Lady Disdain

by Michelle Morrison

  But this? he thought, noticing a pair of rats scavenging in a pile of who-knew-what in an alley across the way. This was where she chose to live. With Eleanor Chalcroft as a cousin, she clearly had family connections that would have afforded her at least a meager living away from the abject poverty of Southwark. Sam wondered again what event in her past had led her here. The bell on the apothecary door rang and he turned to see Miss Draper, her arms full of packages and a strained look on her face.

  “We must hurry,” she said, brushing past him to race down the street. She dropped several of the cloth-wrapped bundles and stopped.

  Sam gathered them up and took another few out of her arms. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he followed close at her heels.

  “I must help the doctor. He’s gone to tend to Mrs. Thackery’s broken arm.”

  “Is that such a dire emergency? I broke my arm when—“

  She paused at an intersection to wait for a lorry pulled by a tired nag to pass.

  “If Mrs. Thackery has a broken arm, it’s because Mr. Thackery broke it. And he won’t take kindly to a stranger—especially one like Dr. Kendall—interfering.”

  The lorry finally passed and Miss Draper dashed across the street. “I just hope he’s not drunk.”

  “Hold up,” Sam said, grabbing her arm to stop her. “It sounds like we should call for a constable.”

  “There are no constables here, Mr. James. Besides, that would only set him off more. I think I can talk him down, but we must hurry.”

  “You think?” he repeated as she pulled her arm free and continued her race.

  “You need not come with me,” she called over her shoulder.

  He caught up with her as she opened a rickety door on an even more ramshackle building.

  “What kind of man do you think I am that I would leave you to this?” he said, his brows lowered in outrage.

  “I’m sure I have no idea, Mr. James. I’ve lived here without your august protection for five years now.” And with that, she turned and ran up the stairs. Sam followed so closely he nearly trod on her skirts. He felt a bit foolish at his statement and her rejoinder but he could not quell the protective urges he had for her.

  The sound of yelling grew louder as they raced down a dark hallway. Miss Draper stopped in front of a door so abruptly that it was all Sam could do not to run into her. The yelling was clearly coming from the other side of the door.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  She had her eyes closed and was taking deep breaths. She finally opened her eyes and reached for the doorknob, entering the room as if she lived there.

  “I’ve brought that tonic you asked for, Mrs.—oh, hello Mr. Thackery. So nice to see you today.”

  Sam entered the room to see a woman in obvious distress sitting on the floor clutching her right arm. A black man in his shirtsleeves was seated on a chair a few feet from her, while Mr. Thackery stood in the center of the room, a knife in his hand and belligerence in his gaze. When Miss Draper spoke in her friendly, breezy tone, the man frowned and shook his head as if he wasn’t sure she was real.

  Miss Draper set her packages down on a table and turned to Mrs. Thackery, though Sam noticed she didn’t turn her back to the husband.

  “Here, let me assist you off the floor, Mrs. Thackery,” Miss Draper said as if the woman had merely sat down to rest. “Mr. Thackery, will you bring the other chair over?” She smiled prettily at him.

  Though every fiber of Sam’s being was focused on the knife-wielding man, ready to tackle him if he so much as gestured toward Miss Draper, a part of his brain couldn’t help but notice that he was seeing a side of Miss Draper he wouldn’t have thought existed.

  The way she smiled, her whole face brightening, the light, carefree way she spoke made Sam wonder if this was what she was like as a girl. Only his hyper focus on keeping her from harm allowed him to see the strain around her eyes as she kept her gaze on Mr. Thackery.

  “’Er, geddaway from ‘er,” the man snarled as Miss Draper helped his wife to stand. He took a staggering step toward the women. Sam instantly moved to intercept him but Miss Draper cut a look at him and shook her head slightly. It was all Sam could do not to take the man down, but he willed himself to be calm and let Miss Draper handle the situation.

  “Of course, Mr. Thackery. Would you like some tea? I have some in that packet there.”

  Mr. Thackery’s head wobbled as he turned to look where Miss Draper was pointing.

  “Tea?” he asked, as if he’d never heard of it before.

  “Yes, of course. You look like you could use a strong cup.” As he nodded, she continued, “Now tell me what happened today to upset you. I’m sure we can set it to rights.”

  Miss Draper set about finding a battered pot in which to boil water and collecting a chipped mug, all the while getting Mr. Thackery to tell her about his inability to find a job—though as he described it, “The bastards who can’t appreciate a man’s talents.”

  To Sam, the excuses told him Mr. Thackery was not a man inclined to exerting himself, but Miss Draper clucked sympathetically as she brewed the tea and handed him the mug. Quite without Mr. Thackery realizing it, she took the knife from him and led him to sit on the low cot in the corner of the room.

  Amidst his rambling grievances against the world, Miss Draper urged Thackery to keep drinking his tea and as the man’s eyes grew heavy and his speech even more slurred, Sam realized Miss Draper hadn’t given the man tea at all. In the corner of the room, he noticed the doctor was splinting Mrs. Thackery’s arm and binding it.

  Miss Draper kept up her litany of understanding assurances and at long last, Mr. Thackery tumbled over on the cot. Miss Draper rescued the mug before it crashed to the ground and then turned to the man’s wife.

  “Will you now go to your sister’s in Bath, Mrs. Thackery? The offer still stands of a train ticket.”

  “Wot, for this?” the woman asked, nodding at her bandaged arm. “I fell. Landed wrong is all.”

  Miss Draper crouched in front of her. “Mrs. Thackery, I am worried that one of these days when you fall, you won’t get back up again. Please, you must go someplace safe.”

  Mrs. Thackery’s lips compressed. “I won’t. I won’t leave me husband. ‘E needs me, ‘e does.”

  The doctor was fashioning a sling while the women spoke. His face was expressionless, but Sam saw the man’s eyes flash with disbelief or outrage at the woman’s protestations.

  Miss Draper tried several more arguments for convincing Mrs. Thackery, but in the end, she left a packet of herbs to help her bone knit and advised she hide Mr. Thackery’s knife. They left Mrs. Thackery tucking a blanket around her snoring husband with her good arm.

  “That wasn’t tea,” the doctor said.

  Miss Draper shook her head. “Laudanum. It’s not the safest thing to give an intoxicated person but with someone prone to violence, I choose expediency over caution.”

  “I agree,” the doctor approved.

  Sam wrinkled his nose. “How’d you get him to drink that? The stuff tastes awful.”

  “When he’s that inebriated, Mr. Thackery would drink water from the Thames and not taste it,” she said, leading the way out of the building.

  Once outside, Sam took a deep breath, marveling that the fetid air now smelled fresh after the close smell of misery inside the building.

  Miss Draper performed the introductions and as he shook Dr. Kendall’s hand, Sam realized that even in Philadelphia, this man would be relegated to menial work instead of serving as a physician.

  “Are you American?” Sam asked, as he heard the doctor’s accent.

  Dr. Kendall glanced at Miss Draper and then looked Sam directly in the eye. “I was born there, but I consider myself a Scot as that is where I received my medical training.”

  Sam nodded, realizing uncomfortably that, given how preoccupied he was with his business, he’d never thought to challenge the low status of black citizens in Philadelphia, nor
given much thought to those enslaved in the southern states of his country. Feeling suddenly ashamed of himself, he extended his hand once again. “The people of Southwark are fortunate to have you.”

  Dr. Kendall nodded shortly and murmured a few words to Miss Draper as she explained the contents of her packages while handing them to him.

  Once the doctor departed, Sarah indicated the direction they should take and Sam offered his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and they set out.

  “Why would that woman not leave her husband? Something tells me this is not her first injury.”

  They walked several paces in silence before Miss Draper replied. “No, it’s not her first injury. Nor will it be her last. I’ve encountered many women who make every excuse possible for the men who beat them. But is it so surprising? The law says a wife is her husband’s property, to do with as he sees fit. You’d be surprised how many women believe that.”

  Another half block passed in silence. “That was a pretty neat trick you did back there,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Talking to Thackery. Distracting him from using that knife, getting him to take that tea. My inclination was to knock him down and see how he liked it.”

  She smiled sadly. “I’ve had a bit of practice at talking someone out of mayhem.”

  “With Thackery?”

  “With any of a dozen men here in The Mint who take their frustrations at life out on their families.”

  “Nonetheless, it was well done,” he said sincerely.

  She smiled again. “Yes, well, sometimes I do want to knock their heads together, but seeing as how I haven’t the strength, I’ve had to improvise.”

  They rounded a corner and ran smack into a broad-shouldered man in rough clothes. His heavy brow was lowered in anger and his lips were curled in a snarl.

  “Oi!” the man snapped. “Watch where yer goin’, aye?”

  “Sorry, brother,” Sam said, and moved to guide Miss Draper around him.

  “Oh, ‘brother,’ is it? Well, brother, hows about you spare your family here some coin. We’ll call it a relations toll for running me down.” With a twist of his wrist, a knife was in his hands and he advanced menacingly on them.

  “Great. Another knife,” Sam muttered. With a look at Sarah, he said, “Mind if I handle this one my way?”

  “Be my guest,” she said, gesturing calmly at the brute.

  Sam reached into his pocket as if he were reaching for money. Their would-be robber held out his hand to receive it, whereby Sam grabbed his extended hand, twisted it, and spun the man so that his wrist was bent at a painful angle in the middle of his back.

  “Awright, awright! Didn’t mean ye no harm. Lemme go!”

  Sam kneed the man in the side of his leg just above the kneecap. The man’s leg collapsed and he howled in pain. Sam reached down to retrieve the knife. He held it beneath the writhing man’s nose before flinging it into a dank alley.

  “Have a good day, brother.” And after running a hand through his mussed hair, he offered Miss Draper his arm again as if nothing had interrupted their stroll.

  She said not a word and after a while, he asked, “Are you alright?”

  She laughed shakily and glanced up at him. “It’s been a rather…eventful day.”

  A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Damn I could use a drink. And so, I think, could you.”

  Without a word, she tugged on his arm and he followed her across the street and into a pub. Crowds of people—mostly men, but a few women—filled the low-ceilinged room. Many were eating a post-work dinner, all were enjoying a pint of some brew.

  Sam followed Miss Draper as she wove her way between people, some of them calling out a greeting to her, others tugging a forelock at her. The barkeep bestowed a nearly toothless grin on her as she shoved her way between two men at the bar.

  “Evenin’ Mistress! Might ye be wantin’ supper or a pint?”

  “Good evening Mr. Everly. I’m afraid today calls for something more serious, if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Everly winked broadly. “I know just what you mean, Mistress.”

  “Er…,” Miss Draper hesitated. “For two, if you don’t mind.”

  The barkeep’s surprise was evident but he said nothing, only nodded.

  “Is there a table in the back?” she asked.

  “Oi!” Mr. Everly shouted over her head at the men at a table in an isolated corner. “Shove off! Ye’ve finished yer drinks. Head home, ye sluggards!”

  The men grumbled good naturedly and left. Sarah indicated the empty bench and slid into the corner seat. Sam glanced at the bench across the table. He realized it put his back to the crowd and instead sat next to her.

  Mr. Everly appeared with two reasonably clean glasses and a bottle of indeterminate brown liquid. He poured two generous servings and moved to leave when Sam raised a finger.

  “You may leave the bottle, Mr. Everly.”

  Sarah lifted an eyebrow at him as she pulled off her gloves. “I trust you can foot the bill?”

  Sam pulled out a handful of coins and handed them to the barkeep.

  “Slàinte,” she said, raising her glass and then neatly knocking it back. Sam followed suit and only just managed not to cough. “Scots whiskey,” he gasped through paralyzed vocal chords.

  “Mr. Everly’s brother-in-law is from Scotland. Smuggles in cases of the stuff,” she said, and poured them each another tot.

  “You are one surprise after another, Miss Draper.”

  She shrugged. “Only if you are accustomed to typical English ladies.”

  “I assure you, I am not. You are surprising even compared to spirited American ladies.”

  “Spirited? Is that a compliment or critique?”

  “A compliment, of course,” he said.

  She shrugged uncomfortably as she sipped her drink. “I only do what needs be done, Mr. James. And sometimes this work requires a strong drink to wash away the foul taste.”

  “Why do you do it then?” he asked, genuinely interested.

  “Because there is such a great need and so few people are willing to help.”

  “Yes, but how did you start? Your speech and manners, not to mention your kinship to Lady Eleanor suggests you must have left a more privileged life.”

  Sarah buried her nose in her glass. Sam waited patiently, sensing she was trying to decide what to tell him. “The priest of the village near where I grew up suggested it.”

  “But why?” he asked, puzzled. “Surely your parents would not have wanted—“

  “My parents did not know what to do with me. Father Gregory had me help him with those charitable deeds needed in our area to take me off their hands. I found it…soothed me to help others. He knew someone—a monk who was coming to Southwark. I agreed to come serve as an assistant. Unfortunately, the man died two months after arriving. Instead of returning home, I took over the aid society.”

  Sam poured her another drink as he mulled over what she’d told him, especially the part about her parents not knowing what to do with her. There was clearly much more to her story. He glanced at her face and saw that it was tense, despite the healthy dose of whiskey she’d imbibed, so he put aside his curiosity and set out to make her laugh.

  “Did you know I can recite the alphabet backwards?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, obviously taken aback at the abrupt change of topic. “What did you say?”

  “The alphabet. I can say it backwards. Fast like. I don’t have to think about each letter.”

  “How…unusual,” she replied, clearly wondering if he was off his rocker.

  “I can also say only every third letter in the alphabet.”

  “Why would you wish to do that?”

  He shrugged. “I guess just because no one else can.”

  She took a small sip of her drink, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “Can you recite every third letter backwards?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you re
cite only every third letter, but going backwards?” she repeated.

  “Why would I want to do that?” he asked with a grin.

  She shrugged—something he’d learned recently from his sister that well-bred ladies did not do.

  “It’s just that I think I knew someone who could recite every third letter of the alphabet—or every fourth if one preferred, though I never requested it—but I’ve never known anyone else who could do that backwards.”

  “The devil, you say!”

  She shrugged again and tried to look apologetic, but he could see that she was taking great delight in teasing him so he played up outrage at his supposed downfall.

  “Who was this person?” he demanded.

  “I believe she was, oh, six or seven years old. She came through the kitchen last spring. Why, how old were you when you discovered your…talent?”

  “Ten,” he replied grumpily, signaling for a pint of ale.

  “Well I’m sure you were the only one in America who had mastered such a skill,” she said, patting his hand in mock consolation.

  Despite his delight in their verbal sparring, Sam couldn’t help but notice the way his skin actually quivered where she touched him. It made him wonder what her hand would feel like on his neck, or his chest, or—

  A barmaid plunked an overly-full pitcher of ale down in front of him and Sam had to swipe the resultant spill quickly from the table before it ran into his lap.

  “This child prodigy,” he said, and noticed Miss Draper start out of her contemplation of her fingers. “Could she whistle without pursing her lips?”

  “I beg your pardon? How is that even possible?”

  Sam let his lips go lax and pushed his tongue against the inside of his top teeth. He whistled a short tune.

  “Your lips pursed,” she retorted, staring at his mouth.

  “They did not!” he argued. “They were perfectly still.

  She shook her head slowly, still watching his mouth, and Sam had the strongest urge to lick his lips just to see if she would react.

  “Try again,” she said and he noticed her cheeks had pinkened.

  He acquiesced and she shook her head no. “That not right. You’re still doing this,” she said and puckered her lips to demonstrate. The effect was a sensuous pout that made his toes clench in his boots.