Claire Thornton - The Vagabond Duchess

‘Perhaps we ought to go to Covent Garden,’ she said.

‘I’m sure Mistress Cruikshank would prefer to be safe in the bosom of her family,’ said Jack.

It occurred to Temperance that, if they took Agnes to Covent Garden, she would still be their responsibility. Whereas, if they took her to her niece in Southwark, they could leave her with a clear conscience. She started to nod in silent agreement and saw from the ghost of Jack’s familiar grin he was thinking the same thing.

It was very late by the time they reached their destination. Temperance had been outraged by the greed of the watermen. If she’d been alone she wouldn’t have been able to afford the crossing. It was a relief to hand Agnes over to her niece, Fanny Berridge.

‘You’re welcome to stay here,’ said Fanny, looking harried.

‘Thank you, but I’m eager to return to Covent Garden,’ Jack said, and a moment later Temperance found herself back in the crowded Southwark streets.

Even though it was nearly midnight, people were out of doors, watching the catastrophe unfold on the other side of the river. Temperance’s shoulders slumped at the prospect ahead of them. The journey to Covent Garden would be as exhausting and expensive as the journey they’d made from Cheapside to Southwark. She looked at Jack and saw he was carrying the sewing box. She couldn’t remember putting it down. She reached to take it from him, even though she was so tired she was almost past caring whether she lost it.

‘I’ll carry it,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He guided her with his free arm around her shoulders.

‘At least we can sit down on the boat,’ she roused herself to say. ‘How can they be so greedy?’ She was thinking of the iniquitous amount Jack had paid for their last river crossing, but she was too tired to be angry. She was glad she was with Jack. If she’d been alone, there was a good chance she would have found the nearest quiet spot and fallen sleep in the street. She made an effort to be more alert.

‘Why aren’t you asleep on your feet?’ she mumbled, mildly resentful of his stamina.

‘It wasn’t my house,’ he replied.

‘What?’

‘Everything we’ve had to do over the past two days would be enough to tire anyone. I feel it myself.’ Jack flexed his arms and grimaced. ‘I wasn’t sorry to deliver Agnes. But I think it is grief which is making you so very tired. There’s no shame in that, sweetheart. Grief is a wearisome emotion. But it will pass.’

‘Where are we going?’ Temperance suddenly noticed they weren’t heading for the river.

‘To find a room—or at least a bed—for the rest of the night,’ he replied.

‘But all the inns will be full,’ Temperance protested, even though she yearned to lie down and close her eyes.

‘We’ll find somewhere,’ said Jack. ‘Even if we have to share an attic with the scullery maid.’

Temperance was so tired she could hardly find the energy to climb the stairs. She lifted one foot on to the next wooden tread and wearily levered her body up another six inches. Only a few more steps and she could go to bed. The familiar staircase was deep in midnight shadow. She pushed open her bedchamber door. The room was ablaze in bright orange fire. She stared in horror. The flames licked towards her. She turned and fled down the stairs. The fire pursued her. She ran through the streets, the flames hard on her heels. Her heart thundered with panic, but her exhaustion was forgotten. She tried to reach the Thames, but over and over new flames leapt up to block her route. At last she teetered on the very edge of the river steps. Black and red water swirled below. A boat bobbed just out of reach. The fire rose in a huge column behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the flames were poised to swallow her whole. She stretched desperately towards the boat, but it floated further away. She overbalanced. Falling towards the terrible river of burning blood—

T emperance’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding, her limbs tingling with fear. Now she was awake the terror was even greater than in her nightmare. The dream had been so real she almost expected to be engulfed in flames at any second.

‘Gently, sweetheart,’ a soft voice murmured from behind her.

She felt a reassuring touch on her arm. Still more asleep than awake, it took several long, panicky moments for her to shake off the remnants of her nightmare. Slowly she remembered who she was with, where they were and what had happened to bring them to this place.

They were in a tiny room, little more than a cupboard, in a Southwark inn. The bed was small and the mattress lumpy. All Temperance could see when she looked straight ahead was the dirty plaster four inches from her nose. It dawned on her that Jack was lying beside her, but she couldn’t see him because she was facing the wrong way.

He kept running his hand lightly up and down her upper arm and talking softly to her. He must have realised she was having a nightmare.

She took a deep breath and began to cough. Jack helped her to sit up. She leant against him as she tried to control the paroxysms. At last she was able to sit quietly. She rested her head on Jack’s shoulder, too heartsore to care about propriety.

‘Did you dream about the fire?’ he asked.

She nodded jerkily and started to cry. From the moment she’d realised Agnes had been left in her shop there had been no time to dwell on the fate of her home. Now she knew her dream had shown her the exact truth. She hadn’t been standing on her stairs when her bedchamber caught fire, but by now it had burned just as surely as in her nightmare.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry,’ Jack murmured.

She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. For a little while her grief was too overwhelming to control. It was the first time since the death of her father that there had been anyone to comfort her. She clung to Jack, uncharacteristically surrendering to the full force of her emotions. She’d been raised to show more self-discipline than this, but Jack didn’t seem shocked. He held her close in a strong, steady embrace. He even rummaged up a grimy handkerchief to offer her.

There was a window facing towards the Thames. The inferno burning on the other side of the river cast a flickering, shadowy light over the bed. Temperance kept her head turned away from the window, but the sight of the handkerchief provoked her into an unexpected hiccough of laughter.

‘I’ve got my own,’ she said. ‘I am a linen draper.’

She pulled away from Jack, immediately missing the sense of security she’d felt in his arms. It was tempting to lean against him again, but she sat up straight and concentrated on finding her handkerchief. Finally, she produced the square of linen and dried her eyes and blew her nose. She still had to stifle an unexpected sob now and then, but she felt calmer.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘What for?’ Jack sounded mildly amused. ‘You spurned my chivalrous gesture.’

‘For…’ She hesitated. ‘Never mind,’ she said, not wanting to dwell on her loss of self-control. ‘I suppose a man with your varied past is always finding himself in unusual situations. I expect weeping women are commonplace in your life.’

To her surprise, Jack started to laugh. ‘When all else fails I stick pins in them,’ he said. ‘Although fresh chopped onion is also—’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Temperance interrupted crossly.

‘It has happened,’ he replied, more seriously than she’d anticipated. ‘But I hope I am wiser—and kinder—now.’

‘Is she…?’ Temperance’s breath caught at the implication of his words. ‘Is she waiting for you now?’ She knew so little about Jack Bow, but he had come to mean a lot to her in the past few days. Was she just another interlude in his wayward life?