Chapter 19
The Forge was hot even in winter, smoke and soot clinging to the beams like old skin. Roark liked it so. Men sweated more in his company.
Sweat made them speak.
The door opened and shut without fuss. A small man—laughably so—threaded his way through the press of bodies. No hat, no cane, no swagger. Just neat clothes cut a season behind fashion, boots dull from London mud.
Roark saw him before the others did. He always did.
Quinn slid into the bench across from him, folding his hands atop the scarred oak table.
“Well?” Roark asked.
Quinn’s voice was even, clipped, touched with the Valleys. “Walton’s clean. We buried him deep. No noise in Bow Street, no whisper in the clubs. He’s snuffed.”
Roark drew on his pipe, exhaled smoke in a slow column. “And the house?”
“Fraying.” Quinn glanced down at his thumbnail, then back up. “Sylvia takes to her tinctures more often. Sleeps late, forgets the ledgers. Twice I saw her call the same girl for the same gentleman in one night. He laughed, but not kindly.”
Roark grunted. None of it surprised him. “And the other one?”
Quinn knew who he meant. He always knew. “Steady. Keeps the accounts when Sylvia drifts. Knows which girls to place, which ones to hide. She doesn’t chatter. Just does it.”
Roark tamped the bowl of his pipe with a thumb. “Iron, then.”
“Aye.” Quinn’s faint smile wasn’t mirth. More like agreement etched on stone. “The girls whisper her name already. In fear, in awe. They’ll follow, if it comes to it.”
Roark leant back, grey eyes narrowing through the haze. “Not yet. Let her think she walks alone. When the time comes, she’ll show us what she is”
* * *
Fanny Murray’s, August 1817
Catherine lit the lamps herself that evening.
The house was unusually quiet. Snow fell in the street, dulling hoofbeats and voices. Inside, the velvet curtains were drawn, the fire was steady, and Sylvia’s rooms glowed with amber warmth. Almost domestic. Almost safe.
Sylvia lay curled on the chaise in her wrapper, a fur throw around her shoulders, a crystal glass loose in her hand. Her hair was down. Her face—normally powdered, rouged, composed—was soft with fatigue. Older. Frailer.
“You always bring the best brandy,” Sylvia murmured, not quite slurring. “You’ve a gift for it.”
Catherine smiled faintly. “You taught me.”
That pleased her. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
“I was going to leave this place once,” she said. “Before the house was mine. Before the debts were cleared. Before I learned what I was good at.”
Catherine said nothing.
Sylvia went on, her voice loose and low. “He was a parish deacon. Spoke of sermons and sin. Duller than pewter. But he read poetry out loud to me.”
Catherine adjusted the hem of the throw so it didn’t trail onto the rug. Sylvia didn’t notice.
“I almost accepted his hand,” she said. “Almost. Can you imagine?”
Catherine poured the second glass. The brandy was deep and red-gold. She uncorked the tincture without a sound. Five drops. Stirred with a silver spoon.
Sylvia accepted the glass without hesitation. She sipped. Then, with a sigh, she settled back into the cushions.
“You’re clever, you know,” she said, eyelids half-lowered. “Sharper than I ever was. I always thought you’d stay. Carry it on. Maybe better than I did.”
Catherine sat beside her.
“I will,” she said quietly.
Sylvia smiled. “Good girl.”
The glass tipped in her hand. Catherine caught it before it spilled.
Within minutes, her breathing slowed.
Then shallowed.
Then stopped.
Catherine sat with the body for a while. Long enough to feel the warmth drain from it. Long enough to be sure.
Parliament was gone to the country. Business was thin, the house quieter than it had been in months. By the time the city swelled again, the girls would be used to her voice, her hand.
She rose, crossed to the window, and drew the curtain back just enough to see the snowy street below. London breathed on without pause.
She turned and looked at the room.
Sylvia’s suite. The perfume clung to the drapes, but Catherine drew it in like smoke. It would sour, then fade. The walls already leant towards her.
She opened the drawer, found the vial still slick with sweat and laudanum crust, corked it with a snap, and left it on the sill like a relic. Then she sat, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
She did not ring the bell.
An hour later, she came down the grand staircase without ceremony, each step deliberate, her skirts brushing the polished banister. The scent of rose oil and coal smoke lingered on her gloves.
The girls were in the front parlour—Anne combing Bridget’s hair by the mirror, Victoria stitching a hem, Harriet nodding off with her head against the wall. Delsie stepped through the hall behind her, froze, then stared.
The room stilled. No alarm. No mourning. Just a pause, like a hare stiffening when it scents a hunter in the air.
Catherine crossed to the centre of the rug.
“Cathy?” asked Anne, her timid voice carrying dismay.
Catherine stared at her. The girls looked at one another, then focused on her.
“My name is Catherine Murray. Address me as Catherine. Never Cathy.”
A few breaths caught. One girl opened her mouth, then shut it again.
“Am I understood?”
They rose to their feet. “Yes, Catherine,” they replied in unison.
Catherine nodded. “I’ll have the ledgers sent down tomorrow. Rates will not change. Schedules will hold. If you do your work, you’ll be paid. If you cross me, you’ll be gone.”
She looked at each of them in turn, not cruel, not kind.
“This is my house.” She paused. “You will respect its rules.”
“Yes, Catherine.”
She turned towards the window, her posture calm, hands folded before her.
Behind her, the girls resumed their tasks—a hairbrush pulling through tangled locks, a needle pushing through a loop, a whisper shushing a whimper.
The house remembered its rhythm, but it no longer belonged to Sylvia.
* * *
The candle burned low, throwing a wavering crown of light across the desk. Catherine flexed her cramped fingers, the tips smudged black with ink. The blue-leather journal lay open before her, its cover softening now with use.
On the first page, Sylvia’s hand still ruled—a neat inscription in bold, flourished script: Accounts Owed.
Every page after belonged to Catherine.
She lowered the quill, drew it steady through the first name.
Matthew Walton.
The stroke was dark, deliberate, final. She traced it once with her fingertip, as if to feel again the weight of the poker splitting his skull, the sudden warmth of blood flecking her cheek. Beside the name, she had written: iron poker.
She turned the leaf.
Wallace Walton
Walter Walton
Lucinda Walton
To each, she added a question mark, then the word: fire.
Another turn. Two more names, written without pause:
Tom King
Maud Hatcher
She turned again. This time the quill lingered, its nib resting on the paper before she moved. Two final names took shape.
When they were finished, she closed the cover.
These final entries were not yet debts collected, only promises. They belonged to Mayfair drawing-rooms and the polished company of the ton—places where no one dreamed their reckoning was already written.