street.
Nerves of steel would avail her little in a place like this. Anger burned in his gullet. How could she possibly think of living here? It seemed too rank, too desperate for such a bright jewel. With half an eye on his carriage and the unsavoury youth at the team’s heads, he drummed his fingers on his thigh.
The door opened a crack and a dirty face and two dark eyes peered out at them. Christopher didn’t blame the occupant for caution in this neighborhood.
Sylvia took a small step back. She looked at the paper in her hand. ‘Does Mary Jensen live here?’
‘Aye.’ The door widened to reveal a man in the rough garb of a labourer, his coal-dust-blackened face pierced by a pair of wary bloodshot eyes. The man’s gaze ran over her, then took in Christopher and the carriage beyond. ‘Who wants her?’
‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. She used to be my governess.’
The man seemed slow to absorb the words, but finally he nodded. ‘I’m her brother. Mary is sick in her bed.’
‘I wonder if I might see her?’
The girl was persistent if nothing else. Christopher felt admiration well in his chest.
‘Aye, ye best come in, then.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘You’ll have to excuse my dirt, I just got in from work at the coal yard.’
An honest trade, at least. Christopher removed his hat and followed Sylvia into a dingy hall.
‘This way,’ Jensen said.
‘Who is it, Bill?’ a shrill voice called.
‘No one,’ he shouted back. ‘Visitors for Mary.’
A woman, brown wisps poking out from beneath her cap, bobbed her head around a door along the passage. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sylvia and practically popped out of her head when she focused on Christopher. She joined them in the narrow corridor.
‘This is my wife,’ Jensen said.
‘Lord have mercy,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘You be that French girl she’s always talking about. The one that was going to help her at the shop.’
‘Yes, Sylvia Boisette,’ Sylvia said.
Christopher heard relief in Sylvia’s voice, but a chill of premonition told him that the worst was yet to come. No respectable woman would willingly live in this part of London. He couldn’t leave Sylvia here. The thought hit him like a dunk in a horse trough on a cold day.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea.’
She ducked out of reach.
‘Who’s that, then?’ Mrs Jensen asked, with a nudge of her elbow. ‘Your fancy man?’
‘He drove me here.’
Christopher wanted to throttle Sylvia. She had dismissed him as if he was some sort of lackey, a coachman no less. Well she was about to find out that he considered himself a whole lot more.
‘Mary’s in the back room,’ Jensen said.
He led the way into a cell of a room with flaking plaster walls, a truckle bed and a table beside it. On a narrow cot, a woman lay beneath the sheets, her skin like rice paper over blue veins. She opened her dark-circled eyes and slowly focused on the invaders of her cloister.
‘She’s on opium for the pain,’ Jensen announced.
Sylvia sank to her knees beside the bed. ‘Mary,’ she said, her voice husky.
Christopher felt like a voyeur in this room of suffering. The familiar smell of illness, sickly sweet and vile, hung in the air and turned his mouth sour. ‘I will wait for you outside, Miss Boisette. Don’t be long.’
Questioning, Sylvia glanced up at him, tears hanging like bright diamonds on her lower lashes, her eyes deep pools of sorrow.
‘I mean it, Miss Boisette. Ten minutes.’ He headed for the front door and the fresh air of the street. Fresh. What a joke. Thick with smoke and the stink of rotting refuse, it was a slight improvement on a room full of death waiting to claim its own.
Damn it all. This time, Sylvia Boisette would do as he instructed. He didn’t want to have to go back in there and haul her out.
Sylvia took Mary’s frail hand in hers. ‘What happened?’ she asked gently. ‘You never replied to my
Nerves of steel would avail her little in a place like this. Anger burned in his gullet. How could she possibly think of living here? It seemed too rank, too desperate for such a bright jewel. With half an eye on his carriage and the unsavoury youth at the team’s heads, he drummed his fingers on his thigh.
The door opened a crack and a dirty face and two dark eyes peered out at them. Christopher didn’t blame the occupant for caution in this neighborhood.
Sylvia took a small step back. She looked at the paper in her hand. ‘Does Mary Jensen live here?’
‘Aye.’ The door widened to reveal a man in the rough garb of a labourer, his coal-dust-blackened face pierced by a pair of wary bloodshot eyes. The man’s gaze ran over her, then took in Christopher and the carriage beyond. ‘Who wants her?’
‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. She used to be my governess.’
The man seemed slow to absorb the words, but finally he nodded. ‘I’m her brother. Mary is sick in her bed.’
‘I wonder if I might see her?’
The girl was persistent if nothing else. Christopher felt admiration well in his chest.
‘Aye, ye best come in, then.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘You’ll have to excuse my dirt, I just got in from work at the coal yard.’
An honest trade, at least. Christopher removed his hat and followed Sylvia into a dingy hall.
‘This way,’ Jensen said.
‘Who is it, Bill?’ a shrill voice called.
‘No one,’ he shouted back. ‘Visitors for Mary.’
A woman, brown wisps poking out from beneath her cap, bobbed her head around a door along the passage. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sylvia and practically popped out of her head when she focused on Christopher. She joined them in the narrow corridor.
‘This is my wife,’ Jensen said.
‘Lord have mercy,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘You be that French girl she’s always talking about. The one that was going to help her at the shop.’
‘Yes, Sylvia Boisette,’ Sylvia said.
Christopher heard relief in Sylvia’s voice, but a chill of premonition told him that the worst was yet to come. No respectable woman would willingly live in this part of London. He couldn’t leave Sylvia here. The thought hit him like a dunk in a horse trough on a cold day.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea.’
She ducked out of reach.
‘Who’s that, then?’ Mrs Jensen asked, with a nudge of her elbow. ‘Your fancy man?’
‘He drove me here.’
Christopher wanted to throttle Sylvia. She had dismissed him as if he was some sort of lackey, a coachman no less. Well she was about to find out that he considered himself a whole lot more.
‘Mary’s in the back room,’ Jensen said.
He led the way into a cell of a room with flaking plaster walls, a truckle bed and a table beside it. On a narrow cot, a woman lay beneath the sheets, her skin like rice paper over blue veins. She opened her dark-circled eyes and slowly focused on the invaders of her cloister.
‘She’s on opium for the pain,’ Jensen announced.
Sylvia sank to her knees beside the bed. ‘Mary,’ she said, her voice husky.
Christopher felt like a voyeur in this room of suffering. The familiar smell of illness, sickly sweet and vile, hung in the air and turned his mouth sour. ‘I will wait for you outside, Miss Boisette. Don’t be long.’
Questioning, Sylvia glanced up at him, tears hanging like bright diamonds on her lower lashes, her eyes deep pools of sorrow.
‘I mean it, Miss Boisette. Ten minutes.’ He headed for the front door and the fresh air of the street. Fresh. What a joke. Thick with smoke and the stink of rotting refuse, it was a slight improvement on a room full of death waiting to claim its own.
Damn it all. This time, Sylvia Boisette would do as he instructed. He didn’t want to have to go back in there and haul her out.
Sylvia took Mary’s frail hand in hers. ‘What happened?’ she asked gently. ‘You never replied to my
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