Alydia Rackham's Blog - Posts Tagged "sherlock-holmes"
The Mute of Pendywick Place
"And the Torn Page"
Chapter One
London
November 3rd
1881
Fog.
Lurking in low, thick clouds around the faces of the buildings that lined Brompton Road. Loitering in doorways, veiling windows. Chilling the feet of the men who walked the paving with crisp steps and bowed heads. Swirling around the black skirts of the ladies who reluctantly shut ringing shop doors behind them as they ventured out into the gloom. Parting like a ghostly river before the clatter of the hansom horse; hanging in a wake behind the driver’s battered top hat and cloaked shoulders. Stifling the throbbing orange street lamps beneath shrouds of cobweb.
She perched on the curb of the walkway, glancing up and down the broad street. As she paused, a disembodied bell in some nearby tower voiced five haunting, identical notes. She drew herself up, gripped her small, light bag tighter in her gloved hand. She held her breath, waiting for any clamor of a cab heading toward her through the wall of mist.
Nothing but a distant trundle of an omnibus. So she braced herself again, stepped off the curb, and onto the cobbles.
Her shoes clapped against the damp, slick stones as she lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. She fixed her gaze on the place where the far walkway should be, listening intently…
She hopped up onto the opposing curb, spun and faced the street.
She could not see the spot from whence she had just come. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned to the left, and headed up the walk.
Each time she crossed a narrow street that turned left to abandon the main road, she counted it. She did not meet the eyes of any of the finely-dressed ladies or bowler-hatted gentlemen she passed, but set her mouth and walked quicker. Her skirts rustled with her swift movement, and she ignored the cold in her feet as she splashed through puddles.
Finally, She trotted out into the center of a little lane that wove off into the forest of buildings. She stared down the narrow passage, reflexively searched for a street sign…
Stopped herself, and attended to the lane again.
Darkness was falling, and shadows thickening. Ahead of her, a few street lamps burned like candles in a cavern, dripping measly pools of light down around their bases.
She started forward. Her footsteps rang louder here. She cast up and around her at what she could see of the clean facades of the houses—the neatly-painted doors, the trimmed windows...
Again, She counted. Knockers, this time. Squeezing the handle of her luggage.
…seven, eight, nine, ten…
Lamps glowed in several of the windows, like smudges against the frosty glass. Far ahead, she glimpsed a few other murky pedestrians, but none ventured down this way.
…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…
Her chest tensed, her pulse picking up as she quickened her pace…
She slowed, and stopped, letting out her tight breath in a cloud.
The twenty-sixth house, on her left.
The bricks distinguished it right away—deep red, almost brown—in sharp contrast to the pale houses on either side. This darker house seemed to resent even having to touch shoulders with the others—it was so severely narrow, and stretched up a full story taller than its neighbors. Ivy masked half its face. The fog prowled around the front steps of this house like an old, protective dog.
It bore one front window—tall, stately, and shuttered. To the left of it, the black door sullenly waited beneath a slight overhang. Three steps led up to this door, and before that, a walkway, flanked on either side by a tiny overgrown rectangular garden, reined in only by a black iron-wrought fence.
The windows of the second story, and likewise the third, had also been shuttered, and no light seeped out. Beyond, stretching up to the clouds, a square tower loomed. Upon first glance, the home seemed abandoned…
But with her next breath, She tasted the scent of cooking stew wafting from its chimney. And so she set her jaw, opened the front gate, and strode up the walkway. She felt the heat drain out of her face—climbed the stairs, reached up, grasped the brass knocker with her left hand and worked it sharply.
One. Two. Three.
Her fingers hung there for a moment, and then she dropped her arm. She listened, gaze anxiously flitting across the door, toward the front window…
Noises inside.
She swallowed, straightened up, and gripped her bag even harder.
The latch clacked. Hinges creaked. The door swung inward.
A tall, middle-aged man in a black butler’s suit stood just past the threshold. He had a thin mustache, oiled dark hair parted in the middle, and cold blue eyes. He lifted his chin, arched an eyebrow, and cast a glance up and down her whole form.
She swallowed again.
“Good day, madam,” he said—smooth, tenor and hard. “How may I help you?”
She took a breath. Her lips parted.
She closed her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together.
He frowned at her.
“Madam? How may I help you?”
She opened her mouth again. Shut it. Pain darted around in the back of her throat.
The butler’s mouth tightened.
“I’m sorry, we are not interested in any solicitations,” he told her, and began to shut the door.
Her heart banged against her breastbone. She lunged forward and shoved her toe against the bottom of the door. The door thudded against it.
“Madam!” the butler cried.
“Mr. Cutworth, what is going on?” came a woman’s voice from beyond him.
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Butterfield,” the butler replied curtly, twisting to see the woman inside, then turning back to give Her a glare. “I was just sending a button seller on her way.”
Her mouth opened again as her face heated. She clamped her jaw tight.
The next moment, a portly, gray-haired housekeeper with a frilled cap and flour-covered apron pulled the door aside and stepped up next to Mr. Cutworth. She had a stern mouth and flushed face, but bright brown eyes that captured Hers straightaway. Mrs. Butterfield gave Her a quick glance up and down—one that felt entirely different from Mr. Cutworth’s—and pulled the door open to its entirety.
“She is clearly not a button seller, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield admonished sharply. “Has she told you her name?”
“Not a word,” Mr. Cutworth replied. “She seems entirely befuddled—must be a vagabond who has gotten lost.”
“Has it occurred to you that she might have some defect, some impediment that prevents her from answering you?” Mrs. Butterfield inquired, putting a fist on her hip. “Perhaps she is deaf! Or perhaps she does not even speak English!”
Mr. Cutworth’s face colored.
“We have all manner and sort stopping by this door, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield continued. “But in all my years, I have never happened upon a deaf, vagabond button-seller.”
The whole of Mr. Cutworth’s face turned completely red now. He straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the door.
“I will leave her in your capable hands, then,” he decided, and swiftly departed into the house. Mrs. Butterfield heaved a sigh, and turned back to Her.
“You’ll have to forgive us, Miss. We’ve newly hired a butler, and he isn’t used to the sort of folk that usually arrive uninvited to Pendywick Place.”
In answer, She nodded quickly.
“Ah, so you can understand English!” Mrs. Butterfield smiled. “But you do have business with Mr. Collingwood, then?”
Again, She nodded quickly—even harder.
“Then come in, come in, before you catch your death.” Mrs. Butterfield stepped aside and beckoned to her. Quickly, She stepped across the threshold, and into the entryway. Mrs. Butterfield closed the door behind her with a resounding clap, then bustled past Her.
“Please wait right here while I announce you.”
She watched Mrs. Butterfield trundle across the pale beaten rug toward the other door at the far end. The housekeeper opened it, hurried through and shut it—
But it did not latch.
Biting her lip, She moved her bag to grasp it in both hands, and glanced around at the dark-wood entryway, lit by a single lamp to her left. On the right hand wall hung several long coats, three hats; and her attention caught on two very unusual walking sticks that waited next to the umbrella in the stand in the corner. They seemed to be made of rough-hewn blackthorn wood, polished till they shone.
Voices. Low, furtive.
Mrs. Butterfield’s first.
Then…
Another.
Holding her breath, She crept forward, hoping she would not make the floor creak beneath her shoes. She paused just a few feet from the door, leaning forward and listening…
“A woman? What kind of woman?”
A man’s voice. Like a rumble of thunder—yet precise as a scalpel.
“A young woman, sir,” came Mrs. Butterfield’s hushed answer. “I should say perhaps twenty-three.”
“Who is she?” that deep, penetrating voice again. A winter wind of a voice.
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Didn’t or couldn’t?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, what does she look like?” he pressed.
“Medium height; she’s wearing a red dress that’s in rather poor condition, a long black coat that was probably her mother’s, and a blue straw hat,” Mrs. Butterfield told him. “She’s got a pretty face, black eyes. Although I must say she looks a deal too pale, and a bit on the thin side. Very black hair, too. Only one piece of small luggage.”
“You don’t know her?”
“Never seen her before in my life, sir,” she said.
The man let out a labored sigh.
“Very well, then, show her in. I’ve had about enough of Milton for this half of my lifetime, anyhow.”
The door suddenly swung open. She jumped back as Mrs. Butterfield stuck her head around and smiled at her.
“Do come in.”
She nodded, trying not to shiver, and stepped past Mrs. Butterfield.
“May I present Mr. Basil Collingwood,” Mrs. Butterfield announced. Then, the housekeeper curtsied, and bustled off through a doorway to the left, leaving Her alone.
The dusty scent of books filled Her nose and throat. Frowning, she cast a glance through the well-lit, backward-L-shaped room. Off to her far right and nearly behind her, three armchairs crowded with pillows cornered a low, knick-knack-laden fireplace and mantel, forming a small, cluttered parlor; ahead of her and to the right stood a chestnut-colored piano buried beneath stacks of books and papers. Beyond that waited a desk laden with a shiny typewriter, glowing lamp, more books, several pens, a few portraits, and a pile of blank paper. All the walls round about were composed of shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with all sizes of books. Everything was lit by a chandelier that hung over the desk, as well as lamps on iron sconces that clung to the corners of the bookshelves.
Directly in front of her, a red-carpeted staircase marched straight up and away, then abruptly turned to the right and vanished into the next story. The wall this created before her also cradled a wide, thick bookshelf…
Her fingers slackened on her baggage, and she stared.
A young man sat on top of this bookshelf.
He leaned back against a thick pillar, and stretched his long legs out across the top of the shelf. He wore only coal-colored trousers, stockings, a shirt and grey waistcoat—no coat or shoes or tie. He held a cumbersome old book up in front of him, a set of brass, round-rimmed reading glasses pinched to the end of his nose. Right beside his left shoulder, a lamp protruded from the pillar, illuminating the pages, as well as his angular, white, striking face, and short, curly dark hair. He turned his head. Light flashed from his lenses.
He frowned directly down at Her, over the top of his spectacles. A terrible, dark, stormy brow—eyes grey as frost caught in the morning sun.
“So you won’t tell Mrs. Butterfield your name,” he stated—his bass tones vibrated through Her marrow. “But you understand English and you’re not deaf.”
She nodded, clenching her jaw, feeling all her muscles go cold.
“Is your identity some sort of secret?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to guess?”
She clutched her bag handle so tightly she feared it might break.
He rolled his eyes, slapped his book shut and swung his legs over the side. He tossed the book down on top of the shelf—it landed with a tremendous thud. He pulled off his spectacles and set them on the book, then easily hopped down to the floor. The floorboards squeaked uproariously.
She sucked in her breath, her ribs contracting and her brow twisting as she fought not to turn and run. Even without his shoes, he was a good foot taller than she—lean, yet carelessly graceful. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets, kicked his head back and strode up to her, eyeing her down his nose.
“So what is it, then?” he asked flatly. “Lisp? Stuttering? Aphemia?”
She frowned up at him, blinking rapidly. He sighed again.
“Come, don’t be shy. I’ve heard every wretched utterance a human mouth can possibly spit out—no mumbling or sputtering that comes from yours has a chance of surprising me.”
She stood frozen, fighting to breathe, to keep her head from spinning…
He frowned harder at her, his grey eyes flashing with lightning—cutting down into her heart.
“Are you entirely mute, then?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing.
“Ah. All right.” He turned crisply, snatched up a piece of paper, a book and a pencil from off the piano, and swooped back toward her.
She flinched back.
“What—What on earth?” he scoffed, instantly stopping and wrinkling his nose at her. “Calm down. I’m not in the habit of attacking people with writing utensils.” He arranged the paper on top of the thin book, then held all three things out to her. “Tell me what you want.”
She stared at the paper, wide-eyed, her heartbeat accelerating.
“Come, come.” He shook the book and paper. “I have dinner at my club tonight and I still have to dress for it.”
Slowly, She set her bag down on the floor, stood up again, reached out and gingerly took the book and paper from him. She clutched them tight in both hands.
“Here,” he pushed the pencil at her.
She jerked back.
Mr. Collingwood sighed for the third time and put his free hand on his waist. He raised his eyebrows at her.
“In case you’ve forgotten, this instrument is what you need to actually write anything.”
Her fingers trembled. She pried her left hand loose of the book and paper, and took the pencil from him. Biting her lip, she pressed the tip to the paper.
And stopped.
Stared helplessly at that blank space. Her vision swam. The book and pencil trembled.
She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her brow twisted, her lips parted once more...
“Well, good lord!” Collingwood laughed incredulously. “You are mute and entirely illiterate?” He flung his hands out and gestured violently to her. “What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do with you?”
She stared at him, her blood suddenly boiling. Her eyes stung.
“Were you sent here by someone?” he wanted to know. “What sort of idiot sends an illiterate mute to a language expert? Do you have references he gave you? Is that what this is?” He took a quick step toward her and reached—
She threw the book, paper and pencil down. They slammed onto the floor.
She spun on her heel, flung the first door open, charged loudly down the short hallway, burst out the front door and darted into the night, cold tears running down her face.
Chapter Two
She jerked to a stop.
Sniffed, blinked the water out of her eyes, and quickly glanced around.
Evening had fallen. The fog had thickened so that she could only glimpse the median of the street to her left, but nothing beyond. Ahead of her, a few street lamps throbbed, and the phantoms of coaches, hansoms and horses trundled to and fro.
How far had she come?
She had broken into a run after leaving Pendywick Place, her vision scarlet, and rushed down several alleys and narrow side streets. Now, as she paused on a curb, shocking back to her senses…
She realized she had no idea where she was.
She spun around, searching the shadows behind her.
Nothing looked familiar.
Her breathing picked up, and she tasted the coal dust in the air. She swiped the tears off her face, squeezed her fists…
Gasped. Looked down.
She had left her bag at Pendywick Place.
Panic shot through her chest.
She grabbed her skirts and hurried back the way she had come, heart pounding, fighting to recognize one of the buildings, or a lamp, or a turn…
She kept going, straining against the increasing dark, her shoes slapping on the wet paving…
This way. She had to turn left to head the right direction—she was certain of it.
She turned a sharp corner, and plunged into an alley. Panting, she kept going, aiming for the lamp at the far end…
She kicked a bottle. It thudded against her shoe and skittered off ahead of her across the cobbles, then cracked against a nearby building.
She winced as the racket banged through the slender space, and she slowed down. Her wet skirts swished, her breathing echoed.
“Oi, what ‘ave we ‘ere?”
She whipped around.
A short figure emerged from a doorway. She could only see his outline—he wore a long coat, far too big for him, and a battered, tilted top-hat. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and cocked his head as he sauntered toward her.
“Wut, did you get lost, sweet ‘art?” he drawled. “Wut’s a lady like you doin’ in these parts o’ London?”
She gritted her teeth, and took two steps back from him. He sounded young, perhaps thirteen. She closed her fists tighter, and kept backing away. And he followed.
“Aow, wut’s the ‘urry, missus?” he insisted. “Just wanted a friendly chat. Lovely evenin’ for it.”
She took one more step back, turned to run—
Her shoulder struck something.
The stench of body odor and liquor washed over her. She leaped back.
A man blocked her path. Stout, broad-shouldered, and thick—he wore a crooked hat, too. She couldn’t see any more of his features—he loomed a black shadow over her.
A savage snarl sounded from around his knees. Her gaze darted down to find a small, muscular white dog baring its fangs at her.
“Easy, Bullseye,” the man soothed, his voice coarse and deep. He turned and looked at Her, and she could feel his gaze burning through her.
“We don’t want no trouble, Missus,” the man purred. “Just so long as you ‘and over yer valuables.”
She shook her head.
He lunged at her. Grabbed her by both wrists and jerked her toward him—clamped down so hard she felt her bones come together.
She bared her teeth, but made no sound.
“Ah, yer a good girl for not screamin’,” he breathed his rancid breath in her face.
The next moment, she felt a second set of quick hands feel her all over, and dip into her coat pockets.
“She ain’t got nothin’ we want, Mr. Sikes,” the boy declared.
She felt Sikes grin.
“Oh, yes she do.” And he slammed her back against the wall.
Her breath slapped out of her lungs. Her vision went black. With one hand, Mr. Sikes covered her mouth, and with the other he shoved in past her coat and wrapped his arm around her waist.
CRACK.
A sound like splitting sapling.
Sikes staggered, his head dipping. He released Her—her feet hit the ground again and she gasped, trying to clear her vision—
Sikes stumbled to the side, turning to face the other end of the alley—
A tall, lean man stood there, in a top-hat. The next second, a stick in his hand flashed like lightning—darted out and slapped Sikes in the side of the head.
Sikes’ hand twitched up to grab his own ear—he stared for half a second—then he roared out a long string of curses.
He lunged at the tall man.
The tall man stepped nimbly out of the way, whirled and clouted Sikes in the back of the neck.
Sikes toppled onto his face.
The dog roared and leaped at the tall man.
The tall man crisply clipped it in the nose, sending the dog howling back. With a sharp, outraged cry, Sikes scrambled up, trying to face the tall man—
The tall man coiled his stick over his shoulder and lashed Sikes in the temple. Sikes crumpled to the street.
Next second, the tall man whipped a revolver from beneath his coat, pivoted and sighted the opposite direction—
Where the boy jerked to a halt, dropped the bottle he held, and lifted both hands in the air.
“Wise decision,” the tall man decided. “I would hate to have to shoot you.”
She twitched. She knew that voice!
The tall man lifted his chin.
“But, if you come one step closer,” he warned, smooth and cold. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy stammered.
Then, the tall man tucked his gun back in his coat, took his stick in his left hand, and stepped up to Her.
“Are you all right?”
Basil. Basil Collingwood.
Her mouth worked, but she made no sound. Finally, she shut her jaw and just nodded, once.
“Come. This is no place for civilized people,” Basil muttered, taking her by the arm. He swept her past Sikes, still lying sprawled on the stones, as well as the snarling, whining dog—and out onto the lighted street once more.
a
He kept hold of her arm as they walked, though he did not grip her, and hustled her down the paving. At last she could see him. He wore a fine, long, fitted black coat, scarf and gloves, and his polished top hat perfectly framed his stormy brow, flashing grey glance and pale, angular profile. She wanted to pull loose of him—but all her muscles still trembled too badly. She could hear other people traipsing back and forth on the other side of the street, but still could not make out their shapes. She battled to gather her wits, calm her raging heartbeat—
Movement up ahead.
A medium-sized dog darted out of an alley, stopped, saw them and pricked up its ears. It had an intelligent, foxlike face, a curled tail, and slender body and limbs—and it was the most unusual blond color. It had bright gold eyes with black around them, almost like Egyptian khol.
It wagged its tail, and trotted toward them.
“Hullo, Jack,” Basil greeted the dog, slowing their pace to a stop. Jack quickly sniffed Her skirts, glancing sideways up at her as he did.
“I would introduce you, but the lady seems disinclined to share her information with me,” Basil remarked flatly. She watched the dog carefully, daring to put her hand down to touch his head…
He let her, continuing his inspection.
“Jack assisted me in finding you,” Basil explained offhand, taking up his stick, letting go of her and starting forward again. “But I wouldn’t let him follow me entirely because I knew there was a bulldog in that alley. Jack would fight, of course, but he isn’t remotely equipped to make a contest of it. Rather like yourself.”
She ground her teeth and followed after him. Jack hopped out of her way, then pranced easily beside her, catching up to Basil. His claws clicked on the stone in rhythm to Basil’s walking stick.
“I’d like to know exactly what you were thinking of, taking off by yourself in London, all alone, without the slightest idea as to where you were going,” Basil said, lengthening his stride so she had to quicken her pace to keep up. “But of course, you’re not going to enlighten me, so I ought to have checked my curiosity at the door.”
They wound down a few more streets, and She could hear the rising sound of traffic coming from a busy road ahead. Then, he turned down a horseshoe shaped lane…
And before them, just as morose as before, rose Pendywick Place.
“You left your luggage on my floor, along with the mess you made,” Basil told her, trotting up his front steps. “And you’ve made me late to my club.” He turned and gave her a sarcastic smile. “You’re welcome.”
She felt heat rise in her face. He turned back around and pushed through the door. Jack hopped up the steps and darted inside right along with him. She hoisted her skirts and climbed after—and then caught the door as it almost fell shut on her head. She grabbed its edge, her muscles binding up as she wildly considered thrashing it hard back against the inside wall—but she stopped herself.
Instead, she took a deep breath, and trailed after the sound of Basil and Jack clattering through the second door and into the library, where the floorboards screeched under their footsteps.
“Oh, heavens—did you find her?” Mrs. Butterfield cried, hurrying through the door by the staircase. “Gracious, child, I wish you hadn’t done that! Gone out into the streets all alone, at this hour!”
She tried to smile at Mrs. Butterfield as she stepped through the second door, but didn’t quite manage. Mrs. Butterfield grasped her earnestly by the upper arms and leaned in to look at her.
“Your face is all smeared with soot—and your neck is red! What happened to you?”
“She was accosted by a pair of colorful gentlemen and a dog in a back alley,” Basil filled in for her, taking off his hat. “So at least we’ve discovered one thing about her,” He gave her a look. “She isn’t from Town. Now, Mrs. Butterfield, if you’ll get her bag and order a hansom to take her to the train station so she doesn’t go wandering off into Shoreditch, I’m sure she’d be much obliged.”
Her head came up and She stared at him—but he crisply put his hat back on and turned back toward the door.
“I’m off. I’ll need tea at ten o’clock,” he barked, and he strode through the second door, leaving Jack behind, his tail wagging faintly as he watched Basil go.
She felt Mrs. Butterfield squeeze her arms, and her head came back around.
“I’ll beg pardon from the master later, but I’ll do no such thing,” she said firmly, her eyes bright. She briskly rubbed her hands up and down Her arms and gave her a smile. “You’ll come to the kitchen with me, warm up by the fire, have something to eat, and clean yourself up. Come on, Jack,” she called, and she urged Her through that side door by the staircase and into a hallway, the dog following behind, perked with interest.
She followed Mrs. Butterfield down the dim corridor, which was lined with portraits, and into a grand dining room, lit by a low chandelier. The table could seat ten people, but it was not set—only a very long, lace tablecloth covered it, and two silver candlesticks with white candles. On the far wall, presiding over the whole room, a tattered, mounted lion’s head opened its mouth in a silent roar—though it was missing one top fang.
“That’s Leonidas,” Mrs. Butterfield commented. “Mr. Collingwood picked him up at an estate sale—said he’d been looking for something to fill that empty space. But I rather think he just felt sorry for the poor thing—he’s always been fond of animals of all shapes and sizes.”
Mrs. Butterfield kept walking, while She eyed the lion and frowned at the housekeeper’s remark.
Ahead of her, Mrs. Butterfield pushed through a swinging door, and so She followed…
Into a charming, well-lit kitchen.
A long table with two chairs sat square in the middle, a ceiling-high cabinet stood in the far corner between two windows, a smaller table with no chairs waited by one range, and copper pots crowded yet another range. The range by the table radiated heat. All the corners and shelves were packed with bowls, pots and pans, jars, bottles and crocks—but everything was clean, tidy and orderly. It smelled like roasted bird, potatoes, and lye soap. Mrs. Butterfield clomped across the wooden floor to the range, waving Her to the table.
“Have a seat, dear, and I’ll find what you need.”
The dog trotted casually in, following Mrs. Butterfield, watching her every move.
Carefully, She eased down into one of the wooden chairs and watched Mrs. Butterfield open the cabinets and get out the tea things, which clinked as she set them on the counter. She then moved to a large copper tank against the wall, twisted a knob…
And water shot out into her kettle.
Staring, She sat up straight, astonished—and wanted to hurry over and see this phenomenon closer. But no sooner had the kettle filled than Mrs. Butterfield twisted the knob the other way and the water stopped. She then set the kettle on the range with a clank, opened the front of the range and jabbed the fire with a poker.
“Now, I’ll get you something to eat whilst you warm up,” Mrs. Butterfield sighed, wiping her hands off on her apron. The housekeeper sent Her a smile. “It’s nice to have company in the eveningtime again. We haven’t hosted a dinner in this house in an age. I used to have my daughter here, Betsy, but this past summer she got a job at a great house in the country. She’s always wanted to see the countryside—poor girl was born in London and always felt stifled by all the coal and the traffic. I’d say she’ll be a good sight happier and healthier out there—but that means I hardly ever see her!”
As she talked, Mrs. Butterfield went into the pantry and gathered up a half loaf of bread, a cut of cheddar cheese, some butter and jam, and began preparing them on a plate on the counter. Jack sat down near her, wagged his tail, and licked his lips.
“Mr. Cutworth is a qualified butler to be sure,” Mrs. Butterfield went on. “But he keeps to himself in his off hours, reading in his room and taking his meals there too, and isn’t talkative during the day. And Mr. Collingwood, well—you have seen how he is.” The kettle whistled. She snatched it off the range and poured the steaming water into the teapot. “He’s popular enough with his friends and professors from Oxford, and men who share the same profession—he’s highly respected for his research. And he’s brilliant, of course. Written eleven books, and he isn’t yet thirty years old! And several articles and papers for respected journals, besides. And he has many patients who come to him for help with their speech impediments, that haven’t had any luck anywhere else.” Mrs. Butterfield turned and handed a small piece of cheese down to Jack. Watching her hand, Jack carefully took it from her and ate it. Mrs. Butterfield then brought the plate of cold things to Her and set them down on the table, then carried the tea tray over to follow. With a heavy sigh, Mrs. Butterfield sat down across from Her, at the end of the table. Jack came over as well, and sat next to her chair.
“Sugar?” Mrs. Butterfield asked.
She nodded.
“How many?”
She held up two fingers. Mrs. Butterfield smiled, and tossed two lumps into one of the white cups.
“Cream?”
She nodded again, and Mrs. Butterfield splashed a bit of cream in that same cup, then poured the dark, steaming tea in after it. Reaching over to take it, She gave Mrs. Butterfield a smile, making sure that the older woman saw it. She did, and returned it. And now that She could study Mrs. Butterfield closer, she found that the woman’s features beamed like a warm hearth on a winter night—and her eyes sparkled.
“Of course, his manner makes him a bit intolerable to folk who don’t understand it,” Mrs. Butterfield poured her own tea without cream or sugar. She chuckled. “And he’s never yet met a lady who could stand his company, except his mother, his sister—oh, and Miss Harrison, the sister of one of his school friends. She only laughs at his jibes, and she listens when he discusses such complicated subjects in language and phonetics—I can barely understand whatever it is he’s talking about—Oh, good heavens!” Mrs. Butterfield suddenly sat up straight. So did She, and her eyebrows raised.
“I’m just sitting here chatting with you and having tea—I’ve completely forgotten my manners,” Mrs. Butterfield got up out of her chair and hastily dusted off her apron. “I’m afraid I’ve been so lonely these past months, it’s made me forget my place—and here I am, presuming to speak on equal terms with a lady!”
Alarmed, She reached out and grasped Mrs. Butterfield’s sleeve. Mrs. Butterfield went still, watching her…
Squeezing harder, She shook her head, and gave her another earnest smile.
“Well…” Mrs. Butterfield ventured. “As long as you don’t mind…”
Again, She shook her head. And so Mrs. Butterfield sat back down. After a moment, she became comfortable once more, and began telling Her about how they had found the dog Jack on the street when he was just a young thing, and he had come home with Basil and become his instant friend. As she listened, She carefully ate the food in front of her, and slowly drank the tea, watching the attractive dog lie down placidly between them, ears tilted toward their conversation.
After they finished, Mrs. Butterfield gathered everything up, and took it over to the counter by the large copper tank.
“Come with me, dear, and I’ll set you up in a place to sleep.”
So She got up and followed Mrs. Butterfield and Jack toward a door at the back of the kitchen—one that opened up into a chilly, narrow, wooden, servant’s staircase. As she passed a cabinet, Mrs. Butterfield grabbed a lit lantern, and held it aloft as she started to climb.
“Keep close,” Mrs. Butterfield advised. “I’ll let the dog go first—he knows the way.” She stepped to the side and Jack clambered up the stairs and into the darkness. Then, the two women continued on.
Every step creaked with a louder and more ridiculous note. They both gathered up their skirts and treaded carefully, not wishing to trip. They wound their way up to a landing, then to another staircase. At the top of this, they stepped out onto the third floor, having skipped the second entirely. Mrs. Butterfield stepped out into this dark corridor, and spoke softly.
“This is where my rooms are, and Mr. Cutworth’s. Mine are at the far end. His are here,” she pointed to the shut door in front of her. “Come this way.”
Together, they crept a few paces down the hall, then turned left into a little room—another library, very small. To the right and left, shelves stood floor to ceiling. An in the center of the room, an iron, spiral staircase stretched up into the next story.
Jack perched midway up it, looking down at them. She smiled at him.
“This way.” Mrs. Butterfield urged, and started up this new staircase. She followed. Finally, they rose to another landing, and Mrs. Butterfield opened the door.
“Nobody has slept in this room for about fifteen years—not since the other house maid Nelly Smith died. But I keep it in good order—I hate to have any bedroom get dusty and out of sorts.”
Mrs. Butterfield went inside and took the light with her, illuminating a small, square room with a single, curtained window. A low fireplace stood empty against the far wall, and to the left of it stood an iron-framed single-sized bed wearing a white quilt and pillows, with a trunk at its foot. A red armchair waited on the other side of the fireplace, beside a little sewing table. In another corner was a vanity with a mirror, brush, comb, bowl and pitcher. Jack stood in the center of the rug, regarding Her, as if to gauge her reaction. Mrs. Butterfield quickly lit the lamp on that sewing table, then bent and swiftly started a fire, which soon started to dance and crackle.
She watched Mrs. Butterfield for a moment—and then her eye caught on something.
A brown satchel sitting on the floor near the foot of the bed.
She darted to it and snatched it up—pried open the top, looked inside—
Crushed it to her heart and closed her eyes.
“I brought that up here for you,” Mrs. Butterfield said, standing up and facing her. “I knew you would be staying the night. No matter what the master said, I wasn’t going to let you go out into that cold again without any rest! Especially after what happened.”
All She could do was look at her, trying to smile and fighting not to cry.
“Oh, dear, it’s all right,” Mrs. Butterfield patted Her shoulder. “I’ll go downstairs and fetch you some night clothes and a dress for tomorrow. Both Mrs. Collingwood and Miss Imogen—Mr. Collingwood’s sister—leave clothes here for when they come to stay—but I’d imagine you’re closer to Miss Imogen’s size. Oh, and I’ll get some warm water so you can have a wash. I will be right back. Come on, Jack!” And the two of them headed back down the stairs, leaving the door open, as She stood gazing after them, now warm and dry by the fire.
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Chapter One
London
November 3rd
1881
Fog.
Lurking in low, thick clouds around the faces of the buildings that lined Brompton Road. Loitering in doorways, veiling windows. Chilling the feet of the men who walked the paving with crisp steps and bowed heads. Swirling around the black skirts of the ladies who reluctantly shut ringing shop doors behind them as they ventured out into the gloom. Parting like a ghostly river before the clatter of the hansom horse; hanging in a wake behind the driver’s battered top hat and cloaked shoulders. Stifling the throbbing orange street lamps beneath shrouds of cobweb.
She perched on the curb of the walkway, glancing up and down the broad street. As she paused, a disembodied bell in some nearby tower voiced five haunting, identical notes. She drew herself up, gripped her small, light bag tighter in her gloved hand. She held her breath, waiting for any clamor of a cab heading toward her through the wall of mist.
Nothing but a distant trundle of an omnibus. So she braced herself again, stepped off the curb, and onto the cobbles.
Her shoes clapped against the damp, slick stones as she lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. She fixed her gaze on the place where the far walkway should be, listening intently…
She hopped up onto the opposing curb, spun and faced the street.
She could not see the spot from whence she had just come. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned to the left, and headed up the walk.
Each time she crossed a narrow street that turned left to abandon the main road, she counted it. She did not meet the eyes of any of the finely-dressed ladies or bowler-hatted gentlemen she passed, but set her mouth and walked quicker. Her skirts rustled with her swift movement, and she ignored the cold in her feet as she splashed through puddles.
Finally, She trotted out into the center of a little lane that wove off into the forest of buildings. She stared down the narrow passage, reflexively searched for a street sign…
Stopped herself, and attended to the lane again.
Darkness was falling, and shadows thickening. Ahead of her, a few street lamps burned like candles in a cavern, dripping measly pools of light down around their bases.
She started forward. Her footsteps rang louder here. She cast up and around her at what she could see of the clean facades of the houses—the neatly-painted doors, the trimmed windows...
Again, She counted. Knockers, this time. Squeezing the handle of her luggage.
…seven, eight, nine, ten…
Lamps glowed in several of the windows, like smudges against the frosty glass. Far ahead, she glimpsed a few other murky pedestrians, but none ventured down this way.
…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…
Her chest tensed, her pulse picking up as she quickened her pace…
She slowed, and stopped, letting out her tight breath in a cloud.
The twenty-sixth house, on her left.
The bricks distinguished it right away—deep red, almost brown—in sharp contrast to the pale houses on either side. This darker house seemed to resent even having to touch shoulders with the others—it was so severely narrow, and stretched up a full story taller than its neighbors. Ivy masked half its face. The fog prowled around the front steps of this house like an old, protective dog.
It bore one front window—tall, stately, and shuttered. To the left of it, the black door sullenly waited beneath a slight overhang. Three steps led up to this door, and before that, a walkway, flanked on either side by a tiny overgrown rectangular garden, reined in only by a black iron-wrought fence.
The windows of the second story, and likewise the third, had also been shuttered, and no light seeped out. Beyond, stretching up to the clouds, a square tower loomed. Upon first glance, the home seemed abandoned…
But with her next breath, She tasted the scent of cooking stew wafting from its chimney. And so she set her jaw, opened the front gate, and strode up the walkway. She felt the heat drain out of her face—climbed the stairs, reached up, grasped the brass knocker with her left hand and worked it sharply.
One. Two. Three.
Her fingers hung there for a moment, and then she dropped her arm. She listened, gaze anxiously flitting across the door, toward the front window…
Noises inside.
She swallowed, straightened up, and gripped her bag even harder.
The latch clacked. Hinges creaked. The door swung inward.
A tall, middle-aged man in a black butler’s suit stood just past the threshold. He had a thin mustache, oiled dark hair parted in the middle, and cold blue eyes. He lifted his chin, arched an eyebrow, and cast a glance up and down her whole form.
She swallowed again.
“Good day, madam,” he said—smooth, tenor and hard. “How may I help you?”
She took a breath. Her lips parted.
She closed her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together.
He frowned at her.
“Madam? How may I help you?”
She opened her mouth again. Shut it. Pain darted around in the back of her throat.
The butler’s mouth tightened.
“I’m sorry, we are not interested in any solicitations,” he told her, and began to shut the door.
Her heart banged against her breastbone. She lunged forward and shoved her toe against the bottom of the door. The door thudded against it.
“Madam!” the butler cried.
“Mr. Cutworth, what is going on?” came a woman’s voice from beyond him.
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Butterfield,” the butler replied curtly, twisting to see the woman inside, then turning back to give Her a glare. “I was just sending a button seller on her way.”
Her mouth opened again as her face heated. She clamped her jaw tight.
The next moment, a portly, gray-haired housekeeper with a frilled cap and flour-covered apron pulled the door aside and stepped up next to Mr. Cutworth. She had a stern mouth and flushed face, but bright brown eyes that captured Hers straightaway. Mrs. Butterfield gave Her a quick glance up and down—one that felt entirely different from Mr. Cutworth’s—and pulled the door open to its entirety.
“She is clearly not a button seller, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield admonished sharply. “Has she told you her name?”
“Not a word,” Mr. Cutworth replied. “She seems entirely befuddled—must be a vagabond who has gotten lost.”
“Has it occurred to you that she might have some defect, some impediment that prevents her from answering you?” Mrs. Butterfield inquired, putting a fist on her hip. “Perhaps she is deaf! Or perhaps she does not even speak English!”
Mr. Cutworth’s face colored.
“We have all manner and sort stopping by this door, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield continued. “But in all my years, I have never happened upon a deaf, vagabond button-seller.”
The whole of Mr. Cutworth’s face turned completely red now. He straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the door.
“I will leave her in your capable hands, then,” he decided, and swiftly departed into the house. Mrs. Butterfield heaved a sigh, and turned back to Her.
“You’ll have to forgive us, Miss. We’ve newly hired a butler, and he isn’t used to the sort of folk that usually arrive uninvited to Pendywick Place.”
In answer, She nodded quickly.
“Ah, so you can understand English!” Mrs. Butterfield smiled. “But you do have business with Mr. Collingwood, then?”
Again, She nodded quickly—even harder.
“Then come in, come in, before you catch your death.” Mrs. Butterfield stepped aside and beckoned to her. Quickly, She stepped across the threshold, and into the entryway. Mrs. Butterfield closed the door behind her with a resounding clap, then bustled past Her.
“Please wait right here while I announce you.”
She watched Mrs. Butterfield trundle across the pale beaten rug toward the other door at the far end. The housekeeper opened it, hurried through and shut it—
But it did not latch.
Biting her lip, She moved her bag to grasp it in both hands, and glanced around at the dark-wood entryway, lit by a single lamp to her left. On the right hand wall hung several long coats, three hats; and her attention caught on two very unusual walking sticks that waited next to the umbrella in the stand in the corner. They seemed to be made of rough-hewn blackthorn wood, polished till they shone.
Voices. Low, furtive.
Mrs. Butterfield’s first.
Then…
Another.
Holding her breath, She crept forward, hoping she would not make the floor creak beneath her shoes. She paused just a few feet from the door, leaning forward and listening…
“A woman? What kind of woman?”
A man’s voice. Like a rumble of thunder—yet precise as a scalpel.
“A young woman, sir,” came Mrs. Butterfield’s hushed answer. “I should say perhaps twenty-three.”
“Who is she?” that deep, penetrating voice again. A winter wind of a voice.
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Didn’t or couldn’t?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, what does she look like?” he pressed.
“Medium height; she’s wearing a red dress that’s in rather poor condition, a long black coat that was probably her mother’s, and a blue straw hat,” Mrs. Butterfield told him. “She’s got a pretty face, black eyes. Although I must say she looks a deal too pale, and a bit on the thin side. Very black hair, too. Only one piece of small luggage.”
“You don’t know her?”
“Never seen her before in my life, sir,” she said.
The man let out a labored sigh.
“Very well, then, show her in. I’ve had about enough of Milton for this half of my lifetime, anyhow.”
The door suddenly swung open. She jumped back as Mrs. Butterfield stuck her head around and smiled at her.
“Do come in.”
She nodded, trying not to shiver, and stepped past Mrs. Butterfield.
“May I present Mr. Basil Collingwood,” Mrs. Butterfield announced. Then, the housekeeper curtsied, and bustled off through a doorway to the left, leaving Her alone.
The dusty scent of books filled Her nose and throat. Frowning, she cast a glance through the well-lit, backward-L-shaped room. Off to her far right and nearly behind her, three armchairs crowded with pillows cornered a low, knick-knack-laden fireplace and mantel, forming a small, cluttered parlor; ahead of her and to the right stood a chestnut-colored piano buried beneath stacks of books and papers. Beyond that waited a desk laden with a shiny typewriter, glowing lamp, more books, several pens, a few portraits, and a pile of blank paper. All the walls round about were composed of shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with all sizes of books. Everything was lit by a chandelier that hung over the desk, as well as lamps on iron sconces that clung to the corners of the bookshelves.
Directly in front of her, a red-carpeted staircase marched straight up and away, then abruptly turned to the right and vanished into the next story. The wall this created before her also cradled a wide, thick bookshelf…
Her fingers slackened on her baggage, and she stared.
A young man sat on top of this bookshelf.
He leaned back against a thick pillar, and stretched his long legs out across the top of the shelf. He wore only coal-colored trousers, stockings, a shirt and grey waistcoat—no coat or shoes or tie. He held a cumbersome old book up in front of him, a set of brass, round-rimmed reading glasses pinched to the end of his nose. Right beside his left shoulder, a lamp protruded from the pillar, illuminating the pages, as well as his angular, white, striking face, and short, curly dark hair. He turned his head. Light flashed from his lenses.
He frowned directly down at Her, over the top of his spectacles. A terrible, dark, stormy brow—eyes grey as frost caught in the morning sun.
“So you won’t tell Mrs. Butterfield your name,” he stated—his bass tones vibrated through Her marrow. “But you understand English and you’re not deaf.”
She nodded, clenching her jaw, feeling all her muscles go cold.
“Is your identity some sort of secret?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to guess?”
She clutched her bag handle so tightly she feared it might break.
He rolled his eyes, slapped his book shut and swung his legs over the side. He tossed the book down on top of the shelf—it landed with a tremendous thud. He pulled off his spectacles and set them on the book, then easily hopped down to the floor. The floorboards squeaked uproariously.
She sucked in her breath, her ribs contracting and her brow twisting as she fought not to turn and run. Even without his shoes, he was a good foot taller than she—lean, yet carelessly graceful. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets, kicked his head back and strode up to her, eyeing her down his nose.
“So what is it, then?” he asked flatly. “Lisp? Stuttering? Aphemia?”
She frowned up at him, blinking rapidly. He sighed again.
“Come, don’t be shy. I’ve heard every wretched utterance a human mouth can possibly spit out—no mumbling or sputtering that comes from yours has a chance of surprising me.”
She stood frozen, fighting to breathe, to keep her head from spinning…
He frowned harder at her, his grey eyes flashing with lightning—cutting down into her heart.
“Are you entirely mute, then?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing.
“Ah. All right.” He turned crisply, snatched up a piece of paper, a book and a pencil from off the piano, and swooped back toward her.
She flinched back.
“What—What on earth?” he scoffed, instantly stopping and wrinkling his nose at her. “Calm down. I’m not in the habit of attacking people with writing utensils.” He arranged the paper on top of the thin book, then held all three things out to her. “Tell me what you want.”
She stared at the paper, wide-eyed, her heartbeat accelerating.
“Come, come.” He shook the book and paper. “I have dinner at my club tonight and I still have to dress for it.”
Slowly, She set her bag down on the floor, stood up again, reached out and gingerly took the book and paper from him. She clutched them tight in both hands.
“Here,” he pushed the pencil at her.
She jerked back.
Mr. Collingwood sighed for the third time and put his free hand on his waist. He raised his eyebrows at her.
“In case you’ve forgotten, this instrument is what you need to actually write anything.”
Her fingers trembled. She pried her left hand loose of the book and paper, and took the pencil from him. Biting her lip, she pressed the tip to the paper.
And stopped.
Stared helplessly at that blank space. Her vision swam. The book and pencil trembled.
She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her brow twisted, her lips parted once more...
“Well, good lord!” Collingwood laughed incredulously. “You are mute and entirely illiterate?” He flung his hands out and gestured violently to her. “What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do with you?”
She stared at him, her blood suddenly boiling. Her eyes stung.
“Were you sent here by someone?” he wanted to know. “What sort of idiot sends an illiterate mute to a language expert? Do you have references he gave you? Is that what this is?” He took a quick step toward her and reached—
She threw the book, paper and pencil down. They slammed onto the floor.
She spun on her heel, flung the first door open, charged loudly down the short hallway, burst out the front door and darted into the night, cold tears running down her face.
Chapter Two
She jerked to a stop.
Sniffed, blinked the water out of her eyes, and quickly glanced around.
Evening had fallen. The fog had thickened so that she could only glimpse the median of the street to her left, but nothing beyond. Ahead of her, a few street lamps throbbed, and the phantoms of coaches, hansoms and horses trundled to and fro.
How far had she come?
She had broken into a run after leaving Pendywick Place, her vision scarlet, and rushed down several alleys and narrow side streets. Now, as she paused on a curb, shocking back to her senses…
She realized she had no idea where she was.
She spun around, searching the shadows behind her.
Nothing looked familiar.
Her breathing picked up, and she tasted the coal dust in the air. She swiped the tears off her face, squeezed her fists…
Gasped. Looked down.
She had left her bag at Pendywick Place.
Panic shot through her chest.
She grabbed her skirts and hurried back the way she had come, heart pounding, fighting to recognize one of the buildings, or a lamp, or a turn…
She kept going, straining against the increasing dark, her shoes slapping on the wet paving…
This way. She had to turn left to head the right direction—she was certain of it.
She turned a sharp corner, and plunged into an alley. Panting, she kept going, aiming for the lamp at the far end…
She kicked a bottle. It thudded against her shoe and skittered off ahead of her across the cobbles, then cracked against a nearby building.
She winced as the racket banged through the slender space, and she slowed down. Her wet skirts swished, her breathing echoed.
“Oi, what ‘ave we ‘ere?”
She whipped around.
A short figure emerged from a doorway. She could only see his outline—he wore a long coat, far too big for him, and a battered, tilted top-hat. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and cocked his head as he sauntered toward her.
“Wut, did you get lost, sweet ‘art?” he drawled. “Wut’s a lady like you doin’ in these parts o’ London?”
She gritted her teeth, and took two steps back from him. He sounded young, perhaps thirteen. She closed her fists tighter, and kept backing away. And he followed.
“Aow, wut’s the ‘urry, missus?” he insisted. “Just wanted a friendly chat. Lovely evenin’ for it.”
She took one more step back, turned to run—
Her shoulder struck something.
The stench of body odor and liquor washed over her. She leaped back.
A man blocked her path. Stout, broad-shouldered, and thick—he wore a crooked hat, too. She couldn’t see any more of his features—he loomed a black shadow over her.
A savage snarl sounded from around his knees. Her gaze darted down to find a small, muscular white dog baring its fangs at her.
“Easy, Bullseye,” the man soothed, his voice coarse and deep. He turned and looked at Her, and she could feel his gaze burning through her.
“We don’t want no trouble, Missus,” the man purred. “Just so long as you ‘and over yer valuables.”
She shook her head.
He lunged at her. Grabbed her by both wrists and jerked her toward him—clamped down so hard she felt her bones come together.
She bared her teeth, but made no sound.
“Ah, yer a good girl for not screamin’,” he breathed his rancid breath in her face.
The next moment, she felt a second set of quick hands feel her all over, and dip into her coat pockets.
“She ain’t got nothin’ we want, Mr. Sikes,” the boy declared.
She felt Sikes grin.
“Oh, yes she do.” And he slammed her back against the wall.
Her breath slapped out of her lungs. Her vision went black. With one hand, Mr. Sikes covered her mouth, and with the other he shoved in past her coat and wrapped his arm around her waist.
CRACK.
A sound like splitting sapling.
Sikes staggered, his head dipping. He released Her—her feet hit the ground again and she gasped, trying to clear her vision—
Sikes stumbled to the side, turning to face the other end of the alley—
A tall, lean man stood there, in a top-hat. The next second, a stick in his hand flashed like lightning—darted out and slapped Sikes in the side of the head.
Sikes’ hand twitched up to grab his own ear—he stared for half a second—then he roared out a long string of curses.
He lunged at the tall man.
The tall man stepped nimbly out of the way, whirled and clouted Sikes in the back of the neck.
Sikes toppled onto his face.
The dog roared and leaped at the tall man.
The tall man crisply clipped it in the nose, sending the dog howling back. With a sharp, outraged cry, Sikes scrambled up, trying to face the tall man—
The tall man coiled his stick over his shoulder and lashed Sikes in the temple. Sikes crumpled to the street.
Next second, the tall man whipped a revolver from beneath his coat, pivoted and sighted the opposite direction—
Where the boy jerked to a halt, dropped the bottle he held, and lifted both hands in the air.
“Wise decision,” the tall man decided. “I would hate to have to shoot you.”
She twitched. She knew that voice!
The tall man lifted his chin.
“But, if you come one step closer,” he warned, smooth and cold. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy stammered.
Then, the tall man tucked his gun back in his coat, took his stick in his left hand, and stepped up to Her.
“Are you all right?”
Basil. Basil Collingwood.
Her mouth worked, but she made no sound. Finally, she shut her jaw and just nodded, once.
“Come. This is no place for civilized people,” Basil muttered, taking her by the arm. He swept her past Sikes, still lying sprawled on the stones, as well as the snarling, whining dog—and out onto the lighted street once more.
a
He kept hold of her arm as they walked, though he did not grip her, and hustled her down the paving. At last she could see him. He wore a fine, long, fitted black coat, scarf and gloves, and his polished top hat perfectly framed his stormy brow, flashing grey glance and pale, angular profile. She wanted to pull loose of him—but all her muscles still trembled too badly. She could hear other people traipsing back and forth on the other side of the street, but still could not make out their shapes. She battled to gather her wits, calm her raging heartbeat—
Movement up ahead.
A medium-sized dog darted out of an alley, stopped, saw them and pricked up its ears. It had an intelligent, foxlike face, a curled tail, and slender body and limbs—and it was the most unusual blond color. It had bright gold eyes with black around them, almost like Egyptian khol.
It wagged its tail, and trotted toward them.
“Hullo, Jack,” Basil greeted the dog, slowing their pace to a stop. Jack quickly sniffed Her skirts, glancing sideways up at her as he did.
“I would introduce you, but the lady seems disinclined to share her information with me,” Basil remarked flatly. She watched the dog carefully, daring to put her hand down to touch his head…
He let her, continuing his inspection.
“Jack assisted me in finding you,” Basil explained offhand, taking up his stick, letting go of her and starting forward again. “But I wouldn’t let him follow me entirely because I knew there was a bulldog in that alley. Jack would fight, of course, but he isn’t remotely equipped to make a contest of it. Rather like yourself.”
She ground her teeth and followed after him. Jack hopped out of her way, then pranced easily beside her, catching up to Basil. His claws clicked on the stone in rhythm to Basil’s walking stick.
“I’d like to know exactly what you were thinking of, taking off by yourself in London, all alone, without the slightest idea as to where you were going,” Basil said, lengthening his stride so she had to quicken her pace to keep up. “But of course, you’re not going to enlighten me, so I ought to have checked my curiosity at the door.”
They wound down a few more streets, and She could hear the rising sound of traffic coming from a busy road ahead. Then, he turned down a horseshoe shaped lane…
And before them, just as morose as before, rose Pendywick Place.
“You left your luggage on my floor, along with the mess you made,” Basil told her, trotting up his front steps. “And you’ve made me late to my club.” He turned and gave her a sarcastic smile. “You’re welcome.”
She felt heat rise in her face. He turned back around and pushed through the door. Jack hopped up the steps and darted inside right along with him. She hoisted her skirts and climbed after—and then caught the door as it almost fell shut on her head. She grabbed its edge, her muscles binding up as she wildly considered thrashing it hard back against the inside wall—but she stopped herself.
Instead, she took a deep breath, and trailed after the sound of Basil and Jack clattering through the second door and into the library, where the floorboards screeched under their footsteps.
“Oh, heavens—did you find her?” Mrs. Butterfield cried, hurrying through the door by the staircase. “Gracious, child, I wish you hadn’t done that! Gone out into the streets all alone, at this hour!”
She tried to smile at Mrs. Butterfield as she stepped through the second door, but didn’t quite manage. Mrs. Butterfield grasped her earnestly by the upper arms and leaned in to look at her.
“Your face is all smeared with soot—and your neck is red! What happened to you?”
“She was accosted by a pair of colorful gentlemen and a dog in a back alley,” Basil filled in for her, taking off his hat. “So at least we’ve discovered one thing about her,” He gave her a look. “She isn’t from Town. Now, Mrs. Butterfield, if you’ll get her bag and order a hansom to take her to the train station so she doesn’t go wandering off into Shoreditch, I’m sure she’d be much obliged.”
Her head came up and She stared at him—but he crisply put his hat back on and turned back toward the door.
“I’m off. I’ll need tea at ten o’clock,” he barked, and he strode through the second door, leaving Jack behind, his tail wagging faintly as he watched Basil go.
She felt Mrs. Butterfield squeeze her arms, and her head came back around.
“I’ll beg pardon from the master later, but I’ll do no such thing,” she said firmly, her eyes bright. She briskly rubbed her hands up and down Her arms and gave her a smile. “You’ll come to the kitchen with me, warm up by the fire, have something to eat, and clean yourself up. Come on, Jack,” she called, and she urged Her through that side door by the staircase and into a hallway, the dog following behind, perked with interest.
She followed Mrs. Butterfield down the dim corridor, which was lined with portraits, and into a grand dining room, lit by a low chandelier. The table could seat ten people, but it was not set—only a very long, lace tablecloth covered it, and two silver candlesticks with white candles. On the far wall, presiding over the whole room, a tattered, mounted lion’s head opened its mouth in a silent roar—though it was missing one top fang.
“That’s Leonidas,” Mrs. Butterfield commented. “Mr. Collingwood picked him up at an estate sale—said he’d been looking for something to fill that empty space. But I rather think he just felt sorry for the poor thing—he’s always been fond of animals of all shapes and sizes.”
Mrs. Butterfield kept walking, while She eyed the lion and frowned at the housekeeper’s remark.
Ahead of her, Mrs. Butterfield pushed through a swinging door, and so She followed…
Into a charming, well-lit kitchen.
A long table with two chairs sat square in the middle, a ceiling-high cabinet stood in the far corner between two windows, a smaller table with no chairs waited by one range, and copper pots crowded yet another range. The range by the table radiated heat. All the corners and shelves were packed with bowls, pots and pans, jars, bottles and crocks—but everything was clean, tidy and orderly. It smelled like roasted bird, potatoes, and lye soap. Mrs. Butterfield clomped across the wooden floor to the range, waving Her to the table.
“Have a seat, dear, and I’ll find what you need.”
The dog trotted casually in, following Mrs. Butterfield, watching her every move.
Carefully, She eased down into one of the wooden chairs and watched Mrs. Butterfield open the cabinets and get out the tea things, which clinked as she set them on the counter. She then moved to a large copper tank against the wall, twisted a knob…
And water shot out into her kettle.
Staring, She sat up straight, astonished—and wanted to hurry over and see this phenomenon closer. But no sooner had the kettle filled than Mrs. Butterfield twisted the knob the other way and the water stopped. She then set the kettle on the range with a clank, opened the front of the range and jabbed the fire with a poker.
“Now, I’ll get you something to eat whilst you warm up,” Mrs. Butterfield sighed, wiping her hands off on her apron. The housekeeper sent Her a smile. “It’s nice to have company in the eveningtime again. We haven’t hosted a dinner in this house in an age. I used to have my daughter here, Betsy, but this past summer she got a job at a great house in the country. She’s always wanted to see the countryside—poor girl was born in London and always felt stifled by all the coal and the traffic. I’d say she’ll be a good sight happier and healthier out there—but that means I hardly ever see her!”
As she talked, Mrs. Butterfield went into the pantry and gathered up a half loaf of bread, a cut of cheddar cheese, some butter and jam, and began preparing them on a plate on the counter. Jack sat down near her, wagged his tail, and licked his lips.
“Mr. Cutworth is a qualified butler to be sure,” Mrs. Butterfield went on. “But he keeps to himself in his off hours, reading in his room and taking his meals there too, and isn’t talkative during the day. And Mr. Collingwood, well—you have seen how he is.” The kettle whistled. She snatched it off the range and poured the steaming water into the teapot. “He’s popular enough with his friends and professors from Oxford, and men who share the same profession—he’s highly respected for his research. And he’s brilliant, of course. Written eleven books, and he isn’t yet thirty years old! And several articles and papers for respected journals, besides. And he has many patients who come to him for help with their speech impediments, that haven’t had any luck anywhere else.” Mrs. Butterfield turned and handed a small piece of cheese down to Jack. Watching her hand, Jack carefully took it from her and ate it. Mrs. Butterfield then brought the plate of cold things to Her and set them down on the table, then carried the tea tray over to follow. With a heavy sigh, Mrs. Butterfield sat down across from Her, at the end of the table. Jack came over as well, and sat next to her chair.
“Sugar?” Mrs. Butterfield asked.
She nodded.
“How many?”
She held up two fingers. Mrs. Butterfield smiled, and tossed two lumps into one of the white cups.
“Cream?”
She nodded again, and Mrs. Butterfield splashed a bit of cream in that same cup, then poured the dark, steaming tea in after it. Reaching over to take it, She gave Mrs. Butterfield a smile, making sure that the older woman saw it. She did, and returned it. And now that She could study Mrs. Butterfield closer, she found that the woman’s features beamed like a warm hearth on a winter night—and her eyes sparkled.
“Of course, his manner makes him a bit intolerable to folk who don’t understand it,” Mrs. Butterfield poured her own tea without cream or sugar. She chuckled. “And he’s never yet met a lady who could stand his company, except his mother, his sister—oh, and Miss Harrison, the sister of one of his school friends. She only laughs at his jibes, and she listens when he discusses such complicated subjects in language and phonetics—I can barely understand whatever it is he’s talking about—Oh, good heavens!” Mrs. Butterfield suddenly sat up straight. So did She, and her eyebrows raised.
“I’m just sitting here chatting with you and having tea—I’ve completely forgotten my manners,” Mrs. Butterfield got up out of her chair and hastily dusted off her apron. “I’m afraid I’ve been so lonely these past months, it’s made me forget my place—and here I am, presuming to speak on equal terms with a lady!”
Alarmed, She reached out and grasped Mrs. Butterfield’s sleeve. Mrs. Butterfield went still, watching her…
Squeezing harder, She shook her head, and gave her another earnest smile.
“Well…” Mrs. Butterfield ventured. “As long as you don’t mind…”
Again, She shook her head. And so Mrs. Butterfield sat back down. After a moment, she became comfortable once more, and began telling Her about how they had found the dog Jack on the street when he was just a young thing, and he had come home with Basil and become his instant friend. As she listened, She carefully ate the food in front of her, and slowly drank the tea, watching the attractive dog lie down placidly between them, ears tilted toward their conversation.
After they finished, Mrs. Butterfield gathered everything up, and took it over to the counter by the large copper tank.
“Come with me, dear, and I’ll set you up in a place to sleep.”
So She got up and followed Mrs. Butterfield and Jack toward a door at the back of the kitchen—one that opened up into a chilly, narrow, wooden, servant’s staircase. As she passed a cabinet, Mrs. Butterfield grabbed a lit lantern, and held it aloft as she started to climb.
“Keep close,” Mrs. Butterfield advised. “I’ll let the dog go first—he knows the way.” She stepped to the side and Jack clambered up the stairs and into the darkness. Then, the two women continued on.
Every step creaked with a louder and more ridiculous note. They both gathered up their skirts and treaded carefully, not wishing to trip. They wound their way up to a landing, then to another staircase. At the top of this, they stepped out onto the third floor, having skipped the second entirely. Mrs. Butterfield stepped out into this dark corridor, and spoke softly.
“This is where my rooms are, and Mr. Cutworth’s. Mine are at the far end. His are here,” she pointed to the shut door in front of her. “Come this way.”
Together, they crept a few paces down the hall, then turned left into a little room—another library, very small. To the right and left, shelves stood floor to ceiling. An in the center of the room, an iron, spiral staircase stretched up into the next story.
Jack perched midway up it, looking down at them. She smiled at him.
“This way.” Mrs. Butterfield urged, and started up this new staircase. She followed. Finally, they rose to another landing, and Mrs. Butterfield opened the door.
“Nobody has slept in this room for about fifteen years—not since the other house maid Nelly Smith died. But I keep it in good order—I hate to have any bedroom get dusty and out of sorts.”
Mrs. Butterfield went inside and took the light with her, illuminating a small, square room with a single, curtained window. A low fireplace stood empty against the far wall, and to the left of it stood an iron-framed single-sized bed wearing a white quilt and pillows, with a trunk at its foot. A red armchair waited on the other side of the fireplace, beside a little sewing table. In another corner was a vanity with a mirror, brush, comb, bowl and pitcher. Jack stood in the center of the rug, regarding Her, as if to gauge her reaction. Mrs. Butterfield quickly lit the lamp on that sewing table, then bent and swiftly started a fire, which soon started to dance and crackle.
She watched Mrs. Butterfield for a moment—and then her eye caught on something.
A brown satchel sitting on the floor near the foot of the bed.
She darted to it and snatched it up—pried open the top, looked inside—
Crushed it to her heart and closed her eyes.
“I brought that up here for you,” Mrs. Butterfield said, standing up and facing her. “I knew you would be staying the night. No matter what the master said, I wasn’t going to let you go out into that cold again without any rest! Especially after what happened.”
All She could do was look at her, trying to smile and fighting not to cry.
“Oh, dear, it’s all right,” Mrs. Butterfield patted Her shoulder. “I’ll go downstairs and fetch you some night clothes and a dress for tomorrow. Both Mrs. Collingwood and Miss Imogen—Mr. Collingwood’s sister—leave clothes here for when they come to stay—but I’d imagine you’re closer to Miss Imogen’s size. Oh, and I’ll get some warm water so you can have a wash. I will be right back. Come on, Jack!” And the two of them headed back down the stairs, leaving the door open, as She stood gazing after them, now warm and dry by the fire.
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