Coleen Kwan - Darke London

Elijah nodded in sympathy. “Often the path to self-knowledge is littered with blind alleys.”

“In all honesty I cannot regret my circuitous path, for it brought Nellie into my life.” Julian drew in a deep breath. “Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here saying these things to you.” And without his dogged pursuit of Sir Thaddeus, she would be dead and forgotten. Their fates were as closely interwoven as the fibres of the carpet beneath his feet.

His father smiled. “Yes, we’re all the better for having Nellie in our lives.”

But for how much longer? He studied the faded Turkish rug. The edges of the carpet were frayed, the weft threads coming apart. Even hard-wearing, tightly knitted rugs could unravel. Nellie had grown stronger, more independent. She didn’t need him as much, perhaps not at all. And he? For months he’d been chasing the past, but now the future beckoned him, filled with hard work and possibilities, the most important of which was: would his future continue to lace with hers?

From across the broad street, Julian watched Nellie as she rang the bell of the Ormond townhouse. The rich green wool of her riding habit suited her colouring and figure. He admired her straight, narrow back and trim shoulders, her head held high and proud. Her abundant chestnut curls glinted in the sunlight, unhampered by any veil or hat. On their journey to Mayfair, she’d attracted a few stares, and some street urchins had pointed at her and screwed up their faces, but Nellie had been unperturbed. She was done with all disguise.

Now, as a footman opened the door, he knew she would have no problem penetrating the inner sanctum of the Ormond residence. But once she saw Pip, what would happen then? Would her old feelings for him be revived? At Madame Olga’s apartment Pip had finally demonstrated a bit of gumption. He’d stood up to his father, although pulling a gun on him had not been quite worthy, but nevertheless he’d shown some mettle, and perhaps that would relight the spark for Nellie.

Disgruntled by his thoughts, Julian turned his attention to the horses and looped the reins over the iron railings bordering a garden square. He flexed his shoulders, which still twinged on occasion, and rubbed his jaw where the bruises were beginning to fade. It had been three days since Nellie had declared she must see her husband. They did not even know if Sir Thaddeus had survived the gunshot, though none of the newspapers they’d avidly scanned had announced his demise. When Nellie had decided this was the day to visit Mayfair, Julian, as stubborn as ever, had been too proud to ask her intentions, even though he’d insisted on accompanying her, so here he must wait for her return.

“Muffin, sir?”

Julian glanced round to see a muffin boy standing on the pavement, a huge tray on his head threatening to topple over. “Boy, why don’t you put that down before you drop it?”

The youth lowered his tray to the ground and rubbed his flattened hair. “Cor, that feels better.”

Several inches of scrawny arm protruded beyond the sleeves of his tattered coat. His boots seemed to be more holes than leather. He looked about ten, although it was hard to tell, street urchins invariably being undernourished. The boy unwrapped his tray to reveal a sorry collection of lumpy, burnt muffins.

“Three for a ha’penny, sir.” The boy eyed Julian warily, no doubt cautious of his bruised face.

From the quantity and condition of the muffins, it was clear the boy had not made many sales that day. “You should try plying your trade around Spitalfields, perhaps,” Julian said. “You’ll not sell many of those muffins around these parts.”

The urchin’s face fell. “T’ Chapel is where I usually go, but yesterdee two dollymops set ’pon me and stole me money. So I thought to try a safer area today.”

“Do you have a mother or father? Any family at all to take care of you?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t need no taking care of. Bin on the streets long’s I can remember.”

Julian took in a slow breath. This ragamuffin could have been him, if Elijah hadn’t taken him in. Not just taken him in, but loved him, cared for him, and treated him like his own flesh and blood. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and fingered the bee brooch nestled there. The sharp end of the pin pricked his fingers. Ever since his and Elijah’s heartfelt exchange, the brooch had remained in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t yet decided what to do with it, but each day the bagatelle seemed to grow heavier in his pocket.

“Will ye buy a muffin or two?” the urchin wheedled.

Julian nodded. “I will, but on one condition. You are to eat as many muffins as you like, and I will pay for them.”

The boy’s mouth fell open, revealing a pitiful collection of rotting teeth. “But, sir, I only et the broken bits at t’ end o’ the day.”

And that was probably the only food he had all day. “You must eat as much as you can before my friend returns.” Julian waved at the tray. “Well, boy, what are you waiting for?”

The urchin stared at him a few more seconds, then fell on the muffins like a ravenous little stoat.

“Your poor, poor face. Oh, what an awful thing to happen!” Pip stretched out his hands tentatively towards Nellie. She thought he was going to touch her cheek, but at the last moment he pulled back. “How terrible, terrible .”

Did he really need to carry on so? Could he not see how his gushing sympathy only drew more attention to her injuries? And she did not much care for the way he’d shrunk from touching her.

“It’s not that bad,” Nellie said. “I don’t feel much pain in my face, and my new fingers work splendidly.”

He winced as she flexed her artificial fingers in front of him. “But those dreadful scars… You must consult the best doctors in London. At my expense, of course. I insist.”

“Thank you, but no. I am growing quite accustomed to my new look.”

“You are?” He goggled at her in disbelief. “Oh, Nellie, I’m so glad you’re alive and well…”

His voice trailed off. When he’d gotten over the shock of seeing her, he hadn’t embraced her, she’d noticed. Nor had he said he’d mourned her or behaved with any of the joy a husband might have felt for a wife he’d thought he’d buried. In truth, Pip did not seem overwhelmed with pleasure at discovering he was once more a married man.

She glanced around the drawing room where Pip had received her. The elegant room stunned the visitor with its dazzling plasterwork and intricately carved woodwork, its rich furnishings and soaring proportions. All this grandeur, but it had been paid for by Pip’s mother’s inheritance. The magnificence of the Ormonds was merely a wafer-thin facade. Once, it had awed her, but now it repelled her to realise how much human misery it had cost.

She narrowed her gaze at Pip. “How is your father?”

At her abrupt question, his cheeks flushed bright pink. “He’s met with an untimely accident a few days ago.” He toyed with the cuffs of his frock coat. “He, er, accidentally shot himself while handling his pistol. He is upstairs, gravely ill.”

“I see. And the prognosis?”

“Not good. The doctors tell me the bullet is lodged in his neck and cannot be removed. Even if he survives he will never be able to move or even speak.”

“An accident, you say.”

“Yes!” Pip pushed his hands into his pockets, pulled them out, raked his hair and looked thoroughly perturbed. “Yes, a complete accident.”

“Oh, Pip,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly. “I know it was you who shot him. I was there that night. Can’t you guess? I was Madame Dariya.”

He gaped at her as if she’d run him through with a lance. “You? Madame D-Dariya? You mean it was… it was all…”