Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [87]
Timothy’s face screwed up, and he looked at Fleetwood.
Fleetwood rose to the occasion.
“A good meal, all you can eat before you do the job,” he promised. “And a guinea afterwards. I’ll make a wager—a fiver if I win the first race with it after that—”
“You’re on!” Timothy said instantly. “I’ll be there for dinner tonight, start work in the morning.”
“Good. You can sleep in the stable.”
Timothy lifted his scruffy hat in a sort of salute, perhaps a sealing of the bargain, and Carlisle turned to leave again.
Fleetwood repeated the address, with instructions on how to reach it, then ran after Carlisle before he was lost to sight and he found himself marooned in the nightmare place.
They passed through the worst of the rookery again and toppled out into the fine rain of a narrow street almost underneath the shadow of the church.
“Dear God!” Fleetwood wiped his face. “Makes me think of Dante and the gates of hell—what was it written over the cave?”
“‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’” Carlisle said quietly.
“How in the name of humanity do they bear it?” Fleetwood turned up his collar and drove his hands into his pockets.
“It’s better than the workhouse,” Carlisle replied. “At least they reckon it is. Personally, it seems much the same to me.”
Fleetwood stopped. “Better!” he said in broad disbelief. “What are you talking about, man? The workhouse provides food and shelter, safety! It’s a charitable place.”
All the anger was purged out of Carlisle’s face; his voice was a gentle as milk. “Have you ever been to one?”
Fleetwood was surprised. “No,” he said honestly. “Have you?”
“Oh, yes.” Carlisle started walking again. “I’ve been working quite hard on this bill of St. Jermyn’s. I dare say you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes,” Fleetwood said slowly. “Yes, I have.” He did not look at Dominic, and Dominic did not dare to look at him. “I suppose you’d like my help when it comes up in the House?” Fleetwood said casually.
Carlisle flashed him a dazzling smile.
“Yes—yes, please, I would.”
Alicia had written to everyone she could think of, recalling a good few of Augustus’s relatives who had married well and whom she would never have contacted for any other reason. She found most of them insufferably dull, but the cause overrode all her previous inhibitions.
When she had exhausted her imagination on the subject and everything was sealed and in the post, she decided to go for a walk in the Park, in spite of the miserable weather. She had a feeling of good spirits inside her that simply cried for exercise, for the stretching of the body and opening of the lungs. Had it not been so absolutely ridiculous she would have liked to run and skip like a child.
She was striding along in a fashion unbefitting a lady, her head in the air, enjoying the bleak beauty of the trees against the ragged clouds far above. In the Park it was almost still; heavy drops glistened and dripped from twigs. She had never considered February had any loveliness before, but now she took pleasure in the stark simplicity of it, the soft, subdued colors.
She had stopped to watch a bird in branches above her when she was aware of overhearing a conversation immediately the other side of the tree.
“Did you really?” The voice was so soft that she did not at first recognize it.
There appeared to be no answer.
“Come and tell me all about it then,” the voice continued.
Again there was silence, except for a faint squeak.
“My, well, how about that! You are a clever girl.”
Then she knew it; at least she was almost sure she did. It sounded too soft, too American to be anyone but Virgil Smith.
But whom on earth was he talking to?
“My, you are beautiful! Well, come on now, tell me all about it.”
An appalling thought came to her; he must be making advances to some servant or streetwalker! How dreadful! And she had accidentally come upon him. How could she possibly get away without