Mary Brendan - A Kind And Decent Man

‘We’re lost again?’ Victoria demanded incredulously, and then, horrified, corrected, ‘We require Rosemary House, in Cheapside, Mr Prescott. Not Rosemary Lane.’ She glanced warily at the scruffy, stocky man with George Prescott. His features were virtually lost beneath a tangle of beard that seemed almost attached to scraggy brows. His sharp black eyes were distinguishable: they slipped assessingly over her fine clothes before sliding sideways to the unattended carriage behind her.

Victoria stiffened. Two sleeping women were left there alone and unprotected. She attempted to divert the man’s astute stare. ‘Are there street entertainers?’ She was sure her voice sounded squeakily unnatural and quickly indicated a crowd of people forming a circle. Raucous shouts and laughter crescendoed as people began spilling onto the cobbles from brightly lit inns and gin shops situated on either side of the narrow street. Flares formed moving pools of glowing gold amid flickering patches of darkness. She watched in increasing alarm as drunkards linked arms, holding each other up, yet still up-ended tankards and tots. Two blowsy, rouged women passed close by and subjected Victoria to a spiteful-eyed stare.

‘Look at ‘er…proper Miss ‘Oity-Toity, ain’t she?’ one spat coarsely. They both screeched with laughter as the scruffy man gave them a playful shove and told them to mind their manners. Before weaving on, they swore and gesticulated good-naturedly at him.

‘Why not look, my lady?’ her unkempt champion challenged her. ‘We gets people o’ quality about here on cock-fighting night. Lords ‘n all sorts. They comes to wager and partake o’ the sport. Jugglers in the market there. Plenty to see ‘n buy. Yer’ll judge us proper decent folk compared to the Ratcliffe Highway scum. Come, yer’ll not be alone wi’ ruffians. I’ll look out fer yer and finds out direkshuns to…What was that address agin? Rosemary sumthink?’ He solicitously lowered his head for her response but his intention was closer inspection of what delightful promise Victoria’s cloak concealed.

Cautiously stepping back, Victoria glanced appealingly at old George Prescott. Her driver was scratching at his head again. ‘As I recall, Cheapside is…’ He rotated on the spot with a searching finger in the air.

‘Cock-fighting, you say?’ Victoria gulped, feigning interest in the barbaric pastime. Their carriage was still intermittently drawing this rough stranger’s acquisitive attention, and, hoping to distance him from it, Victoria said breathlessly, ‘I’ve never before seen such a spectacle…’

The man obstructed her as she made to speed past him. ‘Nor never likely to see agin, I reckons. What you doin’ ‘ere? Sweet little lady like you? Come fer the sport, did yer? Bored little lady, is yer?’ he breathed close to her face with a foxy smile. ‘Well, I’ll shows yer some better sport than yer’ll get off them cocks…’ He howled with laughter, painfully tightening dirty fingers about an evasive arm.

‘Unhand me at once,’ Victoria demanded, her alarm now backed by anger, her grey eyes sparking jet-black in her white face.

‘Unhand you…is it?’ he mimicked. ‘You ain’t in Mayfair now, duckie. Yer on my manor and yer’ll…’

Victoria was no longer listening. She was staring wide-eyed past her tormentor and at that precise moment the focus of her amazement turned, laughing, from his male companion and saw her.

‘David…’ Victoria whispered in shock and stupendous relief.

‘Victoria?’

She was too far away from him to hear her name, but she saw it on his lips, just as she saw her own disbelief and astonishment mirrored in his face. His blond companion took money from his unresisting fingers then wandered off towards some stalls set up.

There was a small group of gentlemen present, clearly distinguishable by their arrogant bearing and expensive dress. And they were, indeed, wagering, she obliquely realised. This local ruffian hadn’t lied on that score. As though sensing he was favourably considered, the man fumbled two large hands inside her cloak.

For little more than a second Victoria desperately fended him off, then he was savagely spun away from her and sent tottering back on his heels.

David Hardinge stood facing the giddy Lothario with his back to her. ‘Not your type, Toby,’ he stated, in an odd mix of lazy drawl and steely threat.

The man regained his balance, simultaneously shaking his shaggy head and whipping up ham-like fists in aggression. But, instead of charging, grimy fingers scraped across his bristly, bashful face. ‘Sorry, milord. Didn’t know she was yours, honest.’ He shifted uncomfortably then executed an incongruous sort of bow-cum-curtsey before sloping off, muttering, ‘Some looka.’

Before Victoria could draw breath to thank him, she was propelled backwards, fast up against the licheny brickwork of a building. Two rigid, barring arms slammed at either side of her, shielding her face from view.

Everything once dear and familiar about him bombarded her senses: his warmth and muscular strength, his fresh cologne, so welcome a fragrance in the hotchpotch of odours. Instinctively she swayed closer then started back.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ David Hardinge bit out so ferociously through his teeth, his thin lips barely parted.

Victoria winced as though he’d hit her. His intense, almost tangible fury dried her mouth and her head throbbed with tension.

The shabby stranger had alarmed her; this elegantly dressed man she believed she knew terrified her. Yet, paradoxically, a serene sense of safety let her rest back against the brickwork and raise languid eyes to his. Flickering torchlight threw into stark relief his fierce, anxious expression. Fear for her safety had prompted his anger. The instinct to protect radiated from him. It was in his rigid stance, in the way he used his body to shield her as people pressed close by them.

Hard, unsteady fingers lifted to her cheek before sliding across her jaw.

Mesmerised by the soothing caress, Victoria simply stared up at him. She had thought this all forgotten, banished from her life for ever. This touch…this man inclined towards her, his mouth close to hers.

Long sooty lashes parted to reveal tortured relief in his sapphire eyes. ‘What in damnation do you think you’re doing here?’ he gritted out.

‘Looking for you,’ Victoria answered with rash honesty.

‘Looking for me?’ he repeated.

Victoria dipped her head, feeling her face heating at her unguarded confession. But it was honest, she remotely realised. It was the absolute truth. She now accepted in this noxious London marketplace what she had refused to acknowledge in the quiet sanctuary of Hertfordshire: the only reason she had agreed to leave her papa and Hartfield in the servants’ care was to come to London with her aunt, seek out this man and ask him to marry her. To save them all from destitution, she needed him to want her again.

‘Looking for me?’ David persisted, a light finger sliding beneath her oval chin to try to make her meet his eyes.

Victoria subtly shielded her chagrin by turning her face into his shoulder. Everything had gone so awfully wrong! And so soon! He would naturally expect some explanation for such an outrageous declaration. She had seen this man but once in seven years. That reunion had hardly been auspicious, yet, despite it, she had just freely implied searching an insalubrious London district for him on a chilly spring night.

Subconsciously she had planned a far more favourable meeting. Perhaps when she was finely dressed in her beautiful lilac silk gown, when she could attempt to charm him as she once had. As it was, she knew she looked fatigued and dishevelled. Her grey velvet bonnet had been discarded in the carriage and dusky tresses wisped untidily about her face in the biting night breeze. Her dark woollen travelling cloak had been chosen for warmth rather than fashion. Oh, there couldn’t have been a worse time for her to have let slip such vital information!