Nine Buck's Row (6 page)

“Of course not!” Millie snapped.

“Certainly not,” I added.

He spread his wide mouth in a rather severe smile. Nicholas Craig was not a handsome man, but there was something fascinating about him. He had an air of lazy superiority, and there was an undeniable arrogance in the way he tilted his head to one side, studying us. One sensed that he could be harsh and intolerant or, if necessary, employ a persuasive charm that would melt any opposition. Women would be mad for him. Men would distrust him.

“Have you finally sized me up?” he inquired. The smile still lingered on his lips.

“I think so,” I replied primly.

“And do you like what you see?”

“I—I'm not sure.”

“It hardly matters,” he retorted. “We seem to be stuck with each other for the time being. I could have let them send you to an orphanage or board you out with some respectable family, but Aunt Margaret insisted I take you on. She gets lonely.”

“I—I didn't even know I had a Cousin Nicholas,” I said uneasily. “I thought Marietta was my only relative—”

“The relationship is thin, to be sure. I'm the son of your mother's first cousin. Aunt Margaret is my father's aunt, so you're not related to her at all. It's all terribly complicated. Let's just say I'm your legal guardian and forget all about the tenuous blood lines. Shall we? Are you ready to leave? The porters will come for your trunks later on.”

I turned to Millie. She was finding it hard to control herself. Both of us were silent for a moment, and then she gave a cry and threw herself into my arms. We rocked together, both caught up in the emotional tide. My new guardian thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and waited for the moment to pass.

“Suzy!” Millie cried. “This is
terrible
—”

“I've got to leave—”

“I don't
want
you to go!”

“We'll see each other almost every day. Buck's Row is only a few streets away.”

“It won't be the same! You
know
it won't.”

“Come, come,” Nicholas Craig said. “There's no need for this display. I have no intentions of locking her away in a dungeon.”

Millie shot him a look of pure venom and dried her tears. She followed us downstairs to the waiting cab, and we kissed each other on the cheek before I climbed in. Millie looked wretched, and I was finding it difficult to contain my own tears. Nicholas Craig watched with sardonic amusement. I realized I was acting exactly like a skittish schoolgirl, but I didn't care. Millie was right. It wouldn't be the same, no matter how often we might be able to see each other.

“Your little friend seems quite emotional,” Nicholas Craig said as the carriage started down the street.

“Millie's like that. She flits from one mood to another at a moment's notice.”

“I'm not sure that I approve of her,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It should be obvious, Susannah. Your little Millie is hardly a suitable companion for a young lady of breeding.”

“We've been like sisters these past two years—and besides, you don't know anything about her!” His manner was infuriating.

“On the contrary, I know everything I need to know about her. London is full of girls like her, bright, clever little things who glitter with vivacity. The glitter soon tarnishes, and they end up─”

“I won't hear anything bad about Millie!”

“My dear Susannah, you'll hear anything I chose to say. And you'll
do
anything I chose to tell you to do. Whether we like it or not, I'm your legal guardian for the next two and a half years. During that time, you'll obey me to the letter.”

“You're quite sure of that?”

“I want to make that quite clear from the beginning. I'll try to make this as painless as possible for both of us, but I'll tolerate no disobedience, no back talk.”

We stared at each other in stony silence. I was livid, hating this man with every fiber of my being. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his chin down, eyes raised to watch me. I had a sudden impulse to leap from the carriage and go rushing down the street, but I knew that would be needless melodrama. He would only come after me and bring me back in that lazy, arrogant manner of his.

“I assume the court is paying you for taking me,” I said hatefully.

“There's a nominal fee involved, naturally.”

“I think you're perfectly vile, Mr. Craig.”

“And you're rather charming when you're angry, but don't go too far. I have a pretty fair temper of my own. You wouldn't want to see me lose it. I might justify your opinion of me.”

“Please let me go,” I said quietly. “Let them send me to an orphanage. Please, I—I don't want to stay with you.”

“You're acting like a child, Susannah.”

Helpless tears spilled over my lashes. I turned my face away, feeling the hot, salty rivulets flowing down my cheeks. I hadn't cried at the funeral last Tuesday. I hadn't cried in years. The tears came now, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I looked out the window, pavements and buildings seen through a blurry haze. When I finally managed to control the stinging wetness, Nicholas Craig handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes and wadded the handkerchief into a ball, clutching it nervously.

“We seem to have gotten off to a bad start,” he drawled. “I'm sorry about that. I'm not an ogre, Susannah. I don't wish to harm you. I didn't mean to insult your friend. It's just that I wish to protect you from some of the more sordid aspects of life.”

“I've lived in the East End for two years,” I said stiffly. “I've already been exposed to—all those aspects.”

Nicholas Craig smiled. He seemed to find my words amusing. The smile stayed fixed on his lips as the carriage drove past Whitechapel Station and turned down Brady Street, heading toward Buck's Row. The window was open, and the breeze ruffled the hair on his forehead, that single silver lock so startling among the black. He reached up to push the locks aside, but they tumbled back down immediately. He was an intriguing man, attractive in a perverse way.

The carriage turned down Buck's Row. Butchers in bloody leather aprons lounged in front of the slaughterhouse, chatting with complete indifference as the sounds of dying animals came from the rear of the building. A horrible stench filled the air, and I shuddered, remembering what had happened across the street such a short time ago. Polly Nicholls had been discovered crumpled up near the gutter, her throat slit, scarlet ribbons.…

“Don't think about it,” Nicholas Craig said firmly.

“How did you know—”

“From the expression on your face. You're one of those people who will never be able to hide anything.”

“This is a horrible street,” I said.

“Not really, once you get past the slaughterhouse. A great many respectable people live here, and there were no crimes prior to the Nicholls slaying. Unfortunate that it should have happened so nearby, but we won't be living here much longer anyway. My researches will be finished in a few weeks, and we'll be moving back to the country.”

Hardly had the words left his lips when the cab rumbled to a stop. My new guardian got out and held the door open, extending his hand. I took it and stepped down. Nicholas Craig paid the driver, and I stood there on the pavement, taking my first look at Nine Buck's Row.

5

Most of the housefronts on the street were either bleak gray brick or dingy brown stone, but number nine was rose-pink brick, making a startling contrast to its sober neighbors. Rather narrow, three stories high, there were white shutters and a high peaked roof wi h attic windows and a crazily tilting black chimney pot.
MAGGIE JAMES
,
MILLINER
proclaimed the gilt-lettered sign over the sparkling front windows, and behind the windows were an array of stunning bonnets, each on its own stand. There was a door to the shop itself and another to the side that led to the rooms above. The doors were painted a vivid apple-green.

The carriage rumbled on down the street, and Nicholas Craig took hold of my arm, leading me to the side door.

“Aunt Margaret will be up in a few minutes,” he said. “I'll show you your room.”

He opened the door and led me into a small hallway with a door opening into the shop and a narrow staircase with a frayed blue carpet. The stairs led to a tiny landing where they veered sharply and led on up to the second floor.

“The kitchen and servants' quarters are in the basement, beneath the shop,” he said in a bored voice. “There are two servants, Mrs. Henderson, cook and housekeeper, a garrulous, disgruntled old harridan, and Colleen, a highly nervous maid who breaks an alarming number of dishes and lets dust pile up an inch thick on every available surface. Neither are worth their wages, but Aunt Margaret hasn't the heart to discharge them. She's overly indulgent, as you'll no doubt discover.”

We moved down a narrow hallway with a faded but lovely Aubusson runner and an immense grandfather clock in a dark, varnished case. The stairs to the third floor were at the opposite end of the hall.

“On this floor we have the front parlor, the dining room, the study and the spare bedroom, where I sleep. The other bedrooms are on the third floor.” He spoke as though conducting a tour, his voice lazy and indifferent. I had the impression he was eager to be rid of me.

We climbed the stairs to the third floor, my silk skirts rustling with a crisp, leafy sound, and came to a somewhat larger hall with a rich green carpet, dark mahogany wainscoting covering half the walls, green and ivory striped paper above. Through a dark doorway I could see a smaller, much more narrow flight of stairs that led on up to the attics. Nicholas Craig saw me peering at it and grimaced.

“The boarder lives up there,” he said, voice filled with distaste. “He has a studio of sorts—painter, I believe. Fellow by the name of Lord. He isn't around much, comes and goes by the servants' stairs—they open out onto the courtyard in back. He doesn't take his meals with us. You probably won't even meet him.”

We stood in the hall, and Nicholas Craig pointed to the door on the right.

“On that side of the hall is nothing but one vast walk-in closet, full of cobwebs and dust and trunks and discarded furniture. There are two bedrooms on this side, a small sitting room connecting them. Yours is in back, overlooking the courtyard.”

“Nicholas Craig, I'm furious with you!” The voice rang up the stairwell, followed by the sound of heels clattering noisily. There was puffing and panting, and then a head of blazing red ringlets was visible over the bannister. It belonged to a short, plump woman in a remarkable purple and maroon striped dress. Her eyes were a merry brown, and her small red mouth was pursed up in extreme irritation.

“You could have waited for me!” she cried angrily. “You
knew
I wanted to greet Susannah first thing, but you had to rush on up the stairs before I even had time to wrap up Mrs. Stevens' bonnet and pull off my apron. Just like a man! So thoughtless! Let me catch my breath. I think I may have a stroke!”

“Calm down, Aunt Margaret,” he said in a bored voice.

“You calm down! This is my house, nephew, and if I want to have hysterics, I'll
have
hysterics! Good for the system, you know,” she said in a calmer voice, addressing me. “Everyone should just let things out every now and then, break a few dishes, stamp around a bit. It does wonders, I assure you. I feel ever so much better after a good fit of nerves.”

She smiled merrily and lifted a plump hand to touch the improbable red ringlets. No one was born with hair that outrageously red. I thought the dyed hair was rather touching, and I found Maggie James immediately endearing. She might have stepped right out of the pages of Dickens. She exuded warmth and friendliness, and yet one sensed that her coquettish frivolity was merely an affectation. The dimpled cheeks and fluttering hands couldn't quite conceal the strength of character. She could hold her own in any situation, I felt, watching her push Nicholas Craig out of the way.

“You run along,” she snapped. “We don't need you any more. Men! Never around when you want them. Always under foot when you
don't
! I'll show Susannah her room, Nicky, and you can go on about your business.”

“Fine,” he said, obviously relieved. “I have an appointment at four. I don't know when I'll be back, probably not in time for dinner.”

“Do you think it matters? I suppose you're going to interview workers in one of the sweatshops or visit another brothel. Fine way for a man your age to carry on! Talking to those dreadful people, taking notes, prowling around in the most frightful places. Opium dens! Peep shows! Scribbling statistics and compiling data, as though any self-respecting person would want to
read
such things. It's beyond me—”

“My work is very important,” he retorted, scowling.

“Fiddlesticks!”

Nicholas Craig shook his head in disgust and moved to the stairs without so much as glancing in my direction. We stood in the hall for a moment, listening to him go down the stairs, and then Maggie smiled prettily.

“He's really quite brilliant,” she said, “and the work he's doing is terribly necessary. When his report is published, there'll be all sorts of reforms. People in comfortable surroundings tend to ignore their less fortunate brothers. Nicky's book will make this impossible. Still, I love to tease him. He takes himself much too seriously.”

“Does he really go to those places?”

“Indeed he does, and others even more shocking! You should read his notes. No, you shouldn't. Most definitely not! They make
me
blush, and I've lived in the East End for over thirty years!”

She led me into a small, sunny sitting room. A rather shabby emerald velvet sofa faced the white marble fireplace, and a basket of sewing sat on the floor beside an overstuffed yellow chair. There were two tables and a large white milkglass bowl filled with vivid blue larkspurs. The room was cozy, magazines on the tables, a tattered Persian carpet on the golden oak parquet floor. I smelled chocolate and spied a box of bonbons beside the tarnished silver tea set.