Miracle (44 page)

Just who the blazes did he think he was, insinuating that she was less than worthy, in her current state, to represent his family in marriage?

He sure as blazes hadn't cared how she acted or what she looked like when they were on the isle—or in bed.

But this wasn't the isle. Far from it. These were no farmer's wives and daughters with shoulders stooped from labor and brows wrinkled from squinting hard to see their sewing at night in candlelight, but brightly colored, elegantly gowned women carrying parasols and shopping baskets, beaded reticules dangling from silk cords around their wrists, all with exuberant faces, laughing and discoursing with their companions.

Miracle allowed herself to be swept along, suddenly mesmerized, a little frightened, and very overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells. They bombarded her from every side. On the pavements apprentices, freshly risen from their masters' counters, were taking down the shutters of bow-fronted
multipaned
windows, and ragged urchins were leapfrogging over the posts. Amid the wide, clean streets, there were brewers' drays, drawn slowly by draft horses; vast hooded wagons with wheels like rollers, and carts with hay for the London markets were stopped in the middle of the road, causing hackney coaches to stack up behind them, giving cause for the aged
jehus
waiting on their stands to jump up on their boxes to shout and shake their fists.

Little by little, she forgot her nervousness. What was there to be nervous about, after all? No one seemed to notice her. Why should they? She was no different from them. Besides, she was going to marry the duke of Salterdon very soon and once she did, there wasn't a solitary woman, no matter how refined and exquisitely dressed, who wouldn't accept her. She would be certain to explain
that
to Salterdon when she saw him again.

She walked for miles, it seemed, down one street after the other, flotsam in the rushing tide of activity. Store windows crowded the pavements, and she stopped to stare, her hands pressed against the glass windows. There were more silks, muslins, and calicoes in every color and print than she could wear in a year. China and glassware, jewels and silver all glittered with everything the heart of man and woman could ever desire.

On and on she went, deeper, little noticing as she passed from the finer district to less prosperous surroundings. Gradually, the flood of finely dressed folk dispersed into workmen in aprons and padded leather jackets,
raree
-show men carrying the mysteries of their trade on their backs, and women selling canaries from wicker cages on church walls. How loudly and beautifully the tiny birds sang, regardless of their sad, filthy, and overcrowded cage. Puffing out their tiny pale yellow chests, they warbled as if doing their best to be heard amid the cacophony.

Smiling, Miracle paused to listen, to coo and encourage the lyrical creatures. She stuck her finger through the wires, and giggled as a particularly scrawny bird with a crooked leg perched upon it and proceeded to sing.

"You!" the bird lady shouted. "You in the brown dress. Away with
ya
!
Ye'll
damn well find
yer
own corner to hustle, if
ya
know
wot's
good for
ya
. This is my bloody portion and I
ain't
givin
' it up to the likes of you."

Looking around, regarding the hag with
strawlike
hair sprouting from beneath a crumpled velvet hat decorated with stuffed, faded canaries, Miracle said softly, "Were you speaking to me?"

"Who the blazes else would I be
spakin
' to? The
bleedin
' queen of the Nile?"

Slowly, Miracle straightened. "I was only admiring your birds." She attempted a smile, only to be greeted with a sneer and smirk as the hag of a woman moved closer, her hands on her hips. "Who buys them?" Miracle asked, hoping polite conversation would win over the sour dealer.

"You daft?" the woman barked. "Who the devil do
ya
think buys '
em
? Miners, o' course."

"Miners? Whatever for?"

"T' take down t' bloody hole.
Fer
the gases." The woman tapped her temple as if mocking Miracle's intelligence. "If there's gas in the mines, the birds die first."

"Oh!" Miracle cried. "That's dreadful. Cruel. They're far too lovely to sacrifice. How could you do it? Wouldn't a crow or rook or some such pest work just as well?"

"
Ya
keep
panderin
' on me corner and I'll bloody well use you," the woman cried, and gouged Miracle in the chest with one finger. "Now bugger off, me fair little doxy, afore I start
screamin
' foul."

"Ouch!" Miracle cried and stumbled back. "Madam, just who do you think I am? Or rather, what do you think I am?"

One eye squinted, her fists still plunked on her scrawny hips, the bird lady leered at her. "No guesses
yer
one of them
Spitalfields
dollymops
tryin
' to cop a quid for
yer
doss tonight."

"
Dollymop
! My good woman, I'm Lady Cavendish—"

"Ha!
Lady?
Ain't
no lady I ever saw
wot
dressed like that."

"What's wrong with the way
I'm
dressed," she demanded angrily.

"Looks like
somefin
retrieved by the damn bone grubbers and rag men. Lady. Bah! Eh, Barney!" she yelled at the paunchy leather-
aproned
butcher across the way. "This bit of fluff says she's a lady."

"Oh! How dare you," Miracle declared, then with dismay, she noted that several men in sweat-stained clothing had stopped their labors and begun to laugh and comment. Her face burning, she stared at the sneering woman, no longer comprehending her insults or wanting to. The spot on her chest where the hag had poked her throbbed abominably, and for the first time, as she glanced around, searching for an avenue that would offer her the quickest, most dignified escape, she noted that the once fine and stately houses of the West End had become a sprawl of unfinished jerry-built houses and less-than-prosperous businesses. She noted, too, the scattering of women occupying street corners, their clothes thin from wear, their shoes patched. They shouted now and again to the more finely dressed pedestrians, who ignored them, and the women even went so far as to approach the occasional coach that was forced to stop in traffic.

"Very well," she said through her teeth, and rewarding the black-toothed crone a thin little smile, she casually reached over and flung open the birdcage door. With a sudden, startling whoosh, the birds came swooping out in a flapping, twittering, yellow cloud.

"
Arrch
!" the drab shrieked, and made a frantic, futile attempt to grab the escaping birds in midair. "Me birds! Me bloody birds! Devil! Witch! Help! Somebody grab her! Stop her! Police!"

Miracle moved away, her stride lengthening, until she began running. She ran until the woman's shrieks diminished into the drone of activity surrounding her, until she was brought up short by the looming, gloomy facade of Saint Luke's hospital for the insane, with its
Hogarthian
figures of Melancholy and Raving Madness flanking the gated entrance. Her breath coming fast, she clutched the locked iron entry and stared up the black-
sooted
stone walls, to the equally
sooted
windows that were open now, revealing the white, emaciated faces of the inhabitants, all staring down at her with vacant eyes.

She turned away, frantically searched the street, the buildings, the river of blank faces moving before her—all intent on their destinations—not a one of them noticing her. She might as well have been a crack on the pavement.

Then came a flutter near her face. She looked around. The canary with the crooked leg perched on her shoulder, cocked its head, and began to sing brilliantly.

A hand slammed down on her other shoulder; she cried out in surprise and hurt. The grip felt crucifying, and she spun around.

The gate of Saint Luke's gaped open like a mouth. A dingy-coated attendant stood there, while the other, dressed similarly, but standing a foot taller, held onto her with a hand like a vise.

"
Goin
' somewhere?" he growled, and rewarded her with a rotten smile.

"You must understand, Your Grace. These pitiable creatures are constantly finding their way out of the buildings and onto the streets. There isn't enough staff to oversee everyone and there is precious little funds for the proper precautions. My attendants were simply going about their responsibilities as so directed. When they saw the girl, she was more than apparently confused and aggravated. She fought them tooth and nail, screaming at the top of her lungs in despair and claiming to be a lady. Not only that, but she claimed to be the future duchess of Salterdon and demanded that we contact you. She seemed
so . . .
adamant, Your Grace. You must understand, we at Saint Luke's must take all precautions before admitting a patient. Therefore, I thought it best to send for you. I realize what an imposition this must be—"

"Get on with it," Clayton snapped at the nervous administrator, and continued to pace, trying his best to ignore the distant noises echoing down the
tunnellike
chambers of the institution. Mistress
Ellesemere
sat in a straight-backed chair against the wall, her gaze following him, her reticule gripped with both gloved hands in her lap.

Administrator Wilkes nodded at an assistant. A door was opened, allowing the humanlike howls and wails to tumble in, along with the stench of physical and mental decay.

Clayton stared at the wall, his hands in his coat pockets, and wondered what his punishment would be for murdering his brother.

"Your Grace," Wilkes intruded. "The girl. Do you know her?"

He turned toward the door, and there was Miracle.

Each of her arms was held tightly by an attendant. She stared up at Clayton with round, glassy eyes and her stubborn little chin faintly quivering.

"Release her," he growled in so threatening a tone, Wilkes jumped in alarm.

"Your Grace," the administrator whispered. "I understand your position. If she is someone—shall we say an acquaintance you would rather not publicly acknowledge—"

"On the contrary, Mr. Wilkes. The lady is exactly who she claims to be. The future duchess of Salterdon. Now tell your bullocks there to take their goddamn hands from my
fiancée
before I bring charges against this establishment for kidnapping and abuse."

Once freed, Miracle swayed unsteadily. Clayton moved forward, wrapped his arms around her, and supported her slight weight against him. She trembled, though she tried not to. He could feel the emotion raging inside her, and her valiant struggle to contain it.

"Shall we go home?" he asked her softly.

Her head nodded. Her small white hands clutched at his coat front.

"Ah . . ."
Wilkes intruded, his features becoming more discomfited by the moment. "There is another slight issue, Your Grace. A Miss
Crabb
, sir. Seems there was a slight altercation between her and Lady Cavendish."

Clayton frowned, feeling his entire body go rigid. He smelled entrapment brewing, which was just one of the many nuisances his class was forced to endure the moment men like Wilkes, who profited in human weakness and frailty, sensed there was a shilling or two to be had.

"Altercation." It wasn't a question.

A door opened then. A hag blundered into the room, lips curled, eyes wild, growing wilder upon seeing Miracle. "That's her! I'd know her anywhere. Come
flyin
' at me, she did,
squawkin
' about me canaries. The next thing I know, she's gone and released them. Ever'
bleedin
' one of '
em
! Now I
ast
ya
, gents, just
wot
the blazes am I suppose to do about me livelihood until I get new birds?"