Chapter 5
Crawshanks House, Whitechapel.
My body shakes violently as I sit slumped against Cornelius, his arm firmly wrapped around me to keep me from swaying too alarmingly as the hackney carriage bumps harshly over the cobbles.
I’m used to the cold, but the aftermath of the drugs and my long incarceration have pushed my body beyond its limits.
I barely have the strength to hold my head upright.
The loud clatter of the horses’ hooves comes to an abrupt halt, and the carriage jolts as it comes to a stop.
Cornelius’ arm tightens around me. I know he’s just trying to stop me from being flung forward, my body giving no resistance to the momentum, but as gentle as he is, his touch hurts my bones.
My head lolls back and I gaze up at him. He’s looking out of the small window into the darkness, but his jaw is clenched in anger. I’d think it was directed at me, but as the door opens and he looks down at me, his eyes and his tone soften.
“Cordie,” he whispers.
My heart clenches at the childhood endearment that rolls so easily from his tongue.
How long has it been since I heard someone call me that?
I can’t be certain. I don’t truly know how much time has passed.
Years, I know that much, but time passes differently inside Crowscroft—a moment can and did feel like an eternity.
I have not seen my reflection for such a long time, but if I did, I should not be surprised to find an old woman staring back at me.
But I can’t be, not with my younger brother gazing at me, his handsome face filled with gentle affection, although the sentiment is marred by regret and, if I’m not very much mistaken, guilt.
A lock of dark curls falls forward; in the dim light, it looks shiny and clean.
My fingers itch to touch it and see if it is indeed as soft as it looks.
Everything at Crowscroft felt cold and dirty.
And the smell…it is something I will never be able to forget.
The scent of human excrement, rot, and hopelessness.
“Cordie,” Cornelius says again, grasping my face gently, as if trying to wake me from sleep.
It’s not far from the truth. Maybe the sluggishness of my mind is left over from the ether, or from the sheer exhaustion of trying to survive in that hellhole, or maybe…
maybe they really did break me. “Cordie, we’re home. ”
I tense at the words, my hollow stomach roiling, the stiffness in my body hurting my fragile bones.
“Sssh, it’s alright,” Cornelius soothes, as if trying to calm a skittish animal. “You’re safe.”
“Is–” My voice is barely more than a shallow croak. I swallow, my throat dry and sore. I attempt to lick my cracked lips, but I don’t think there’s any moisture left in my body. I try again, forcing the words out. “Is he here?”
Cornelius doesn’t need clarification, he knows of whom I speak. He shakes his head. “Cordie, Father is dead.” He takes a deep breath. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
A triumphant wave of euphoria sweeps through me.
Good, I think viciously. I hope he suffered.
No death, no matter how brutal, can balance the ledger. Nothing he endured would come close to what I suffered at the asylum he sent me to and worse, sent me to out of pure spite. His own daughter.
“Come, you’re frozen. Let’s get you inside. You need food and rest, and our sister is waiting.”
He climbs down from the carriage, and I hear the brief jingle of coins as he pays the driver.
I don’t have the strength or balance to climb down of my own accord; instead, he reaches for me.
After I lean forward and place my arm around his neck, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms, trying to keep the blanket wrapped around me.
He carries me across the cobbles to the large black door with a shiny new brass knocker. My eyes swivel up to the building in front of me, the building Mother and Father had taken residence in when they first brought us to England after Father lost his position as a governor in India.
I look up at the dark building and feel no joy at my homecoming.
I may have spent many years here, but it had never been my home.
My home was in India, and my heart still longs for it—the soft, lulling notes as our Ayah sang to us at night, the scent of the hibiscus beneath my open window carried into our nursery on the hot, dry air.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear the chatter of the capped langurs, small monkeys that flitted through the banyan fig trees with their tufted white furred cheeks and their sweet, dark faces.
The moonlight would settle upon the lotus flowers growing in the sprawling ponds of the embassy, making them glow, but what always drew my gaze were the mountains in the distance rising up towards the heavens, vast, immutable.
My mountains. Just the sight of them meant home to me.
It always felt as if they were watching over me, my silent ancient sentinels.
Until I was pulled—ripped—away and brought to this cold, damp country, which may be mine by blood but which I hated on sight.
Not wanting to think about everything I’ve lost, I rest my head against my brother’s shoulder.
His scent fills my senses. Bergamot and something spicy, but underlying the masculine fragrance is a hint of sweetness.
The note reminds me of home, and it takes me a moment to place it.
Brahma Kamal. A flower that blooms on the Himalayan mountainsides.
It is unique because it needs moonlight to bloom, and it has a sweet scent, one that our mother used to favour for her perfume.
So much has changed in the years I have lost. As the front door opens, Cornelius carries me easily, showing no signs of tiring, not that I must weigh much now.
My body is barely more than a skeletal spectre of the woman I had been.
But while I have diminished, Cornelius is no longer the shy, scrawny boy who dogged my footsteps and begged me to create games for him and our sister to play.
Now he is all man, broad and tall, with strong arms and a handsome face, his thick, dark hair a riot of soft, loose waves and curls.
“Thank you, Nell,” Cornelius says, and I catch sight of a short, plump woman in a nightgown and sleeping cap, her shawl drawn tight and her iron-grey hair falling over her shoulder in a thick braid.
From the way she bobs a curtsey and closes the door behind us, I suppose she must be the housekeeper.
“I’ll fetch Missus Constance,” the older woman says, her gaze darting to me and away just as quickly. Then she’s scuttling off.
“Cornelius,” a deep voice exclaims in relief. “You’re back. Did they give you any trouble?”
A man about my brother’s age steps out of the parlour doorway.
He’s dressed somewhat casually, having discarded his jacket, cravat, and collar.
The shirt beneath his plain waistcoat is unbuttoned at the throat and his shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows, bringing attention to the ink stains on his fingers.
With pale skin and cheekbones dusted with freckles, vivid green eyes, and hair a violent riot of flames, he is striking. Bright red and burnished gold like a living candle, and I find myself wondering who this man is, wandering around the family home while attired so informally.
“I’m fine, Ichabod,” Cornelius says, and as slow as my mind currently is, I do not miss the soft way my brother looks at him, nor the intimacy of the other man’s returning gaze.
“Whyte wouldn’t dare ignore a release baring the royal seal, he’s not that foolhardy.
Although, judging from what we know of the man, I can’t imagine this will be the last we hear from him. ”
The man named Ichabod glances at me. His brows draw down as he takes in my appearance. “Christ, what did they do to her?”
“Things you and I probably couldn’t fathom inflicting on another human being,” my brother says coldly. “And I’m not going to rest until that place is reduced to no more than a pile of rubble.”
“We should speak to Hadley,” Ichabod says, his jaw tightening.
“Hadley has done enough for us already.” Cornelius shakes his head.
“He’s being watched too closely by the Home Office.
The last thing we need is them asking questions that might lead back to the Underside.
It was fortunate Hadley was able to secure the necessary papers for us to get Cordelia out of Crowscroft. I can ask no more, at least not yet.”
I don’t know what they are talking about, and another wave of exhaustion washes over me as I fight to keep my eyes open. But before I can drift off, a familiar voice cries out.
“Cordie!”
I turn my head a fraction and see a woman hurrying down the stairs. Her long cotton nightgown is covered by a pale rose pink silk dressing gown that is belted at her waist. Long, dark braided hair hangs loosely over her shoulder, with tendrils escaping around her soft, round face.
“Constance,” I whisper, but barely any sound comes out. My sister stops in front of me, her eyes widening in horror. I want to cover my bald head and my bare, grubby feet, both of which are peeking out of the blanket Cornelius has me shrouded in, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy to move.
I’d grown so accustomed to being dirty and barely clothed that I’d forgotten how it must look to those who didn’t share my reality of existence in the asylum.
“Oh, Cordie,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with tears, and I can’t stand it, I can’t stand the pity and horror I see in her dark brown eyes, ones that had always been filled with kindness and patience.
Instead, I close my own eyes to shut it all out—my only escape, the same as when I was at Crowscroft.
Sometimes, the only way to make it from one day into the next was to distance myself.
“Connie,” Cornelius says quietly. “Why don’t we get Cordie to her room? She needs to rest.”