At the top of the stairs was a pleasant drawing room. The floor was covered with a worn oriental rug, and colourful paintings lined the walls. A friendly fire hissed in the grate. Elly’s family portrait hung above. He studied the faces. In the center were Elly’s grandparents. Both were slim with fair hair. The oldest children could have been Elly, and actor Michael Burns. Sam knew they were actually brother and sister, Charles and Lillian Roundtree. The younger boy, Anthony, had dark hair. A baby sat in his mother’s lap and a toddler stood by her side. Sam wondered if the same illness had killed all three. He pictured Charles’s body floating in the Suez Canal, and shuddered.
To the right was a feminine bedroom and adjoining dressing room. At first glance everything looked lovely and lacy white. Up close, he saw that the bedspread was mismatched frilly threadwork, hanging onto the floor. He touched the canopy over the bed and old lace came off in his hand. Light footsteps sounded on the stairs, and he dove under the high mattress. Seconds later, he heard a woman hum, and saw the bottom of a dark pink skirt swish past. He looked through the lacy bedspread.
Lillian was tall, pale, bony, with streaks of grey in her copper hair: a ghostly version of Elly. She carried a bundle of grey roses and sat at her dressing table. Sam had never seen grey roses and wondered if they were special to this part of the country. She chose a few, took a white satin ribbon, and tied it around the stems. Holding the bouquet in one arm, she left the drawing room and went down the rickety back stairs.
Sam crawled from under the bed and examined the extra roses. The grey petals were
dry. A chill ran down his spine as he sped from the room, downstairs and outside.
Sunlight was fading. It would soon be dark. Workers packed their belongings. A few went into the big house, but most walked down the road, past the gatehouse. Sam was ready to cry. What could he do alone, against the whole town? Suddenly, Rex was beside him. One ear up and one down, he panted happily.
Sam hugged the dog. “I’m not alone, am I boy?” Rex licked his face. The sky opened and rain fell. Sam raced for cover. He led Rex through the empty pavilions, and chose one with a clear view of the house. He slumped against a beer barrel, wound Rex’s rope around his hand, and tried to relax. Rex lay across his legs. The dog’s soothing warmth lulled Sam to sleep.
Chapter Three
London, a week earlier
Peg McCarthy had spent most of Christmas Eve day freezing and starving. She hid in a doorway across the street from Mrs. Porter's boardinghouse and watched the actors leave for their holiday. Lester and Todd went first, followed by Peter and Miss Lynn. Last was Meg, tarted up even more than usual, obviously meeting a special client. Snatches of cheery conversations assured her they would all be gone overnight. Rory and Elly were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Potter and the old women boarders, Mrs. and Miss Roche, were alone in the house.
Dusk came early and Peg was dying to get out of the cold. She tiptoed inside the house through the deserted drawing room, and into the kitchen. The only visible food was a dry bread crust. She sucked it greedily, and raced upstairs to her old third floor room.
Expecting the bedclothes to be filthy rags, she was startled to see a heavy quilt covering clean bed sheets. Shivering, she kicked off her broken shoes, dove under the covers, and pulled the bedclothes around her. As her shivering slowed, her anger rose. These nice bedclothes were for Elly Fielding. Meg and Peg had never been given anything clean and warm. Elly had ruined Peg's life. Somehow, she must repay the favor. Sniggering, she remembered Elly bleeding on the theatre stairs. At least the skinny cow had shared that bit of shame and misfortune. Peg banished visions of her own baby, ripped from her body a year ago. It would be starting to walk now: her baby with theatre manager Eric Bates.
The stove had gone out, but a few pieces of coal sat in the bucket. Peg hurried out of bed on bare feet. The floorboards felt icy cold, so she slipped on her shoes, and quickly filled the stove. She lit a match and waited for the coals to catch fire. Soon, comforting warmth radiated. She stood warming her hands, when the bedroom door opened.
Mrs. Potter stood glaring."Wha' the 'ell you doin' 'ere? The coppers should be after y' for tha' torch business, t'other nigh'."
Peg glared. "That were noffin', y' old cow!"
"Noffin' y' say? Y' nearly burned down the 'ouse down. An wha' y' think y' doin' now, burnin' m' good coal? Close that bloody stove." She pushed Peg out of the way, stumbled against the open stove, and knocked a burning coal onto the floor. The floorboards were still soaked with flame accelerant from Peg's torch and instantly burst into flame. Suddenly, the room was an inferno. Both women screamed. Peg raced through the flames, down the stairs, and out the building. She never looked back.
Running at full speed, the deserted streets seemed the loneliest place on earth. Her worn leather heels clipped loudly, without company, down hard pavement. Stopping only when her breath gave out, she collapsed, gasping against a lamp post. She gulped biting cold air. Her lungs stung as her breath poured out like white mist. Sweat drenched her frock, clammy under her thin coat, making her shiver more.
Two young roughs, half-dead from drink and cold, approached with outstretched hands.
“ ‘ello, pri’y. Got someffin’ fer a poor bloke?” She ran away from them, straight into a third man who grabbed her, roughly pinning her arms behind her back. She fought to get away, kicking and screaming as one man rifled her pockets, stealing the small bits of change she carried. The third man pulled up her skirt, but she kicked him in the groin, sending him howling onto his back.
The second man raised his hand to slap her. She lifted her chin and bared her teeth. As his hand smashed her cheek, she bit into his fingers, drawing blood. He screamed and lunged away. The man holding her was startled enough to relax his grasp, and she raced blindly into a strange alley. She made several turns before she hid in a doorway, listening for her attackers.
Once she was sure they were not following, she took a minute to read the street signs and get her bearings. After wandering a few blocks, she turned a corner, making a beeline to the only place she knew she could find a warm corner to lay her head. It was a half-hour’s walk before she saw the dimly lit pub sign: a sleeping pink cat curled around a smiling blue mouse, with the words THE PINK KITTEN painted above.
Knowing she must look a sight, she stopped, straightened her shoulders, put on a swagger and flounced through the door. After pushing aside double-heavy wind-breaking drapes, the sickeningly sweet smell of opium made her gag. Through a thick haze, she saw three men sprawled in a corner, passing a pipe, making air bubbles through a gracefully curving vat of water. The barman looked through a crowd of men and waved a greeting. She waved back, tossed her coat onto a very full rack, and looked into the nearest of many large mirrors. Pleased that the slap had not bruised her cheek, she wiped blood from her lip, unbuttoned the top of her frock, pulled it down and pushed up the top of her bosoms. Her comb had been stolen with her money, so she loosened her thick black hair, and let it fall wildly over her shoulders.
“Marguerite, my lovely. What a nice surprise.” Tommy Quinn stood behind her, reflected in the glass. His eyes were glazed and he nearly lost his balance, leaning down to kiss her naked shoulder.
In perfect upper class English, she asked, “Got anyone for me, tonight, Tommy?” Her voice sounded more desperate than she would have liked.
“All my rooms are busy, just now. Christmas you know. Always brings a good crowd.” He yawned, showing the ugly gap of his missing tooth.
Exhausted and frozen to the bone, she longed to warm herself by the fire. “Can I just sit a spell, then? Someone may come in.”
“Usually I’d say ‘no problem’, but tonight…” He gestured to the men in the corner. “Those Jessies really don’t like women.”
Desperate to stay, she forced a laugh, and reached her fingers between his legs. “What about a bit of a suck then, eh, Tommy love?”
He giggled, wriggling against her hand.
A thin seventeen-year-old in a schoolboy tie and ridiculously short pants, shouted from the stairs. “Is that my nanny?”
Tommy turned around, shouting, “Ronald Baston, you're in for a proper thrashing if you can't behave. Go back to the school room and practice your sums."
Ronald pouted like a spoiled child and stomped upstairs.
Tommy shrugged. "I sent for one of the ladies from the other house, but they might not be able to spare one.”
Peg was frantic. “I’ll do it. Just tell me what he wants.”
“He wants to be thrashed. I know you don’t like that sort of thing.”
Her stomach lurched, but she pictured Rory, then the roughs in the street, and clenched her jaw. “Tonight, I think I’d enjoy that very much.” Her heart pounded and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Little Ronald will get the thrashing of his life.”
Tommy laughed. “Good! He’ll pay very well for that. Help yourself to the costume room. There’s an assortment of whips...”
“I know where they are.” Eyes glaring with pent up anger, she marched up the stairs.
A cosy fire warmed the elaborately decorated costume room. Hooks on one wall were filled with a variety of whips, punishment canes, leather and metal restraints. Cloaks and hoods in a variety of colours and sizes hung on theatrical costume racks. Exhausted and pleasantly warm, Peg slumped into one of several soft settees and fell asleep.
A scream woke her. It was still dark. She hurried into the hall and was nearly trampled by a parade of half-dressed men shrieking, and running outside, into the night. Last out was Tommy Quinn. He grabbed her hand, pulling her downstairs and outside, after him. They ran for several minutes before Tommy stopped for breath. He hugged Peg for comfort and warmth, sobbing.
"That boy, Ronald Baston, he's dead." He gasped, "I don't know how… what happened… I've already been in prison. If I'm caught again… it will be the gallows."
Chapter Four
London, that same day
Christmas dinner at Lord Richfield’s house had been a glory of Yuletide cheer. The walls were barely visible through heavy garlands, red satin bows, wreaths, and tinsel. Elly had seen four decorated Christmas trees in the house and wondered how many there were altogether.
The lavish Christmas Eve ball had ended at daybreak. Guests went home, the family went to bed, and an army of servants cleared up, polished, and cooked, preparing for an intimate Christmas day dinner for forty. Elly had slept late and come downstairs to find the drawing room filled with opulently dressed, good humored people. Most were toasting each other with silver-handled, cut glass tumblers of eggnog and mulled wine. A few guests had been at the party last night, but most of the faces were new.
Her eye immediately found Rory, looking elegantly slim in a stylish blue-gray suit. He was standing gracefully near the sideboard, talking with two ladies who appeared to be mother and daughter. The silly daughter was coyly playing with her fan, and Elly felt a schoolgirl urge to push it up the girl’s nose. When Rory saw Elly, he excused himself, took her arm and led her out of sight of the other guests. She went willingly, but stared at the floor. He tilted his head to look into her eyes. “Happy Christmas?”
She broke into a smile and looked up shyly. “Happy Christmas. Your suit is beautiful.”
He looked at her new, blue taffeta frock. “You look stunning.”
Both spoke at once. “I’m sorry…” “You don’t…”
He said, “You first.”
She took a deep breath. “You don’t hate me, do you?”
“Oh, my God,” his arms flew around her waist, and hers arms around his neck, squeezing each other tight. Very gently, he let her go and kissed her forehead. She stood back. He did nothing more and she smiled with relief. He said, “The eggnog’s outstanding, come and have some.” She smiled, as he led her back to the drawing room.
Two fabulously laid tables stood side by side in the dining room, one for adults, the other for children. Soon a dozen little bodies, dressed in their holiday best, swarmed into the room. By far the tallest child, Lucy came in walking beautifully and looking as if she had eaten a lemon. She stayed as far behind the other children as she could manage without being herded by a pack of nannies.
Elly hurried to her. “Lucy! You look beautiful, Happy Christmas!”
Lucy grimaced. “Happy Christmas, Elly. Do you like your frocks? I chose the colours.”
“They’re the most beautiful frocks I’ve ever seen. Thank you so much.” Now, Lucy beamed. Elly gave her a hug and whispered, “What a ‘lucky’ you are to be at the fun table. I’m going to be bored to death at the other.”
The tinkle of a bell made the girls break apart. Lucy sighed and went to sit at the children’s table. Elly’s name card was on Sir William’s left, across from a Duchess, and next to a young cleric. It took her a minute to find Rory. He was further down. Isabelle had an old cleric on her left, and a distinguished looking gentleman on her right.
After the blessing had been given and the starters finished, three Christmas geese were brought in and everyone applauded. The meal was a culinary delight, but Elly’s prophecy came true. She was bored to tears. No one talked of anything but horses and who was betrothed to whom. She remembered last night’s Christmas eve ball, and the witty conversations of Jeremy O’Connell and Sam Smelling.
After Christmas crackers, paper hats, and flaming Christmas pud’, everyone went into the drawing room. Children and adults were quickly engaged in games of Blind Man’s Bluff and Squeak Piggy, Squeak. When they tired of games, and some of the smaller children had fallen asleep, the company gathered around the piano for carols.
In a husky baritone, Sir William announced that he and Lucy would present, Good King Wenceslas. Lucy flushed with excitement as she stood in the crook of the Steinway. Sir William made a grand gesture of sitting at the piano and clearing his throat. His large hands descended on the poor unsuspecting keys in a combination of tones they had never experienced. He sang loudly, under pitch, and Isabelle sprang onto the bench beside him. “Bill, darling, ‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel,’ go stand where everyone can see you. Allow me to accompany.” He chortled, kissed her on the cheek, and went to stand with Lucy. Isabelle took a deep breath, looked at the music and played.
King Wenceslas and the Page sang their parts. Isabelle’s right hand was heavy helping her husband to stay on pitch. She relaxed when Lucy took over. The girl’s soprano was as pure as a choir boy.
Several people took turns at the piano, sometimes two or three at once. Most songs were lustily roared by the entire group, but a few were solos. Best was Elly’s, O! For The Wings of A Dove. She had been shy to sing until Rory said, “Come on scaredy-cat, I’ll play.” Taking easy command of the keys, he played expressively. After a few tentative measures, she sang with the same joy she remembered, singing at school.
The last musical offering was from Isabelle and her three redheaded daughters. Lucy and Isabelle sat on the piano bench. Little Cindy and Bella stood in front. Lucy and Isabelle played a duet of the Welsh lullaby, All Through the Night. The second time through, they sang in close harmony, and the little ones joined in the refrain.
Sleep my child, and peace attend thee,
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT.
Guardian angel, God will send thee,
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
God alone his watch is keeping,
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT.
The song ended and the room was perfectly still. Sir William had tears in his eyes. He hugged his wife and daughters, then turned to his guests. “Was ever a man given such a Christmas present?” The room broke into applause, fond embraces, and wishes of, “Happy Christmas!” Sir William took Isabelle into his arms and kissed her tenderly.
Elly hugged herself and looked at the floor.
Rory asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I want to
be loved like that.”
He sighed, “You are.”
She gratefully kissed his cheek.
Sheets of rain poured from the grey sky, and a canopy of umbrellas sheltered the guests as they ran from the house to their cars and carriages. When the last horse had pulled away, the servants hurried down the backstairs, wet and shivering. Only Smythe the butler stood like a sentry, waiting until the last carriage was safely around the corner, out of sight.
Almost reaching shelter, Smythe was annoyed to see a large black car pull up, splashing through a deep puddle in front of the house. The car door opened and two men in business clothes hurried up the front stairs. Smythe raced back, intercepting them before they could ring the bell. After they had spoken for a moment, he led them inside.
Chapter Five
The festivities were finally over. Delighting in peace and quiet, Sir William Richfield relaxed on a long sofa in front of his drawing room fire. Isabelle lay across his lap, with her head under his chin. Her long legs stretched across the sofa, her shoes askew on the floor.
Elly and Lucy giggled together by the hearth. “Mummy, I’m taking Elly to see the new rabbit.”
“All right, dear. Mind it doesn’t bite you, like the last one.”
“This one won’t bite.” She took Elly’s hand, and led her from the room.
Sir William looked after the girls. “It seems we have another daughter.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not a bit, as long as we keep trying for a son.”
She smiled fondly, as he leaned over and kissed her.
The butler hurried in. Seeing his master and mistress in an intimate pose on the sofa, he stopped and turned toward the wall. Sir William sighed. “What is it, Smythe?”
“Forgive me, M’ Lord, M’ Lady, but two gentlemen from Scotland Yard have just arrived.”
Sir William blustered. “Good Lord! Don’t they know it’s Christmas? What do they want?”
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