Chapter 24 - Stephen #2
Stephen forced himself upright and took one step forward, then another, willing his body back into obedience.
He stepped onto the street, and beyond it, the fish market sprawling across the square. He could hear it before he saw it, the cacophony of sellers hawking their wares, buyers haggling over prices, the eternal dance of commerce that had played out in this spot for centuries.
His task. Lady Rutland wanted sole and oysters for the first course. Simple requirements. Concrete. Something he could accomplish without thought, without feeling, without having to examine the wreckage of everything else.
Stephen entered the full chaos of the market.
The assault on his senses was immediate and overwhelming— the sharp brine of the sea mixing with less pleasant odors, the press of bodies jostling for position at the best stalls, voices raised in argument or advertisement creating a wall of noise that made his head throb.
He moved through the crowd mechanically, his training taking over where conscious thought failed. Years of service had taught him how to navigate crowded spaces, how to slip between people like water finding its path.
“Turner!” Old Tom’s voice cut through the noise, jovial and loud. “Haven’t seen you down here in weeks, lad!”
Stephen’s feet carried him toward the familiar stall.
Tom stood behind his display of fish, hands on his hips, gaptoothed grin splitting his face.
He was a fixture of the market, had been selling fish here since before Stephen was born, knew every footman and cook who came to select their household’s dinner.
“Morning, Tom.” His voice came out hoarse, scraping. Stephen cleared his throat, tried again. “Lady Rutland wants sole for tonight.”
“Ah, the lady knows her fish.” Tom’s eyes crinkled with approval as he gestured to his display. “Got some beauties this morning, fresh as you’ll find anywhere. Caught off Dover yesterday evening, brought up overnight.”
Stephen stared at the fish without really seeing them.
Their scales caught the light, throwing off rainbow reflections that should have been beautiful but instead just made his eyes hurt.
He knew he should examine them properly, check the clarity of their eyes, the firmness of their flesh, all the markers of quality he’d been trained to recognize.
But his hands wouldn’t cooperate, hanging uselessly at his sides as though they’d forgotten their purpose.
“Here, look at this one.” Tom lifted a particularly fine specimen, holding it up for inspection. “See how clear it is? And the gills—“ He pulled them back to show the bright red beneath. “Fresh as they come. This one’ll make her ladyship very happy.”
Stephen nodded slowly, forcing his attention to focus on the fish. “I’ll take two,” he heard himself say, the words emerging from some instinctive part of his brain that still remembered how to conduct basic transactions.
“Good choice.” Tom set about wrapping them, his movements quick and sure. “You alright, lad? You’re looking a bit green around the gills yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Didn’t sleep well.” The lie came easily, smoothly. Servants weren’t supposed to have complicated emotions, weren’t supposed to be wracked by guilt and the devastating realization that they’d ruined everything they’d dared to touch.
“Ah, well.” Tom’s expression softened with sympathy. “These long hours will do that to you. Make sure you get some rest when you can, eh? No use running yourself into the ground.”
Rest. The concept felt laughable. As though he could simply surrender to sleep, as though his mind would allow him that mercy instead of replaying Charlotte’s fallen face over and over until he went mad from it.
“Oysters too,” Stephen said, desperate to complete his task and escape. “Two dozen of your best.”
“Whitstable or Colchester?” Tom paused in his wrapping, one eyebrow raised in question.
Stephen’s mind went blank for a heartbeat. “Whitstable,” he finally managed.
“These ones are poetry, I tell you. Just came in this morning.” Tom selected the oysters with care, examining each one before adding it to the growing pile. “Tell Mrs. Price they need nothing but a squeeze of lemon. Anything more would be a crime.”
Stephen watched the oysters disappear into layers of paper and ice, each one handled with meticulous attention.
“Two pounds six,” Tom announced, holding out the carefully wrapped packages.
Stephen counted out the coins from the household purse, his fingers clumsy. The money felt heavier than it should, each coin requiring effort to grasp and transfer. Tom watched him with poorly concealed concern, but mercifully said nothing.
“There you are, then.” Tom settled the packages into Stephen’s basket. “You take care of yourself, Turner. Whatever’s weighing on you, it’ll sort itself out.”
If only it were that simple. If only time could erase what had happened, could restore him to the neutrality he’d maintained for years before Charlotte Fairmont had walked into his life.
Stephen nodded his thanks and turned away, the basket heavier now with its burden of fish and ice. His feet carried him back through the market, people parting around him— or rather, not noticing him at all.
The route back to Mayfair stretched before him, familiar and endless. Somewhere in those streets lay Bond Street, Hatchard’s, the place where Charlotte had disappeared. But Stephen kept his eyes forward, his shoulders curved, and walked.
One foot in front of the other. Fish for Lady Rutland’s table. Silver to polish tonight. Duties that would continue tomorrow and the day after, unchanging and absolute.
This was his life. This had always been his life.
And for a few foolish moments, he had dared to forget it.