‘I thought you were quite charming, in your cups.’
‘I was not in my cups!’ Deborah exclaimed indignantly. ‘A little half-sprung perhaps, but hardly jug-bitten,’ she said, sliding him a mischievous smile.
Elliot gave a shout of laughter. ‘How the devil came you to be so familiar with such terms?’
Deborah chuckled. ‘I have my sources,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose.
‘Touché, madame.’ She was dressed in one of her older gowns today, of a rather washed-out blue, with a serviceable grey pelisse and plain bonnet. It was practical and wholly appropriate, given their destination, but Elliot was much relieved that her mood was not as sombre as her apparel. This caustic, skittish mix of humour of hers appealed to his own. It pleased him to see that the bluish shadows below her eyes were fading. Just having her at his side pleased him. It wasn’t just the nearness of her, her skirts brushing his buckskins, her shoulder brushing his as they turned a corner, it was more than that. It was her, whatever it was that made her Deborah. He liked it.
As they made their way from the town houses and neatly kept squares of the west to the bustle of Clerkenwell, she began to ply him with questions, scribbling notes in the book she extracted from a pocket in her gown with a little silver pencil. Past Moorfields, where Signor Lunardi’s balloon had taken off, the impressive frontage of the Bethlem Hospital distracted her temporarily, but then she returned to her questions. Those, too, were in her little notebook, Elliot was amused to see, as she ticked one off. ‘You are nothing if not thorough,’ he said. ‘A Bow Street Runner would be impressed with your preparation.’
‘I want to make as good a job of this as I can. Are you laughing at me?’
‘No, truly. I’m impressed.’
‘I know how much it matters,’ Deborah said.
‘To both of us,’ Elliot replied. They were past the coaching inns of Bishopsgate, approaching Spitalfields now. Though the curricle was smart rather than fashionable, his horses well matched but hardly prime ’uns, they were attracting much interest none the less. ‘This place used to be the heart of silk manufacturing, but most of the work is done in the countryside now. Cheaper labour, more room for the new machines. You wouldn’t believe it, to look at the rundown state of the place, but it was thriving not so long ago.’
It was like another world to Deborah. Scantily clad, filthy children stared out from faces so gaunt their eyes were made huge. The gutters streamed with effluvia on which dogs, cats and rats almost as big as the cats feasted. Raucous cries came from the open door of a gin house. There were few horses on the road, but a good many hand carts, the men bowed over them as dirty and badly clad as the children. The stench, which had been creeping up on them since Bishopsgate, was eye-watering. The air tasted thick and ripe. In contrast, the streets, the buildings, the people, seemed to be sepia-washed, almost colourless, as if dipped in depression. Appalled, and no little intimidated, Deborah put away her notebook and shuffled a little closer to Elliot.
They skirted round the worst of the rookery. ‘The few weavers who are left have moved out of there,’ he said as they bypassed Dorset Street. ‘A good many of our men have ended up in places like this—in one of the rat-infested lodging houses if they’re lucky, sleeping rough if they’re not. It’s slightly better here, around Christ Church—at least some of the water is clean. Cholera and typhus are rife, though.’ He pulled up in front of a large house in significantly better repair than the rest. ‘This belonged to one of the richer silk merchants.’
As Elliot bartered with a bold child over the price for the safekeeping of his curricle and pair, Deborah surveyed the building. It was a pleasing but simple edifice of red brick with four windows on either side of the door, nine on the floor above that, and a set of dormers build into the low-pitched roof. The shallow flight of steps were semi-circular, leading up to a plain black-painted door framed by two Doric columns topped with a swan-necked pediment into which was set the institution’s motto. ‘Nil desperandum,’ she read. She eyed the gleaming windows, the shining brass door fittings and the pristine white steps—such a stark contrast to the streets through which they had just driven. ‘It’s certainly a shining example of cleanliness, but what is it?’
Elliot rapped on the door. ‘It was an army hospital during the last years of the wars. After Waterloo they closed it down, despite the fact that many of the men were still in dire need of medical services—it can take months for the wounds from an amputation to heal properly, sometimes longer if it is aggravated by pressure sores. The men brought any number of recurrent fevers back from Spain and Portugal, too, and some—war is a harsh thing, Deborah. Some men are wounded in the mind. Those poor bastards ended up in Bethlem and places like it.’
The door was opened by a middle-aged man dressed in plain black livery. Despite the wooden peg which formed the lower half of his left leg, his carriage was upright. Seeing Elliot, he stood smartly to attention and saluted. ‘Major Marchmont, sir.’
‘Good to see you, Sergeant Lyle. This is—’
‘Mrs Napier,’ Deborah said hurriedly. ‘How do you do?’
‘Mrs Napier is interested in what you do here, Lyle. I’m just going to show her around, if that’s all right?’
‘Perfectly, sir. Anything I can do to help, you just give me a shout, I’ll be right here. And I’ll keep an eye on that gig of yours, too,’ the old soldier said, with a meaningful look at the boy holding the reins.
‘Lyle was twenty years in the army. He served under me in Spain. He knew Henry, too, you might want to talk to him at some point,’ Elliot said, ushering Deborah towards a heavy green baize door at the back of the hallway.
A volley of noise hit them as he pushed the door open and Deborah stopped on the threshold, staring around her in astonishment. They were in a large room which looked as if it ran the full length of the house. With windows on the three sides which did not adjoin the back of the house, it was bright with the late-morning sunlight and alive with industry.
‘Despite what the press will have us believe, what most men want is to work,’ Elliot said, raising his voice to compensate for the cacophony of sound. ‘For those who have lost limbs, finding work is nigh on impossible simply because they have no access to artificial limbs and bath chairs are quite beyond the means of those who need them most.’
‘So you established a workshop to provide what was needed,’ Deborah said, looking around her in awe. ‘And who better to make such things than those who require them in the first place,’ she added, noticing what she had not seen when she first entered the room, that every single one of the workers was an amputee. ‘May I take a closer look?’
‘Of course you can, but I’ll let Captain Symington here do the explaining, since he’s the one in charge. How are you, George?’
Captain Symington grinned and punched Elliot on the shoulder. ‘I wondered why we hadn’t seen your ugly face for a while,’ he said, looking at Deborah.
‘This is Mrs Napier. She is interested in the work you do,’ Elliot said repressively.
‘How do you do, ma’am,’ Captain Symington said, making his bow.
‘Captain Symington, it is a pleasure.’ Deborah said, hesitating to extend her hand, for the captain’s right sleeve was empty, but he noticed her unease and extended his left quite naturally.
‘Why don’t you leave me to show Mrs Napier round?’ the captain said to Elliot. ‘It’s not often we get such charming company, and it’s certainly the first time it’s come courtesy of you. Go on, leave us to it, that’s an order. You don’t outrank me here, you know.’
‘Deborah?’
‘I’ll be fine, Elliot.’
He left them reluctantly, for he suspected George’s motives, though he could not very well say so without leaving himself open to questions he had no wish to be asked. The charmer was already leaning on Deborah’s arm. He could not hear what he was saying, but he was leaning damned close to say it. And Deborah was smiling up at him, la
ughing, dammit! He had a good mind to warn her.
Elliot sighed and unclenched his fists. What possible harm could come to her in a factory full of men? Several things jumped immediately into his mind. His fists clenched again. He unclenched them again. George would take care of any importunities and, if George importuned, he would take care of George! Dammit, he was making something out of nothing. George was a charmer, but he was a gentleman and played by a gentleman’s rules. He would know that Deborah was not—Deborah was—Deborah was not…
Elliot sighed again. Across the room, Deborah had slipped free of George’s embrace to inspect one of the new chairs with wheels. Satisfied—or telling himself that he should be—Elliot went in search of Sergeant Lyle.
* * *
‘It is really most ingenious,’ Captain Symington said. ‘Try it for yourself.’
Deborah sat gingerly into the movable chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, with a padded leather seat and a rest for her feet, though she had some difficultly arranging her skirts in its narrow confines.
‘You see, these two large wheels can be manipulated with a bit of practice, and the little castor on the back gives you balance so that you can propel yourself around without any help.’
Deborah tried to do as he said, but her hands made no impression on the wooden wheels at all. Captain Symington took hold of the little handles set into the back of the chair. ‘How long have you known Elliot?’ he asked.
Deborah clutched at the arms of the chair as it began to move. It was a most unnerving experience. ‘A little while,’ she replied.
‘And how came you to meet?’
‘We had business in common,’ she said, just as she had answered Lizzie.
‘What does your husband do, Mrs Napier?’
‘He is dead, Captain Symington.’
‘Ah.’
‘I cannot see your face, Captain Symington, but I suspect the quality of that ah.’
He pushed the chair back to the work bench and held out his hand to help her up from it. ‘You are quite right, Mrs Napier, I am very curious,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘I’ve not seen Elliot with a female, save that terrifying sister of his, since we came back to England.’ Captain Symington frowned. ‘He’s a good man, you know. I don’t know anyone I respect more. This place—it was his idea, by and large, and though the money comes from his mysterious benefactors, the grit and determination to get it off the ground were all Elliot’s. He feels guilty for coming through it all unharmed. I’ve told him all of us feel guilty who’ve survived, but you know Elliot, he has to take the brunt of it. Did he tell you about…?’
‘Henry. Yes, yes, he did.’
‘I was there when they brought him into the field hospital—I lost my arm in the same battle. I thought at one point that Elliot was going to go up into the mountains himself, which would have been madness, for not even he could have carried Henry back without help. He was mad with rage. Then when Henry died, he almost stopped speaking. Went about like the walking dead himself.’
‘I’m going to write about Henry. That’s why I’m here.’
‘What do you mean?’
She told him, as they wandered around the workshop, breaking off to admire the workmanship of artificial limbs and the surprising variety of devices which the men had invented to give those like themselves some independence. ‘Do you think it will work?’ she asked, when they had completed the tour of the school room which took up the second floor.
George Symington shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, but it’s certainly an original notion. May I ask why you’re doing this?’
‘I want to help.’
‘Yes, but it can’t just be that. It’s a big commitment you’re making, if you don’t mind my saying so—you must have a more personal reason.’
She had relaxed in his company this last hour, but under the keen scrutiny of his handsome face Deborah drew back. ‘It’s a cause worthy of significant commitment. I don’t need another reason,’ she said.
Under that haughty look, Captain Symington flushed, taken aback at the transformation. ‘I’ll take you back to Elliot,’ he said. ‘In fact, here he is.’ With relief, he saw the major waiting at the foot of the stairs. His farewells were formal, his bow reserved.
‘What did you say to George?’ Elliot asked, amused and relieved by his friend’s obvious retreat.
‘I have no idea,’ Deborah answered blithely. ‘I expect he is just worn out with all my questions.’ She tapped her silver pencil on her notebook. ‘I still have plenty more—may we visit the dispensary?’
‘It’s not pleasant.’
‘I don’t expect it to be, but how can I tell others what I have not seen for myself?’
‘Isn’t that what writers do, use their imagination?’
‘I’ve done plenty of that, believe me,’ Deborah said, thinking of Bella Donna, ‘but there are some things best not left to the imagination.’
‘Such as housebreaking?’
‘And tending the sick.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Elliot said.
‘I’m sure,’ Deborah replied, taking his arm.
* * *
The dispensary took up the second floor and the attics of the main house, with beds for the most serious cases. Though most of the patients were veterans and their families, it was fast becoming a much-needed part of the Spitalfields community. No one was turned away.
After an hour, Deborah was reeling with emotion and information. As they made their way back down the central staircase of the house, she leaned heavily on Elliot’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, I feel a little faint.’
She staggered, slipped on the marble step and would have fallen had Elliot not caught her. ‘Have you eaten today?’
‘I forgot. I was so excited about coming here.’
‘And last night?’
‘I went straight to my bed after I returned from your house.’ She clutched at the ornate wrought-iron banister. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. Perhaps a glass of water.’
‘You’re not drinking the water here.’ She was alarmingly pale. Elliot checked his pocket watch. After three and she had eaten nothing since yesterday. He cursed under his breath. ‘Have you an ambition to join the patients upstairs?’ he said, scooping her into his arms.
‘Elliot, put me down, I’m perfectly capable of walking.’
‘I know, you are eight and twenty, and more than old enough to do so without help, one would have thought,’ he said, ignoring her protest, ‘but since you don’t seem capable of feeding yourself, I’m not going to trust you to walk. Stop fussing, put your arm around my neck and we’ll get along much better. Lyle, is my curricle still intact?’
‘It is, Major. Would you be needing a hand there with Mrs Napier?’ the sergeant asked, grinning.
‘I don’t think so. Make your farewells, Deborah. And much as I’m enjoying your wriggling,’ Elliot said, lowering his voice for her ears only, ‘I’d prefer if you waited until we are alone.’
Blushing, Deborah cast him a fulminating glance. ‘Goodbye, Sergeant Lyle. Thank you for your hospitality. I hope the next time I visit that you will spare me some of your time. I would very much like to hear about your experiences. I regret I am not at liberty to do so at present,’ she said tightly.
‘Major Marchmont knows best, I’m sure, madam,’ Sergeant Lyle said, failing to stifle his laugh.
‘That was mortifying,’ Deborah said, pulling the rug from Elliot’s hands to tuck it around her legs herself.
‘Think how much more embarrassed you’d have been if you fainted.’
‘I never faint.’
‘You looked damned close to it there.’ Elliot tossed sixpence to his makeshift groom and threw a handful of coppers at the ragged collection of his cohorts, earning himself a cheer. ‘You don’t look after yourself,’ he said, urging the horses into a walk.
‘I am perfectly capable—’
‘Deborah.’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Wha
t?’ she said belligerently.
‘Why don’t you just sit back and let me look after you?’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘You do. And I want to. So why not let me?’
All of a sudden, she felt like crying. Before she could stop it, a tear plopped on to her cheek. She scrubbed it away with her glove. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I do need something to eat.’ Another tear fell, and then another. She turned her face away, desperately trying to compose herself, hoping Elliot hadn’t noticed. She cast him a surreptitious glance and her eyes clashed with his. He’d noticed. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.
He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a large, pristine white handkerchief. ‘Stop apologising, there’s no need. It’s my fault. The dispensary was too much for you. I shouldn’t have taken you there.’
‘I insisted that you did.’ Deborah mopped her face. Elliot’s mouth was set, his brows drawn. His scar showed white. She knew him well enough now to surmise that his anger was turned on himself and not her. Guilt made her confess what she would much rather have kept to herself. ‘It wasn’t the dispensary. It was just that no one ever offers to look after me. There, that’s made me sound quite pathetic.’
‘I wish you would not describe yourself so,’ Elliot said harshly. ‘You are very far from pathetic.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry, too.’
‘Sorry. I mean—sorry.’ Deborah managed a weak smile. ‘I promise I’ll eat something as soon as I get home.’
‘You’re not going home yet. I’m taking you to dinner.’
‘I’m not dressed for dinner.’
‘It’s early and I’m not proposing anywhere fashionable. There’s an excellent coaching inn at Holborn, the Old Bell, where the food is very good. No, don’t bother protesting,’ Elliot added. ‘Short of grabbing the reins, there is nothing you can do, so save your breath and let me concentrate on my driving. Much as it pains me to admit it, the volume and variety of traffic on London’s roads rather tests my handling of the ribbons to its limit. They’d never have me at the Four Horse Club.’
Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 16
