by Erica Monroe
The brick-faced tenement house spanned three floors, with what appeared to be four separate flats. Each flat had an individual entrance, with a stone-sided staircase that reached up to Thaddeus’s hip. Three stone steps led up to doors of rotten wood. Blue paint flecked off of Abigail’s door.
“Abigail? It’s me, Poppy.” Poppy knocked upon the door, and a second later it opened partially. A little girl—he guessed anywhere from six to ten years of age; children were hard to estimate in the rookeries—peeked out of the tiny gap. With ginger locks and round cheeks, the girl reminded him of what Poppy’s daughter, Moira, would look like when she was older.
The girl caught sight of his black top hat and his blue uniform and she slammed the door shut. Thaddeus heard her shouting to her sister indistinctly, though he thought he recognized the word “Peeler” being spat out with childish insolence.
Poppy rapped on the door again. “Bess, Abigail knows about him. Come on, let me in.” She hit the door with her palm.
The door slid open a minute later, all the way this time. Thaddeus followed Poppy inside, the smell of soiled cloth and dried gore smacking him hard as he entered.
The Larkers had caused this.
And he hadn’t stopped them in time.
When he had last seen Poppy’s friend, he’d noticed two things about her, beyond her usual physical appearance. The first, she had a beautiful smile. Though it did not affect him as Poppy’s did, there was something kind about her smile, complimented by her angelic looks. Second, she cared deeply for Poppy. He had seen it in the tenderness of her expressions, the quality of her voice.
He’d bend over backwards to help a girl who cared as much for Poppy as he did.
The Miss Vautille that sat across from him in the wooden rocker didn’t resemble the carefree girl he’d observed. She leaned all her weight on her left elbow, where the armrest to her rocker remained. The right armrest must have rotted away long ago.
Thaddeus thanked God for the lessening light of evening, which cast the little flat in a gray glow. To see Abigail’s scarred features in the harsh light of day would have been too much for him, for the bruises upon her cheeks and around her eyes were so similar to Anna Moseley’s that he could have traced them from memory alone. If he’d had any doubt that the Larkers had been responsible for both attacks, he was now positive.
And that certainty filled him with a rage he didn’t quite know how to process. He’d arrested murderers before, booked countless thieves, ruffians, and false mendicants. But none of them had produced victims that died in his arms. He glanced down at his uniform with its glossily polished buttons, a vulgar disparity from the carnage-stained bandages enveloping Abigail’s right hand.
He wished for his truncheon, for the weight of the baton would be comforting. He’d feel like he could do something to protect this girl.
Taking one step, then another, he came to a stop smack in front of Abigail. His fists clasped at his sides, so tightly that he suspected his knuckles must be white by now.
He worked to compose himself, focusing his energy on what needed to be done. Get the girl to the hospital first. From there, he’d figure out what to do about Whiting. About Poppy. About his life in general if he was going to attempt herculean mental acrobatics already.
He tipped his hat to her and sketched a quick bow. “Miss Vautille.”
She did not acknowledge his existence, continuing to look forward, as if she could stare through him. “Bess,” Abigail called, her voice barely carrying through the flat.
The girl appeared a moment later. She eyed Thaddeus with obvious suspicion, her gaze finally coming to focus on his top hat. The Met wore top hats specifically to set them apart from the helmet-wearing military—a distinction that had not done much to quell distrust.
“I want you to go next door with Mrs. Henderson,” Abigail told Bess. “She said she’d be home today to take care of you. I want you to stay there until I return.”
“Mrs. Henderson has stale bread and kippers to eat,” Bess whined. “Why can’t I stay here until Papa comes home?”
“Because Papa may not be home until late, as you well know.” Abigail matched her sister’s stubborn glare. Blue eyes met blue eyes almost exactly alike.
Bess scowled, but Abigail didn’t flinch.
“Don’t go to the factory anymore?” Abigail asked.
“No more work?” Bess appeared giddy, then thoughtful. “Because you were hurt?”
“I don’t have the time to explain. I don’t want you to go back there ever again. Do you understand?”
“I won’t.” Bess gave a swift nod and headed out the door.
“Miss Vautille, I’m going to take you to the London Hospital,” Thaddeus said, coming to stand at her side. He inventoried her injuries, determining the best method of removing her from the tenement house. “Will you allow me to lift you? I fear that if we have you walk to the carriage, the stairs at the entrance to your flat may cause you discomfort.”
Her uninjured eye appraised him keenly. “You may lift me.” She sat stiffly in the chair, waiting for him to move.
“Shall I leave a note for your father?” Poppy inquired, already searching the room for foolscap and a quill. “I won’t say where you’ve gone in case the Larkers return, just that you’re safe.”
“Not that he shall care, as long as the tables are going his way,” Abigail muttered underneath her breath. Louder, she said, “I suppose so. He’s been in Whitechapel the last few days.”
“If you can, when I lift you, please place your injured arm around my shoulder,” he said.
With one hand placed behind her back, and the other underneath her knees, he brought her carefully up into his arms. Feet spread wide, he braced her weight. She wrapped her arm around his shoulder, her grip light against his coat, almost as if she feared that by touching him with all her remaining strength, her fingers would be stained blue.
Poppy trailed behind him, closing and locking the door to the flat. He took the stairs with extra caution; grimacing as Abigail moaned each time he had to step down. Once they had reached the courtyard, he paused.
There was so much he wanted to say to Poppy, and no time for anything but the plainest of instructions. “Poppy, as soon as you return home, I want you to pack a bag with whatever you need for a trip away. You, Moira, and your companion will stay with me for the next few days while I figure this out.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, not looking at him directly. Instead, she addressed Abigail. “I’ve already sent a message to Atlas. My family will be safer with him.”
Her response caught him so off-guard he almost stumbled. Readjusting his grip on Abigail, he took a step closer to Poppy. She watched him with a cagey mulishness, and he would’ve regarded this fight as futile, were it not for everything he now knew about her. Damn it! And damn her, for not believing in him enough to protect her.
“Just once—just once—it’d be nice if you trusted me enough to take care of you.” He loathed how his voice sounded; pleading for something he knew damn well he’d never have. And it made him desperate in his neediness when he’d never needed anyone else his whole life. “There’s things I need to discuss with you, things I can’t go into here. Your friend needs a bloody doctor, and I need you to not disappear on me.”
“Bloody hell, Poppy, do as the rat Peeler says,” Abigail groaned.
“I’ll meet you at the Three Boars tonight. With fifty Chapmen Street members around, no one will dare to attack me.” Poppy’s voice softened; the belligerence gone. This was how she should always sound, as if he could lean into that voice and know that everything would be right in the world.
He nodded. He’d meet her at the public house. Whatever he thought about her relations with a gang of thieving brutes, they were loyal to their own. Now wasn’t the time to argue, any more than it was the time to discuss her past.
“Don’t come in your uniform,” she cautioned.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he c
alled back, as he set off toward the closest hack station.
When he took Abigail to the London Hospital, there’d be no turning back. He’d be hiding not only Poppy’s whereabouts, but also an assault, from his supervisor. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d be actively pursuing leads that would condemn Whiting for being in partnership with the Larkers.
My family will be safer with Atlas, he heard Poppy say again in his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was right. When their two different worlds had collided, it had resulted in pain and treachery.
Each step took him away from where Poppy stood on Abigail’s doorstep, away from the life he’d thought they’d have together.
The Three Boars sat in prime territory on Chapman Street, nestled in-between a chandler’s shop and a pawnbroker. It was widely known throughout the rookeries as the headquarters of the aptly named Chapman Street gang, led by the great thief Zacharias Baines. Born and bred Londoners knew, as they knew that the serpentine in Hyde Park was toff land and Jacob’s Island offered cut-rate trollops, not to darken the doors of the Three Boars unless they had some association with Chapman. Though Zacharias was no longer the pugilist he had once been, his cavalier son, Jason, solved problems with his fists.
Poppy perched on top of a bar stool, her muddy half-boots resting on the bottom rung of the stool. She wore no bonnet; there seemed no point in propriety. No point in anything that resembled civility, for civility had not saved Anna. Civility had not taught her to avoid Edward, and civility had not kept Abigail safe.
She was the worst sort of false. Sipping at the tankard of bragget that Jane set before her, Poppy didn’t look up from her examination of the mottled bar top. The mead and ale sweetened with honey went down easy, and before she knew it, she had half of the tankard finished.
This place, and all it stood for, had felt secure to her. It was a bastion of reverse privilege—those who had no proper position in a bon ton society allied here, shared their wealth and devoted themselves to a better good for their brethren. The church of Chapman had two creeds: loyalty to the members and the willingness to take what was not theirs to begin with. Love thy brother or meet thy death at the hands of twenty belligerent thieves. It had seemed simple enough.
In the past few months she’d lived in London, she’d become familiar with what the Baines family did to people who disagreed with them. She’d heard all the stories, seen the scars on the members of Chapman who had voiced their disapproval. She’d smelled the sweet scent of opium in the streets, and she’d watched as children swiped wipes.
And she had thought nothing of it.
Because Chapman had accepted her. They seemed to have Moira’s best interests in mind, often presenting the little girl with presents when Poppy brought her by the Three Boars for Sunday nuncheon.
This acceptance was another lie, wrapped up in ruddy nankeen instead of the fancy brocade of societal power. Their makeshift family didn’t matter when people like Abigail got hurt to preserve the ideals of criminal enterprise. The Baines were no better than the Larkers.
“You couldn’t have stopped it, Poppy.” Jane’s voice was quiet, meant to console. “The boys said the wife was a clever bitch. Whatever she wants, she gets.”
Resting her elbows on the table, Poppy propped her head in her hands. She let out a low groan. “Even the bloody thieves hate Effie Larker, and I decided to become her next target.”
“She keeps a clean ship. Doesn’t like to leave loose ends. But we’ll keep you safe, you know that.” Jane slid a plate of mutton drenched in thick rust-colored gravy—the color of Abigail’s dried blood, clinging to her skinned hand.
Poppy picked up her fork, but she didn’t cut up the meat. Didn’t do anything but stare down at the plate, remembering the bubbling of Abigail’s exposed veins and the gnarled bone. Imagining the tear as her hand caught against the shuttle, and layers of skin wrenched from her hand. Would it sound like the rip of paper, or the cutting of fabric? She suspected neither, for they didn’t properly encompass the loss of one’s ability to work, to survive.
“I should have known,” Poppy murmured.
Furthermore, she shouldn’t have done so many things. Never agreed to assist Thaddeus. Never kissed him. Never involved Abigail in this, nor put Bess at risk. Never, ever should have allowed her own interests to come before Moira’s. She’d been caught up in the excitement of investigating.
“And I should have stopped Penn from dubbing. He’d still be here if I’d thought to warn him about that house. If I’d known that the bloody Peelers were watching.” Jane reached forward, taking Poppy’s free hand in her own.
Jane’s touch should have been comforting. But hollowness consumed Poppy. She was unharmed, physically fit, while Abigail lay slack in the London Hospital. Poppy pulled her hand from Jane’s, wrapping it up in the fabric of her apron. Her apron, slick with Abigail’s blood too. The crime was inescapable.
It was all her fault.
The realization crushed her. She’d recover for a moment, start to think of something else—of Thaddeus, of how Edna had looked when Poppy left her in Atlas’s loft, of Moira and if she’d settle in without fuss. Then out of the corner of her eye, she’d see the dirt on her knuckles or catch a whiff of the bile from Abigail’s flat in the breeze. In an instant, she’d be back in that room again. Suffocating slowly from the guilt of it all.
And the knowledge that in all likelihood, once she left this bar and the protection of Chapman, she’d be next.
Poppy longed to turn her mind off, to return to a time when life had been simple. To that precious day when Moira had been born, when in the light of the sun everything had seemed possible because she had this beautiful baby girl.
Jane slid over another bragget to replace the one Poppy had already downed. “There comes a point in time that you realize the world is full of skin flints. When you’ve been cheated, ripped up, and abused, you spring back. You hit harder because that’s the way we survive.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Poppy met Jane’s glance, seeing nothing but strength shining in the woman’s brown eyes. Always strong, always pushing forward, always certain she’d accomplish what she set her mind to.
God, how Poppy wanted to be like that. How she’d give her very last penny to be certain she’d done something right. She longed to be back with Thaddeus, to hear him tell her that he understood. That he could forgive her for anything.
For one night at least, she wanted to know what it was like to be loved by him. What it would feel like to make love with a man who didn’t want to use her up until she was so tainted by the fill of his cock, she could never be anything but ruined. Would he make her feel whole again? Would he absolve her of some of this guilt?
“Well, you don’t tarry with the pigs, that’s for certain.” Jane wrinkled her nose, as if mentioning Peelers besieged her with a horrid odor. “I don’t care what he offered you. He’s going to hurt you.”
Poppy’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I made him promise he wouldn’t investigate my family and friends. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
And I did it for me. Because I wanted to be around him.
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Blast it all, Poppy, we don’t need protecting.”
“You said he was going to ruin us. You believed that a Met officer around meant doom.” Her voice came out too tight, accusations lacing through when she knew damn well Jane had been concerned for her safety.
Poppy swigged down a fourth of the bragget in one gulp, coughing as the liquid flooded her throat. Jane’s eyes had grown cold, her lips set in a thin line. Poppy knew her expression, knew it because she’d seen it every time a patron got out of line with Jane. That was what Poppy was, another unruly member of Chapman, so far gone into the black world that she was irredeemable.
Thaddeus couldn’t save her. He shouldn’t want to.
In one hand, Jane held a towel for cleaning the counters. She stood up straight like the front post on a loo
m, a diminutive queen over this bustling land of vice. A dark curl had slipped from her chignon, framing the hard lines of her long, angular face. Her wide forehead was creased with wrinkles—Poppy realized she’d never seen Jane without those wrinkles, those marks of a life given up to never knowing if she’d see her brother free again.
“I’m sorry,” Poppy murmured. “I’m sorry I said those things. I’m sorry...” She paused. How could she possibly apologize for all of this, when she couldn’t even remember all the ways in which she’d erred?
Jane held a hand up, biding another patron to wait their turn. “I know, Poppy. But you’re treading dangerous waters with this man, and you can’t blame me for being concerned.”
“I don’t blame you,” Poppy said. Jane wasn’t at fault here; it was her fault, hers and hers alone.
“I saw Kate and Daniel at a table near the stage. Why didn’t you sit with them?” Jane’s lips pursed in her most common expression: skepticism.
“They came with me here, but I...I wanted to be alone. Daniel keeps telling me it’s not my fault.” Poppy ran her thumb along the handle of the tankard, the pottery cracked. Cracked like she felt, better suited for a life in a Magdalene asylum, where all her decisions would be made for her. “I’ll go back tonight with them to Atlas’s loft.”
She was half-thankful for Thaddeus, even as she dreaded seeing him. He’d tell her they were done. He was brilliant and honorable. It wouldn’t do for him to become involved with someone as impulsive as she, who failed so spectacularly at investigation her friend had been bashed beyond repair.
Jane opened her mouth to say something, but the other barkeep slid in behind the counter, bumping her as he did so. “Oy, Charlie, watch your arse,” she snapped, slapping him with the towel.
“Careful, Janey,” Charlie said, with a pointed glance toward the back of the room. “Jason’s been takin’ notice of you chattin’. He’s likely to come over soon.”
