The Virgin's Auction (9 page)

“Did you get a good look at them? Would you recognise them again?”

“No, they’re careful.” When she looked at him questioningly, he elaborated: “They keep their caps pulled down over their eyes and scarves wrapped round their chins, and collars up like this.” He adjusted his own with a free hand and huddled down into it, the night fiercely chill, their breath fogging out before them.

“So you’ve hired men?” she repeated.

“I’ve spoken to a man I know, Miss. He’ll find you some likely lads. Don’t fret.”

“Might all this put you in any danger, Mr Tell? Do you think there might be trouble for you? After we have disappeared, I mean.”

“I don’t reckon so, Miss. I doubt Black Jack’s men has recognised me.” He glanced at her with a slight smile. “I’m not one of them as likes to stick my head up. Better to keep quiet and open your eyes and ears. That’s my motto. Nor has any followed me home to see where I live. I made right sure of that. Once Hetty and me is gone there’ll be neither hide nor hair to find of us. I’ll be fine.”

Melissa hoped that he was right. There was not much she could do if he were not.

For half an hour they walked together, silently. What had passed made conversation impossible for her, and he did not venture to speak further. They reached the quiet streets of Kensington, and then Kensington Court and her own doorstep.

Standing outside the house she said to Mr Tell, “Thank you for your aid in this delicate matter. I fear it has been unpleasant for you.”

“Ah, Miss. I have no liking for seein’ a nice lady such as yourself in trouble with a man of Black Jack’s sort. And you’ve been right kind to Hetty. That and your money is enough to have me helpin’ you, Miss, no thanks needed. I’d best be goin’. There’s more yet to do.” He doffed his cap to her, then turned and walked briskly away. She watched him go, till he turned a corner and was out of sight.

She went slowly up the front steps.
Hetty had left the door unlocked for her. She let herself in. All was still. The denuded house startled her, jarringly bare. Then it struck her as fitting. The world should be different; so that she could see the difference. After all, everything felt different inside.

In her own room she stripped off her crumpled clothing and cast it aside. All of it must be thrown away. She wouldn’t wear it ever again. The night would be forgotten, erased from memory. Naked, she dipped a cloth in the jug of cold water standing on the wash stand. It was sharply cold, but the punishing chill felt right. Her skin shrank from it, goose-
pimpling and shuddering as she began to clean herself. She wiped down her neck, where he had kissed her so passionately, her flanks where he had laid his hot fingers; down her legs, and back up the insides of them, to wipe the dried blood from her inner thighs. Then, carefully and thoroughly, she cleaned that place where she was sore and throbbing; removed all evidence of his passion and of her body’s response. Again and again she dipped the cloth, wrung it out and applied it, till she felt chafed on her delicate flesh. But no trace of him must remain.

Long minutes later, she climbed into bed, wearing a plain white nightgown. Her mind was blank and dim. Within instants of her head hitting the pillow, she was asleep.

Chapter Six

It was noon before she woke. Or rather, before Peter woke her. He came creeping into her room, all wide-eyed concern. But his boots were too heavy to silence, and the clomph clomph woke Melissa. She opened her eyes.

“You
are
awake,” he said in a tone of discovery. “Hetty said you were not feeling quite the thing. But I said you are never low for long! And here you are awake and nearly up, just as I thought.”

“Peter,” she said in acknowledgement, rubbing at her eyes.

“It’s a lovely day outside. Look!” He pushed aside the curtains to let the thin sunshine spill in.

“Yes dear. I can see it is.”

“Why don’t you get up and have some lunch? Cook has made us a ham roast. Do come. You love ham. And there are new potatoes.”

Melissa lay with one forearm across her eyes, unable to speak for a moment.

Peter came closer to the bed, then sat on the edge of it. “Lissa? Would you rather stay abed?”

“No, no you are right. I want to be up, not
laying about like a great slug.” She summoned a smile. It felt weak and unnatural but it seemed to satisfy him, for he returned it and bounced back to his feet.

“Good!” he declared enthusiastically, and clattered out of the room, leading as always with his ever-growing feet.

And so began the day after the night before. Melissa moved through it as if through water. Everything was so unreal; the continued disappearance of furnishings; the strangers at every turn, busy with their business; the way she kept tuning into the blood pounding through her ears, her breathing.

It was not until the late afternoon that things came sharply back into focus again, with the return of Mr Tell.

Melissa had heard the voices in the hall as Hetty let him into the house, and she came swiftly down the stairs to meet him.

“You have word?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s all arranged, Miss,” he replied, following her into the drawing room and standing near her. There were no chairs left to sit on.

“What must we do?” Her voice was quiet but steady.

“Gather up some clothes for you and the boy. Nothing fancy now. Sturdy and hard-wearin’. Put ‘em in a laundry sack. Hetty’ll bring them away from the house with the rest of the washin’.” She nodded, thinking of the clothes she had already packed and stowed in the butler’s pantry. “Now, tomorrow night’s the night for it. Listen. This is what you do.” He leaned in close, as if there might be listeners outside the walls. She followed suit, and in an undertone he outlined the plan, an expansion of his initial proposal with specific details of time and place.

“And you think this will work?” she asked when he had finished.

“Simple is best, Miss. Then there’s less can go wrong. Those men watching you don’t expect nothing other than you maybe running off. They certainly aren’t looking for you to have help.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “We’ll get you away safe, Miss. Never you worry.”

“So will we see you again, Mr Tell?”

“No, Miss. I’m gonna play least in sight from now on. The men I’ve hired will see you out, and I’ll get Hetty well clear so as no one comes after her for information. Now don’t you worry about us, Miss,” he said at the dawning guilt on her face. “We’ll come through fine. One more thing is this.” He reached into his coat and drew out an old, tattered wallet and then a purse. “Here’s what’s left of the gentleman’s money. If you’re careful it should last awhile.”

For a long moment, Melissa hesitated. Mr Tell waited, hands outstretched. Finally, reluctantly she
took it from him. Neither she nor Peter could afford for her to be proud about this. It was money she had earned, after all.

The purse was heavy, packed solidly with coins. The wallet felt fat under her fingers. She held them in her lap, not knowing what to do with them.

“I’ll be off now, Miss. Best not to stay long. “

Melissa rose hastily to her feet.

“Mr Tell,” she said urgently, as he started to turn away. “Mr Tell, I cannot say how grateful I am.” He turned back to her, a slight smile on his face.

“I’m glad I could help, Miss,” he said simply. She could see from his face that he meant it. She had not wanted to accept his help at first, unwilling to be beholden, uncertain what price she might have to pay in the future if she was making a mistake and preferring his baldly stated fee, when he asked for it. She had thought he might betray her trust, take advantage of her in some way she could not
forsee.

She had been wrong. He dealt honestly with her, arranged all he could to see her and Peter free, and waited anxiously outside Mr
Carstairs house in the bitter cold, anxious to protect her as much as he could. He was a better friend than she had the right to ask for. He made her ashamed of her own doubts. It occurred to her that even when the world was at its most horrid, there were still good people around, to light the way.

“Nonetheless, thank you,” she said softly, suddenly feeling as if she might burst into tears. Her expression seemed to galvanise Mr Tell, for he suddenly shuffled his feet nervously, then bid her a
hasty good afternoon and hurried out the door. She was left to hunt for a handkerchief.

The next day dawned foggy, and Melissa watched the weather anxiously from the window. Rain might mean a cancellation of the Covent Gardens event. But eventually the fog burned off to reveal an unseasonably sunny day.

She sent
Hetty on her way with the laundry bags, knowing the maid would not return. In the pocket of her simple apron the girl carried a glowing letter of reference to help her find work elsewhere if the plan of keeping an inn proved unworkable. Melissa hoped that would be enough. It was all she could do.

After seeing the maid off, Melissa went and spoke to the cook, turning her off with two weeks wages and another letter of reference.

The sturdy, flour-spattered woman was grimly resigned. After all, she would have to be a pure born idiot not to have noticed how things were in the house. So she shrugged, and pocketed the wages her mistress gave her. Good cooks were in demand so Melissa knew she need not worry about her future.

Then she went to find Peter. As usual he was curled up with a book, though restricted to his own room if he wanted a seat as everywhere else the furniture was gone.

“There you are!” she declared brightly after her very short search. “Good news. We are going to a carnival tonight at Covent Gardens. What a treat that will be!”

“A carnival?” he said blankly, raising his tousled head from the arm of the chair on which he was sprawled.

“Why yes. We have been so very glum since father died. It is time for something fun. A carnival will be just the thing.”

“Yes. Why yes!” he said, enthusiasm dawning.
“Just
exactly
the thing.”

“Make sure you wear something very warm. It will be cold out.”

“I will.” His smile was blazing.

Father’s death had affected him for the better. But then, that was hardly his fault. The man had made little effort to endear himself to his children. As they stood by the graveside after the burial Peter
had looked up at her, his hand clasped in hers as if he was a child once again.

“I feel bad,
Lissa,” he whispered, as if they might be overheard.

“Of course you do, dear.”

“No, not like that. I think I must be a bad person. Because I’m not sad. I don’t really feel anything. Am I wicked?” He had looked so worried and so earnest, her heart had squeezed within her chest.

“Well…” she started cautiously, trying to find the right words, “maybe we can feel sorry for father, that his life is ended.”
Miserable, sadistic cur.

They both contemplated the freshly turned soil.

“Then I shall feel sad about
that
,” he finally said, and his determined tone brought her a fragile smile.

Yet it was true the past week had awakened his good cheer. Oblivious to their devastating
indebtedness, his spirits lifted once the belligerent presence of their father was gone. She would have felt the same if there had not been all those bills to pay, culminating in that last, most horrifying one.

Pray God their flight tonight would not upset him. She would present it like an adventure. That should appeal to his romantic spirit, fed on lurid storybook tales.

They ate a hearty luncheon, albeit cold. She did not feel the least hungry. Indeed, her stomach churned with nerves. However she would need all her strength in the next few days, so she forced down as much as she could and ignored the queasiness.

After eating, Peter disappeared back to his book and she drifted aimlessly from room to room, running her fingers over the woodwork, the bare mantelpieces over the fireplaces. She wondered who would come to fill these empty rooms. Would they throw away all the battered toys in the nursery, of too little value to be sold?
Or her dresses?

Her whole life they had lived here. Now everything was falling apart.
Her security, her friendships, her life.

She was frightened, but deathly
clear.

Only her determination could see her and Peter free.

Chapter Seven

As their hired hack rattled them through the London streets to Covent Gardens she knew the moment had arrived to tell Peter everything. She had put it off for as long as she could, and now there was no time left. Even after near two days thinking about it she still did not know where to begin. She never talked of unpleasant things with him. She was his protector, keeping him safe from the world.

He sat gazing out of the window, all
boyish excitement, his clear eyes unshadowed and a happy little smile playing about his mouth.

She
propped her elbow on the windowsill and bit down hard on her knuckle. Courageous she might be at times, but when it came to hurting Peter she was a coward. She simply could not do it.

Instead she said only: “Peter, dear. Something unusual is going to happen tonight. I want you to promise me something.”

He looked at her, and raised his blonde eyebrows in enquiry.

“Whatever goes on, you are to follow me.
Quickly and quietly. Without arguing. Promise me.” She strove to be commanding, without any hint of fear or worry.

“What will happen?” he asked, intrigued, his smile broade
ning at this hint of adventure.

“I can’t tell you, exactly. But you have to promise me.” Her voice was low and intense.

“I promise,” he said easily, trusting as always. “But why can’t you tell me?”

“I just can’t, Peter. Don’t nag about it. Please.”

“But Lissa-”

“Hush now!”

He sighed and subsided, a contemplative wrinkle appearing on his forehead as he returned his attention to the passing street. The carriage rocked gently backwards and forwards as it went. Several minutes later the sounds of the carnival started to percolate into its dark interior. Peter peered eagerly out of the window to see ahead of the hack. Melissa reminded herself to take deep, steady breaths.

The coachman pulled up, halted by the crowded streets.

“Tell him we’ll get off here and walk the rest of the way,” she said to Peter, holding out the money to pay the coachman. He took it from her and leapt down from the carriage door, running round to give it to the man. A moment later he was back to hand her down in the most gentlemanly fashion.

“Thank you, dear,” she told him. “Now stay close, and don’t get lost in the crowd. In fact, give me your arm.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Then she set a brisk pace along the pavement towards the entrance to Covent
Gardens.

Dusk was advancing, but it was not yet late and so the crowds were still perfectly sober and respectable. She was pushing the bounds of propriety a little, to be here with an escort so youthful. Still, her clothes were plain enough that she would pass for a young maid out for an hour or two in her best dress, seeing the sights.

Of course they attracted attention as they pushed through the crowd. Men, young and old, craned their heads for a second glimpse of Melissa even in the poor lighting. But she was accustomed to that, and ignored it.

“What are we going to see first?” exclaimed Peter.

“You can pick,” she replied. They had about half an hour to waste until full dark came on.

“The lions then!
Let’s go see the lions.” He half led, half dragged her onwards. They reached a spot where they could see the cage holding a pacing lion.

“Look at him,” Peter breathed.

“Yes, very frightening,” she said absently, trying to surreptitiously scan the crowd. Who was watching them? The men must be somewhere there, hidden among the throng. As were her own hirelings. But every face was strange to her. No one looked familiar, or as if their attention was fixed on her and Peter. She could feel her heart beating high in her throat. Soon now. She was tight as a coiled spring. It was a different kind of tension from the night of the auction.

Then she had not known how the auction would progress and what the highest bidder might do to her exactly. Tonight it was she who must act, she upon whom everything depended.

As always the promise of action steadied her, calmed her spirit. She ran over the plan in her head again, her hands clenching and unclenching.

And if they failed?
If they were caught?

It would be straight off to a brothel for her and the auction block for Peter. She would not go over that again. It would never come to pass because they were to escape to safety.
She turned her thoughts away.

The poor lion was mangy and a little moth-eaten. He loped back and forth in front of the gaping watchers. One could imagine disgust in his unflinching stare.

It was only a few minutes before Peter grew bored with the endless pacing. They moved to watch a band of jugglers throwing a wide variety of objects into the air, from teacups to wooden chairs. As the dusk deepened they even threw fire. The crowd oohed and ahhhed.

The sky grew darker, and the chill deepened, even in the throng of people. Then she heard the bells of London begin to chime the hour. Six o’clock. Mr Tell had judged things correctly, for night was now upon them.

“Now Peter, we are going for a walk along the paths,” she said, clutching him fiercely by the shoulder and whispering into his ear.

“What?
Now? But there won’t be any performers over there!” he exclaimed.

“Do as I say.” She gave him a little shake. “Remember your promise.”

He subsided immediately, his face alive with curiosity. She led them both away from the well-lit area and onto the more sporadically lighted paths. Later in the evening the shrubberies lining the paths would be full of canoodling couples, a spectacle she had never seen, only heard about in a scandalised whisper from her most daring friend. But it was early yet. The people they passed were all going towards the light, not hiding from it.

She started walking a little faster, pulling Peter along. He looked up at her. She gave him a brief, reassuring smile then refocused on the path ahead, her palms starting to sweat.

Again she increased the pace. Now they were almost jogging. There was an intersection of paths. This was it.

Even as she had the thought the figures of three naked men burst from the shrubbery and ran past them and back the way they had come, hooting and howling.

They startled even her, but only for a second. When Peter would have wheeled to gape after him she seized him and pulled him onto the path to the left, ignoring his muffled exclamation. She took another left.

“Run!” she hissed at Peter, letting go of his arm and taking off. He was right beside her in an instant, matching her pace, then slightly ahead of her. She was hindered by her skirts. Impatiently she caught them up in her hands. They were now parallel to the path they had just been on. She could hear running steps and men’s voices.

“…that way! Quick!”

“I can ‘ear ‘
em”

Then there was t
he dull smack of flesh on flesh; a crash and branches snapping, as if someone had been forcibly thrust into the shrubbery; several thumps and a yell. Peter hesitated, and she caught up the few steps between them.

“Come
on
,” and she gave him a shove. He nearly fell over, but he caught himself gamely. They left the sounds of the fight behind. At the next crossroads she went right and he followed, intent now on the mad task she had set. She nearly ran into the narrow-chested man who was waiting in the centre of the path, it was so dark here.

“Miss Callow?” he asked, and she recognised the alias Mr Tell had given her.

“Yes,” she said, gasping a little.

“Here.” The man flung a heavy and slightly odorous cloak around her shoulders. He tossed a second one to Peter. “Get those hoods up,” he demanded.

She did as she was told, bundling up her attention-getting hair and tucking it down the back of her collar out of sight. Peter was doing up his own cape, a dim figure huffing softly in the darkness. She was burstingly proud of him, and relieved by his swift obedience.

“This way,” said the wiry man. She followed, with Peter close behind her. She felt a tug as he took hold of her cloak, the better to guide
himself. They ran light-footed through the blackness, close to the shrubs but off the crunchy gravel paths, trusting their accomplice’s knowledge of the ground, his hissed: “Here,” “Over here,” “This way,” barely discernible over the distant sounds of revelry. Within moments they were at the walls of the park.

“You
listenin’?” asked the rat-faced man, the faint radiance of the streetlamps barely illuminating his face even to eyes now attuned to the poor light .

“Yes,” she said, intent, knowing he was only one link in a chain that was designed to ensure no single person could put together both the beginning and end of their escape plan and route.

A plan designed to protect not only them, but also each of the men who had a hand in this, so no one could inform on all the others. This man had no idea he had a colleague who had just downed two or more of Black Jack’s men.

Those who had administered the beating should not have been seen, due to the poor light, to attacking from behind, and the diversion of the naked runners. If they could nonetheless be identified by the watchers, still they would not know where Melissa and Peter had gone next. Only she and Mr Tell knew the entire chain of events, and they would both be well away.  

“Over the wall is a carriage. You two ‘op in. The driver knows where ‘e’s goin’. I don’t.” Melissa nodded, and so did Peter, grinning hugely. “Got it?”

“Got it,” she replied firmly.

The rat-faced man offered her a boost over the wall. She put one foot in his hands. He hefted her upwards, and she grabbed the top and pulled herself up with a terrific effort fuelled by sheer will. Peter was boosted too. She dragged him up next to her. Without another word, the man was off, disappearing into the darkness of the Gardens.

From their perch on the wall she could see the first carriage. The driver had his back to them.

“You first,” she whispered to Peter. Although she held out a hand, he lowered himself without her help. The last couple of feet he dropped. Then he extended his arms up for her. She followed suit. His young arms took some of her weight as she landed.

She led the way to the carriage. They climbed in without saying a word to the coachman. The carriage lurched immediately into motion. It smelt of mildew and onions. Melissa felt the tension thrumming through Peter. His eyes were round in the light from the streetlamps but he was silent.

They rumbled over the cobblestones. It seemed forever before the carriage slowed and then stopped. Melissa thrust open the door and jumped down. A moment later Peter’s feet hit the ground. They waited while the coachman drove his equipage away down the street, rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

As soon as he was gone, Melissa ducked into nearby
Eckles St, murmuring the litany of instructions to herself: at the end of Eckles, right again. At the far end, left. Two buildings down under the streetlamp is where he’ll be waiting. Another carriage. Tell that driver where you want to go.

Not even Mr Tell knew the final destination she had picked. Picked because of a chum raving about the beauty of the sweet little village where she had spent her summer, almost ten years ago now. Melissa had envied her so deeply and wished her own parents might take them out of the City, just once.

Standing on one of the boxes in the lending library, provided so children could climb high enough to see the map of England, she had found Bourton-on-the-Water. It seemed just the right sort of distance. Far enough to be completely different from London, close enough to travel to cheaply.

She hoped, but Father would not hear of it.
He took her onto his knee and patted her fondly to start with, saying a gentle ‘No, we’ve no time to go away from the City.’

But when she whined
at him to change his mind his brows drew down and he called it a stupid idea to leave London when everything they wanted was here. And gentle, pallid mother said nothing, nodding a quiet agreement with her husband then hustling Melissa out the door before she might protest further.

Bourton
-on-the-Water had lingered on in her mind as some perfect fantasy of a country village. Now when she needed to choose a destination in a countryside that was as foreign to her as another country, there was at least a hint of familiarity to that place she found comforting.

Not so far that the climate or accents would be a rude shock, nor so close that they were in easy reach of the Capital.  

They walked briskly down the silent street, Peter following her lead. There were lights in the windows of the houses they passed, people tucked away from the cold, safe and warm.

It took a physical effort to keep from breaking into a trot. She wanted to run, to take to her heels and reach safety that much faster. But this part of the escape was all about blending in and looking ordinary so as to attract no notice. Running was exactly the wrong thing to do.