A Ravishing Beauty in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  As she marched, she caught sight of a boy no older than 11. He stumbled from an alleyway, carrying with him an enormous pail, one that seemed far too heavy for his string-like arms.

  Harriet recognised him immediately as a night-soil collector, a boy who earned money for his family by collecting the soil in which wealthier families tossed out their chamber pots at night. It was a gruesome position, one Harriet had hardly considered throughout her many years of privilege.

  His weary eyes turned towards her for a moment. Harriet halted for a moment, peering down at the boy—no more than three horse-lengths away from her. What could he possibly think of her, a figure dressed in all black, stalking about at night?

  Unsure of what else to do, Harriet lifted a hand and gave the boy a slight wave. This seemed to startle him. He burst forward, nearly toppling his pail to the ground. Finally, he found his footing and ambled into the next alleyway, disappearing.

  Harriet felt a sense of loss. She wished she could reveal herself to the boy and tell him everything would be all right. But she hadn’t a lick of money to her name at this time. Nothing to fuel the boy’s stomach with warmth for the night, either.

  As she passed the next alley, she heard a grunt, then a shriek. She leapt forward, tucking herself around the corner to peer into the darkness. Her throat felt squeezed with panic. Within the alleyway, she saw a lurching figure press the little night-soil boy against the damp brick wall.

  “Gimme everything in your little collection bag, you grimy idiot,” the man said.

  “I haven’t much, mister!” the boy shrieked back. He thrust himself to and fro, trying to pull away from the man’s grasp.

  “You think me stupid, do ya, boy?” the man said through gritted teeth. “I know you been marching these alleys all night, collecting piss and shit and those wealthy folks’ gold. If you ain’t gonna gimme it, I’ll take it by force. What’s it gonna be?”

  The boy reared his head back and then spat at the older man’s feet. The man guffawed and then burst into ominous laughter. Harriet yearned to spring forward and rip the man off the boy, but she knew he could overpower her. She held back, watching as the older man reached behind the boy’s shoulders and slowly, methodically untied the bag, filled with the boy’s collection from the night.

  “There we go, baby boy.” The man sighed.

  “Sir, you simply can’t understand!” the boy cried. Palpable fear and sadness crept through his voice. “My family, we really need that money …”

  “Son, it’s London,” the man said, his voice bouncy. “You know that, right? We all need money as much as the next man, maybe even more. And I can tell you about a dozen good reasons why I need this here for myself right now, hey? So why don’t you take a few steps back and carry on with your night.”

  The boy hadn’t another option. He hobbled back from the lurch of a man. Tears shot down his face, but he didn’t make another sound. The man gave him a crooked smile, showing only a few teeth, and then cantered back down the alley, in the direction of Harriet. Harriet leapt back, managing to hide in the shadows as he passed. Luckily, he seemed out of his mind with glee and shot past her without notice.

  Moments later, the little boy hustled out into the clearing from the alley, gasping with dread. He gaped after the man, watching as he stumbled towards another alley. Harriet swept to her knees and gripped the boy’s bony shoulders. After a moment, the boy’s eyebrows crept together. He peered at Harriet, now, as though she was the enemy in this grand scheme.

  “Shh. I’m not going to hurt you,” Harriet murmured. “I just—I want to help you.”

  “That man. He stole everything …” the boy whimpered.

  “I know.” Harriet swallowed. “Tell me. What’s your name? Where do you live?”

  “I live not far from here,” the boy murmured. “Few blocks yonder.” The boy pointed a dirty finger still south, towards a darker, even seedier portion of London. Harriet had heard stories of men selling corpses there, ones they’d dug up from cemeteries. She shivered, praying this young boy had never seen such a thing—but knowing that even this thought was innocent, proof of her privilege.

  “And what’s your name? Quickly. I need to go after him,” Harriet whispered.

  “Name’s Oliver,” the boy said. “Oliver Penticuff. What—what are you going to do?”

  Harriet brought her finger across the young boy’s cheek. She had a strange image of what he must look like when he was clean, when he was wrapped up in his mother’s blankets. She prayed that he had this kind of loving family at home. That just because he had to limp around at night, collecting soil, didn’t mean he didn’t know basic, family comforts.

  But Harriet rushed away, scampering past her black horse and darting after the man who’d robbed from Oliver. Harriet was careful to ensure her feet didn’t fall too heavily upon the stones. Occasionally, she felt a loose toe dart in between two cobblestones, nearly forcing her face-forward. But she held herself back, kept herself aloft.

  Finally, she slipped into the alleyway in which the man had disappeared down. To her shock, the man had stopped as well. He stood facing the opposite direction in the alley, with the boy’s bag still strewn across his shoulders. Harriet hung back, draping herself against the bricks. She kept her eyes upon him. What on earth was he up to?

  She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. After a dramatic pause, the man ripped the bag from his shoulders and draped it against the side of the alley. He ducked back, eyeing the area where Harriet stood. Harriet pressed her fingers and palms so hard against the brick she felt she might draw blood.

  Again, the man didn’t spot her.

  Suddenly, he spun his head the opposite direction. He pressed his hands into the back pockets of his blotched pants and stalked towards the Thames, his shoulders moving like a cat’s. Harriet paused for a long moment, waiting without taking a breath, until his silhouette was just an outline on the far end of the alley.

  At first, Harriet thought this was her chance. Why—why had he deposited the cash like this, in the centre of the alley? She marvelled for a moment too long. But then, seconds later, a second man appeared beside the other. This one was bulkier, far more muscular. He drew his hand across the lankier man’s shoulder, seemingly shaking him. The motion seemed both congratulatory and belittling.

  Then, the man shot down the alley, approaching Harriet. She knew that if she shifted from her stance and gripped the bag of money, she would be caught. The man was clearly spritely, sturdy, apt to destroy her. Slowly, she inched towards the edge of the alley, as far away from him as she dared without making too much fuss.

  The man paused in front of the bag. One of his enormous feet kicked up against the bag, as though this was enough of an inspection. Then, he tossed himself forward and gripped the top of the bag. He mumbled to himself, bringing the bag over the back of his shoulder. He turned towards Harriet, his eyes unseeing, and then sauntered past her. Again, she had enough wherewithal not to breathe.

  When the man disappeared into the moonlight of the street, Harriet pondered what to do next. For Oliver’s sake, she yearned to follow after the man. Perhaps she could wait outside his residence, bring the police to take the money back.

  But as she waited, switching the thoughts over in her mind, the first rays of grey light cast themselves over the London rooftops. In the distance, she heard a cry that could only come from one of the river men, coming down the river with a first round of vegetables and fish for the morning market.

  Harriet’s heart ached with the reality of the situation. If she truly wanted to uphold her inner values, she knew she had to follow after the man. But if she wanted to ensure she was home before her parents awakened, she had to scamper to her horse as soon as possible. Pressing her lips together in a tight line, she promised herself that she wouldn’t leave this story behind for good. It was only temporary. One day soon, she would avenge what had happened to Oliver.

  Moments later, in a kind of fever dream, Ha
rriet lurched atop her horse and began to clop north of town, back towards her estate. The few people who appeared on the street as she passed them seemed too bleary-eyed with the aching grey of the morning to peer up at her. She was nothing to them. Not even her black cape seemed an oddity. These people: they had jobs to do, families to feed. They hadn’t a care for a girl streaming past on a horse.

  Once at the stables, she discovered the stable boy awake, yet groggy. He pressed his fists into his eyes and gaped at her. Harriet placed a finger over her lips and shushed him, knowing full-well she looked half-crazed in her black cape. The stable boy’s terrified expression grew increasingly so, leading Harriet to rip her black mask from her cheeks.

  At the appearance of a familiar face, the stable boy’s cheeks sagged. He gave her a little shrug, as if to say—sure. Go ahead. Act as insane as you please. I don’t care.

  Harriet turned swiftly towards the house. As she moved, she drew the cape from her shoulders, tying it up into itself. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she entered the back of the house and discovered a rogue maid or even, God forbid, her mother, she would have a better chance of talking herself out of trouble if she was wearing only a normal house dress, rather than the cape.

  Luckily, Harriet was able to slip in through the back unnoticed, just as the sun snuck its head over the horizon. She crept up the steps. Down below, she heard the light whispering of her parents, perhaps both muttering about the day ahead in a language that was only recognisable in the morning. Harriet pressed her lips into a slight smile, running the final stretch into her bedroom and sliding the door closed.

  Once within the confines of her bedroom, the anxiety and relief from the previous several hours became like a wave, a storm within her. She fell to her knees, wrapped the cape into a bigger ball, and laid her head upon it on the floor like a pillow. Her bed was a mere three feet away, and yet it somehow felt like an eternity’s worth of distance.

  Lying there, her heart thudded heavily. She fell back on her spine, stretching her legs out before her. On the desk, she spotted her diary, still opened from a recent scribbling. Her fingers grew hungry to record even a slight emotional memory from the day. Anything that would remind her of the sort of bravery she’d exhibited that evening.

  Certainly, it was far different from the sort of thing she’d ever done before. She needed something, anything—even just a page in her diary—to remember this.

  Finally, she forced herself onto rickety legs, removed her dress, and sat in her nightgown at her desk. The birds chirped outside her window, preparing for the day. She inked her quill and began to write, feeling in a state of delirium.

  I’ve discovered it. The way I’m going to help the world move forward. I will begin every day on the hunt for evil, for wrong-doing, and I will right it as well as I can through whatever means I can. Last night, this took the form of delivering the goods from the Baron to the people south of the Thames. It’s a wretched, gritty place, a place without rhyme or reason or any sense of rules. But as I placed the Baron’s things upon doorsteps, watching the surprised faces of the people of London as they accepted the gifts, I felt an overwhelming understanding.

  They weren’t put on this earth to suffer, no more than I was put on this earth to enjoy all the silly things I’ve always taken for granted: afternoon tea with my mother, long rides on my horse, gowns and balls. I hope to deliver a sense to these people that they are deserving of love, of compassion, of all the riches in the world.

  Now, I must sleep. Every wink I get contributes to more work I can do tonight and the one after that. This is my new reality. Like William Abernale, I am committing myself to a bigger purpose. Perhaps this means I will never be able to settle down, marry, and have children. And perhaps that’s all right. Perhaps this will always be enough.

  Chapter 15

  Throughout the first weeks back from Scotland, William found it incredibly difficult to sleep. He awoke some nights at two or three, blinking into the blackness of his bedroom. His heart ached with something to say. He demanded of it what it wanted. But always, it returned something nonsensical. He realised he was missing the sleepless nights of university, staying up long hours to cram as much philosophical text into his squishy brain.

  Now, he felt a bit lacklustre, his books hardly cracked since he’d arrived home. His mother, father, and sister had doted on him almost endlessly, their eyes glowing with wonder. It seemed they’d never imagined him to truly arrive home, and his appearance at the breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner table was a reason for celebrate, as grand as Christmas.

  It was growing quite old.

  Mid-morning, William stretched his legs beneath his father’s desk in his study, feeling the bones creak. In the hall, he heard his sister announce to his mother that she would spend the afternoon at a friend’s for tea. This, too, seemed bizarre to William—the sincerity of wasting time when all of London felt awash with turmoil.

  William knew he had to begin cultivating a plot, to use his skills to make the city a more prosperous one. But throughout his many walks through the city centre, he’d grown increasingly at a loss, recognising that London was a far darker place than he’d remembered.

  South of the Thames, children’s eyes seemed almost ghoulish, as though they peered at him from the land of the dead. They committed themselves to hard labour at only seven, eight years old, and then found themselves on a sort of wheel of constant sorrow until their death day, perhaps only 30 years later.

  The level of poverty was like a snake, wrapping itself around William’s throat and pulling itself tight.

  William pressed his quill into ink and hovered it above a sheet of paper. Throughout his years abroad, he’d always found power in the physical act of writing. It allowed him to organise his swirling thoughts. At least, when chaos was organised, he could see it more clearly.

  But now, a rap on the door of the study burst through his momentary reverie.

  “What is it?” William asked. The tension in his voice was sharp.

  “Darling, it’s your mother.”

  William allowed himself a healthy, ominous eye roll, grateful she couldn’t see it. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open to reveal Lady Abernale. The woman was sturdy, broad of shoulder, with wide-set, kind eyes. William blinked at her, waiting. This seemed a sort of stand-off. He felt almost certain she would demand to know what he was writing, why he’d been so sullen at breakfast.

  “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you, darling. But the Arnolds have invited us for tea,” his mother said instead.

  At first, William’s tongue lashed out to declare that was nothing he wanted. Zelda Arnold, Renata Arnold: they were a part of a different timeline, women he felt were silly and beneath him.

  “I should be more specific,” his mother continued. “I’m speaking, of course, of the Duke’s residence. Lady Arnold and I had quite a marvellous time at the ball the other evening. And—if I’m not mistaken—I think I spotted you dancing with their only daughter. Harriet.”

  William was accustomed to keeping his cool. He allowed a slow breath to enter his lungs, filling them up like hot air balloons.

  “I see,” were the words he offered.

  “Won’t you join me?” his mother continued. “Of course, I believe Renata and Zelda to be coming along. On such a drab, rainy day like today, don’t you think it’s healthy of us to seek company outside the house? Certainly, you didn’t spend the previous eleven years cooped up in your bedroom in Scotland throughout these sorts of drizzly afternoons.”

  William yearned to tell her that he very much had, although he knew this would do little to change the course of the afternoon. He clucked his tongue and said, “Well, I’ll join you, Mother. But just this once.”

  “Is that meant to be a warning?” his mother teased. “If I don’t stay on my best behaviour?”

  “You’re quite the rascal, Mother. I never know what you’ll get up to at these events,” William said, surprising h
imself. What had put him in such a sudden, giddy mood?