surprised Mary. She had a more than passing acquaintance with death, having seen it all about her from a young age. Having cheated it herself. Yet when the fateful word left Russell’s lips, she felt a pang. She hadn’t realized just how much hope she’d held out until that moment.
With a mutter — an apology? a curse? — the guard trundled down the tower stairs, hesitating only briefly as he glanced back at Mary. The moment his footsteps faded, Mary inched closer to the cell. She needn’t have bothered: Russell raised his voice to the pitch that people often use when addressing the deaf and the elderly. “Mr. Lang, I come bearing news of the case in which you’ve been charged: the death of the Honorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth.”
A pause here, but there was no response.
Russell continued. “I have recently been informed by a new source that you were not the aggressor in the altercation on Sunday morning. It is my present understanding that you were attacked, acted in self-defense, and then continued to act in a — a type of frenzy. Is this information correct?”
Mary listened, half hopeful, half fearful, entirely spellbound. Eventually, in a voice so low that it was barely a scratch, he said, “Yes.”
“This changes the matter considerably, from the perspective of — an influential person. I am instructed to inform you that the charges against you have been altered. This person of influence believes that penal servitude without hard labor would be the most appropriate punishment for the killing of Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth.”
Mary drew in a short, sharp breath. This was beyond all expectations, all imaginings. And still this whole episode had the quality of a dream: the dim, flickering light; the sudden, clearly unofficial appearance of the police commissioner; the references to “an influential person,” who could only be the queen. Her Majesty had been notoriously lenient in the past when attempts had been made on her life. At various times, young men who had fired pistols at Her Majesty’s person had received only brief imprisonment — a direct result of Queen Victoria’s compassionate nature. It stood to reason that in this case, although a life had been taken, the queen remained concerned about the life that remained.
And how little of it remained. Mary’s heart felt close to bursting with a bittersweet compound of love, shame, hope, and despair as she heard Lang struggle to respond to Russell’s pinch-lipped message of clemency. He attempted to clear his chest again, with that painful rattle. In the end, he succeeded in saying nothing audible. Mary retreated just in time. In another half minute, Russell emerged, sour faced, brushing filth, both literal and figurative, from his tunic sleeves. Acknowledging Mary with the barest of nods, he stormed down the stairs.
She remained perfectly still for a moment, thoughts as paralyzed as her limbs. What on earth did this mean, really? Despite Queen Victoria’s newly generous stance, it would change nothing about her father’s life. He was a dying man. Optimist though she was, she knew better than to imagine he’d make a miraculous recovery. Perhaps if his wound had received prompt attention; perhaps if he’d not gone on hunger strike and been brutally force-fed; perhaps if he’d not been imprisoned; perhaps if he’d not been tormented by Beaulieu-Buckworth . . . the chain of possibilities wound on endlessly.
They had so little time left. She forced her limbs into motion, re-entering the cell with light steps. “Father. I’m back.”
What remained of her father tried to turn toward her, but his head moved only a fraction of an inch. He’d used what little energy that remained listening and responding to Commissioner Russell. Still, his eyes slowly focused on her and he opened his lips. That dreadful rattling sound came again.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tire yourself talking. I’ll just sit here with you.”
He blinked very slowly. Tried again. “Mary.”
She trembled with anticipation. “Yes, Father.”
His breathing seemed to ease a little, although speech appeared excruciating. “Wanted. To find.”
“Me?” she asked, breath catching.
“Shame. Opium.” His eyelids drooped, becoming too heavy for him to hold open.
Mary clasped his hand tighter. “I wouldn’t have cared. I would have loved you, no matter what.”
The faintest of smiles softened his mouth — not a ghastly effort, as the last had been, but a yielding. A departure, Mary realized. She laced her fingers through his, straining her ears for anything that might be a word. The softest of sighs escaped his lips. And then he was still.
Mary watched, holding her breath. Waited, lest he was struggling, gathering strength, trying for something she feared to spoil or interrupt. A minute passed. Five. His cold hand began to grow colder yet, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go.
Only when she heard a respectful cough behind her did she realize that the guard — the original guard — had come back. Behind him stood an irritable-looking man carrying a battered doctor’s bag. Gently, she placed Lang’s hand across his chest. Stood. Realized, with a shock, that not only was she not crying but she felt perfectly numb. “He’s dead,” she said to nobody in particular.
The doctor scowled and pushed past her, slamming his bag about in an ill-tempered fashion. “I’ll be the judge of that, miss.”
Mary stood aside. Looked at the turnkey. “What’s your name?”
“Baxter, miss. I mean, ma’am.”
“Baxter. I’ll see to the burial. Don’t let anybody move him.” She thrust a few coins into the man’s slack hand and stepped past him. This blessed numbness was unlikely to last. But it would be enough to get her home — wherever that might be.
Outside the Tower, she found a cab without much difficulty. Climbed inside.
“Where to, miss?” asked the driver impatiently. It was a cold night, and his horse drooped miserably in the drizzle.
“St. John’s Wood. No — Limehouse.” As the hansom turned clumsily, she called out, alarmed, “I’ve changed my mind — St. John’s Wood!”
The cabman cursed under his breath. “Sure now, miss? I ain’t got all night.”
She wasn’t certain of anything anymore. But the cabman was waiting. “Yes. Acacia Road.” For the last night, she hoped. And that, she realized, was the one thing of which she felt certain. What a pity that knowledge was all but useless.
An audience with the queen. An audience with the queen. The words drummed about Mary’s skull in time with her footsteps as she followed a new lady-in-waiting up two flights of silk-carpeted steps. It was only when she’d woken that morning, dry eyed, that she remembered the letter in her handbag. It was a strange little epistle, exquisitely formal, signed by the queen’s secretary. It commanded her to a meeting with Her Majesty at ten o’clock that morning. Mary felt no excitement, little curiosity. But she went because she could think of no reason she ought not.
Here at the palace, there was no sign of Honoria Dalrymple, no mention of her name. And the new attendant, a stout, middle-aged woman with the gown of a Paris fashion plate and the face of a fishwife, seemed to know precisely where she was going. This, combined with the strange novelty of walking down the center of a carpet runner, through the chandelier-lit, Old Masters–hung corridors of the palace, made the past six weeks of Mary’s life seem a strange hallucination. Only the startled look on the underbutler’s face as he’d admitted her confirmed the fact of Mary’s time spent belowstairs.
She was conducted not to one of
the formal drawing rooms but to Her Majesty’s private parlor — a room she knew well, although she’d never before approached it without a tea tray in her hands. The lady-in-waiting stopped outside the door. “A few words of advice as to conduct, Miss Quinn. One approaches Her Majesty with eyes lowered and prostrates oneself at the edge of the Turkish carpet. One does not rise until permitted to do so. One addresses the queen as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘ma’am.’ And on leaving, one does not turn one’s back; instead, one backs out of the room.”
Mary resisted the temptation to say, One thanks one for one’s advice. A moment later, the door swung open and she was doing precisely as instructed. When she reached the edge of the specified carpet and sank low, the queen said, “Come closer, Miss Quinn.”
She advanced to the chair indicated. A glance up revealed the presence of both Queen Victoria and Prince Bertie, while a thin, prim-lipped man hovered in the background: the secretary. He was not introduced.
The queen’s formal manner offered no suggestion that she had ever seen Mary before this morning. “How do you do, Miss Quinn?”
“Very well, I thank Your Majesty.” She hesitated. Did one ask the queen how she did? Or ought she allude to yesterday’s excitements? The fishwife hadn’t covered that.
“We have asked you here today for two reasons. The first shall be explained to you by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.” At the glance the queen gave her son, it wasn’t at all clear that this was his initiative.
But, obediently enough, he drew breath. “I first wish to apologize, Miss Quinn, for the — altercation — that took place yesterday. I behaved in a less-than-gentlemanly fashion and beg your forgiveness for my actions.”
Mary glanced hastily at Her Majesty, whose composed expression betrayed nothing. The prince must have confessed everything, and that knowledge made her flush with anger and humiliation. It was an unreserved apology, however — much more than she’d ever expected. Whatever good it might do. But clearly, some response was due. “Of course, sir,” she mumbled.
