The Virgin's Auction Page 8
The sturdy, flour-spattered woman was grimly resigned. After all, she would have to be a pure born idiot not to have noticed how things were in the house. So she shrugged, and pocketed the wages her mistress gave her. Good cooks were in demand so Melissa knew she need not worry about her future.
Then she went to find Peter. As usual he was curled up with a book, though restricted to his own room if he wanted a seat as everywhere else the furniture was gone.
“There you are!” she declared brightly after her very short search. “Good news. We are going to a carnival tonight at Covent Gardens. What a treat that will be!”
“A carnival?” he said blankly, raising his tousled head from the arm of the chair on which he was sprawled.
“Why yes. We have been so very glum since father died. It is time for something fun. A carnival will be just the thing.”
“Yes. Why yes!” he said, enthusiasm dawning. “Just exactly the thing.”
“Make sure you wear something very warm. It will be cold out.”
“I will.” His smile was blazing.
Father’s death had affected him for the better. But then, that was hardly his fault. The man had made little effort to endear himself to his children. As they stood by the graveside after the burial Peter had looked up at her, his hand clasped in hers as if he was a child once again.
“I feel bad, Lissa,” he whispered, as if they might be overheard.
“Of course you do, dear.”
“No, not like that. I think I must be a bad person. Because I’m not sad. I don’t really feel anything. Am I wicked?” He had looked so worried and so earnest, her heart had squeezed within her chest.
“Well…” she started cautiously, trying to find the right words, “maybe we can feel sorry for father, that his life is ended.” Miserable, sadistic cur.
They both contemplated the freshly turned soil.
“Then I shall feel sad about that,” he finally said, and his determined tone brought her a fragile smile.
Yet it was true the past week had awakened his good cheer. Oblivious to their devastating indebtedness, his spirits lifted once the belligerent presence of their father was gone. She would have felt the same if there had not been all those bills to pay, culminating in that last, most horrifying one.
Pray God their flight tonight would not upset him. She would present it like an adventure. That should appeal to his romantic spirit, fed on lurid storybook tales.
They ate a hearty luncheon, albeit cold. She did not feel the least hungry. Indeed, her stomach churned with nerves. However she would need all her strength in the next few days, so she forced down as much as she could and ignored the queasiness.
After eating, Peter disappeared back to his book and she drifted aimlessly from room to room, running her fingers over the woodwork, the bare mantelpieces over the fireplaces. She wondered who would come to fill these empty rooms. Would they throw away all the battered toys in the nursery, of too little value to be sold? Or her dresses?
Her whole life they had lived here. Now everything was falling apart. Her security, her friendships, her life.
She was frightened, but deathly clear.
Only her determination could see her and Peter free.
Chapter Seven
As their hired hack rattled them through the London streets to Covent Gardens she knew the moment had arrived to tell Peter everything. She had put it off for as long as she could, and now there was no time left. Even after near two days thinking about it she still did not know where to begin. She never talked of unpleasant things with him. She was his protector, keeping him safe from the world.
He sat gazing out of the window, all boyish excitement, his clear eyes unshadowed and a happy little smile playing about his mouth.
She propped her elbow on the windowsill and bit down hard on her knuckle. Courageous she might be at times, but when it came to hurting Peter she was a coward. She simply could not do it.
Instead she said only: “Peter, dear. Something unusual is going to happen tonight. I want you to promise me something.”
He looked at her, and raised his blonde eyebrows in enquiry.
“Whatever goes on, you are to follow me. Quickly and quietly. Without arguing. Promise me.” She strove to be commanding, without any hint of fear or worry.
“What will happen?” he asked, intrigued, his smile broadening at this hint of adventure.
“I can’t tell you, exactly. But you have to promise me.” Her voice was low and intense.
“I promise,” he said easily, trusting as always. “But why can’t you tell me?”
“I just can’t, Peter. Don’t nag about it. Please.”
“But Lissa-”
“Hush now!”
He sighed and subsided, a contemplative wrinkle appearing on his forehead as he returned his attention to the passing street. The carriage rocked gently backwards and forwards as it went. Several minutes later the sounds of the carnival started to percolate into its dark interior. Peter peered eagerly out of the window to see ahead of the hack. Melissa reminded herself to take deep, steady breaths.
The coachman pulled up, halted by the crowded streets.
“Tell him we’ll get off here and walk the rest of the way,” she said to Peter, holding out the money to pay the coachman. He took it from her and leapt down from the carriage door, running round to give it to the man. A moment later he was back to hand her down in the most gentlemanly fashion.
“Thank you, dear,” she told him. “Now stay close, and don’t get lost in the crowd. In fact, give me your arm.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Then she set a brisk pace along the pavement towards the entrance to Covent Gardens.
Dusk was advancing, but it was not yet late and so the crowds were still perfectly sober and respectable. She was pushing the bounds of propriety a little, to be here with an escort so youthful. Still, her clothes were plain enough that she would pass for a young maid out for an hour or two in her best dress, seeing the sights.
Of course they attracted attention as they pushed through the crowd. Men, young and old, craned their heads for a second glimpse of Melissa even in the poor lighting. But she was accustomed to that, and ignored it.
“What are we going to see first?” exclaimed Peter.
“You can pick,” she replied. They had about half an hour to waste until full dark came on.
“The lions then! Let’s go see the lions.” He half led, half dragged her onwards. They reached a spot where they could see the cage holding a pacing lion.
“Look at him,” Peter breathed.
“Yes, very frightening,” she said absently, trying to surreptitiously scan the crowd. Who was watching them? The men must be somewhere there, hidden among the throng. As were her own hirelings. But every face was strange to her. No one looked familiar, or as if their attention was fixed on her and Peter. She could feel her heart beating high in her throat. Soon now. She was tight as a coiled spring. It was a different kind of tension from the night of the auction.
Then she had not known how the auction would progress and what the highest bidder might do to her exactly. Tonight it was she who must act, she upon whom everything depended.
As always the promise of action steadied her, calmed her spirit. She ran over the plan in her head again, her hands clenching and unclenching.
And if they failed? If they were caught?
It would be straight off to a brothel for her and the auction block for Peter. She would not go over that again. It would never come to pass because they were to escape to safety. She turned her thoughts away.
The poor lion was mangy and a little moth-eaten. He loped back and forth in front of the gaping watchers. One could imagine disgust in his unflinching stare.
It was only a few minutes before Peter grew bored with the endless pacing. They moved to watch a band of jugglers throwing a wide variety of objects into the air, from teacups to wooden chairs. As the dusk deepened they even threw fire. The cro
wd oohed and ahhhed.
The sky grew darker, and the chill deepened, even in the throng of people. Then she heard the bells of London begin to chime the hour. Six o’clock. Mr Tell had judged things correctly, for night was now upon them.
“Now Peter, we are going for a walk along the paths,” she said, clutching him fiercely by the shoulder and whispering into his ear.
“What? Now? But there won’t be any performers over there!” he exclaimed.
“Do as I say.” She gave him a little shake. “Remember your promise.”
He subsided immediately, his face alive with curiosity. She led them both away from the well-lit area and onto the more sporadically lighted paths. Later in the evening the shrubberies lining the paths would be full of canoodling couples, a spectacle she had never seen, only heard about in a scandalised whisper from her most daring friend. But it was early yet. The people they passed were all going towards the light, not hiding from it.
She started walking a little faster, pulling Peter along. He looked up at her. She gave him a brief, reassuring smile then refocused on the path ahead, her palms starting to sweat.
Again she increased the pace. Now they were almost jogging. There was an intersection of paths. This was it.
Even as she had the thought the figures of three naked men burst from the shrubbery and ran past them and back the way they had come, hooting and howling.
They startled even her, but only for a second. When Peter would have wheeled to gape after him she seized him and pulled him onto the path to the left, ignoring his muffled exclamation. She took another left.
“Run!” she hissed at Peter, letting go of his arm and taking off. He was right beside her in an instant, matching her pace, then slightly ahead of her. She was hindered by her skirts. Impatiently she caught them up in her hands. They were now parallel to the path they had just been on. She could hear running steps and men’s voices.
“…that way! Quick!”
“I can ‘ear ‘em”
Then there was the dull smack of flesh on flesh; a crash and branches snapping, as if someone had been forcibly thrust into the shrubbery; several thumps and a yell. Peter hesitated, and she caught up the few steps between them.
“Come on,” and she gave him a shove. He nearly fell over, but he caught himself gamely. They left the sounds of the fight behind. At the next crossroads she went right and he followed, intent now on the mad task she had set. She nearly ran into the narrow-chested man who was waiting in the centre of the path, it was so dark here.
“Miss Callow?” he asked, and she recognised the alias Mr Tell had given her.
“Yes,” she said, gasping a little.
“Here.” The man flung a heavy and slightly odorous cloak around her shoulders. He tossed a second one to Peter. “Get those hoods up,” he demanded.
She did as she was told, bundling up her attention-getting hair and tucking it down the back of her collar out of sight. Peter was doing up his own cape, a dim figure huffing softly in the darkness. She was burstingly proud of him, and relieved by his swift obedience.
“This way,” said the wiry man. She followed, with Peter close behind her. She felt a tug as he took hold of her cloak, the better to guide himself. They ran light-footed through the blackness, close to the shrubs but off the crunchy gravel paths, trusting their accomplice’s knowledge of the ground, his hissed: “Here,” “Over here,” “This way,” barely discernible over the distant sounds of revelry. Within moments they were at the walls of the park.
“You listenin’?” asked the rat-faced man, the faint radiance of the streetlamps barely illuminating his face even to eyes now attuned to the poor light .
“Yes,” she said, intent, knowing he was only one link in a chain that was designed to ensure no single person could put together both the beginning and end of their escape plan and route.
A plan designed to protect not only them, but also each of the men who had a hand in this, so no one could inform on all the others. This man had no idea he had a colleague who had just downed two or more of Black Jack’s men.
Those who had administered the beating should not have been seen, due to the poor light, to attacking from behind, and the diversion of the naked runners. If they could nonetheless be identified by the watchers, still they would not know where Melissa and Peter had gone next. Only she and Mr Tell knew the entire chain of events, and they would both be well away.
“Over the wall is a carriage. You two ‘op in. The driver knows where ‘e’s goin’. I don’t.” Melissa nodded, and so did Peter, grinning hugely. “Got it?”
“Got it,” she replied firmly.
The rat-faced man offered her a boost over the wall. She put one foot in his hands. He hefted her upwards, and she grabbed the top and pulled herself up with a terrific effort fuelled by sheer will. Peter was boosted too. She dragged him up next to her. Without another word, the man was off, disappearing into the darkness of the Gardens.
From their perch on the wall she could see the first carriage. The driver had his back to them.
“You first,” she whispered to Peter. Although she held out a hand, he lowered himself without her help. The last couple of feet he dropped. Then he extended his arms up for her. She followed suit. His young arms took some of her weight as she landed.
She led the way to the carriage. They climbed in without saying a word to the coachman. The carriage lurched immediately into motion. It smelt of mildew and onions. Melissa felt the tension thrumming through Peter. His eyes were round in the light from the streetlamps but he was silent.
They rumbled over the cobblestones. It seemed forever before the carriage slowed and then stopped. Melissa thrust open the door and jumped down. A moment later Peter’s feet hit the ground. They waited while the coachman drove his equipage away down the street, rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
As soon as he was gone, Melissa ducked into nearby Eckles St, murmuring the litany of instructions to herself: at the end of Eckles, right again. At the far end, left. Two buildings down under the streetlamp is where he’ll be waiting. Another carriage. Tell that driver where you want to go.
Not even Mr Tell knew the final destination she had picked. Picked because of a chum raving about the beauty of the sweet little village where she had spent her summer, almost ten years ago now. Melissa had envied her so deeply and wished her own parents might take them out of the City, just once.
Standing on one of the boxes in the lending library, provided so children could climb high enough to see the map of England, she had found Bourton-on-the-Water. It seemed just the right sort of distance. Far enough to be completely different from London, close enough to travel to cheaply.
She hoped, but Father would not hear of it. He took her onto his knee and patted her fondly to start with, saying a gentle ‘No, we’ve no time to go away from the City.’
But when she whined at him to change his mind his brows drew down and he called it a stupid idea to leave London when everything they wanted was here. And gentle, pallid mother said nothing, nodding a quiet agreement with her husband then hustling Melissa out the door before she might protest further.
Bourton-on-the-Water had lingered on in her mind as some perfect fantasy of a country village. Now when she needed to choose a destination in a countryside that was as foreign to her as another country, there was at least a hint of familiarity to that place she found comforting.
Not so far that the climate or accents would be a rude shock, nor so close that they were in easy reach of the Capital.
They walked briskly down the silent street, Peter following her lead. There were lights in the windows of the houses they passed, people tucked away from the cold, safe and warm.
It took a physical effort to keep from breaking into a trot. She wanted to run, to take to her heels and reach safety that much faster. But this part of the escape was all about blending in and looking ordinary so as to attract no notice. Running was exactly the wrong thing to do.
She stopped beside the large, old coach, Peter a twitchy presence at her shoulder.
He must have heard their footsteps, for he peered over one shoulder. He raised a eyebrow in enquiry, swaying slightly.
“Sir, are you waiting to drive someone out of the city?” asked Melissa.
“That I am, Miss. You the ones I’m waiting on?” His voice was thick, and slurred.
“I believe so.”
“Where is it you’re wantin’ to go, then?” He turned a little further in his seat, so he could see them more clearly.
“Bourton-on-the-Water. In the Cotswolds. Do you know it?”
“Aye. A fair piece. Well, then, best jump in. We’ve got some travelling ahead of us.”
Melissa pursed her lips slightly, and remembered what Mr Tell had told her: “The driver I’ve chosen for the final leg is a drunkard.” Reading the protest that immediately rose to her lips, he interrupted her before she could speak. “Now, now, hear me out. He drives well enough for the purpose, but more importantly, his memory’s shot. He’s that one as will have the best and longest look at you, and knows exactly where you are placed. But he won’t remember it. By the time a week has past you will have faded from recollecting. I say it’s worth the risk. He’s not been known to crash. Well, not because of drinking, at any rate,” he added judiciously.
She wrestled with her prejudice against trusting such a man with anything, then let him convince her.
Now she and Peter climbed into the carriage and settled themselves on the seat facing forward. Although the squabs on the seats were worn through in places, the coach itself was clean and well swept. Two travelling cases sat on the floor of the coach. They were the sort a well-to-do serving man or woman might carry. Not new, but in fair condition. Melissa assumed their belongings were inside, as Mr Tell had told her they would be.