B006O3T9DG EBOK (63 page)

That was the single presage of the evening that he got right.

Chapter 83

Going Snacks

Sally’s grand return to town was remarkable for its diversions. The daylight hours saw them tour Bond Street, insult propriety and buy her first lace-trimmed gown. That next night they took their amusement at Covent Garden. In between the two, she saw to Nell.

The gown Lady Millhouse bought for her was a lovely lilac. The lace scratched, her slippers hurt, and her new stockings drooped (causing her to dig at her petticoat every so often lest they fall down around her ankles). These sacrifices to fashion were made freely, for the thrill of silk far outweighed the cost in aggravation.

Was it possible, Lady Millhouse was more inspirited than Sally over the performances they were to observe.

Her ladyship told her excitedly, “Tonight we have an opera; tomorrow next we shall enjoy Grimaldi.”

“Yes,” interrupted Lord Millhouse who was a great admirer of the clown, “He has great fun at the audience’s expense. It is a high time, indeed.”

The particulars meant nothing to Sally, but the Millhouses’ enthusiasm was enlivening. However, in a week brimming with surprises, forthwith of this discourse came another, even greater astonishment to Sally.

After molesting a horse-trader, crowning a gent, and brazenly intruding into unladylike venues on all corners of the West End without a by-your-leave, Lady Millhouse was reluctant to sally forth into the neighbourhood surrounding of Covent Garden without holding her husband’s arm.

“We must take heed and allow Lord Millhouse to precede us through the streets, for Drury and Bow are notorious for persons of dubious repute.”

Sally knew, in truth, she was of “dubious repute,” and she was a bit miffed to be considered a peril to persons of peerage. As these particular gentlefolk were quite good to her, she meant to ease their qualms by assigning herself to mind them.

Taking the arm of each, she told them, “Let us have no fears, for now you shall be under my watch.”

Lord Millhouse doffed his hat in acquiescence and they went unto Covent Garden, laughing like children. Their anticipation was well-rewarded. Her ladyship had been quite correct when she assured Sally that she would not need to understand the words. The music, indeed, transported her. Not only had she been bestirred by the opera, their seats overlooking the stage made the entire production all the more wondrous to her.

“It were as if they were singing just for me,” she chattered happily as they exited the theatre.

It was near midnight when Lord Millhouse called for their coach. As the theatre goers dispersed, the gaslights cast eerie, elongated shadows from each figure. Sally was unused to the gaslights and the ghostly forms reminded her of those she had seen at the graveyard. She began to feel less like a guardian and more like quarry. Of the country for so long, she had forgotten how forbidding the streets of town could be. As they were much taken by the chore of claiming their coach to make their away, the Millhouses seemed unbothered. However, one murky form arrested Sally’s attention—most alarmingly so. Indeed, had Winged Pegasus have lit in her path, Sally could not have been more astonished.

It may not have been a ghost, but sure as Sunday it was a wraith from her past.

Daisy Mulroney stepped onto the walkway in front of them. Wearing a bright red jacket, her hair was tucked away beneath a bonnet the size of a small waggon. Still, Daisy was easily recognisable. As Sally was compleatly flummoxed herself, she could not precisely gauge the Millhouses’ expressions. She could tell that Daisy had caught their attention. Sally could sense Lord Millhouse prickling a bit. Indeed, he did not seem to like the look of Daisy—many did not—and he called again for his coachman. From his posture, Sally believed he knew not whether to nod to the female confronting them, or beat her away with his walking stick. Sally put out a hand, protecting whom from what, she was uncertain.

To Sally, Daisy said, “We need to jaw.”

Without looking at Lady Millhouse, Sally nodded, thus following Daisy as if a siren up Bow Street.

At the last minute, her ladyship called out, “Shall we wait here for you?”

With false gaiety, Sally answered that she would find her way back herself. St. Giles, after all, was within yowling distance of where they stood.

“Tell ’em I got me a carriage,” Daisy whispered. “I don’t wanna be arrested for child-stealin’.”

Sally stifled the urge to argue that she was hardly a child and called back to the Millhouses, saying, “The lady’s my friend and she has a carriage.”

No further proof of gentility was needed than that one kept a carriage. (They were glad to hear from Sally that the undersized person, whom she claimed as her friend, was, indeed, a woman.) Hence, they quit their efforts to keep possession of their young friend. As they watched her go, however, their gazes were fondly apprehensive. Daisy’s expression was a bit perplexed too. She glanced at Sally and frowned uncomprehendingly.

She said, “I wouldn’t have taken ten to one that yer’d turned into a lady.”

Sally retorted, “Yer came up a bit in station yerself.”

Daisy snorted, “We don’t got time fer catchin’ up on each other’s achievements. Seein’s yer here, I got to tell you that yer got trouble.”

“Me?” Sally asked incredulously.

Knowing Daisy was not one to exaggerate, Sally awaited her revelations—but no privacy to speak was at hand.

Indeed, the Millhouses were not the only stares Daisy drew. The opera-goers were dispersing, but rascals and round-heels had just begun their evenings and cast their eyes about for easy prey. Daisy grabbed Sally and made haste to her coach. Sally was well-impressed. It was a fine carriage (two seats, velvet upholstery) and it came with an impeccably-dressed footman, who hastily lowered the steps. Once ensconced and on their way, Daisy was ready to speak openly. It was no surprise that Sally knew what she would say before she uttered the name.

“Wickham.”

Still, Sally protested the name, “No.”

“Yes!” said Daisy.

“No!” Sally insisted, not wanting to believe that he had actually survived.

“Yes,” Daisy announced with finality, thus ending the verbal impasse.

Sally finally admitted the obvious, “He didn’t die. That rat.”

“Nay,” claimed Daisy. “He’s alive and walkin’ the streets with hair white as Lucifer’s and sportin’ a bad limp. He’s called by another name but it’s him fer certain. He’s back to his old tricks too!”

Sally Frances Arbuthnot mused but a moment, before opining, “I guess I shouldn’t have used that pea-shooter. A bigger gun would’a done a better job. Next time, I’ll know. If you want to kill a snake, you chop of its head.”

Turning to Daisy, she bid, “Is he after us?”

“Not that I know of, but you know he won’t leave it. He’s gettin’ bolder by the day.”

“You’da thought he’d take off across the waters—what with him wanted for murder and all. Where’d yer see him?” asked Sally.

Daisy said, “I built me a four-storey house up the way, but business took me to an alehouse called the Fortune of War—it’s a real bucket of blood. Recent years have seen the place taking an even worse turn. Now it’s used as a meeting place for resurrectionists.”

Sally leapt to her own conclusion, “A grave-robber? Him? A brothel bully suits his scruples, but not his mettle.”

Daisy replied, “I heard he was pimpin’ women, so it wasn’t no far jump to brokerin’ bodies. He don’t dirty his hands though. He paid others for that and he worked out the sale. Sold dead folks teeth too, he did.”

Although she should not have been, Sally was confounded.

“Ain’t he ‘fraid of being seen, him being a known murderer? Aren’t you afraid he’d see you? You ain’t exactly easy to miss....”

“He’s the one that needs to be scared,” Daisy said defiantly.

“You ain’t exactly hard to recognise,” insisted Sally.

“So yer said.”

Sally altered the subject, “I thought you took yer leave of town.”

Daisy replied, “Town suits me better now I got some money.”

That was an easy conclusion. Something else came to Sally.

“When I went to pay respects to my grannun’s grave, it was watchers I saw.”

Daisy told her, “Now that our Wickham’s agitatin’ rioters and the like, he’s running with some foul types.”

“Would you expect otherwise?” interrupted Sally.

“You better take care,” advised Daisy. “He’d know me certain as sin, but he may recall you too.”

Sally drew herself up proudly and, sniffing as if she was but one from a baronetcy, she replied, “I can take care of myself.”

Daisy paid that cheek no mind. She laughed mirthlessly at Wickham’s impertinence.

“Can you believe it—he calls himself Alistair Reed Thomas now,” Daisy said. “He calls himself after my dead brother. What bollocks!”

Another worry crossed Sally’s mind.

She said, “We best advise Mr. Darcy of it.”

“He’s up north, idn’t he?” asked Daisy.

“No, he’s meant to be....”

“You keep up wi’ ’em then?”

Lost in other thoughts, Sally did not answer that.

She fretted, “We’d better tell him.”

“Yer do what yer want,” responded Daisy. “I got my own affairs to see to.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sally said.

“Town ain’t like it was. Vagrants don’t go unmolested. Used to, if beggers got too thick they’d be rounded up by the parish constable. Most of the time, if they weren’t hurtin’ no one, he didn’t bother with ’em. Now they went and hired a collector—a failed stay-maker from Highgate they say—who pinches ’em for ten shillings a head. Debtors what owe good money belong in gaol, not poor citizens who ain’t got a hare’s squat.”

After her outburst, Daisy went silent. Sally directed her to the end of the block near the Millhouse mansion. As she leapt from the carriage, they gave no good-byes. Sally looked back once, but all she could see was the mist.

The streetlights gave the damp cobbles an unearthly sheen. A flower seller trundled her cart off down the street. It was very late, or very early. Sally had lost track of time. The bridge between opulence and decay was a short one. In the still air, the stench of the offensive trades wafted around her. The night soil man attended the chamber jars, the sight whereof made Sally wonder why Wickham could not be disposed of as easily. It would have been fair for his body to be laid out for anatomists, but then he would be too far gone to appreciate the irony.

Sally worried whether to tell Darcy about Wickham—and the Millhouses too. Her ladyship knew Wickham, both of them did.

To kill a snake, yer got to cut off his head.

Chapter 84

The Boast

Darcy was aghast!

Wickham was not dead, but alive and well—no doubt living in extravagance at taxpayers’ expense.