- -
- 100%
- +
That infuriating smile, a quiet voice for only her. “You still owe me a dance, Miss Osbourne.”
Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. His hand took hers and she let him, unable to speak, to refuse. And didn’t their hands fit so well together, as though they had been made to hold one another’s? Isaac Roscoe. Every movement he made, she moved with, though there was no music. Nothing but a light breeze that stirred the canopy above, and him – always him – invading her senses, her mind, her soul. Those eyes, such dark, endless eyes, opened into hers. When had they gotten so close? If they were still dancing, it was not a dance she recognised. Her hands on his shoulders, fingers in the softer hair at the nape of his neck. He held her waist and there was a tentative pull at the ties on her dress, a promise that brought with it a sinful need, a cruel lust.
“Isaac,” she hummed, for he was not ‘Mr Roscoe’ now. He was not a stranger here. He was everything Ruth wanted him to be – and nothing like the man she was engaged to.
A rough scratch of stubble brushed her cheek, contrasting with the soft, warm words spoken against her lips that she couldn’t catch.
Daylight broke her eyes open and chased away those fragile moments. Lottie was still fast asleep beside her. A new day had come. Panic flared up in her chest, but it was needless. No one knew, no one would guess, no one would reveal all that had taken place within the crucible of her own skull. It was her secret.
Ruth was resolved, then, to never see Mr Roscoe again. Not only because she was frightened of what she might do – of all she might lose if she did – but because the real man would never match up to the fantasy.
She had Albert, didn’t she? That would be enough; it had to be enough.
There is no other choice.
Her uncle expected it, her financial situation depended on it, and she must do as she was bid. What had her mother told her?
Never be a burden, my darling, never be a burden, never be a burden…
“Ruthie,” muttered Lottie upon waking, her voice a thistle-scratch as it left her throat. “Are you crying?”
“A bad dream, that’s all,” she lied, for once allowing her friend to comfort her, to hold her and stroke her hair. The only bad part of the dream was that it had ended and brought her sharply back to the real world and all its bitter disappointments.
***
The opera was packed. Ruth knew barely anyone and no one she didn’t know cared to know her. It had been the same all week, with social events, dinners and mindless appointments. Lottie was in her element, catching up with those she’d only seen in the short breaks from school: her father’s friends, distant relatives, past acquaintances. Her laughter rang out like a clear bell and she had easily forgotten Ruth. It was not a malicious act; it never was. Lottie was always so invested in the moment that there was nothing beyond it. No one else existed but herself and the people within her direct eyeline. Ruth was used to it and if the alternative was constant, banal chatter, she was happier to sit by herself and take in as many sights as possible.
The air was close and lay upon them all like a clammy, second skin. This was the last performance until winter, when the aristocracy would clear London in favour of their country homes away from the slums that had already eroded half the decent corners of the city.
“It’s the hottest July I have ever known,” said Albert for the fifth time that evening from their private box.
No one paid much attention to the goings-on upon the stage. There was a constant background hum of conversation. People stopped by to visit and chat. Ruth sat near strangers whose talk she could not follow. They laughed at jokes she did not understand and mocked people she did not know. They wrote her off as a simple, artless creature.
“I can’t hear,” she told Lottie, when her friend had deigned to return to her side.
“No one ever can and it’s not like anyone even speaks Italian,” said Lottie loudly, for her companions to laugh at – and laugh they did. A few insipid women threw sympathetic looks Ruth’s way, as one would toss pennies to a beggar on the street.
Ruth sat back in her chair, defeated. Her dress was a poor shade that did not suit her and made her look ill: another borrowed garment, for Lottie refused to let her go out in her own ‘plain’ clothes. It was lifeless and thick, exactly how these people viewed her, and there was nothing she could do to change it. Ruth had not argued over the matter. She rarely did – it wouldn’t be proper. Even so, her gloved hands were tight upon her lap and her lips were pressed together, thin and bloodless.
A creak, a rustle and Mr Griswell’s muttered words soon found her ear, an uncomfortable, ticklish hiss against her neck.
“I recommend a walk, Miss Osbourne,” he said quietly. “Rather than risk losing your temper like the other night.”
Ruth quickly sought out Albert, who was engrossed in a conversation with some retired colonel, their large stomachs heaving with laughter.
“He told you?” Although she had snapped at him while at Lady Winston’s ball, she had thought little of it, had never anticipated he would latch on to the comment or repeat it to another.
“And how is your brother, Miss Osbourne?”
“I don’t have a…” Ruth trailed off. Brother. That man Isaac Roscoe had told Lady Winston they were siblings. Had the news spread so quickly? What must Albert think? If Griswell knew, then this surely spelt trouble, for the man was hardly a gossip – as self-absorbed in his own doings as his daughter.
“Yes, I – I should think a walk would…yes,” announced Ruth, shaking her head when Lottie looked set to go with her. “I – I shan’t be long.”
The musty hallway was scattered with idle bodies filtering from the coffee room. Ruth steadied herself against a panelled wall, her fingers lined up against her collarbone, as though she could press all the disjointed pieces of herself back together. There were too many people packed into the corridor, passing by, talking loudly. Though not a single one glanced her way, she found no solace, no quiet. A woman tried to push a half-dead flower into her hands in exchange for money and Ruth could only shake her head, stomach churning with all the fears and concerns she wrestled with. It felt as though she had been bottling herself up for years, burying shards of worry – and now she was fit to bursting.
“Come on, love, in here,” said a soft voice, a hand in hers.
The pressure on her fingers was gentle, yet firm, guiding her into an empty opera box. God, she was a fool, making an idiot of herself again. There was no way she could survive here, with its viper-quick tongues, conversations that moved too fast for her to understand – all packed together with Albert’s constant whiny and belittling remarks. They would be married soon and this would be her life and there was nothing and no one who could ever save her from it.
I can’t do this.
She wanted to turn back time and go back to the academy. She wanted her cold, barren room, her books and the faces she knew, the girlish chatter that was easy to follow. Real people, who held real concerns, who did not feed on gossip and other people’s misery.
She missed the country, the clean soot-free air, the sun. When had she last glimpsed the sun between those tall, blackened buildings?
God, she hated London. And it surely hated her.
“It will be all right, Miss Osbourne.”
“No, it won’t.”
There was a hand on her back, soothing, as she struggled to calm herself. Whenever she tried to push back the tide of emotions, the foam slipped over her fingers, across her arms, dragging her under. It was humiliating, ridiculous – she was ridiculous – for it was as though her body had forgotten how to breathe and no inhalation was ever enough.
“Stay with me, that’s it, I’ve got you.”
Ruth knew that voice.
At last, when she was able, she looked through her damp eyelashes to the individual sat beside her.
Isaac Roscoe.
“You,” she croaked. “I can’t be here with you.”
Chapter Four
Isaac
She wasn’t meant to cry. Griswell had given him instructions, hired a private box at the opera, told him to get the girl alone and do what must be done. But Isaac hadn’t anticipated this.
“What happened?”
“I shouldn’t be here.” Her face was blotchy, hands shaky, eyes puffy. Every breath seemed to escape her and panic her more. Isaac had seen men fall into the same state when overwhelmed by the sea, their vicious commanders, or the horrors that came with war. If he had a stiff drink, he’d have given it to her. It helped, he’d found. And if anything, he could use a drink.
It had never been like this before.
The women he’d brought down had always been spoilt, ambitious, money-grabbing creatures whose virtue needed testing. Or they were idiotic, simple-minded girls who needed crossing in love. (It helped to build character.) They all fell to him, forgot their better instincts, ruined themselves. Isaac merely provided the opportunity and he enjoyed it. The game, the chase, the danger.
When it came to Ruth Osbourne, the situation was not to his liking. She was a good person. He wasn’t used to those. He hadn’t even been sure they existed. It didn’t change anything. He couldn’t let it. He needed the money.
And she would recover, surely? It wasn’t as though she was ugly, aside from her ridiculous clothes. In some lights, she was rather pleasing to the eye. Yes, she had few connections and her uncle was an odd, unattached fellow, but someone else would intervene on her behalf. Soon she’d be someone else’s problem, not his.
“It will pass. Steady your breathing,” said Isaac gently, a hand on her shoulder, thumb moving in gentle circles. “You do not want anyone to see you like this, trust me.”
At last she stilled, chin against her chest.
“It seems you are fated to be here whenever I am at my worst,” she croaked. “And I fear I’ve been terribly rude to you, when all you’ve ever done is help me.”
Ruth tried to meet his gaze and he avoided it, staring out across the audience members below, lined up in the cheaper seats, engrossed in their own conversations.
“Forgive me,” said Ruth, her knee resting against his, and he wanted to get up, to put a distance between them and warn her against him. “I have been caught up in this horrible city, its talk, the rumours.” She shook her head, wisps of her hair falling down from their fixings, framing her face, inviting him to brush them back, to touch her. “I almost forgot myself.”
“An easy thing to do in these parts,” said Isaac listlessly. He’d never felt more like a wolf, a predator, a monster. What was it about her that made him want to be a better man? A man he’d left behind long ago.
“It will all get better. I shall get better at it, after I am married,” she continued, rationalising with herself. “I know I can make myself happy, if I try hard enough.”
Isaac released an amused grunt, though he held no good humour. “You cannot truly believe that?”
“I have to,” she told him, “otherwise I’d never go through with it.”
Christ.
This was his way in, a chance to give her another option, to pretend he was the answer to her prayers, here to vanquish her troubles and remind her of what true chivalry was.
But, as before, the words wouldn’t come.
And she beat him to it.
“You’re a good man, Mr Roscoe.”
Her gloved hand rested atop his, a contact he instantly drew away from, finally catching her eye.
“I cannot do this,” he said, half to himself, half to her. “We need to get you away from here, back to your friends.”
Away from me, before I do something I regret.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Ruth, and Isaac was sure he hadn’t imagined the disappointment in her voice. If he kissed her now, would she let him? God, he was definitely going to hell for this.
Well, this and a lot of other things.
“Follow me.” Isaac didn’t give Ruth time to think, to comprehend, as he moved to the door and checked the corridor. It seemed to be their habit, to skulk around in one another’s company.
“Be quick and be quiet,” he said.
They were not quick enough, for when they entered the darkened route, a figure peeled itself from the shadows. Isaac pulled Ruth into an alcove seconds before Griswell strolled by, lingered outside their vacated box and found it empty. The slimy git swore under his breath and kept on walking. He was looking for them and he knew what he wanted to find.
“Whose opera box were we in?”
“Mine,” said Isaac.
“Then why is he…”
“Quiet.”
Suspicion latched on to her words. “What’s going on?”
“We are getting you back to where you belong and then we will never cross paths again,” he said. “And whatever you do, Miss Osbourne, do not trust Griswell.”
They did not speak further, not until Isaac returned her to the others without incident. If she wanted to say farewell, he didn’t let her. He didn’t trust himself not to do the wrong thing. In all his years, he had never thought himself a moral man, but he hoped he wasn’t a complete bastard, at least not today.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Isaac’s steps halted on the floorboards, head down, back to her. In his mind’s eye he was already far from these London streets, in another city, another country, another continent.
“Not if you’re lucky,” he replied over his shoulder, feeling his guilt lessen with every step that took him from the girl and everything he might have done. “Goodbye, Miss Osbourne.”
Chapter Five
Ruth
“A toast,” announced Griswell. “To the happy couple.”
The merchant had returned to the opera box shortly after Ruth and she did not miss the cryptic look he gave her, nor the annoyed flicker on his beak-like face. Roscoe’s warning was still in her ears, the warmth of his hands still on her skin, bringing an unsettled knot to her stomach. It was over, whatever it had been. Weakness – every human was prone to it, even she. This had been her one slip-up, the stumble before the rest of her life began. Mrs Pembroke. She knew who she was meant to be. Who everyone expected her to be.
The evening passed by without event, until the moment when a glass was positioned in Ruth’s hand. Although she’d had wine before, it had always been little sips, a drink in moderation, for her uncle disapproved. Not due to religious reasons, but due to the price. Alcohol was expensive and mishaps caused by intoxication even more so, both to a man’s pockets and his character.
Albert spotted her hesitation and gave her a meaningful look. The evening at the opera had gone poorly. Ruth knew she had been inattentive and lacking in enthusiasm. Her husband-to-be had noticed. To not drink would be to further insult him. Even Lottie shot Ruth a severe glance. Did they sense her reluctance? Ruth could not help but think on what her uncle might say at her conduct, at how she jeopardised all their futures.
Don’t be a burden, her mother had said. Don’t be a burden, my darling.
The wine had a queer, familiar taste.
Another toast, fuzzed words, Griswell’s piercing eyes.
Ruth put the glass to her lips again, until the entertainment before them was a distorted blur. The costumes, at first enchanting, now seemed like twisted, mocking devils. The floor sloped, her seat tipped, distant singers split in half, two bodies with mirror movements.
“A little air is all she needs.”
The glass was wrenched from her hand, barely touched, a few mere mouthfuls gone.
Griswell’s voice, she heard her name, a clicking tongue followed by Albert’s wet words, thick fingers, and Lottie’s fan inches from her face.
Cobblestones.
There shouldn’t be cobblestones in a theatre.
The air was sharper, a sudden coldness. They were outside.
Movement – a carriage – brought a half-formed question, perched on her lips, clumsy. Her chaperone didn’t answer.
“That’s right, don’t fight it,” she heard Griswell say. “Sleep. It will make this all the easier for you – for both of us.”
Chapter Six
Isaac
Isaac wasn’t drunk, more’s the pity, but he was getting there. Port added a welcome numbness to his movements, until his joints were liquid and his head swam. It wasn’t enough. He was still painfully in the present. London grime was thick on his skin. The gin bars and brothels on Drury Lane were packed in the humid evening. The noise – like a locust’s hum – filtered up through the floorboards to his rented room. He missed the clear Cornish air and the old, rundown house his father had left to him – the only thing he’d left. It had to be a ruin by now. Isaac hadn’t seen it in years, but he needed a place to lie low and that would do. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned. The merchant had been meant to catch him with Ruth, in a compromising position – or something that could have been misconstrued as such. But he couldn’t do it, not to her. He’d take Griswell’s money and flee, revisit the haunted place he’d not set eyes on since he went off to sea.
A knock rattled the door.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” said the kitchen boy, a grubby, reedy child who probably wouldn’t live to see the year’s end.
Isaac didn’t answer. It was either someone he owed money to, a cuckolded husband, or an irate gambler who’d bet too much money on him and lost it over the last fight he’d thrown.
“Sir?” Another insistent knock. “Look, see I told ya, he’s not in.”
“Roscoe, open the damned door.” Griswell’s instruction was sharp. “It’s time to fulfil your end of the bargain.”
Isaac eyed the window. It was too great a drop onto the street below. No way out, nowhere to run. And he was so good at running. It was all he’d known for a long time.
The kitchen boy spoke again. “That lady going to be all right, sir? She’s all pale-lookin’. Want me to send for someone?”
Lady. Isaac stood, braced over the wash-table, with water dripping into the basin. No. A loping stumble and he was at the door, sliding back the lock and dragging it open with a stiff creak. The kitchen boy’s eyes – sunken with poverty – were wide and round as he looked from Griswell to Isaac to the third person; a half-conscious woman, propped up on the merchant’s arm like a scarecrow.
“Miss Osbourne?”
The girl didn’t answer and Griswell forced himself into their room, pulling the lifeless woman in with him, to the ragged cot in the corner.
“What did you do?” Isaac was beside her, pushing her hair back from her bloodless face, finding her unresponsive.
“Laudanum,” said Griswell.
“You could’ve killed her.” She was breathing. He could feel her chest rise and fall, though it was a shallow movement. She’d live, she’d live.
“It was a calculated risk I had to take.”
“We need a doctor – anyone, someone.”
“No.” There was no concern on Griswell’s part, as he stood, unruffled, over the young woman. He turned to the kitchen boy, dropped a few coins into his expectant palm, and told him there’d be more if he kept quiet, before dismissing him. No one had seen them enter. The merchant had made sure of that – Griswell’s own reputation would be fine. Isaac was known to be a cad. This would not affect him in the least. The girl, however, was ruined. Even if Isaac managed to get her out and back across the city, it was all in Griswell’s hands – the puppetmaster, who had set the scene and controlled the outcome.
Isaac shook his head, a hand to his mouth. “I didn’t – I didn’t agree to this.”
“So long as you take my money, you’ll agree to whatever I want.”
“You cannot leave her here, they’ll all think—”
“Yes,” confirmed Griswell. “They will.”
“The deal is off.” Isaac pushed himself to his feet. He was broad, tall and strong. The merchant was an old, sallow man. There was no competition between them and Isaac enjoyed the sudden fear in his eyes. “Take her home, to where she belongs. I will not let you compromise her like this.”
Griswell flinched, but his tone remained level. “Don’t say you’ve grown soft, Roscoe?”
“I want no part in this.”
“If you’d done as I asked, these drastic measures could have been avoided.” The merchant looked over to where the sleeping girl lay, boredom etched into his features. “And stop posturing. There’s no need for violence; let’s not get the authorities involved. No one will care much for the girl’s fate, but strike a gentleman and there shall certainly be consequences.”
“You will pay for this.”
“I already have: I paid you.”
Isaac clenched his fists around empty air. A quick jab to the throat and Griswell would be on the floor, eyes bulging, clawing for air. But as impulsive as Isaac was, he wasn’t a simpleton. Hurting him wouldn’t help the matter.
Although, he thought, it would make me feel a lot better.
“The discovery will be made in the morning, when she’s had time to wake up. I’d advise you to leave this place early, Roscoe, and to make sure you’re seen, so that the wrong conclusions can be made by the right people.”
They’d assume it was a secret meeting, an affair, two lovers who could keep apart no longer. Because they didn’t know Ruth; they weren’t to know she was a perfect, bland and dowdy housewife. No, not a housewife, not yet, and now she never would be. Poor fool.
“She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Don’t tell me you like the girl?” The merchant paused in the doorway, with a pitying expression. “Oh, it’s more than that, I see.” A callous, mocking laugh almost tipped Isaac over the edge and had him forget common sense, the deal, his money. “You two do make a fine pair, Roscoe.”
In the slim seconds before a fight is to take place, there’s a calm rage, a quiet anger. Isaac felt it now. “If it’s to be like this, then give me what you promised or you will not leave this room intact.”
Griswell was too clever to be within hitting range. He took a hasty step backwards, one hand reaching out to ensure the door was where he’d left it. “What’s owed to you will be paid once my daughter is wed to Pembroke and no sooner.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
To any of this, to that lost girl lying a short distance away.
“What choice do you have?”
None.
And he’d gone too far to back out now.
***
Only when the sky grew pale, with the colour running away at the edges, did Ruth stir. Isaac hadn’t slept. He kept his back to the door, legs splayed across the uneven floorboards, having listened to the downstairs sounds reach their drunken crescendo, before petering out in the early morning hours.
There was a groggy noise – a strangled, startled sound – and Ruth dragged herself up – too quickly, it seemed, for her fingers folded around the cot’s sides for support. Her bleary gaze finally settled on Isaac and he did not shy from it, though shame rankled in his guts.
Isaac didn’t move. “I couldn’t leave without making sure you were…” Again, as seemed to be the pattern around her, his usual charisma drained away. What was he meant to say after all that had taken place?
“You?” She was not yet fully lucid, though her gaze spun around the room wildly. “What?”
“Griswell brought you here last night. He arranged it all, to make it look as if…as if we…” Isaac trailed off, slowly getting to his feet, body knotted with dull aches. “He wants his own daughter married to that buffoon, but I didn’t think that he would…that it would come to this…”
Would she scream, shriek, throw things? He wouldn’t blame her; he wouldn’t stop her either. Let her punish him. He could take a hit; he could take a thousand.