by Karen Odden
At last a young man appeared at the door. He looked to be about fifteen, or perhaps a bit older. He had a thin, wolfish face, bright brown eyes, and cheeks flushed pink, as if he’d been running, and he brought the oily smell of the Thames into the room with him. His coat was too long, and threadbare at the cuffs, but his boots were stout, and he looked well fed, if wiry. In the same impersonal way as Mr. Flynn, he looked me over as he crossed into the room.
I stood. “Are you Jeremy?”
Mr. Flynn’s right eyebrow rose; I realized he’d thought we knew each other.
The boy sniffed. “I am. Who be you?”
“Can we talk privately, please?”
He pulled a face at Mr. Flynn. “Shore.” He made a theatrical gesture for me to precede him into the hall, then directed me to one of the empty rooms.
He didn’t shut the door but stood facing me with his hands in his pockets, his gaze frank but not insolent. “What’s your name, Miss?”
I waved a hand. “It isn’t important. Do you know a young man named Sebastian? Sebastian Tourneau.”
He tipped his head as if trying to recall, then shook it. “Don’t think so.”
I felt a stab of surprise, and then my heart sank. “You don’t? Are you quite sure?” He stood staring indifferently at me. “I was told . . .” I stopped. How could Marceline have been mistaken about this? “Never mind, then. I must have the name wrong.” I started toward the door, my heart hammering. I’d blundered. And now I had let Jeremy know something—just the smallest scrap of information, yes . . . only a name . . . but still . . .
“Who sent you?” came his voice, abruptly, as I reached the threshold.
I turned back.
The nonchalance had vanished, and his expression was wary and dead serious. “Tell me that, if’n you won’t tell me your name.”
“His sister.”
Pain and disbelief flashed across his face, and he made a sudden movement—not toward me, but it caused me to flinch all the same.
“You’re lying,” he said fiercely, between gritted teeth. To my surprise, tears had sprung to his eyes. “Marceline’s dead.”
“No, she’s not! She’s hurt—badly hurt. But she’s alive.”
“’Ow do you know?”
“Because I’m the one who found her in the street and took her to—to—someplace safe. I saw her just this morning.”
His lips parted, and he stared at me, blinking hard. “When’d you find her?”
“Wednesday night.”
“Where?”
“In an alley in Soho.”
“Where is she now?”
“I can’t tell you that. She asked me not to—to protect you, as well as Sebastian. She doesn’t want him coming out of hiding. All I’m allowed to tell you is that she’s safe, and she’s mending.”
At my evasion, his eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?”
I’d had enough of the interrogation. “For goodness’ sake! How else would I know your name and how to find you, if she hadn’t given it to me?”
“’Ow do I know she gave it to you by choice?” he snapped back.
His point was a fair one. I sighed and provided a gesture of good faith. “My name is Nell Hallam. I play piano at the Octavian, where she was performing with her brother, and we became friends. She—and I—just want to let Sebastian know she’s all right.”
The mistrust faded from Jeremy’s face. I waited, and at last he gave a faint nod. “I’ll tell ’im. If’n I see ’im.”
“Is he safe? She’s worried about him, too.”
“I ain’t ’eard otherwise.”
“And do you think you can find him?”
A shrug. “Mebbe. Can you come back Sunday, around midday?”
“Here?” I asked, surprised.
“’Ere’s safe enough. Nobody’ll connect this place with you, or with either o’ them.”
“Sunday, then, at noon.” I put my hand on the doorknob, my mind already on the rickety stairs I had to climb down.
“Miss, is she really all right?” came his voice from behind me.
I turned back once more. His guarded demeanor had given way to undisguised worry, and I felt a sudden wave of warmth toward him. “She will be. She’s had her wounds tended to and has a clean bed and good food. She’s mending.”
His mouth curved in a genuine boyish smile that made his whole face light up. “Good.”
Chapter 11
As had become my cautious habit, I went to the Octavian early on Wednesday night and spent the hour before the show practicing. No one interrupted me, and when I heard the front doors open, I changed one set of music for the other. But my mind was elsewhere, and for the first time ever, I found myself playing the finale of the show without being able to recall much about what had preceded it.
Afterward, I gathered my things as usual and went down the stairs to the back corridor. As I passed Amalie’s dressing room, I heard her throaty laugh in the pause between the scrapes of heavy properties being moved in preparation for the next show—and then a man’s voice, smooth and well-bred.
Was that Stephen? I thought, pausing.
Well, the two of them had a right to spend time with whomever they pleased. It was none of my concern.
And then, from behind me, came Drummond’s voice, menacing and slurred with drink: “What the hell’re you still doing here?”
For a panicked second, I thought he was talking to me, and I whirled around. But there was only his bulky shadow, grotesque in the light cast by a lantern on the wall. It was getting larger, though, and I had no wish to be anywhere near his line of sight. A few steps away, an old slatted door formed a small tricorner space near the stairs, and I slid behind it.
Peering between two slats, I saw that Drummond had a pair of raffish boys by their collars, and he was dragging them toward the ramp that led up to the street. I didn’t recognize the boys, though I thought I knew by sight the dozen or so who worked here, selling roses and cigars, emptying the ashtrays, and sweeping the aisles during the show. As a rule, the hall boys were decently dressed; these two must be pickpockets who’d managed to slip in somehow.
With the pounding and scraping sounds overhead, I couldn’t hear what he was saying to them, but I could distinguish their features. One was perhaps ten years of age, the other a few years older; neither one wore shoes. The older boy seemed to be explaining something, and his thin arm pointed toward the front door. Drummond listened with an expression of disbelief and then, without warning, knocked their heads together twice. The suddenness of it shocked me, and I nearly cried out. The boys fell to the floor on their hands and knees, the younger one sobbing. Drummond gave the older one a kick and proceeded down the hallway toward my hiding place. I didn’t move a muscle, not even to breathe, and he passed by without a glance.
A few more steps, and he’d be at his office—and I would go to those boys—
Then Stephen emerged from the far corridor. I gave a small sigh of relief and nearly slid out of my hiding place—
“Drummond,” he called.
The older man turned back. “There you are.”
The ease between the two men froze me in place again.
Stephen glanced at the two boys huddled together on the floor and stepped around them without the slightest change of expression.
The band of cloth around my chest suddenly felt tight.
The pair walked to the end of the hallway and turned left, toward the rooms that were used for properties and such. Their shadows, cast by lights in the next hallway, stretched onto the wall, two long dark pillars that shrank and then vanished.
I let out my breath in a ragged exhale. What was Stephen doing with Drummond? And how could he have looked at those boys and done nothing—not even said a word to them?
My heart pounding, I came out from behind the door as warily as a rabbit coming out of a hole and hurried over to crouch beside the two boys on the cold floor. The younger boy was curled on his side, clutchin
g his head. The older one was on his hands and knees, his breath coming in gasps. He had blood running from a cut over his left brow.
I put one hand on the older boy’s shoulder and kept my voice to a hoarse whisper. “Are you all right?”
He looked up blearily and wiped his sleeve over his thin face. “Who are you?”
“I play the piano here. I saw what Drummond did just now.” I reached inside my coat for my handkerchief. “Here.” I offered the bit of white cloth. The older boy eyed both it and me with suspicion. Without taking it, he turned to the younger boy, who still lay on his side, his eyes full of tears. He had an ugly red scar, as if from a burn, across the side of his mouth, and when the older boy leaned over him, he let out the smallest whimper and said a few garbled words.
The older boy understood him, though, and nodded. Brothers, I thought, as I looked at them in profile. But what had happened to the younger boy’s mouth? That scar looked painful, though not fresh.
I held out the handkerchief again to the older boy. “There’s a pump on the Mews where you can wash that cut.”
“We’re a’right.” Still on his knees, he shifted closer to the other boy and pulled gently at his shoulder. “Come on, Gus. We got to be gone ’afore he comes back.”
Though they clearly didn’t want my help, I felt unwilling to leave. I rose and watched uncertainly by the lantern’s light, and my eye was caught by a U-shaped scar on the older boy’s bare heel. It’s no wonder, I thought, if they’re going barefoot in the London streets. “What happened to your foot?” I asked. “Did you cut it?”
“Nah.” He pulled Gus to his feet, and they started up the ramp. The younger one—Gus—was still rubbing his head as they reached the door. It squeaked open and closed and they were gone, leaving behind a cold, damp gust of air.
I bent to pick up my portfolio where I’d dropped it. I desperately wanted to be gone myself. What I’d just seen had put a lump in the pit of my stomach.
“Nell!”
With a gasp, I turned.
Stephen stood there, his smile fading as he studied my face. “What’s the matter? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Nothing. You startled me is all.”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock. What are you still doing here?”
The echo of Drummond’s snarled words felt uncanny. But I pushed the thought aside and shrugged. “I forgot my portfolio and had to come back for it. Stupid, I know.”
My self-deprecatory laugh sounded thin to me, but he nodded and smiled. “I looked for you after the show, you know. I’ve just come from upstairs. Someone told me they thought they’d seen you headed that way.”
I couldn’t help but stare at how sincere he appeared, at how his head was inclined just enough to suggest an easy rapport between us, at how his gaze didn’t swerve a hair away from mine. In that moment, rendered silent by a welter of feelings I couldn’t even name, there was part of me that wished I could snap back a retort that shamed him for his outright lie.
But what I’d seen just now—Drummond with those boys, and Stephen on easy terms with Drummond—wasn’t merely the backstage seediness of a music hall; it was callous and brutal. The same instinct that had pulled me back behind the slatted door to avoid Drummond now made me smile up at Stephen and say, “Oh, the stagehands were moving something across the alcove, so I took the other stairs.”
“Ah!” He seemed to accept this explanation.
“But I’m late now. As you know, I have to get home.”
“Yes, your brother.”
I nodded in agreement. “Good night, Stephen. I’ll see you next week.” At the top of the ramp, I turned back to see him watching me with a slightly puzzled expression. I gave him a cheerful wave with my portfolio and pushed at the door.
So long as I was in the yard, I kept up the pretense of hurrying home. But as I rounded the next corner, I had to stop, lean my back against the wall, and take a few deep breaths before I walked on. I made my way from one gas lamp to the next, their light above me distorted and diffused. By contrast, the individual moments of the wretched scene I’d witnessed appeared in my mind with the clarity of daguerreotypes. Drummond’s face, his eyes blazing and his mouth working . . . the boys trying to speak, their faces full of terror . . . the older one with the blood on his forehead, so full of distrust that he refused my handkerchief . . . the younger one trying to speak, and that ugly puckered scar across his mouth . . . and Stephen’s rotten indifference—
There was a high-pitched scream from a horse—human shouts of warning—the pounding of hooves—
I was in the middle of Wickley Street, and like a complete fool, I froze in place and turned toward the sounds. Out of the mist came a pair of horses, running at me, the lanterns on either side of the cab swinging wildly, the carriage careening from side to side as it came. I dodged one way and then the other—the horses seemed to follow my course like devils—the hansom drew near—was nearly upon me—I tried to run, but my boot slid on the wet stones—
A quick movement behind me, and two strong arms whirled me out of the way as if I weighed no more than a cat.
Chapter 12
I cried out as the horses flew by, the carriage wheels jouncing against the cobbles—and in seconds, all I saw were the two lanterns bobbing crazily through the mist. Then the darkness closed behind them, and the only lights came from a single gas lamp nearby and some public houses open late.
The man—for it was a man who had grabbed me—still held me, not painfully but firmly. My hands were on his chest, and though it was as broad and unyielding as an oak door, I could feel his heartbeat coming as fast as my own.
“Are you all right?” he asked finally, his arms loosening.
It was a voice I recognized.
I drew back. “Jack!” My eyes searched his face. “What are you doing here?”
His face wore the guarded expression I’d seen often enough. “It’s lucky I was. Are you all right?” he repeated, studying me as if searching for injuries.
“I’m fine. Just . . . just frightened half to death.” But the fear was already giving way to anger. “What was the driver thinking, racing his horses through here like that? What sort of fool would do such a thing?”
“There wasn’t one—a driver, I mean—at least not one who was sitting upright.”
“You mean he’d fallen asleep?”
“Or been thrown out. I don’t know,” he said abruptly. “I was looking at you.”
He was still looking at me—and belatedly I realized I had spoken to him in my own voice. I’d given myself away. But there was no surprise in his expression. So Stephen had been right: Jack had known all along and never said a word.
I stiffened and pulled away from him. Instantly, pain shot from my ankle all the way up my leg. I let out an involuntary cry and nearly fell, and his arm was back around me in a minute.
“What is it?”
I clutched at his arm. “My ankle. My God.” The pain was so sharp I could barely breathe, and tears sprang to my eyes. He only hesitated a moment before he swung me up into his arms and began to walk. I bit my lip so as not to cry out from the spikes of pain shooting up toward my knee. I’d never fainted in my life—but I felt so sick that I was close to it then.
Jack pushed a door open with his foot, and we were in the dining room of a public house, warm from a robust fire and smelling of roasted beef and onions. Most of the tables were occupied, and suddenly it occurred to me how strange we must look. A man carrying another man—coming into a public house—they probably all thought I was drunk—
“Everything all right, Jack?” someone called.
“Fine,” he answered but didn’t stop. He carried me between two long benches where people sat with their tankards and lowered me into a chair beside an unoccupied table. Clumsily, I maneuvered myself to a comfortable position, and he drew another chair close and bent down, using one hand just below my calf to keep my foot from touching the floor. Hi
s dark eyes met mine. “We need to take your boot off.”
Now that I was sitting still, with the weight off my ankle, the shooting pains were diminishing to a heavy throbbing.
His other hand was poised over the fastenings of the boot. “Would you like me to help you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Tell me when you’re ready.”
“Go ahead.” I wrapped my hands around the sides of the chair.
He undid the five buttons, and as I watched I remembered how scrupulous he was with the piano, his fingers patiently moving over the strings. But even with him pulling carefully, I couldn’t stifle a sharp inhale as the boot came over my heel.
He glanced up. “Sorry.” His hands felt around the ankle joint gently. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s swelling. I’m going to see if they have any ice.”
“Jack—you know this place?”
“The Bear and Bull. Some friends own it.” He rose, ducked under a wooden panel that separated this room from the next, and disappeared through an archway.
The room wasn’t overly spacious or elaborately decorated, but it was well kept, and the floor was cleanly swept. A fire glowed in a massive stone hearth, and above the mantel was the head of a bear, mounted so its teeth were showing. It would have seemed more menacing if its ears weren’t ragged and the fur weren’t patchy along the neck; it had rather the scruffiness of a well-loved children’s toy.
Well, there is the bear, I thought; but though I craned my neck, I saw no sign of a bull.
Along one wall ran a wooden bar, long enough to accommodate a dozen stools, a few of which were occupied by young men talking and laughing over their late suppers. Couples sat at several of the small tables, and a rather noisy trio of men sat at a larger table in the corner, playing cards. One of them shot me a look and nudged his friend. I felt myself flush, and wishing Jack would hurry back, I kept my eyes fixed on the archway, breathing a sigh of relief as he emerged. Beside him was a young woman, her lustrous fair hair coiled into a thick bun. His dark head was bent toward her pretty face, and she was smiling up at him, her hand on his arm. He gestured toward me, and she cast a quick glance, then they vanished together behind another door.
