Chapter 19
“Opportunities multiply as they are seized.”
It seemed fitting that the heavens would unleash a summer torrent on the very day Mrs. Sweete abandoned me to visit her sister’s ill child. My chaperone had stayed dutifully by my side these past three days since the baron’s ball, helping me endure the wrath I faced at home.
Father had yelled his throat sore as soon as I walked through the door. His three-hour lecture included topics such as “putting our family’s good name in jeopardy,” “nearly ruining our chances at profitable marriage,” and—worst of all—“embarrassing me at the billiard table!”
The next morning, Father locked me in my room without so much as a crust of bread. Mrs. Sweete had snuck in three full meals for me. But, as far as Father knew, I had starved.
Today, when he finally allowed me to go downstairs, I asked if I could accompany Mrs. Sweete to her sister’s house.
He yelled for another hour. But I eventually proposed a deal: I wouldn’t practice the pianoforte for an entire month if he would let me go.
He stroked the scruff on his chin, weighing the priceless gift I was offering him, then grunted his approval. He always loved coming out on top.
And so, after a lovely morning with Mrs. Sweete and her sister, I gave a box of marzipan to Mrs. Sweete’s nephew and said my goodbyes. I rested my head on the carriage window as the coachman urged the horses on, and we rode away.
Mrs. Sweete’s sister lived in a neighborhood on the riverfront, filled with airy streets and brick tenement buildings freshened up with painted shutters.
Unfortunately, the heavy rain caused a few roads to close while we were having tea, and the coachman was forced to take an alternate route home—through the slums.
I clutched my reticule as we descended into the crooked streets, hardly wide enough for the carriage to pass through.
I had never been to this part of town before, and for good reason.
Every cramped block seemed to be drowning under the weight of its own poverty.
The plaster on the walls was peeling, the roofs sagging.
Windows were broken and patched with paper and rags.
The streets were mostly empty, except for a handful of hollow-faced men in weathered clothes pulling their carts through the thick rain, or a few stray children darting barefoot across the slick cobbles.
The air stank of refuse that even the rain couldn’t wash away.
I had known, of course, that people lived in poverty. But knowing is much different from seeing. And I found I couldn’t look away.
As we turned the corner, my eye caught on an older woman huddled beneath a soaked shawl, glaring up at the stormy sky. She was shivering.
Before I could think twice, I rapped my knuckles on the coachman’s window.
“Stop at once!” I ordered.
He stopped, then slid open the little door between us. “Is something wrong, Miss Weston?”
“Clearly!” I motioned out my carriage window. “That woman is drenched and in dire need of our assistance. Wave her over.”
“But, Miss Weston. Is that a good idea, considering where we—”
“Is it a good idea to allow a human being to be exposed to these elements?” I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the fact that Stevens was also drenched.
“That’s—er—very kind of you, miss. But your father wouldn’t be happy about this.”
“Father also wouldn’t be happy to hear how a certain coachman snuck into his wine stores and stole a bottle of his 1789 vintage, now would he, Stevens?”
He paled, and once again, I was grateful for Mrs. Sweete and her cunning eye.
Stevens hopped off the carriage and waved the old woman over.
A few unintelligible words exchanged between them, garbled by the loud patter of the rain.
I tapped my fingers impatiently on the bench until the carriage door opened.
Stevens did not look pleased as he waved the old woman next to him.
“What do you want?” she snapped. She was missing more than half her teeth, and the remaining ones were a sickly yellow. I clutched my reticule tighter.
“Good afternoon.” I removed the shawl from my shoulders and held it out, my hand trembling. “You look like you could use something dry. Here, it’s yours.”
The old woman stared at the shawl, then barked a laugh. “Does tha’ help you sleep at night, miss? Givin’ away useless things so ye feel better about yerself?”
She scoffed, then shuffled away, leaving me stunned in the dry carriage, still holding out the shawl.
“I’m sorry about her, miss,” Stevens hurried to say. “Let’s get you back home.”
“No.” I shook myself out of my shocked haze. Before Stevens could stop me, I pushed myself out of the carriage and into the rain, chasing after the old woman.
“You there!” I shouted. “I wasn’t done talking to you!”
The old woman glared at me over her shoulder. “I told ye I don’t want yer help.” She spat the last word in a mocking tone and turned away again.
Anger flared in my chest, and in an unusual lack of manners, I grabbed the woman by the shoulder and spun her around to face me. She stared at me, equally as shocked as I was.
“I demand to know why you are treating me this way,” I said.
“You demand? My, yer a haughty little thing, aren’t ye?”
I jutted up my chin. “And you’re a rude old woman. Now that introductions are out of the way, I want you to tell me why you refused my shawl.”
The woman scowled and tightened her ragged coat around her. “Pity wrapped in lace won’t keep me warm at night, girl. Now prance back to yer golden carriage and keep pretending that the rest of us folk don’t exist.” She looked me up and down with distaste. “Ye’ll be happier that way.”
I thought about Edmond’s words during Mrs. Fitzgerald’s charity, and before I knew it, I had fished out the twenty pounds Edmond had paid me in exchange for my painting.
“Then how about money?” I held it out. The old woman glowered at me, and I shook the note, growing frustrated. “Just take it!”
“Ye really need me to lay it out for ye? Fine.” She pointed a bony finger at me. “I refuse to accept the charity of a spoiled little girl who only wants to make herself feel better. People like ye don’t actually care about us. Ye give us crumbs so ye feel less guilty about feasting.”
“Crumbs? This money is all I have.”
She wheezed a laugh, which quickly descended into a wet cough. Once she caught her breath, she simply waved me off. “Ye don’t know what ye have, girl. Believe me.”
I stood there in the rain, dumbfounded, as she retreated into a ramshackle building that looked halfway collapsed.
What had possibly possessed me to leave the safety of my carriage and go chasing after her?
Some foolish notion of charity, no doubt.
Maybe she was right, and I only wanted to help her in order to feel better about myself.
Her words echoed like ghosts in my mind. People like you. What did that mean? That I was rich? Well, I certainly wasn’t rich anymore. But I recalled exactly how it felt to be the recipient of unwanted charity, so I could not fault the woman for her anger.
“Miss Weston?” a man’s voice said.
I startled but quickly realized I knew the voice.
I spun around. “Mr. Hawke?”
His eyes searched me frantically. “What on earth are you doing out in the rain? And here of all places?”
“What are you doing here?” I countered.
“I was visiting my—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We must get you off these streets immediately.”
He offered his good arm to me, and I took it, feeling off-kilter as he led me to the carriage door.
“Why didn’t you accompany her?” Edmond demanded of the coachman. “This place isn’t safe.”
Stevens sputtered, but I interjected. “I was gone for only a moment.”
“Long enough to be soaked through.” Edmond helped me into the carriage. “Take her home immediately.”
The relief of being out of the rain cleared my head, and I thrust out my hand to prevent the door from closing. “Wait—where is your carriage?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “One doesn’t bring carriages to this neighborhood. It draws too much attention.”
“I didn’t intend to come here. The roads were closed.”
“I assume you didn’t intend to walk around the slums by yourself either?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you are also here alone.”
He blew out a breath. “I can hold my own here.”
That was likely true. I had seen Edmond outmatch Mr. Marceaux, one-handed nonetheless. Shame swelled within me. I had put myself in another dangerous situation. He had every right to scold me.
“Come inside and close the door,” I said.
Edmond pushed back his sopping wet hair and peered inside the carriage. “You’re unaccompanied.”
Considering all that I had endured a couple nights ago, his concern was both prudent and appreciated.
But Edmond had proven himself an honorable man, and I did not fear his presence.
Besides, we were in the slums, not Mayfair.
Not a soul would recognize us. And more than that, I needed to speak to Edmond, and Father would not let me leave the house or receive visitors as part of my punishment.
This was my only chance to set things right—and learn the truth.
“Edmond,” I said sharply, “if you do not enter this carriage at once, I will jump out into the rain and pull you in myself. ”
He paused, then a smile touched the corners of his lips. “You called me Edmond.”
“I’m about to call the constabulary if you do not come inside and close the door immediately.”
He glanced behind him, as if ensuring no one was watching, then sighed and climbed in the carriage. He sat across from me, taking off his hat and placing it next to him.