Sons of Liberty (7 page)

Raechel swallowed, again. “How can anyone live like that?”

“
They rarely have a choice,” Irene said, flatly. She turned to look at Raechel, who cringed back under her stare. “That woman was probably born into a poor family, too poor to afford a dowry to attract a good husband. They might have sold her to a pimp or married her off to someone who expected her to turn tricks for him on the streets. Whatever she earns, she’ll give to the pimp or he’ll beat her. And, when she’s too old to attract customers, she’ll be left to die on the streets or sold to one of the darker brothels. No one will care if she dies there, as long as the customers are satisfied.”

“
But there are charities,” Raechel protested. “Aren’t there? My aunt is proud of her good works ...”

Irene lifted her eyebrows. “How pleased were you when your aunt judged you?”

“
I wasn't,” Raechel said. “But whores ...”

“
People like your aunt expect everyone to behave in a certain manner,” Irene said. There was a hint of anger in her tone, although it didn't seem to be aimed at Raechel. “Young girls are expected to be seen and not heard, to marry decent men and bring up decent children. Those who trespass against those unspoken rules are treated as though they deserve everything they get, even though they may have had no choice. I imagine your aunt makes it clear to those she helps that they are fallen women, that they are forever tainted, that they deserve nothing from her. And I have no doubt she expects them to fall to their knees in gratitude in front of her.”

Raechel could believe it. Her aunt had been given to maddening lectures, particularly when some young girl had done something - anything - that had made eyebrows rise in cool disapproval. She knew plenty of girls who had been married off quickly - too quickly - and others who had been sent to the country, where they were effectively isolated from polite society. And they’d been aristocrats.

“
The charities do very little effective to help,” Irene added. “They simply don’t understand the problems facing someone - anyone - born into such conditions. How can they? It is completely alien to their experience.”

She shook her head. “Get into your poor-woman’s dress,” she added. “We’re going out again.”

Raechel stared. “Can’t we ...?”

“
No, we can't,” Irene said, cutting her off. “Get your dress on. I need to have a word or two with Ivan.”

There was no point in arguing, Raechel realised. Gritting her teeth, she walked back into the dressing room, dropped the male outfit on the floor and pulled the poor woman’s dress over her head. It wasn't bad, really; it made her look like a shopkeeper’s daughter. She gathered herself, trying to imagine how such a girl would think. Irene definitely had an major advantage, she had to admit. She didn't have to guess how someone thought about their life.

She would be poor but honest, Raechel thought. Her mother would work too, just to keep the shop running; Raechel the Shop Girl would have inherited that attitude, even as she hoped for a decent match. Her mother had hammered numbers into her head until she was a better accountant than her father or brother. She might smile shyly at the boys, but she’d never dream of disgracing her family by going further. And she wouldn't be a fainting flower from the aristocracy. She wouldn't even see an aristocrat.

“
Very good,” Irene said, stepping into the room. “You look just about right.”

Raechel frowned. “Just about?”

“
Let your hair down,” Irene said. “Really, a wig would be far more practical.”

“
I would prefer to keep my hair long,” Raechel said, stiffly. She understood Irene’s point, but she rather liked her red locks. “And besides, what happens if someone pulls on it?”

“
That’s why you secure it in place,” Irene said. She undressed rapidly, then donned her own dress. “Have you defined yourself?”

“
Raechel the Shop Girl,” Raechel said, and ran through a brief description as she let her hair down. “Good enough?”

“
Good enough,” Irene said. She checked her appearance in the mirror, then inspected Raechel minutely. “Let’s go.”

“
We could practice with pistols, instead,” Raechel said. “Or you could show me some more tricks with the knife ...”

“
You’ll have plenty of time for both onboard ship,” Irene said. “You do remember we’re going to America, right?”

Raechel shuddered. She’d never been on a ship, but she’d heard stories. “We can't take an airship? We took an airship to Russia.”

“
That was over land,” Irene pointed out, tartly. She led the way out of the room. “Travelling to America would be over the cold grey Atlantic Ocean. An accident would dump us in the water and we’d drown.”

“If we survived the fall,” Raechel pointed out.

“
Better not to take chances,” Irene said. “Even with Lady Gwen along, survival would become rather doubtful.”

She smiled, then opened the door and walked onto the streets. Raechel followed, feeling slightly more natural in the simple dress. The crowds were growing larger as the day wore on, hundreds of thousands of men and women celebrating the defeat of the French. But, this time, she could sense eyes glancing in her direction. Countless young men were looking at them as they walked past.

I’m decently dressed, she thought, shocked. No one had stared at her so blatantly when she’d been on the streets before, even when she’d been heading to the club. They shouldn't be looking at me.

But they were. She forced herself to keep walking, remembering that she was nothing more than a shop girl out for an evening stroll with her friend. This time, Irene kept them well away from the alleyways, perhaps fearing what would happen if they walked into the darkness. Raechel couldn't help feeling relieved as the day slowly turned into evening and the crowds got louder and louder. It wasn't the sort of place Raechel the Shop Girl would go, she was sure. She’d have headed back home long ago.

The crowd drew apart, suddenly. Raechel blinked in surprise as she recognised Lady Gotham, striding up the road as if she owned the city. She was followed by a tired-looking maid, who was carrying so many boxes that she looked to be on the verge of falling over and dropping everything. The maid stopped for a moment, just to catch her breath and Lady Gotham whirled around, beginning a long tirade on the subject of lazy servants who didn't know what was good for them. Raechel couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor girl. The crowds were staring as she was berated in public.

“Come on,” Irene hissed.

They were midway down the next street when she heard a handful of men behind them, laughing and joking together. She tensed as they were suddenly surrounded, then gasped in shock as she felt a hand squeezing her buttock. Before she could stop herself, she whirled round and slapped the man right across the face. His comrades laughed loudly and hurried onwards, a couple of them waving cheerfully as they passed. Even the man she’d slapped was laughing.

Raechel glared at them, suddenly understanding just how the whores felt. She was practically alone, without the protection of clothes that marked her as a member of the aristocracy ... if they’d wanted to do worse to her, she couldn't have stopped them. She felt naked, yet soiled, her skin itching where he’d touched her. Raechel the Shop Girl wouldn't have dared tell anyone, either. Her father might have blamed her for her fall from grace.

“
You’ll have to learn to cope with worse,” Irene muttered. “Trust me on this.”

“I want a bath,” Raechel muttered back.

“
Once we get home,” Irene told her. “Do you want to back out now?”

“
No,” Raechel said, firmly. What was left for her in London? Her aunt would be back in her home soon enough, bullying the servants and trying to run Raechel’s life. “I’ll keep going.”

“
Very good,” Irene said. “But believe me, you will encounter worse.”

Chapter Six

“Sir James Braddock, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said.

Gwen looked up from her desk as Sir James was shown into the room. He wore his combat tunic, rather than his normal suit and tie; she wondered, absently, just who he was trying to impress. Sir James was a married man, she knew, but he and his wife had surprisingly little contact, even for members of the aristocracy. It was quite possible he had a mistress or two on the side.

Or he just wanted to see what would happen in London, she thought, rising. She’d heard stories of giant street parties, where all the normal rules seemed to have gone out the window and men and women had danced together without supervision. All the nice girls love a uniform.

“
Welcome back,” she said, holding out a hand. “And congratulations on your victory.”

“
It was the Duke’s victory, not mine,” Sir James assured her. He shook her hand with none of the hesitation most men would show. “Dover surrendered, once we had the enclave sealed off and under constant shellfire. The frogs preferred to march into camps rather than face our people.”

Gwen nodded as she waved him to a chair, then sat back down behind her desk. The stories of what farmers had done to lone Frenchmen had only grown more bloodcurdling in the last couple of days, ranging from Frenchmen being brutally murdered to Frenchmen being castrated and crucified. Not that she blamed them, not really. The stories of what had happened to British men and women, caught behind the lines, were equally unpleasant, while the French had inflicted vast damage on the farmland. It was going to be a nightmare for the refugees, she knew. The government was unlikely to commit much money to help rebuild after the war.

Too much bloody socialism, she thought. Lord Liverpool was one of the most tight-fisted Prime Ministers in recent history, a man who begrudged every last penny in the budget. Who wants to help farmers?

“
There were nine deaths in all, among the corps,” Sir James added. “Their bodies have already been shipped back to their families for burial.”

“
We’ll have to hold a service for them, afterwards,” Gwen said. She wondered, absently, if she’d be in Britain for the end of the war. America might consume her attention for the next few years. “Their families have been compensated?”

“
They’ll have the payments sent to them, I believe,” Sir James assured her. “I don’t think they’ll lack for anything.”

“
Very good,” Gwen said. She cleared her throat as she sat upright. “I’m going to America for the next few months, perhaps longer.”

Sir James nodded. He didn't look surprised. It had been meant to be a secret, but someone in the government must have blabbed, either to impress his family or to make connections with Major Shaw’s family. Or maybe Lord Mycroft had quietly authorised the release of the information, just to make it clear that Gwen was facing some punishment. It would help keep Major Shaw’s family quiet.

And he probably got a lot of blood bloods killed when the Hussars attacked, she thought, darkly. Would their families not have something to say about that?

“
You will hold the position of Royal Sorcerer, in my absence,” Gwen continued. Sir James hadn't done a bad job, while she’d been in Russia, although there had been relatively little to do. Everyone had been preparing for the war. “I’m not sure what use the government will make of the sorcerers, but I imagine you’ll make yourself useful.”

“
I’m sure we’ll find something to do,” Sir James agreed. “A descent on their coastlines would definitely give the French something to worry about.”

Gwen scowled. The French had a far more powerful army than Britain; indeed, their build-up of ironclads, merchant shipping, airships and submarines had been a major concern over the last few years. Britain’s navy was far stronger, but two-thirds of it were scattered all over the globe. If the French managed to gain even a limited superiority in the English Channel for a week, their army would almost certainly crush Britain’s defences and take London.

But they gave it their best shot, she thought. And we won.

“
Landing on their coastline would mean facing their army on its territory,” she said. “Is that something we dare to risk?”

“
If we don't, the war stalemates, like every other war we’ve fought with the French since the Seven Years War,” Sir James countered. “And neither side will be closer to total victory.”

“
True,” Gwen said. Lord Mycroft and the Duke of Iron would decide Britain’s future steps, once the American situation was stabilised. “Are you willing to take on the role?”

“
I don’t anticipate immediate problems,” Sir James said. “Do you?”

“
Not while there’s a war on,” Gwen said. She met his eyes. “Afterwards ... try to be diplomatic.”

Sir James nodded, curtly. “Thank you,” he said. “When do I actually take command?”

“
Tomorrow morning,” Gwen said. She’d been tempted to lumber him with all the paperwork, but it was her job. “I should have everything straightened out by then, I think.”

“Very good,” Sir James said.

“
There isn't anything new,” Gwen added. Sir James was already familiar with the duties of a Royal Sorcerer. “The new recruits for training should be arriving next week, unless it gets diverted because of the war; make sure they’re trained as quickly as possible. They’re going to be needed.”

“Understood,” Sir James said.

He paused. “And Major Shaw?”