Untitled (37 page)

   Her legs are stiff and cramped, but she stands as best she can. Her wet dress clings to her. She backs away, up the steps to the street. There's no point running now, even if she could. No, she walks slowly, as though she is carrying a weight across her shoulders, back along the street and towards the river.

Chapter 32

T
eddy has had to hurry to make it by six o'clock. Now he gives a smart rap at the kitchen door. His breath curls around him and hangs in the damp air like his own ghost. He sweeps his hands through it, then huffs onto his gloved fingers to warm them. It's the butler who answers, shirtsleeves folded up and his face red.

   "Yes?" he says.

   "Your mistress wants to see me."

   The old man doesn't step out of the way. "Indeed?"

   "Yes, indeed. You can tell her that Edward is here, from Mr. Popham's."

   "I can, can I?" He looks down his stub of a nose at Teddy.

   "It's an urgent matter. You can ask her yourself, if you like."

   Without a word Cartwright steps back and jerks his head towards the kitchen. Then he takes his time—folding down his sleeves, looking about him for his jacket, plucking off stray hairs and pieces of lint until, finally, he shrugs himself into it. Even walking to the door he is slow, each step deliberate as he makes his way along the corridor and towards the stairs, until the sound of them can no longer be heard.

   The cook is at the table rolling out pastry. From the scullery comes a maid in a filthy apron, her hair askew. She gives him a scowl. Only the housemaid pays him any attention, and she's all smiles as she sets down a tray. A pretty thing, fair hair, a delicate curve to her chin, and a sway in her hips as she walks towards him. "You're Jane's young man, aren't you?" she says. "I remember you calling around for her not so long ago." She nods in the direction of the area. She steps closer and her smile narrows. "She's not here, though."

   "No?" he says.

   "No." She keeps her eyes on him. "Been thrown out, for spying on the mistress. Terrible to-do there was. Like you wouldn't believe."

   "Spying?" he says. "What, does your mistress have secrets?"

   She gives a laugh. "They all do, don't they? Only some more than others."

   Behind her the cook turns around. "Sarah," she snaps.

   "It's all right, Mrs. J.—I haven't been gossiping when I shouldn't." She licks her lips and leans against the table. "Got caught, didn't she? Talking to some gent, apparently. Mrs. Robert saw her and wouldn't have her in the house a moment longer."

   Teddy stares back at her. "Oh yeah?" he says.

   "Oh yes," Sarah tells him.

   For a few moments he seems to be thinking. His eyes look as though they're fixed on some faraway point, and his jaw tightens. "Well then," he says at last, "I ought to be getting along." The chair scrapes over the floor as he stands and buttons his coat. Then he nods and opens the door.

   He takes the area steps two at a time, and hesitates at the top with one hand on the railing. A wind has picked up, dragging at the fog, pulling it loose so that he gets glimpses of the houses opposite and the half moon high above. Soon it will be gone, but the air's hard with frost and he hunches his shoulders.

   As he starts up the street the wind rushes against his face. He bends his head and pushes his hands into his pockets. In the right one his hand comes up against the stiff paper of the letters. They are tied with string—ordinary string, for he thought it wise to leave the brown paper and the ribbon in which he'd found them wrapped ap parently intact in the locked drawer of his master's desk. As he walks away he presses the letters against his hip, as though they are dangerous enough to need holding down.

        
M
ina waits. Beside her the fire crackles and sends out sparks, and she stamps on them before they burn the carpet. He should be here by now—where could he have got to? She imagines Cartwright's laborious re-ascent of the stairs, the young man close behind him. They could have climbed those stairs three times already, and yet he still isn't here.

   The gold is heavy in her hand. She'll ring the bell, get Cartwright to hurry up, for no doubt Mrs. Johnson has given the young man a cup of tea and a slice of pie. She can just see him—taking his time, telling Cartwright that he will only be a minute or two longer, that he's sure the mistress won't mind waiting.

   Her hand is on the bellpull when she hears the creak of a floorboard in the hallway. There's a rap at the door, but it's only Cartwright, standing there alone. He coughs into his hand, as though he must excuse himself.

   "Yes?" she says.

   "Ma'am, he appears to have gone."

   "Appears to have gone?" Her fingers curl towards her palms. "What on earth do you mean?"

   "While I was enquiring whether the young man had an appointment with you, he apparently changed his mind about the necessity of his visit."

   Her lungs feel stiff, her breath gone. She has words ready to hurl at him—such incompetence, such formality masking his ineptitude. Popham's valet was here, and Cartwright has let him escape. But she finds herself unable to say a word.

   He's looking at her. Slowly, she sits down in her chair by the fire and breathes in as deeply as she can. "If he—if he returns you may show him up to me. Immediately. Thank you, Cartwright."

"Very good, ma'am."

   When the door has clicked shut behind him, her hands fly to her face. Already it is after six o'clock. Popham will be here at seven, and she is defenseless. Her skin feels oddly cold, and in her ears comes a strange hissing—the sound, she's sure, of a terrible misfortune winging its way towards her.

Chapter 33

D
read is a terrible creature, cold-blooded, sharp-toothed, with a grip one cannot escape.

   It is dread that takes hold of her as the clock tolls out the hour— seven o'clock, and she wishes she hadn't persuaded Robert to go to the lecture tonight. She could have confessed everything to him. He loves her, so wouldn't he have forgiven her? In the end, at least?

   The valet has not come back.

   Her ears reach for every sound. The echo of a laugh from someone going down the stairs—not Jane, for she's gone. Sarah, surely. From outside, the clatter of a carriage going too fast, then a shout. She holds her breath, but there's nothing more. It has passed on down the street.

   Dinner is being prepared, as though she will be here to eat it, as though she would be able to swallow a single mouthful even if she were. Her hands are damp and she wipes them on her handkerchief, then balls it into her palm. She glances to the mantelpiece. The minute hand creeps past the twelve to the one. Soon it has reached the two, then the three. Perhaps the danger is past, perhaps there is no carriage coming for her, for Popham was always prompt. A man too literal for his own good, who did not look beyond the surface of things—wasn't that his undoing? Believing that she was Flyte's daughter, that Flyte would make him rich?

   Yet even if by some miracle Popham is not coming, somewhere outside Flyte is waiting for her. He will not be put off. Can she run from him? Perhaps. Or, given a little time, perhaps she will find another way to elude him. After all, as he always told her, she is devious. From downstairs the gong sounds for dinner. Her legs feel weak, yet she stands and makes her way to the door. The air is strangely thin, as though a violent storm has passed overhead leaving her unscathed. "Thank God," she mutters. "Thank God."

   Across the carpet she goes, past the end tables with their figurines, over the floorboards to the door. She steps into the hallway. And then it comes. A sharp knocking at the front door, and she has to lean against the wall. Cartwright crossing the hallway to answer it. His head turning, his voice low but insistent, then he turns towards her.

   If he notices that something is wrong he does not mention it— surely she is pale, her eyes wide, and she is gripping the doorjamb as though otherwise she would fall. All he says is, "A gentleman—on an urgent matter, he says, ma'am."

   It is more than she can do to reply. Instead she nods and waves him away.

        
I
t is, after all, an ordinary carriage carrying an ordinary man. Merely Popham, with his way of leaning too close when he talks, that dry odor of soap and cigars that lingers about him. Still, his hand on her wrist is tight as a cuff, and in the dim light she catches the twitching of his eyes, the wetness of his lips. He is excited, sure of himself. She can't bear to watch him any longer. Instead she looks out the window—they are crossing the Thames, and she thinks to herself that she should take note of their route, though he seems not to care that she sees it. In places the fog lingers over the river that rushes beneath them, slick and dark, glinting with the lights of the bridge.

   So much spit in her mouth. She's tempted to send it flying into his face, but how would that help matters? No, she must seem calm. She swallows it and it slides down to her stomach.

   He clears his throat, as though it is necessary to get her attention when his leg is pressed against hers, his hand clenched on her wrist. "You were so convincing," he says, "that you almost made me doubt myself. Can you believe that? I wasn't sure if I could trust my eyes. Such coincidences are not impossible, that's what I told myself."

   "No, not impossible," she says. Merely that, for what he wants is her interest, not her conversation. He has had no one else to tell this story to, so he tells it to her: the story of how he found and trapped her. She wonders if he knows that she tried to bribe his valet— surely he must. Perhaps he instructed his man to promise her he'd steal the letters. Is he that cunning? He never struck as her as a clever man. Now, though, she isn't sure.

   He's squeezing her wrist harder now and looks past her out the window. He gives a snort of a laugh. "But you did it—you got off scotfree while your father went to prison. Such devotion—protecting you like that." He laughs. "Protecting his golden goose. And now you've landed Robert Bentley—though I have to admit, I thought you'd have picked a wealthier husband. Maybe Bentley wasn't your father's idea—he's still quite young and handsome, isn't he? Not like me. Isn't that right, Nora?" His face swings towards hers. "Nora—now what have you been calling yourself?"

   "Mina," she tells him.

   "Ah yes, Mina," he says on a sigh. "A good choice."

   His breath touches her cheek and she can't stop herself shivering. He notices, of course.

   "Cold, my darling?" He wraps his arm around her shoulders, never mind that now she must sit forward awkwardly. "Don't worry. I've found us a warm place to spend the night. A private place. I know you'll appreciate that, although you hardly deserve such consideration."

   His arm tightens around her and she winces.

   "You left me looking a prize fool, didn't you? No fiancée, those shares worth absolutely nothing." His voice is brittle. "Can you imagine the disgrace? Having to explain to everyone from my cousin to the fellows at the club that I'd helped make them owners of a silver mine that didn't exist? In some quarters my name is still mud."

   Outside the streets have become narrower and dirtier. If only they could drive along these streets forever, she could put up with this: his hands on her, his breath on her, this shame of her past held up for examination.

   He must have noticed that her attention has wandered. He whispers into her ear, "Don't even consider trying to run, my darling. You wouldn't get far, and in streets like these you'd be in considerable danger."

   He's right. Everything is darker here. They pass a public house of the worst sort, its stench of old beer hanging on the air of the street. By its door shadowy shapes cling together, moaning. Are they fighting or—and she turns away—is it a man and a woman too drunk to have any shame? This is the sort of street in which men with thin knives lie in wait. Here she would be robbed—or worse. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth to stop any sound escaping her. Yet perhaps even having her throat cut might be better than her fate with Popham. She imagines her body limp in the gutter. What are the chances it would be recognized? If she failed to return home, would Robert track her down to whatever place her body ended up? That she couldn't bear: for him to find what was left of her here, for him to find out what she'd been and to suspect that their marriage had been a sham. Because no matter what their marriage was, it wasn't that. It was all a marriage was supposed to be— the union of two souls, the binding of two loves.

   Is it her fault that Flyte snatched her up before she ever met Robert? How could it be? And yet, look what has come of it: here she is sitting in a carriage with a man intent on revenge. If she survives what he has planned for her, there is always Flyte. He is not the sort of man to let go of what is his.

   She has to stop herself before Popham notices that she is blinking away the wetness in her eyes. This is not a time for weakness. Perhaps there is still a means of escape and of leaving Popham to whatever fate these streets would hold for him.

   He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and blows loudly. "All those years in prison—I wonder, how has your father survived it, a man like him? But it's only right, isn't it, that criminals pay for what they've done? He must be due for release sometime soon, hey?" He wipes the handkerchief across his nose, then stuffs it in his pocket.

   Did she flinch? A little, and she hopes he didn't notice, though how could he not with his arm gripping her so tightly? She wonders now—is she bait for Flyte? Is Popham that clever? Maybe there's still a chance for her, if it's Flyte he wants. She'll get back to Robert, they'll leave for France, and everything will be back the way that it should be.

   Occasional lights in the street—from another public house that has its door thrown open despite the cold, from a pawnbroker's shop, from a steamed-up window from which the smell of fried fish escapes, from the doorways of houses that have a seedy grandeur about them.