Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

She dashed beneath the massive portico and into the station’s Great Hall, heedless of the curious looks she received from travelers. For a moment, she stood beneath the hall’s soaring ceiling, trying to get her bearings.

A uniformed porter passed by, and stared at her with surprise when she grabbed his arm. “The twelve-thirty to Liverpool,” she demanded. “What platform?”

“Platform five, miss. But—”

She shoved a coin into his hand and sprinted off. The crowds were thick, passengers and luggage thronging the platforms, and she ducked and twisted through the mob as she made her way toward platform 5.

Please please please don’t let me be too late.

There. Just ahead. Tearing free from the crowd, she ran to the platform.

Just in time to see the train pulling out.

She sprinted after it, calling Jack’s name—though she knew he’d never hear her above the shrill whistle or sound of the engine. The train left the station in a cloud of steam. She trotted to a stop, watching the last carriage grow smaller, then disappear as the track curved. It felt like the disappearance of hope itself.

No—this wasn’t failure. As Simon had revealed to her, she’d fought for others, now she would fight for herself and for Jack. There were other trains to Liverpool. And if his ship sailed before she could reach it, there were other ships that voyaged to Boston. Whatever it took, for however long, she’d find him.

Intending to head straight to the ticket office, she turned.

Jack stood right behind her.

Neither of them seemed capable of movement or speech for several moments. They simply stared at each other. He looked as stunned as she felt.

Hand shaking, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the bead from her gown. “Forgot this.”

“I’ve got another.” He plucked the tiny piece of glass from his coat’s breast pocket. It looked like the smallest bit of punctuation between his thick fingers. Then he tucked it away, right beside his heart.

They spoke at the same time. “You came.” “You stayed.”

She shook her head. “Let me…” Stepping closer, her heart pounding in her throat, she said, “My work is important—but there are people who need justice all over the world. There’s only one you. I…” Her mouth went dry, but she pressed on. “I love you, Jack.”

He closed his eyes, and a tremor ran through him. It stunned her, to see such a large, strong man so shaken. Doubt crept poisonously into her mind. Had he changed his mind? Did he no longer want her? She couldn’t truly blame him if he turned away, but if he did, she’d do whatever she must to get him back.

“I was afraid,” she continued.

“Afraid?” He opened his eyes, looking angry that she might even suggest such a thing. “I’ve seen you storm a brothel crawling with bullies. You marched through the roughest neighborhood in London. Frightened women don’t do things like that.”

“Being with you,” she said, “seeing who I could become—it all taught me something about courage. It’s more than staring down the barrel of a gun. It means running through Euston Station like a madwoman, hoping that it’s not too late to share my life with you.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Please tell me it isn’t too late.”

To the shock and scandal of everyone on platform 5, he pulled Eva tight against him and kissed her. She ignored the gasps of outrage, aware only of him, his mouth, his unguarded need. For her.

It was as though all the meaningless nonsense in the world arranged itself into a poem of aching beauty and clarity.

He pulled back just enough to growl, “Goddamn, I love you. From the first time I saw you, pointing a gun at me, I knew you’d be either my death or my salvation.”

“Not death,” she said. “Not salvation. We are each other’s future.”

EPILOGUE

Manchester, England, 1887

“It’s a jab, a straight right, then a left hook.” Jack demonstrated the combination for the crowd of boys gathered around him. “Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.

“Not sir, ” he corrected. “Either call me Jack or Mr. Dutton, but I’m nobody’s sir. ”

Shyly, the boys nodded.

“All right,” he said, clapping his hands, “I want to see everyone practice the combination. And if you’ve got any questions, be sure to ask me.”

The boys broke from their ring surrounding him and began to go over the moves. He walked up and down, making necessary adjustments, offering encouragement. One thing these lads didn’t get enough of outside the school—praise. But when they came to Dutton’s Boxing and Academic Training, he made sure that their mistakes were corrected but their efforts were cheered.

The place had a fancy name, but there wasn’t anything fancy about it. The warehouse he and Eva had converted had a leaky roof, the boxing ring wasn’t more than ropes tied to posts he’d hammered into the ground, and the desks Eva used for tutoring children were mismatched, usually broken castoffs.

But he felt a strange thing when he stood as he did now, watching the rows of boys practicing their boxing combinations and hearing Eva in the next room taking a dozen girls and boys through their mathematics—pride.

They’d made this, him and Eva. It took hard work, and they weren’t living a plush life, but it was theirs.

They’d debated for a while where they would settle. With a new name, a new identity, he could go anywhere. Jack honestly hadn’t cared about where he went, so long as he was with her. So they ultimately decided on Manchester. Less worry that he might run into someone who’d recognize him as Diamond Jack Dalton, but close enough that if the London branch of Nemesis needed them, they were easily reached by telegram and train.

“All right,” he called out after several minutes, “that’s enough for today. Anyone who wants to stay and take lessons with Mrs. Dutton is welcome to.”

It never failed to surprise and please him how many of the boys chose to stick around and work on their learning. It also never failed to fill him with heat and pleasure to call Eva missus. They’d been married almost a year ago in a little, out-of-the-way church, with the Nemesis operatives as witnesses, and he’d never felt bigger or stronger than he had when she’d said, I do thee wed.

He now ambled over to the partition that served to divide the warehouse—boxing studio on one side, school on the other. Leaning against the door he’d cut into the partition, he watched Eva walking up and down the rows of desks. Just as he’d done with the boxing practice, she stopped here and there to help one of her students with a knotty mathematics problem, or give a pat on the head and praise to the children.

Not all of the children made it out of the grip of poverty. Sometimes the students dropped out to work longer hours at the factories, and he and Eva never saw them again. Sometimes the students just disappeared. But some of the children found a way out, and that was the best he and Eva could hope for.

She caught him watching and smiled, before returning to her work. More warmth spread through him. He’d lie awake at night, half afraid to fall asleep in case he might wake up to find himself back in Dunmoor, and everything had been a dream. But every morning, he was still in the bed he shared with Eva, and she’d snuggle her sleek, naked body against him—and he forgot everything about fear.

He and Eva had new identities, but some things from the past stayed with them. He still had a scar around his ankle from his shackles. Just as her hand was scarred from the nail that had stabbed her.

Battle scars, she called them. They’d have them forever.