Chapter 3 Escape
“We are upon Russell Street.” Thomas Bennet passed a hand over his face. “This is very bad, Lizzy. Either Wickham’s lodgings lie in a most notorious quarter, or he means to sell your sister.”
Elizabeth groaned. “Oh, Lydia, what will become of you?”
The street grew more crowded as they advanced, until the coachman drew up. Mr. Bennet stepped down.
“What is it, Dawkins?”
“Sir, I see the carriage ahead, but we are held fast in the press. I cannot move forward until this coal cart clears the way.”
“Lizzy, I shall ride beside Dawkins to keep Lydia’s carriage in sight.”
He closed the door and climbed up beside the coachman.
The press of traffic delayed them, and by the time they were able to proceed, Wickham's carriage had vanished. They continued along Russell Street for some distance, but there was no trace of Lydia. At last, they turned into a side street and drew to a stop. Mr. Bennet rejoined Elizabeth.
“Lizzy, I fear we have lost your sister. We shall go to Gracechurch Street and seek your uncle’s assistance. Perhaps we may engage a Bow Street Runner to track her.”
Elizabeth broke into tears, mourning the loss of her youngest sister, a mere child, now alone in a quarter of the city given over to every form of depravity. What horrors would she suffer?
Lydia woke when the carriage jolted over the stone paving of London. Wickham appeared more terrifying than before. She was careful to keep silent and passed the time looking out the window at the busy streets.
At length, the carriage turned from the main road into a narrow street. Lydia’s expression changed. Dirty children played along the sides, and poorly dressed women passed with baskets of provisions and other wares. The street was narrow and dirty.
She asked, “What place is this?”
He did not respond but kept his attention upon the passing buildings.
Soon, the carriage drew up before a three-storied brick house, and he rapped upon the ceiling. The equipage came to a halt.
“Remain here,” he barked. “I shall secure rooms for us. Stay in the carriage.”
Lydia flinched. He sounded angry; his glare frightened her. The minutes passed, and she grew impatient.
She wished to step down and stretch her legs, and so she did.
The coachman called out, “Girl, stay in the carriage, or someone will snatch you up.”
She laughed.
“Are you daft? Why do you laugh? That man has brought you to the worst part of town. Do you not know a house of ill repute when you see one?”
She frowned and moved nearer. “What place is this?”
He snarled. “It is a house of ill repute.”
She only stared at him, not understanding.
“It is a house of bad character.”
Still, she did not comprehend.
“Sister, if you go into that house, some man will pay coin to use your body. The men there are rough and will do painful, wicked things to you.”
Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. She clutched her reticule. “Can you take me away from here?”
“Your man still owes me the remainder of my fare. You had best run back the way we came. When you reach Russell Street, hire a hackney and go as far as you are able. This is no boarding house. That scoundrel is settling a price and will sell you to the madam. Houses of this sort are always in want of young girls. Go on now. Run.”
Lydia ran back the way they had come and did not stop until she reached the main thoroughfare. Breathless, she paused and looked about her. How was she to reach her uncle’s home?
She glanced along the line of vendors and fixed upon an older woman who might assist her. Drawing nearer, she said, “Where may I hire a coach?”
The woman eyed her with disdain. “Give me a penny, and I will tell you.”
Lydia reached into her reticule and placed a penny into the woman’s hand.
The woman pointed down the street. “That carriage is a hackney for hire.”
Lydia pressed another penny into her hand. “Thank you.”
She ran toward the waiting carriage, glancing back to see whether Mr. Wickham followed after her.
She ran up to the hackney. “Sir, I require a ride to 124 Gracechurch Street.”
He looked her over. “You have money?”
“Yes. What is your charge to Gracechurch Street?”
He spat his tobacco into the road. “One shilling and six pence.”
“I have it.”
She reached into her reticule and drew out a shilling and several pence. “Get in.”
Lydia struggled with the door before forcing it open, then sank into the seat. The hackney was foul with stale odors, and the cushions were stained and dirty.
As the carriage moved into the street, she realized she had left her gowns, her brushes, all that she possessed in the boot of the other carriage. Tears rose, and then fell in earnest as the full horror of Mr. Wickham’s intention became clear to her.
She wept the entire way to Gracechurch Street.
When at last the carriage drew up before her uncle’s house, her eyes were red and swollen. She pushed open the door and stepped down, then came forward to the coachman, who reached for his fare.
“Thank you, sir.”
She placed the coins in his hand, and he drove away.