Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [171]
“In’t you grand,” he said sarcastically. “Well, if yer got money fer an ’ansom I’ll be very ’appy ter ride wif yer.”
“Don’ be daft.” She dismissed the suggestion with equal scorn. “So we’ll go in the train. ’Ow much?”
“Depends ’ow far we go—but not much. Penny or so,” he replied. “Now save yer breath an’ keep up wif me.”
She trotted along beside him for what seemed like miles, carrying her new boots under her arm, but it was probably not much more than a mile and a half. Then they went down flights of steps into a cavernous railway station where the trains ran like moles through tunnels, roaring and clanking in a manner which would have terrified her if she had had time to think about it, and not been far too excited, and too determined to match Joe for wits, courage and any other quality he cared to think of.
She did not like the sensation of sitting in a carriage as it hurtled through a tunnel, and had to concentrate very hard on thinking of something else, or she might have shrieked as she was bumped from side to side, knowing how far she was from daylight and fresh air. She looked sideways at Joe once or twice, and found he was looking at her, so she turned away again quickly. But her heart was thumping with pleasure, and the fear did not matter so much.
At last they came out at Sloane Square station and set out to walk again, this time according to Gracie’s instructions, until in a fine, cold rain they came to Markham Square and stopped under the trees at the far side of Prosper Harrimore’s house.
“All right, then,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Now wot? Wot if ’e don’t come out again ternight? W’y should ’e? Only fools and them as ’as no ’omes comes out an’ stands in the rain.”
Gracie had already thought of that. “So we gotta get ’im out, ain’t we?”
“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow yer goin’ ter do that?”
“I’m goin’ ter knock on the door.”
“An’ o’ course ’e’s goin’ ter answer it ’isself—’is footmen ’ave all got the night off,” he said wearily. “Yer the daftest woman I ever met, an’ that’s say in’ a lot w’ere I come from.”
“Yeah, well I don’t come from w’ere you come from,” she said quickly, although it was probably not true. “You jus’ watch ’im.” And with that she marched across the street, boots under her arm, and up the steps of the Harrimore house and knocked on the door.
She did not really know much about the houses of the well-to-do, only the little bits she had overheard from Charlotte, and what she had gathered from her newfound art of reading. However, she had fully expected the door to be opened by a footman, so she was not taken by surprise when it was.
“Yes, miss?” he said, eyeing her with disgust. He was about to suggest she go to the servants’ entrance, thinking her a relative of one of the maids, although even they should not have received callers at this hour. When she spoke, her words came out in a rush, her heart beating so it nearly choked her.
“Please, sir, I got a message for Mr. ’Arrimore, personal like, an’ I darsen’t give it ter no one else.”
“Mr. Harrimore does not take messages from the likes of you,” the footman said stiffly. “If you give it to me, I’ll tell him.”
“That in’t no good,” she said quickly, shifting the boots around to hold them more firmly. “I were told special, no one but Mr. ’Arrimore ’isself. I’ll wait ’ere, an’ you go an’ tell ’im as it’s ter do wif a lad ’e met outside a thee-ayter, five year ago, an’ give a message ter. You tell ’im that, an’ ’e’ll come ter see me.”
“Nonsense! Be off with you, girl.”
She remained where she was.
“You go an’ tell ’im that—then I’ll go.”
“You go now!” He waved his hand briskly. “Or I’ll send for the police. Come ’ere botherin’ decent folk with your tales and messages!” He made as if to close the door.
“You don’t want the police ’ere,” she said with desperation. “That family’s ’ad enough o’ police an’ tragedy. You jus’ go an’ give ’im that message. It ain’t yer place ter decide for ’im ’oo ’e sees an’ ’oo ’e don’t. Or do yer think yer ’is keeper?”
It may have been her argument, or it may have been only the force of her