He paused, gauging my reaction. I did not give him one, for I did not yet know what to think.
"Does Aunt Hermia know?"
He turned his wineglass around in his hands, strong, capable hands—a healer's hands.
"No. She thinks I am lucky at cards."
"Probably best not to tell her. She would enlist you to physic the penitents at the refuge."
Val smiled sadly. "I would have liked that, being open and aboveboard about the whole thing. Believe me, Julia, I never meant for it to come to this. I did not intend to deceive Father. I was offered the chance to work and I took it. I know it was stupid and rash, but I knew better than to ask Father. He would never have agreed."
"Better to ask for forgiveness than permission," I said quietly.
He continued to roll the wineglass in his palms, watching the wine turn through shadow and light, changing colour with the reflection of the candles.
"We've always found that the best way to handle Father, haven't we?"
"I suppose. But what of the prostitutes? What do you do for them?"
The wineglass rolled to a halt, then resumed its slow revolution. "Whatever I must. Sometimes the men are rough and there are bruises, even broken bones to treat. Many of them are diseased, and must be dosed for it. Some are pregnant, and must not be."
I held very still. "Abortions," I said flatly.
He nodded.
"Oh, Valerius, how could you?"
It was a question, not an accusation, and he knew it.
"Because someone will if I do not, and likely it will be a drunken, ham-fisted old butcher who would perforate their wombs and kill them. At least if I do it, they don't die."
"No, they live to go out and get pregnant again!" I hurled at him before I could stop myself. I held up my hand before he could reproach me. "I am sorry. That was unkind."
He shook his head. "No. It was true. That is the most difficult part, you know. Trying so hard to save them from themselves—healing the bruises and stitching up the wounds, hoping that this time, just perhaps this time, they will gather up whatever shreds of human dignity remain to them and leave while they still can. I always thought Aunt Hermia was daft for caring so much what became of her charges. I remember her coming home, weeping or creating a ferocious row with Father because one of her penitents went back on the game. I never understood why she couldn't simply shrug and go on. There are so many of them to save. And yet I find myself doing just the same. I remember the faces and the names and the stories of every girl I have ever seen in that brothel. Sometimes one of them does not come back and I pretend it is because she's gotten away. More likely it is because she died, or failed to please and was sold to a cheaper, rougher sort of place. And I always hope, when one of them comes to me because she is with child that this time will be her last—that she will listen and learn. I do my best to educate them, to help them prevent it from happening again."
"Are you successful?"
There was that faint, heartbreaking smile again. "Once in a while there is a girl young enough to listen. And I hope that she will remember what I have taught her. And one day, if she leaves the game and marries and settles down to a respectable life, she will be able to have children, unlike many of her sisters."
"Oh, Valerius. Why this? Why not the workhouses? Or the orphanages?"
The smile fell from his lips and his expression was one of raw, unblunted grief.
"Because of Mother."
"Because she died in childbed?"
"Because I killed her," he said very quietly.
"Don't be stupid," I told him sharply. "You were an infant. It was hardly your fault."
He shrugged. "I know that now. But there was a maid at the Abbey, one of the local girls who worked in the nursery. She always used to look at me slyly and whisper to me how much everyone loved the countess, and how she had died because of me."
"That was stupid and cruel—backstairs gossip, and completely untrue."
"But you believed it," he said softly.
"I was six years old! I also believed in fairy rings and wishes on clovers. As you say, I know better now."
He nodded. "Well, when I began to study medicine, I wanted to know—everything. All about birth and why some women, with no medical care at all, can have a child as easily as breathing and why others, even with the best doctors, die from it."
"You were her tenth child in sixteen years," I pointed out. "Perhaps she was simply exhausted. In that case, blame Father."
"I did, for a while, once I stopped blaming myself," he said blandly. "But I did not much like that, so I decided to blame God."
"When did you stop doing that?"
"Oh, I haven't. It's rather easy to blame someone you don't have to see over Sunday dinner."
"Yes, well, I shan't criticize you on that score. I have been guilty of it myself."
We were silent for a while. Val rose and went to the sideboard, pouring us each a glass of port. Usually, I did not drink it as it was a gentleman's drink, but this was a vintage Aquinas had selected, rich and dark, and it suited my mood to be a little rebellious.
"So that is my truth," he said finally. "What is yours?"
I told him. This time, unlike my narrative to Portia, I neglected nothing. I even told him the truth about Brisbane's indisposition and his Gypsy blood, warning him strictly against sharing either snippet of information with anyone.
When I had finished, he poured us each a second glass of port.
"We must have been utter dolts not to have seen it before," he commented. "And even when I saw him speaking Romany I never made the connection. It was all so fast, and then he started to chase you over the Heath, and then—"
He broke off and I let my eyes slide away. Val and I had shared many confidences this evening, but there were some things I was still unwilling to discuss. I cast around for a new subject.
"Val, did you ever see Edward at Pandora's Box?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "I did. In fact, he was the one who brought me to the place. Miss Simms, the proprietress, had complained to him about the difficulty of finding a physician who was willing to treat prostitutes and would be discreet about the business. He thought of me and asked me to accompany him to meet Miss Simms. I thought he was a benefactor," he explained quickly. "I did not realize he was a patron. I suppose I must have known, but I did not want to think about him betraying you. So, I convinced myself he was simply there to see to their well-being. As I was."
"Perhaps he was, at first," I said with a shrug. "It seems a pointless sort of thing to gnaw one's heart out over now." It sounded convincing at least, to my ears, anyway.
"I think you are quite correct," he went on. "The verses about whoring probably refer to his visits to the Box. But if Brisbane got nothing from Miss Simms, I will not either, I can promise you that. She is hard as nails and twice as sharp. But there might be others…"
He trailed off and I put my hand on his. "Try, Val. Please."
He nodded. "I have a case there, a girl with a broken arm I set just yesterday. She's started a fever and I wanted to look in on her. I suppose I could ask a few questions—but I must be discreet, so discreet that I may not even be able to discover what you wish to know. I cannot jeopardize the trust I have gained, you understand?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you."
He rose and so did I. For the first time since we were children, he enfolded me into an embrace. And since this time he was not attempting to toss spiders down my dress, I rather enjoyed it.
I went to Simon's room after Val left, thinking to read to him for a little while. But he was sleeping quietly, with Desmond sitting nearby. I smiled at the boy.
"How has he been this evening?"
He rose noiselessly. "The doctor was here earlier, my lady. He said that Sir Simon had rallied a little. His temperature is down and his pulse a bit stronger."
"Really? Well, so long as he is comfortable, that is the important thing," I said, watching as Simon mo
ved a little in his sleep. "Is he warm enough?"
"Oh, yes, my lady. Doctor Griggs gave very specific instructions as to his care."
His face was troubled and I hastened to soothe him. "I am certain you are doing an excellent job, Desmond. I know it is not the most rewarding of tasks, but it is an important one, and you have the family's thanks."
For a moment he blushed deeply, his eyes downcast. His shyness was almost palpable. Before I could speak again to reassure him, he gathered hold of himself, dipping his head in a bob of respect. "Thank you, my lady. I have done my best."
I smiled again and slipped out, thankful that there was at least one situation I had left in capable hands. I was not so certain about Val.
I need not have worried on that score. Val did not return to Grey House until very late, but I had left the light in my room burning, a signal to him that I had not yet retired. He scratched at the door and I called to him softly to enter.
He gave me a tired little grin. "Success."
I patted the edge of my bed and he sat next to me so that we could talk without disturbing anyone. The last thing I wanted was Morag bustling in, asking pointed questions.
"You cannot imagine how simple it was," he said, marveling. "I was about to knock at Miss Simms' office, as I do every time, to let her know that I have arrived. Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard her speaking sharply to one of the girls, warning her that a man had been about the place asking questions about Sir Edward Grey and that she was to tell nothing of what she knew."
"Brisbane," I said excitedly.
Val nodded. "Simms threatened her with a beating if she talked. The girl swore that she would never reveal anything, then Miss Simms dismissed her."
"But if she promised—" Val's smile cut me off.
"A promise to Miss Simms is a promise to the devil. All I had to do was offer the girl, Cass is her name, some coin. Although she hates Miss Simms enough that I think she might well have told me everything simply for spite."
"What did you discover?"
"Not everything. She confirmed that she often saw Sir Edward and spoke to him. And when I explained to her that his widow had questions, she asked to speak with you directly."
I stared at him. "Surely you told her no."
"I did not," he stated roundly. "You want answers and Cass is willing to give them to you."
"Val, I appreciate this Cassandra's—"
"Cassiopeia," he put in.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Cassiopeia. All the girls are given a nom de guerre, for lack of a better phrase, from Greek mythology. To carry out the Pandora theme."
"Yes, well, that is commendably thorough. All the same, I do not think it at all suitable that I should meet this person."
But even as I said the words, I regretted them. Val risked his good name and his personal safety to give these squashed blossoms medical treatment. Aunt Hermia provided a refuge for those willing to give up the game and live a more conventional life. And Morag herself, well, it was best not to dwell on Morag. But I could not be happy instructing Val to do that which I could not. I had been attempting to prove myself a worthy partner in this investigation from the very beginning. It was time to show my mettle.
"I am sorry. Of course I shall meet with her. Have you made the arrangements?"
Val did not disappoint me. Knowing the impossibility of meeting either at my home or her place of business, Val had arranged a rendezvous in the Park for the next morning. He had provided Cass with enough money to procure herself a bit of incognita, and he had told her I would be thickly veiled and wearing black. He promised to escort me himself, in spite of Cass' warning that she would speak only to me.
"You have done rather well for your first foray into investigation," I told him.
He smiled wearily. "Is it? You have forgotten the Heath."
I felt myself flush, remembering the way that adventure had concluded. "You had best go to bed now," I said in my best bossy-elder-sister voice. "We must be out early to catch our little bird in the Park."
He left me and I retired, but sleep came slowly. Val's reminder of the adventure on the Heath had caused me to think of Brisbane. I wondered what he was about in Paris. I remembered his cool detachment, his thinly veiled anger the last time we met. I thought of Fleur, and her elegant, dazzling charms, how he confided in her so willingly and turned to her in times of trouble. And by the time I finally dropped off to sleep, I was fairly certain that he thought of me not at all.
THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions.
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet
The next morning I would have just as soon stayed abed. A chill, nasty wind had blown up, with a dark canopy of grey cloud that threatened rain. If I had looked to the weather for a portent, I would have been highly disappointed. But Cass, the obliging young inmate of Pandora's Box, proved more informative than I had dared to hope.She found me, almost as soon as I entered the Park, Val pacing discreetly behind me. She was dressed as a flower girl in a worn coat of threadbare green velvet and a straw hat wreathed in yellow blossoms. She approached me, calling her wares and offering me a fistful of lavender.
"Good morning, your ladyship," she said, smiling broadly. Her accent was the commonest sort of London speech, at times almost unintelligible. But her face was roundly attractive. She had a charming, winsome manner and a smile that seemed to illuminate her entire face. Her colour was high, and I wondered if she found the whole exercise to be some sort of grand enterprise.
"Good morning," I returned civilly. "Are you Cassiopeia?"
She smiled, revealing rather good teeth. "That's what they call me at the Box. My real name is Victoria, just like the queen. Vicky, they called me at home."
"What shall I call you?"
"Oh, Lord, I don't care, my lady. Whatever you likes."
"Very well, then, Victoria."
She snickered, not unkindly, and I realized that probably no one in her short, chaotic life had ever addressed her by her proper Christian name.
"Victoria, my brother, Mr. March, tells me that you have some information for me."
She nodded, her expression dark. "I do. I've no call to keep my word to that Sally Simms. She's kept back my wages twice this month for nothing. I do my job, my gentlemen are all quite happy."
"Hmm. Yes. Suppose we walk for a bit and I will ask you a few questions."
She nodded, moving down the path that I indicated. The Park was quiet. It was too early and too chill for most visitors, but I did not like being so near Rotten Row. The path wound us in the opposite direction, away from the faint noise of the streets and farther into the dark gloom of the sheltering plane trees.
She shivered a little in her thin coat.
"Are you warm enough, Victoria?"
She nodded. "I don't much like trees. I always fancy they look like giants, with great big arms waving about."
"I presume you are not country-bred then?"
She puffed with pride. "I am a proper Cockney. Of course I don't get home to my mam very much on account of Miss High-and-Mighty Simms working me all the time. I had to feed her a tale this morning about my mam being sick to get out of the Box. But she was good enough about it. Sent for a hackney to bring me. The driver seems a good sort. I'll give him a copper and he will never tell he didn't take me to mam's."
I was shocked. I knew that the prostitutes lived in the brothel, but they could not be prisoners, could they?
"Surely she does not hold you there against your will?"
The girl laughed, a dry, grating sound so unlike Fleur's gentle bells. "Bless you, no, my lady. It's just that Simms makes us sign a little book telling where we're going and when we'll be back. She had a few girls disappear on her, pinched away to other houses, and she doesn't mean to lose any others. And some girls will fix a plan to meet with one of the gentlemen outside the Box, to keep the money for themselves. But I've n
ever thought that was worth my trouble."
"Indeed?"
"Not at all. What's a girl supposed to do if a gentleman won't pay after he's had his fun, or turns nasty-like, if there's no Tommy about?" she asked reasonably. I nodded, remembering what Brisbane had told me about the men who committed cheerful violence to keep customers and prostitutes in line at the Box. Doubtless these were the Tommies.
"Besides," she went on blithely, "I like clean sheets for my business and a bit of a wash in between. Some gentlemen are none too fresh, if you take my meaning."
"Oh, dear," I murmured. In spite of my pretenses to independence and bold thinking, I was beginning to understand how very conventional I really was.
"I suppose we had better come to business. My brother tells me that you knew my husband, Sir Edward Grey."
"Oh, yes, my lady. That is why I wanted to speak to you, personal-like. Some ladies get all in a twist when they find out their gentleman was a customer. I wanted you to know that Sir Edward, well, it was different with him. He paid me for talk and he talked about you quite a fair bit of the time."
I stopped and stared at her. We were of a height, Victoria and I, both of us fairly diminutive, but appearing taller. My carriage was nearly perfect thanks to Aunt Hermia's rigorous schooling. I wondered where Victoria had learned hers.
"Sir Edward paid you for conversation?"
"Oh, yes. He had awful nice things to say about you, my lady, and I do say they were the truth. He was always talking about how nice you were, how ladylike. He did say he regretted marrying you something terrible, but that it was not your fault, you'd been a proper good wife."
"How flattering," I said faintly.
She nodded. "He said you were so pretty, he just liked to look at you, that he didn't need to be a proper husband to you."
I said nothing to this, but Victoria did not require a reply. She went on, chattering as if she did not know each word was a lance to me.
Lady Julia Grey Bundle Page 32
