Chapter 16
Alexander staggered slightly and steadied himself with a hand to the wall.
Beyond that wall the Thames flowed, sluggish and black.
Its noisome stench reminded him of the Clyde, viscous and polluted.
The night air was cool on a face made hot by too much liquor.
Sebastian had offered him a carriage after they had dined with Phillipton and Graves.
Wine had been consumed, and brandy. Both men had promised their votes and their support.
Alexander had declined his friend’s offer, choosing instead to head south from the pleasant eatery overlooking St James’ Park and follow the river in search of a dockside tavern.
Those men were asses. They see the bill as a way of climbing their way up the greasy pole, ingratiating themselves with the Whig government. They don’t care about the thousands of children forced into slave labor.
Sebastian had declared the evening a success.
Claiming the votes were almost in the bag to secure the bill’s passage through the Lords and back to the Commons to be enacted.
The two independent peers would bring others with them, he was sure of it.
But they had wanted to meet the chief sponsor of the bill.
Get the measure of him before they committed to his cause.
The measure of me! I’d like to give them a measure, a Glesga measure. I was an exhibit in a zoo to them. Come see the wild Scotsman. The only one in captivity.
He spat over the wall, righting himself.
After leaving Sebastian, he had found a tavern.
It had been dark with low ceilings. The air had been thick with the smell of tobacco, tar, straw, and spilled beer.
The walls hummed with the rising and falling swell of noise.
Shouting, laughter, singing. Alexander had felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he stepped inside. Now, he felt ashamed.
If anyone saw me here. Or recognized me and sold their account to the newspapers. Or the bloody Tories! Everything is lost! What is wrong with me!
Not for the first time he considered throwing it in, retreating with his tail between his legs to Lorchester.
And then staying there. Losing himself in the wilderness, shunning company, and no longer concerned with how he walked, stood, or sat.
Or what terms should be used to address which people.
He was walking randomly, not conscious of the direction he chose.
The river was behind him and dark buildings all around.
If a thief decided he would be easy prey, they would get a shock.
Alexander walked with fists clenched, spoiling for a fight.
I cannae run away. Who would stand up for them? All those helpless weans. Someone has to stand up!
It made him feel trapped, shackled to this place and these people.
People he despised. Except one. The wine, brandy, and ale had chased her from his thoughts for a time.
Now she filled his head once more. A woman he had met on three occasions, had known for a handful of hours.
A woman who inflamed him. Made the wildness in him rise to the surface.
Violet. His savior. Lost in thoughts of her, he did not note that his direction had turned northward, that he was walking at a brisk pace.
The Treasury appeared to his left, Scotland Yard to his right.
Ahead was Charing Cross and if he continued on this arrow-straight path, he would eventually reach Great Russell Street.
Learning the geography of this blasted city is worth something after all. It can lead me to her.
The drunkenness was fading with the exertion and the crisp night air.
He no longer had his gloves or cane, both had been lost in the tavern he had visited.
So too had his hat. A cab appeared and he raised a hand, bellowing to get its attention.
There was no-one in the street to hear but the cab turned and clattered down Whitehall towards him.
He snatched the door open and gave Violet’s address.
As he sat back in the cab, he wondered at his actions.
What would he do when he got there? It was late. She would be asleep.
Damn and blast it! I’m letting the drink and my own misery rule me. I should tell the cab to turn around and take me to Brompton Row and my own house. Better yet, keeping going ‘til we get tae Hampshire.
But he did neither of those things. He watched the streets of London and thought of fair hair and sparkling blue eyes.
Presently, the cab had departed and Alexander stood before number 45 Great Russell Street.
Black railings separated the house from the street.
The front door was elevated above the pavement at the head of a flight of stone steps.
Other houses of identical appearance stood to either side of it.
Alexander stood on the other side of the street and retreated into the shadow cast by a wall, surrounding a property on the corner of Charlotte Street.
The towering edifice of the British Museum loomed to one side.
He had not been inside and had no inclination to do so.
It was a reminder of the powerful elite that ruled this country and kept those less fortunate in their birth in abject poverty.
There was one lighted window in number 45 on the top floor.
All others were dark. The curtains of that window stood open.
As he watched and time crawled on, he saw a shadow cast against the ceiling.
It was hunched and impossible to know to whom it belonged.
The shape of someone sitting, shoulders pulled down and forward, head bowed over something.
Then a figure appeared. Alexander gasped, almost starting forward out of the shadow.
It was Violet. She wore a thick dressing gown that showed a brief, tantalizing glimpse of white beneath.
She reached to the curtains and pulled them closed.
Alexander looked around, down at the ground.
He found small stones, chips of gravel and gathered them from the surface of the road.
Then darting quickly forward and with the practice of long experience, he threw a handful towards the window.
Not too hard or it would break the glass.
Not too gentle or they would not reach the third floor where the window was located.
The gravel clattered loudly against the glass, most of them finding their target.
Alexander looked around to see if any attention had been drawn by the sound.
The street was deserted. There was movement within, a shifting of light and shadow.
Then the curtains parted slightly and a pale face looked out.
He could not see where her eyes were directed but he could see the movement of her head.
One way, then the other. Then sweeping back before finding Alexander standing now on the opposite pavement.
Feeling suddenly foolish, he raised a hand in greeting.
What now? You’ve woken her in the middle of the night with stones at her window. She’ll call the constables or scream bloody murder. She’ll no help you the noo, you fool!
For a moment, she was still. He could feel her eyes upon him. Then he saw her gesture and hope ignited within him. He came closer, crossing the road to the near pavement. She was pointing to the side of the house, crooking her finger as she did. As though to tell him to go around.
Behind the house. The gairden! The wall that I climbed. I hope I don’t break my fool neck trying to climb it with a skinful of booze!
Alexander nodded and hurried along the street, down Charlotte Street and then into the shadowy alley behind the houses.
He found his place, hoping that it was the right one, and began to ascend the wall.
He made too much noise and slipped more than once but he reached the summit.
Then fell more than climbed to the ground, landing with a thud and a grunt as well as a crash of branches and leaves.
For a moment he lay still, waiting to hear the raising of a hue and cry.
Then he picked himself up and began to make his way through the undergrowth to the small structure in which Violet liked to read.
It was empty and he sat on a padded bench seat against one wall.
Time flowed like treacle. He could not tell if he had been sitting there for an hour or a minute before he caught the sound of soft footfalls outside.
He stood and Violet appeared in the doorway.
Her hair was loose about her shoulders. Her stockinged feet peeked out beneath the long, thick dressing gown she wore.
She peered in and by the light of the moon, Alexander saw her lips tug into a slight smile as she saw him.