Читать книгу The Unmasking of a Lady - Emily May - Страница 10

That afternoon Arabella took her maid, Polly, her sketchbook and pencils, and the stolen ruby earrings, to Kensington Gardens. ‘Come back in three hours,’ she told the coachman.

She strolled with Polly for ten minutes and then exited the gardens. The carriage, with the Westcote coat of arms glinting within its widow’s lozenge, was nowhere in sight.

Polly hailed a hackney coach. ‘Rosemary Lane,’ she told the jarvey as they climbed inside.

Rosemary Lane was only a few miles from Kensington Gardens, but the slums of Whitechapel were as far from the grand squares of Mayfair as heaven was from hell. Arabella climbed down from the hackney and stepped over an open gutter, while Polly negotiated with the reluctant jarvey to return for them in an hour.

Their destination was just off Rosemary Lane, a narrow old-clothes shop with cracked and boarded-over windows. Hinges squealed as Arabella pushed the door open, a bell jangled harshly overhead, and the smell of musty, unwashed clothes invaded her nose. The scents of stale sweat, old perfume, spilled alcohol and tallow candles mingled sickeningly together. For a moment she had to pause, quelling the nausea that pushed up her throat.

The shop was dimly lit, full of mounds of used clothing. Coats hung from door mantels and hooks in the ceiling, their cuffs shiny with wear. Racks crowded the room: worn shirts and faded flannel waistcoats, stained trousers, frayed dresses and yellowing petticoats. Scuffed shoes and boots with cracked soles lay in piles on the floor.

Polly bustled in behind her and shut the door with another squeal of the hinges. ‘Sally,’ she called out. ‘It’s us.’

They changed in a small, cramped backroom, unbuttoning each other’s gowns and swiftly unlacing the short stays. Arabella hung her clothes—French muslin gown, linen chemise, cambric petticoat—carefully on hooks, and then stripped off her silk stockings and laid them over the back of a chair. The only item she didn’t remove was the pocket containing Lady Bicknell’s earrings, tied around her waist.

Having undressed, they dressed hurriedly again, in the clothes of the poor. Arabella pulled on a coarse chemise, a discoloured blue dress that was too large for her, rough woollen stockings, a battered pair of men’s lace-up boots, and a stained apron. She wrapped a ragged shawl around her head and shoulders. ‘Ready?’

Polly rolled up sleeves that were too long for her and reached for her own shawl. ‘Yes.’

They left the old-clothes shop through the back door, stepping into a dark, malodorous alley. Arabella linked her arm with Polly’s and set off briskly in the direction of Berner Street.

The scuttling rats, the stinking piles of refuse, the rivulets of foul water running down the middle of the streets, were familiar. They didn’t frighten her, but they brought back memories of the three years she’d lived in Whitechapel. The deeper they penetrated the warren of small, dark streets, the stronger the memories became. These were the sounds she remembered from her childhood: drunken shouts, the slurred singing of an inebriated woman, crying children, the yelp of a kicked dog.

‘Nice to be back,’ Polly said, tightening her grip on Arabella’s arm. ‘Ain’t it?’ She no longer spoke like a lady’s maid; her accent was pure Cockney.

Arabella glanced at her. Polly’s jaw was grimly clenched.

She felt a stab of shame. What had happened to Polly in these filthy streets was far worse than anything she’d experienced. She halted. ‘Polly, if you want to return to the shop—’

‘And let you walk by yourself?’ Polly snorted. ‘Not likely! And besides—’ she took a step, tugging Arabella with her ‘—I want to see me brother.’

Arabella bit her lip and allowed Polly to pull her along. No one paid them any attention, two women in ragged, shapeless clothes. She scanned the street, taking care not to catch anyone’s eyes. Her gaze slid over men’s faces, unshaven and defeated, over the sunken cheeks and despairing eyes of women. You can’t help them all, she repeated in her head. Not all of them.

But she could help some of them, and it was the children her eyes lingered on: grubby and half-naked, some running and shouting and playing with each other, others sitting listlessly on filthy doorsteps. I can help some of them. And her fingers strayed to her waist and the hidden rubies.

In Berner Street, with its soot-stained brick buildings crammed closely together, she glanced again at Polly. The grimness was gone from her maid’s face. Polly’s step quickened as they approached the third house from the corner and her knock on the battered door was loud and cheerful. ‘Harry?’ she called, pushing open the door. ‘It’s me, Polly.’

Arabella followed her into a narrow hallway and shut the door. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, hearing a shout of ‘Pol!’ and the clatter of boots on a wooden floor.

Arabella grinned as a burly, broken-nosed man swept Polly up in a rib-cracking embrace and kissed her soundly on each cheek. More than fifteen years had passed since she’d made Harry’s acquaintance in a rat-infested alley off Dorset Street, but the boy he’d been was still stamped on his face. He had the same crooked nose and broad grin, the same shrewd eyes beneath a shock of unruly hair.

‘Bella’s here, too,’ Polly said, and it was Arabella’s turn for a hug that left her breathless.

‘I’m glad you’re ‘ere,’ Harry said. ‘I picked up a new girl t’day. You can meet ‘er, if you like.’

‘Please,’ Arabella said, and her fingers strayed to the hidden pocket again.

Harry shepherded them into the parlour, a small and sparsely furnished room, and stuck his head out into the hallway. ‘Tess!’ he bellowed. ‘Our Pol and Bella are ‘ere! They’d like to meet Aggie!’

Arabella sat on a lumpy sofa with frayed upholstery and splitting seams. Compared to her grandmother’s parlour in Mayfair the room was a hovel; compared to where Polly and Harry had grown up—a cramped room in the most dilapidated of Whitechapel’s rookeries—it was a palace. ‘I have some earrings,’ she told Harry. ‘Rubies.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I picked up two more girls last week, and I ‘ave me eye on another.’

The rush of gratitude was so strong that Arabella’s throat tightened and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She looked away from his broad, plain face and busied herself extracting the earrings from the hidden pocket, fumbling her fingers through the narrow slits in her gown and petticoat. ‘Here.’ She held them out to him.

In these surroundings the earrings didn’t look so garish. Harry held one up and examined it. ‘Needs cleanin’,’ he said. ‘But they’ll fetch a good price—’

He slid the earrings into a pocket as the door opened.

A young woman stood in the doorway, her belly rounded in pregnancy. Her smile showed two missing teeth, but her face was pretty and dimpled. Holding her hand was a scrawny, waif-like girl.

The girl’s gaze flicked from Harry’s face to Polly’s, and then to Arabella’s. For a long moment they stared at each other. Arabella saw a pale, too-thin face and wide, wary eyes beneath a crooked fringe of fair hair. She smiled at the girl. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Aggie.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come and sit here beside me.’

Aggie hesitated, and then released Tess’s hand and crossed the room. Her dress was filthy, her bare feet almost black with dirt, but her face was clean.

‘Did Tess make you wash your face?’ Arabella asked, as the girl sat beside her on the sofa.

Aggie nodded. ‘And me ‘ands.’

Arabella looked down at the girl’s hands. Her nails were ragged and dirty, but the skin was clean. Dark bruises ringed Aggie’s left wrist. ‘How did you get those bruises?’

‘Me ma,’ the girl said.

Arabella glanced at Harry.

‘Trying to sell ‘er for a bottle o’ gin,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Weren’t she, Aggie?’

The girl nodded.

‘But Aggie ran away. And I found ‘er.’ Harry grinned at the girl, who smiled shyly back.

‘It was very clever of you to run away,’ Arabella said. ‘Very brave.’

Aggie bit her lip and nodded. She looked down at her lap and twisted a fold of dirty fabric between her fingers.

‘How old are you, Aggie?’

‘I dunno, miss.’

Somewhere between ten and twelve, Arabella guessed. Dirty and half-starved, but with eyes that were bright with intelligence. ‘Have Harry and Tess told you what’s going to happen to you now?’

The girl’s head lifted. Her thin face split into a grin. ‘I’m gonna go t’ school!’

Arabella laughed. ‘You want to go to school?’

The girl nodded.

‘Did Harry tell you about the school, Aggie?’

‘Missus did.’ The girl’s gaze flicked to Harry’s wife, Tess. ‘She says it’s in the country.’

‘A place called Swanley,’ Arabella said, smiling. ‘Not far from London.’

‘She says it’s for girls like me.’

‘It is.’ Girls like Polly and Tess had been, girls like Aggie was now: with lives of poverty and prostitution ahead of them.

‘I’ll learn ‘ow to read an’ write, and t’ speak proper,’ Aggie said. ‘And I’ll ‘ave me own bed!’

‘Yes, you will.’ Aggie would have her own bed, new clothes, and three good meals a day. She’d have encouragement and kindness—and most importantly, she’d have a future.

Arabella glanced at Harry, standing with an arm around Tess. ‘We must be going.’ She stood and held out her hand to Aggie. After a moment’s hesitation the girl placed her own hand it in.

‘I’m glad to have met you, Aggie. I hope you’ll be very happy at school.’

Aggie nodded shyly.

Arabella released the girl’s hand and turned to embrace Tess. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Tess blushed and shook her head.

Harry accompanied them into the dark hallway. He hugged his sister again and opened the front door.

Arabella paused on the doorstep. ‘You said you’d seen another girl?’

Harry nodded. ‘In Thrawl Street.’ His gaze flicked briefly to his sister. ‘She’s older ‘n Aggie. Been on the game a few months.’

Polly’s mouth tightened. She looked away.

‘I’ll talk to ‘er tomorrow,’ Harry said. ‘See if she wants t’ leave Whitechapel.’

Arabella nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘No,’ Harry said, his eyes on his sister. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced back at Arabella. ‘Want me t’ walk with you?’

She shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She knew these streets as well as she knew the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair.

Harry nodded farewell and closed the door.

Arabella pulled the shawl forwards over her face. She linked her arm with Polly. ‘Back to Rosemary Lane.’ And then Kensington Gardens. And then the Fothergills’ ball.

The incongruity of it made her dizzy for a moment: she stood in Whitechapel, in a street that was little more than an open sewer, and yet in a few hours’ time she’d be in a ballroom, wearing a dress of midnight-blue satin and with pearls in her hair. There’d be music and the scents of mingled perfumes, the shimmer of rich fabrics and the gleam of jewels. Crystal drops would dangle from the chandeliers, glittering as brightly as diamonds.

Arabella blinked and shook her head, dispelling the momentary dizziness. She stepped forwards firmly in the direction of Rosemary Lane.

Adam sipped from his champagne glass and scanned the ballroom again. A quadrille was playing. Grace was in one of the sets, a brave smile on her face.

Miss Knightley’s advice on that score had been unerring, but her other advice—

His fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Damned impertinence, is what it is.

He scanned the ballroom again, searching for dark curls.

A familiar face caught his attention. The lady had dark hair and pale skin, but there the resemblance to Miss Knightley ended. Lady Vane’s height was above average, her figure ample, her manner gracefully languid.

Adam relaxed his grip on the champagne glass. His mood lightened. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne and set off towards his former mistress.

‘Darling!’ Mary Vane’s smile was both delighted and sleepy at the same time. She held out her hand to him.

Adam bowed over her gloved fingers, inhaling the faint, familiar fragrance of her perfume. ‘I have a favour I’d like to ask of you.’

‘A favour?’ Mary waved her fan in a leisurely, graceful movement. ‘For you, anything.’

Adam lowered his voice. ‘I’d like you to write to Lady Bicknell, inviting her to your next charity function.’

‘Lady Bicknell?’ Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? If the woman has any interest in soldiers’ widows, I’ve yet to hear of it!’

Adam hesitated, then bent his head and spoke into her ear. ‘I believe she’s been dabbling in a little blackmail. I need to see a specimen of her handwriting.’

‘Blackmail!’ Mary stepped back a pace. The sleepiness was gone from her eyes. ‘Is everything all right, Adam?’

‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘I just need to prove something.’

Mary chewed on her lower lip for a moment, surveying him, and then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll write to her.’

‘Thank you.’ Adam took her hand again. ‘You’re an angel.’ He bowed and kissed her fingertips.

Mary uttered an unladylike snort. ‘Hardly.’

Adam grinned at her. Their affair was over—Mary no longer a widow, but once again a wife—but the fondness remained. ‘Would you care to dance?’

‘Far too fatiguing!’ Mary hid a yawn behind her fan.

Adam laughed and took his leave of her. He retreated to an embrasure, where he leaned against the wall and sipped champagne and thought about what precisely he would say to Arabella Knightley. How dared she have the effrontery to discuss marriage with Grace—

There she was.

He experienced a moment of déjà vu, brief and dizzying. He’d stood like this once before: leaning against a wall, a glass dangling from his fingers, and watched as a young lady with sable-dark hair and an elegant face and eyes that looked almost black entered a ballroom. He’d been six years younger, half-foxed—and he’d stared at her and thought I want her.

Adam straightened away from the wall. This time it wasn’t with appreciation that he watched Arabella Knightley across the ballroom. No one could deny she had style; it was in the way she moved, the way she held her head. Her beauty—the lustre of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the pale glow of her skin—was merely fuel to his anger. He lifted his glass again, swallowed the last of the champagne, and set the glass down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clunk. He began to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom, pushing his way through the other guests.

He had a bone to pick with Miss Arabella Knightley.

Arabella escorted her grandmother to the card room. Playing cards—a pastime the fifth Earl of Westcote had thought unseemly for a lady—was his relict’s favourite activity in her widowhood.

‘Supper at midnight,’ Lady Westcote said, reaching for a pack of cards. Her hair gleamed like silver in the light falling from the chandeliers.

‘Yes, Grandmother.’

Arabella turned her back on the card room and its elderly inhabitants. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Armour, she told herself, touching a light fingertip to her gown. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom again.

Someone spoke her name quietly, ‘Arabella.’

‘Helen!’ Arabella turned, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Helen Dysart said.

As always, Arabella had to stop herself from hugging Helen. That silent misery could so well have been her own.

‘Ah, the lovely Miss Knightley,’ drawled a voice.

Arabella’s smile stiffened. ‘George.’

George Dysart pushed a glass of champagne into his wife’s hand, not caring that it slopped over her gloved fingers. He raised a second glass in Arabella’s direction, as if toasting her, and swallowed a large mouthful. His face was flushed and he swayed slightly as he stood. Nine-tenths drunk.

Little was left of the man who’d courted her six years ago. George’s hair still fell in golden waves over his brow, but the blue eyes were now bloodshot. His figure had lost its slenderness and his face—which she’d once thought angelic—was almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of fat. He looked precisely what he was: a man given to dissipation.

George raised his glass again, this time towards his wife. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘Named after the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He hooted with laughter, making heads turn, ended on a hiccup, and swayed slightly. ‘Her parents made a mistake there, didn’t they? Should have called her Medu—’

‘George, would you mind getting me something to drink?’ Arabella said. ‘Lemonade, please.’

George Dysart shut his mouth. His hand clenched. Arabella saw Helen tense, as if expecting a blow.

George’s gaze lifted, catching on the faces still turned in their direction. He seemed to swallow his rage. ‘A drink? Certainly.’ He brushed past Arabella, buffeting her deliberately with his shoulder.

‘I apologise,’ Helen said quietly. ‘George has had a little too much to drink.’

‘Would you like to go home?’

Helen’s eyes followed her husband’s progress. She shook her head. ‘It’s best if I stay.’

Arabella reached out and touched the back of her friend’s hand lightly. ‘Helen, if I can help in any way…’

Helen shook her head again.

Arabella bit her lip, wishing she could pay George a visit as Tom. It wasn’t possible; everything George Dysart owned came from his wife. ‘Come riding with me tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ Helen’s smile reached her eyes. ‘That would be lovely.’

Arabella surveyed her. Helen wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too aquiline for that—but her face had character. There was quiet strength in her eyes, courage in the way she held her chin. George Dysart was a fool not to realise the value of his wife. The sooner he drinks himself into the grave, the better.

The quadrille came to its end. There was a surge of movement off the dance floor. ‘I’d best leave before George returns,’ Arabella said.

‘I apologise for my husband’s behaviour—’

‘Don’t,’ Arabella said, swiftly clasping her friend’s hand. She turned from Helen, halting as a man stepped into her path and bowed.

‘Miss Knightley.’

Arabella gritted her teeth and smiled. ‘Lord Dalrymple.’

During her first Season, her admirers—what few there’d been—had fallen into two categories: men who were prepared to ignore her mother’s reputation for the sake of the Westcote fortune, and men who courted her because of her mother’s reputation.

Lord Dalrymple fell into the latter category. She’d recognised it the first time they’d met, and she recognised it now: the look in his eyes, the slow, speculative smile, as if he were undressing her in his mind. She willed herself not to stiffen and said politely, ‘How do you do?’

‘Very well, Miss Knightley. Very well indeed.’ Lord Dalrymple was a large man with a fleshy face, greying ginger hair, and a receding hairline. ‘Are you engaged for the next dance?’

It was a familiar question, one she hated. Lord Dalrymple’s touch—always slightly too familiar, too lingering—made her skin crawl.

The musicians picked up their bows again. The first strains of music were audible above the hum of conversation.

A waltz. For a moment she felt sick. No contredanse, where the steps would part them from each other; instead, her hand in his for the entire dance, his arm around her.

Arabella touched her gown lightly. Armour. ‘Engaged?’

Lord Dalrymple’s smile widened. His teeth glinted, large and horse-like. ‘May I have this dance?’

‘Miss Knightley has promised the waltz to me.’

Arabella turned towards the smooth male voice—and found herself staring at Adam St Just.

‘You?’ Dalrymple said, his disbelief clearly audible.

‘Unless she wishes to change her mind.’ St Just’s voice was cool, almost bored. ‘It is a lady’s prerogative, after all.’

Dislike welled inside her. Arabella quashed it; she knew which was the lesser of two evils. ‘Yes,’ she lied, turning back to Lord Dalrymple with a smile. ‘I’ve already promised this dance to Mr St Just.’

It was the first time in six years that Arabella had walked on to a dance floor with Adam St Just. She was aware of heads turning and sidelong glances of astonishment. She was equally astonished. Why had St Just asked her to dance?

The answer came as she glanced at him. St Just’s jaw was tight, his mouth a thin line. He’s going to tell me off.

Arabella lifted her chin. Let him try!

They made their bows to each other. As always, the opening notes of the waltz filled her with dread. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to tense as St Just took her hand, as his arm came around her.

They began to dance. The feeling of being trapped was strong. A man is holding me. Panic rose sharply in her. All her instincts told her to break free. Arabella concentrated on breathing calmly, on keeping a slight smile on her face.

‘I would appreciate it, Miss Knightley, if you’d refrain from giving my sister advice about matters that are none of your concern.’ St Just spoke the words coldly.

Arabella met his eyes. There was nothing of the lover about him; on the contrary, his animosity was clearly visible.

Her panic began to fade. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Would you?’

St Just’s jaw clenched.

Arabella observed this—and began to feel quite cheerful. ‘I was only trying to help,’ she said, widening her eyes.

His grip tightened. ‘It is none of your business who my sister does—or doesn’t—marry.’

Arabella ignored this remark. ‘Why do you wish Grace to marry so young?’

‘That’s none of your business!’

‘Grace is little more than a child. She has no idea what she wants in a marriage—’

‘I shall decide what she wants!’ St Just snapped.

Arabella laughed, as much from amusement as to annoy him. The sense of being trapped had evaporated. For the first time in her life, she was finding pleasure in a waltz. Each sign of St Just’s irritation—the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, the gritting of his teeth—was something to be noted and enjoyed.

‘You find that amusing?’

‘Yes. Grace is still learning who she is. Until she knows that, how can she—or you—have any idea what will suit her in a husband?’

‘A man of good breeding.’ He swung her into an abrupt turn. ‘A man of respectable fortune and—’

‘No,’ Arabella said. ‘I’m talking about a man’s character.’

St Just looked down his nose at her. ‘If you imagine that I’d allow Grace to marry a man of unsavoury character—’

‘You misunderstand me again, Mr St Just. I’m talking about those qualities that are more particular to a person. Qualities that have nothing to do with one’s bloodline or fortune, or even with one’s public character.’ Her smile was edged. ‘Let us take, as an example, your search for a wife.’

St Just stiffened. He almost missed a step. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in a frigid tone.

‘Look around you, Mr St Just. This room is filled with young women of excellent birth and breeding. The question is, which one should you choose?’