Chapter 42 #2
No, it was not all right with her, but she was in no position to protest. She’d already shared that she did not agree with the way things were handled, but the decision was already made . . . regardless of her input.
The carriage drive from the assembly rooms to the docks was relatively short. There were so many things Ella wanted to say to Gabriel—that she wanted to ask him. Admittedly, she did not understand his reasoning. And it frustrated her.
Gabriel had been right about one thing. The docks were not a safe place. The buildings around her reminded her of the street where Mr. Grenshaw’s boardinghouse had been located.
The carriage pulled to a stop beneath a flickering gas lamp that spilled just enough light to illuminate the wet cobblestone walkway beneath it.
To the carriage’s left, another road stretched forth, lined with smaller buildings and houses.
A heavy fog hung in the air, and it caught the lantern and gas light, resulting in an unsettling glow.
Shouting and bouts of raucous voices echoed from the brick buildings, making it seem as if the sounds completely surrounded them.
Two scantily clad women leaned against a wall not far from the carriage, and a body—either sleeping or intoxicated—sprawled not far from where the carriage had stopped.
Gabriel touched her hand and refocused her attention on him. “I’m going down to the building at the end of this dock. I won’t be long. You’ll be safe here with Clancy. Just don’t get out of the carriage, all right?”
She nodded wordlessly.
Gabriel exited the carriage, and the gusty wind caught the folds of his tailcoat and billowed them behind him. She watched as the heavy fog enveloped him.
Once the door was closed and Gabriel was walking down the street, Mr. Clancy said, “I take it you’ve never graced the London docks before, have you, Miss Wilde?”
She turned her attention back to Mr. Clancy. “I have not, sir.”
“It’s a different world here among the rabble.” He laughed and rested his thick hand on his knee. “I hope you’re not offended. I doubt you ever have reason to encounter such environments at Keatley Hall.”
Unsure of how to respond to the disparaging comment, she remained silent.
Mr. Clancy continued, “Does it surprise you to know that I have friends here in these buildings and on this very street? Ah yes! I see in your expression that you don’t believe me, but just ask Mr. Rowe. Ask nearly anyone in London. I interact with people from all walks of life. It is my gift.”
The unusual pitch of his voice and the subtle narrowing of his eyes cautioned her. He was clearly awaiting a response, so she swallowed her discomfort and said, “I only knew you as the master of ceremonies at the assembly rooms. I had no idea you were so connected.”
“It is an art. In order to be able to speak with anyone, I must be able to understand them while maintaining an appearance of gaiety and nonchalance.” He tilted his head to the side. “I have another gift. Can you guess what it is?”
Ella shifted and glanced again out the window, hoping to see Gabriel approaching, but was met with darkness. Shouting outside the carriage intensified, grating on Ella’s already raw nerves. “I cannot guess.”
A crooked, portentous smile curved his lips. “I have a very, very long memory. I remember the details that others forget. I keep careful account of every credit and every debit, and like a bookkeeper, I keep a tally of them in my mind.”
She squirmed uncomfortably. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but the contrived words that came out of his mouth felt almost like a masked warning. She told herself it was her imagination—an irrational fear brought to life by their ominous surroundings.
He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees so his face was not far from hers, denying her the option of looking away. “In fact, are you aware that I knew your mother?”
The air fled her lungs, and in that moment she could only stare.
“Yes. I knew her,” he repeated slowly, “only I knew her as Miss Leonora Keatley, before she married your father. Such an impressive woman. Fiercely outspoken, as I recall.”
Normally the news that someone had known her mother would excite her, but the darkness shifted around her. Gabriel had indicated that danger lurked outside the carriage, but something in Mr. Clancy’s tone and his unnerving constant directness suggested the danger might be closer.
She searched for words. “Were you interested in natural philosophies, then?”
He laughed easily. “Oh no, no, my dear. I am far more interested in the social aspects of life—why people behave the way they do. Why they say what they say.”
She racked her brain, trying to think of any other topic she could introduce to shift the conversation, but her thoughts seemed to be stuck.
“I remember the pamphlet,” he announced bluntly.
She jerked as if struck.
Either he did not notice her lack of verbal response or he did not care.
“I was a young man just rising in the ranks during those years. I longed to join the prestige associated with the Society, but I did not come from wealth and privilege, you see. I didn’t exactly meet the criteria for the sorts of men they deemed appropriate for such a group.
Even so, your mother was always kind to me.
So much so that I recall speaking with a woman—a Mrs. Chatterly—about engaging my sister as one of your mother’s personal servants.
My sister had made some questionable choices in her young life.
I believed that if she could be under the care of a reasonable, intelligent, responsible family’s roof, she might just be able to turn things around. ”
Ella froze at the mention of Mrs. Chatterly. She desperately searched her memory, wondering which woman on the staff had been his sister, yet she could remember no one with the name of Clancy.
Her voice cracked as she attempted to portray a placid demeanor. “And how is your sister now?”
“She’s dead, Miss Wilde.” His tone sharpened. “She was the other servant in the room when your mother died. A ‘fit of rage,’ I believe the pamphlet said.”
His statement stole her ability to speak. To respond.
Was this man accusing her mother of killing his sister?
Silence would make her appear intimidated, so she forced words from her parched mouth. “Whoever wrote that pamphlet was greatly misinformed. I daresay the events of the last couple of weeks have proved that phrenology is hardly a reliable measure.”
“How odd it is, Miss Wilde”—he rushed his words out, speaking over her—“that there is only one woman whose name is recalled from that horrific event. One woman whose fate was documented, as if the other two women didn’t matter.”
She refused to cower, despite her escalating trepidation. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because your mother murdered my sister!” he shouted in an explosion of fury.
Moisture spat from his mouth with the sudden force of his words.
He leaned forward in the confined space with his eyes wildly latched on her, unblinking and towering over her.
His voice grew eerily calm. “And as I just told you, I have a very long memory. When you combine that gift with an extraordinary sense of justice, one might call that retribution. And the people who know me, really know me, know that I am a man to be feared. I keep them in line by it. And you are about to find out why.”
Spurred by his words, Ella lunged for the door handle, determined to leap out and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Clancy as she could.
He stopped her. He grabbed her wrist with such force that she thought he might crush it.
He spoke through gritted teeth. “A word to the wise, my dear. Do not scream or cry out or take any of the other actions that might be running through that pretty head of yours. You are in unfamiliar territory. I tell you with certainty, the poor, prosaic people here will not care one speck about the sight of a woman lying lifeless on the ground.”
He pushed open the door and somehow got out without releasing her. Then he jerked her, forcing her to step down on shaky legs.
His warning not to scream ran wild in her head, for she did believe he would hurt her. Or worse.
Mr. Clancy motioned to the driver, and in a matter of a few slippery seconds, the carriage that had transported her here—the very one she had believed would shield her from the dock’s dangers, was leaving. Each second sent it farther away into the night.
She was exposed. Trapped. Caged.
She blinked to see the conveyance through the foggy night, beneath the light from the sputtering gas lamp on the corner.
Mr. Clancy pinned her arm around his. No doubt to anyone else it looked like a gentleman escorting a lady across the street.
She lifted her eyes to what was undoubtedly the destination .
. . a public house across the street, light beaming from the windows and raucous laughter and rough voices bursting from within.