Читать книгу Into The Hall Of Vice - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 13

Chapter Five

‘What’s eating at you?’ Pittman, Cole’s man of all things, lit the lanterns in the Wigmore suite of rooms and prepared to take his leave. Cole needed someone to attend household tasks he had no time to accomplish. Cook, housekeeper and valet were only three of the roles the servant had acquired over the years. Pittman kept the woodbin filled, oil lamps ready and an assortment of food stuffs in the pantry, as well as clothing laundered and pressed – all without question.

Pittman had grown up in Charing Cross, though Cole would readily challenge any dandy to produce a more loyal and dependable servant. Uppers staffed their houses with those wanting to fill their pockets. Pittman valued his employment for the manner it filled his soul. Pride, self-worth and respect composed true qualities unequalled by the generous salary Cole provided.

‘Nothing of concern.’ The complete opposite, actually. He had been tempted to whistle on his walk home as the heat of that kiss, Gemma’s kiss, hummed in his blood still.

‘There’s roast mutton in the kitchen. I’ve refilled the tinder box and replaced the bed linens. Your boots are cleaned and shined…’

‘Very good. As I’ve told you many times, you’ve no need to report your daily accomplishments. I trust you.’ The words rang true with honest appreciation.

‘Thank you. Then I will leave you to your rest.’ Pittman exited without another word.

Cole locked up and undressed. After a brisk wash from the water basin, he reclined on the bed and commanded sleep to come, but the same distracted tension, an agitated restlessness that seemed ever-present of late, held him hostage. He stared at the white ceiling and scoffed with the irony of it all. He needed sleep to function, his schedule demanding and uncommon. Awake all night at the hell, he slept during the day, but of late he couldn’t relax enough to sustain a solid amount of rest no matter which hours he kept.

There was a time when he wouldn’t close his eyes for fear of the nightmares that pursued him, winding him tight with anxiety and relentless fear. Every night he’d struggle to resist sleep and fail, awakening in the dead black of night with a cold sweat on his brow and tears on his cheeks, disappointed he’d succumbed to the inner terror that lurked in the darkest place of his soul, waiting to plague him.

But then Maggie found him and provided safety and shelter. She offered a sense of belonging and a modest education. It took some time but the terror finally stopped. Nightmares of abandonment, rats at his feet and starvation in his belly were now a bitter memory, so what was the reason for his perpetual agitation?

His body craved sleep and the mindless escape it provided, yet exhaustion held him captive, unable to calm.

He blew a long breath of exasperation and turned his thoughts to Lady Amberson. Gemma. A woman as elusive as a fantasy. As beautiful as his most daring imaginings. He may as well have created her in a daydream, she’d tasted so sweet. Perhaps dangerously addictive. The thought of her sparkling green eyes and their mischievous kiss managed to alleviate the rebellious insurrection which held him tethered of late. He turned to his stomach and hugged the pillow as his eyes fell closed and he found peace.

The next morning after breakfast, with Rosalind by the hand, Gemma walked along the slated path behind Stratton House. Kent hadn’t showed at their morning meal and she did not miss his strict questioning of her schedule or outraged grumblings about volatile issues in Parliament.

Here in the garden, flowers were in full bloom in every hue and variety afforded a duke’s entitlement, from rare specimens to familiar English roses. Foxglove, poppies and pyramidal orchids dotted the walkway while sweet pea and hop crept along the ground to cover the earth in a blanket of myriad colours. Interspersed among the florals were decorative marbles and hand-carved statues depicting cherubs and goddesses, the ornaments adding a peaceful contemplative element to the vibrant landscape. The scent of damp loamy soil permeated the air and reminded of how elemental things became when one looked past the trappings of society.

Gemma had no idea if Rosalind appreciated the gardens as much as she. It was a new routine for her sister, who often ate meals upstairs or returned to her rooms directly after breakfast. Of late, Rosalind would walk through the gardens with Gemma chattering like a magpie to fill the silence. Today was no different. It if eased Rosalind’s misery or aided in mending her heart, Gemma would talk for hours on end.

‘I have a secret to share, dear sister.’ They’d reached a turn in the path near a marble birdbath and stood in watch while two bluebirds splashed in fervent business until an intrusive rook swooped in and frightened them into flight. Why was it superiority often ruined the gentler acts of life? She dismissed the observation with a slight frown and continued. ‘Yesterday I kissed a man.’

Gemma hesitated in calling Mr Hewitt a gentleman, though she thought of him as such. Title did not necessarily equal goodness. She’d seen proof many times over. Still, the divide between their social stations resembled a mountain range. How she was tempted to blur the lines of distinction whenever she made the acquaintance of a pleasant someone who lived a different kind of life. In that temptation, she stood alone, though, society’s perspicuity harsh. In her world, bloodlines composed one’s past, present and future.

Rosalind stopped walking. She turned inward and held both of Gemma’s hands, prepared for a detailed story. Gemma laughed and smiled, her silent sister able to draw her back to the conversation with purpose, all without a syllable.

‘Yes. Well, it was wonderful. Beyond comparison, actually, although I’ve not kissed another to possess the necessary criteria.’ Accustomed to their one-sided conversation, Gemma rattled on. ‘Although somehow, I know inside.’ She released Rosalind’s hand and clenched her fist against her heart. ‘In here, no matter who I kiss for the rest of my life, it will never replace the experience of that kiss. Simply because it was my first, and it was extraordinary.’

Rosalind’s finely arched brows rose with delicate ease.

‘It was delightful and isolated; a one chance occurrence and a beautiful memory. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.’ She didn’t mean to sound regretful, though she must have as Rosalind squeezed her hands, now joined together again. ‘That one kiss made me feel special for being me. Not the sister of duke. Not a gentile lady. Just me. It’s silly, I know.’ Another squeeze from Rosalind punctuated the statement. ‘But the way he looked at me in that breathless minute before he placed his mouth upon me, like I was precious, a rare gem… I will never forget that feeling.’ She looked at her sister and waited, breath held if perhaps Rosalind would say something. Anything. Show the tiniest inclination to reply. But after a long moment stretched, Gemma resumed their stroll. Her sister’s face had expressed myriad emotions during the retelling, yet not enough to evoke a response. Still, Gemma refused to be disheartened.

They reached the place in the path where a granite prayer stone marked the remembrance of their father. Creeping thyme grew in abundance around the monument and the sharp lemony fragrance soothed Gemma’s heartache. How she missed her father. He had been a kind, loving man, with a large, generous heart, so different from her brother, who wore his title like a weapon to wield. Father had raised them to consider a person’s constitution before station, but so much had changed since his death, Kent hardly remembered their father’s intendment. Either that or Kent considered himself to have risen above the sentimental remembrance.

As was their routine, Gemma and Rosalind sent a silent prayer heavenward and then they resumed their walk. Perhaps having the thought of their father dear to their hearts, it was time to broach the troubling subject of Rosalind’s silence.

‘I was wondering…’ Gemma didn’t mean to force the issue, but the cloud of disappointment, and loss of hearing her sister’s laughter and voice, pained her daily. She wanted to share her adventure and laugh at her foibles and relieve the depths of Rosalind’s anguish and despondency. She wanted to help. She searched her sister’s eyes for any shade of invitation. ‘About the evening we learned of Father’s death.’

Rosalind stopped so abruptly Gemma’s slippers caught in her hems. Without warning, her sister tugged her arm free from where they were linked and withdrew, nearly stumbling as she hurried backwards, her eyes wide with alarm and something else, something stark and lonely, the reflection of utter despair. She blinked away a fast flood of tears.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never speak of it again if it pains you, Rosalind.’

It was a foolish promise to make and altogether too late, the mood broken, moment lost, and Gemma made no attempt to stall Rosalind as she turned away and hurried towards the house.

It was mid-morning the next day before Goodworth arrived at Second Chances, the successfully run lodging house he owned and managed with Maggie Devonshire. The building’s location on the border of Strand Street was threateningly close to the upper classes, but he’d purchased the land and restored the building with that exact purpose in mind. The lodging house would serve as a reminder to society’s finest that an entirely different world existed less than a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. True, he’d paid for a fine limestone slate roof and painted shutters with paned windows beneath, but aside from the appealing exterior, the heart of his noble work lay inside the ten rooms he let to anyone and everyone who needed a second chance. The occupants lived rent free with food and laundering, as well as assistance in finding work, healing or otherwise repairing their lives from the incident that had propelled them towards a downward course. Goodworth couldn’t be prouder of his accomplishment but never did he let pride override his hard work and intent to do more; to help others whether they be destitute, beaten or impaired.

He started for the stoop and paused a pace from the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a movement in the shadows as subtle as a change in the wind. In his peripheral vision, he noted someone approaching, a man in brown clothing, a hat pulled low on his brow, and he remembered an incident not long ago when a similar figure had looked him straight in the eyes and traced a finger across his throat. An unwelcome warning rang in his ears, though the man continued straight ahead, without a glance away from the sidewalk.

It couldn’t be a disgruntled gambler from the hell. No one knew of the connection between Second Chances and the Underworld. While his profits from the gaming hell provided the necessary funds to create and maintain the lodging house, not a soul was aware of his association and therefore no one could seek retribution, blackmail or threaten to expose his dual lifestyle. Exposure would endanger everyone involved in either of his life’s ventures.

Shaking off his misgivings, he entered to find Charlie leaning on the wall string of the staircase leading to the upper-level rooms. Someday the boy would make a fine hand at the Underworld watching horses at the curb for a coin, but he needed time to grow and develop.

‘What are you doing here, Charlie? Shouldn’t you be at lessons by now?’ Goodworth crouched to the boy’s level, his scrawny five-year-old frame increasing in health more each day.

‘I am waiting for you. At breakfast, Miss Maggie mentioned you’d be by today.’ The child smiled, his grin made wider by the absence of two front teeth.

‘I have something for you. I think you’ll be pleased.’ Goodworth removed a small paper sack from his pocket. ‘There’s hardbake for you and your friends. Be sure to share it. Once Tommy ate the whole bag himself and, aside from disappointing his chums, spent the afternoon with an upset stomach.’

‘I will do so, sir.’ Charlie nabbed the bag and immediately unfolded the top, his eyes round as he peeked inside.

‘Not just yet,’ Goodworth tempered. ‘Let’s have a look at your shoe first.’ With gentle consideration, he lifted the boy’s left leg and removed his boot. Then, retrieving a rectangular package from his back pocket, he laid a flat cushioned insert inside against the sole. ‘There now. I had it specially sized for you.’ He replaced the footwear and extended his hand so Charlie could stand. ‘See how it feels. The padding should compensate for the disparity caused by your limp.’

‘What?’ Charlie looked at him, his little face screwed into a puzzle of confusion.

‘I’m sorry, lad.’ Goodworth rose and chuckled. ‘Your shoe will help your leg now. That’s all you need to know.’

Charlie stood and tested his walk, his gait improved, his smile returned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He hugged Goodworth’s legs before he snatched the bag of treats from the step and escaped through a nearby doorway.

Happy with the outcome, Goodworth continued up the stairs and into the main dining area. It was a fine room, painted pale yellow and conducive to easing one’s mind and mood if a full stomach didn’t accomplish the same. Maggie was at the table, teaching two women how to read. She glanced up and caught his eye as he entered. Then she instructed the women to practise while she stepped away for a moment.

‘I’d hoped you would appear today. So much is happening. I need your advice.’ Maggie rose on her toes and bussed his cheek.

She was the older sister, makeshift mother he never had, and a kind-hearted, intelligent woman who had devoted endless time to improving the condition of others. He valued her friendship more than any association and admired her efforts here. Now that they were established, she oversaw most all parts of Second Chances and he supplied the funds. ‘I came by your house just yesterday morning, but you weren’t at home.’ His response was all question with no accusation.

‘I decided to spend the night here. Actually, I’ve been here for two nights now. Miranda’s baby is due to arrive and I don’t want her to be alone. She’s scared no matter she’s surrounded by women who have birthed children and know the way of things more so than I.’ Maggie’s expression altered and he was unsure how to respond. Thankfully she continued straight after. ‘Have you heard anything unusual concerning Parliament’s arguments lately? I don’t always have time to read the paper and I know you’re more likely to garner carry-over conversation than I.’

‘Nothing of relevance as a matter of change.’ He lifted a biscuit from the platter on the table and chewed a bite. ‘Some nobs are pushing for reform, but most aren’t. I suspect there is one driving force that keeps all from agreeing on drastic modification and opposition of the laws.’ He finished the biscuit before he continued. ‘I’d like to discover the individuals who fuel the resistance, but last I checked I wasn’t fit to sit at the House of Lords.’ He caught Maggie’s eye where she tidied the table and collected crumbs. ‘The corridors of power remain divided on how to offer help and spend funds while the ratepayers argue the cost of maintaining the system is already alarmingly high. No one offers a voice for the people who suffer under a severe strain of the system.’ He shook his head. ‘We will never affect change within the government, but at least we do good work here, Maggie. We offer a chance for those who would have no other place to go.’ Bastard birth, abandonment and other unpardonable sins were a stain on the soul one could never erase.

‘Of course. I’m proud of you.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘Unwed mothers, lost children, elderly and infirm. You’ve never failed anyone who has come to us for help. You are a good man.’ She offered a beaming smile. ‘Even with that bootblack on the back of your ear.’ She reached forward and wiped a smear of the colour from his skin. ‘Now I need to return to the girls before they forget everything I’ve taught for the last half hour.’ She didn’t say more and didn’t need to, her no-nonsense words and kind smile more than enough.

Kent slammed a fist against the table and jarred the silverware into an agitated tremble, Gemma unnerved in kind to the forks and spoons. She’d come down to breakfast with a riot of emotion fighting for attention; frustration over her father’s death, her inability to discover truthful information, Rosalind’s upset, and the divine experience of receiving her first kiss. The last thing she needed was for her brother to be in high temper when she sought quiet to sort out her confusion.

‘Were I a different man I would bring my argument directly to the source of the problem, but as the Duke of Kent and honoured member of Parliament, I am restricted to arguments in the House of Lords and long, tiresome petitions that accomplish little more than lulling those who listen into slumber.’ He placed a folded note on the damask tablecloth and noticed her for the first time. ‘Good morning, Gemma.’ His grumble was a complete contradiction of the sentiment.

‘Good morning.’ She strove for a cheerful tone. ‘What has you so upset that you’ve ignored your coddled eggs?’ Perhaps she could cajole him into a better mood. She’d like nothing more than to travel to Charing Cross and seek Miss Devonshire again this morning. If she could determine his agenda she could better arrange her own.

‘I cannot eat.’ He shoved his plate forward and a footman swept in to remove it. ‘The problems of this city are not fit conversation for a lady’s ear.’

Gemma couldn’t help but laugh. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Perhaps if men were more open-minded, solutions could be had with greater alacrity.’

‘I do not have the energy for a debate on that subject. Men and women play different roles in our society, just as the aristocracy and the poor need to learn their place. The squalid living conditions of Seven Dials and the crime-infested surrounding area are worsening at an alarming rate. If something isn’t done to drive out these foul, lazy indigents and better our London, we are all doomed to disease and pestilence.’ There was no mistaking the imperative edge to his words.

‘Oh dear.’ She wasn’t sure how to respond, considering she’d only visited Charing Cross and lost her purse to a tiny rascal two days prior. ‘I understood there to be many children and unfortunates living there.’

‘Inhabited in overcrowded squalor and shame. Unwed mothers, unwanted children, criminals and abusive deviants, it’s a warren of human vermin and abject misery where the roadways are as layered in filth as the inhabitants. You would not know of such living condition as it should be.’ He huffed a long breath as if by effort he could expel his disdain and ignore the injustice.

‘I doubt you can lump them all together in one group. Surely the people there have found themselves in a difficult position and need help more than condemnation.’ She busied herself with the jam pot.

‘That is why females, compassionate, kind women, cannot take part in a discussion of reform. You must not think with your heart and delicate nature.’ He gentled his expression though a muscle still ticked in his cheek. ‘The rookeries are filled with filthy degradation, corrupt and man-made, not a situation of circumstance but rather a choice by those who decide to live in dire poverty without bettering themselves.’

‘The rookeries?’ She attempted to rationalise the picture her brother painted with his description and the neat row house she’d attempted to visit.

‘Named for a type of crow, the rook, a thieving, meddlesome bird that nests in large, noisy colonies stealing food and multiplying. It is why the crammed living conditions of that area are labelled as such. The place is a honeycomb of blind alleys and narrow streets with random cesspools of dilapidated houses not fit for human occupation. Disease and pestilence abound. Somehow the population grows despite the threat to deadly illness and violent crime.’ His jaw tightened in visible disgust.

‘So you’ve visited this place? These rookeries?’ A note of new-found esteem on her brother’s behalf laced through the questions.

‘Absolutely not.’ He chuckled in a condescending manner. ‘Dear Gemma. You are as your name implies, a gem like no other. I would never visit such a place. My boots are made of the finest leather.’

It took a full minute for Gemma to mollify her desire to object. The best she could do in the end was temper her comments. ‘Perhaps that is part of the problem. Were more noblemen to visit and offer assistance in development, these rookeries could be improved.’ Still at odds with his vehement response, she sought to offer a rational suggestion.

‘Without stronger legislature, all will be for naught. The appalling deprivation and dire poverty will continue. That is why I believe it would be best to level the whole of it. Clear the deplorable conditions and palsied houses. Drive the inhabitants out. A mass eviction of some sort to rid the parasitic from greater London.’

Gemma inhaled sharply at her brother’s calm delivery. ‘Where would they go? You would evict them from the very place they call home.’ She could hardly eat for the drastic, appalling vision her brother proposed and placed her spoon on the plate as if it burned her fingers. ‘Poverty is an immense social ill and the duty of London who should partake in the improvements.’

‘Dear sister, I understand your tender sensibilities but there is no place for apathy in the political process.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Enough of this talk. I don’t know how you drew me into conversation unfit for a lady of high esteem. I suppose I needed to expel a modicum of frustration. The rookeries are bleak and noisome and you are beauty and light. We will change the subject. What will you do with your day?’