Chapter 9 #3
Mr. O’Riley’s eyes were overbright, his hands balled into fists as he argued with Senhor Perreira.
Mr. Toussaint’s careful black curls stood out from his head in tufts that trembled ludicrously as he spoke.
Mr. Tythe, whom Caroline had never heard speak in a voice louder than a whisper, was shouting, saliva leaping from his lips. And Rab…Rab’s chair was empty.
Mrs. Easton grabbed Caroline’s wrist and waited until the younger woman met her eyes. “Good night, Miss Huxley.”
Caroline understood she had been dismissed. “Good night, Mrs. Easton.”
She shut the dining room door behind her, slightly muffling the sounds of the party, and stood for a moment in the dark.
Perhaps she had been wrong to assume something sinister about the boardinghouse’s monthly dinners.
They were an eccentric group, to be sure.
But she had witnessed no greater sin than excessive drinking.
Her father, too, had been prone to arguing when in his cups, although Lord Foster would never have allowed himself to be as drunk as these men.
Charlie had once been among them. Had once become so drunk that he and Rab had fought on the table. If the argument had not been about a woman—about Mary Jane—then what had it been about? What difference had drawn these two young men, who were so eerily alike, apart?
Something clattered to the floor in the kitchen beneath her, followed by a muttered curse.
Caroline froze.
The only empty chair had been Rab’s.
She hesitated on the landing, touched her fingers to the back of her hand where his nose had brushed. But she would discover nothing, cowering in her gable room.
Caroline descended the stairs on cat-quiet feet.
The larder door was open. Inside, Rab was standing on a stool, pulling snifter glasses from a high cabinet. On the floor of the larder sat a tray and a cut-glass decanter.
An animal warning rippled through her spine, but she kept her voice calm as she asked, “What are you doing?”
Rab jumped, but he covered his surprise with a swift smile.
“They’re not all bad, eh?” He closed the cabinet doors and stepped down from the stool. “A bit rough around the edges, some of ’em—”
“What’s that?” Caroline interrupted, gesturing to the tray. The liquid in the decanter was violently purple, the color of a bellflower.
“Just a bit of booze. Old family recipe.”
“Why is it purple?”
“We steep it with flower petals.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he stacked the glasses and decanter on the tray with a series of cold clinks. “Doesn’t do much for the taste, but the color’s pretty, is it not?”
Caroline ignored the question. Rab was uncomfortable, that was clear, and she wanted to know why. “May I have some?”
Rab’s smile flickered. “Sorry. Paying guests only. But you’ll have to trust me, you’re not missing much.” He pulled a face. “Tastes like turpentine and wallpaper glue.”
“Why drink it, then?”
She had him cornered, she could feel it.
He shrugged. “Traditions are funny things.” He lifted the loaded tray and walked toward her. The wall was at her back. She had nowhere to go except up the stairs, but she held her ground.
Rab paused on the first stair. He turned toward her, heedless of his jacketed arm brushing against her breast in the close, hot space.
“Now do as Mrs. Easton told you and scurry up to your room.” His low voice vibrated the air between them. His breath smelled of wine. “They’re not bad men. But they can get a bit handsy when they’ve had a few glasses.”
Caroline swallowed.
“Go,” he said again, and this time something feral glinted in his eyes.
Caroline’s pulse hammered. She felt the men’s hands on her again, felt her untried muscles tensing around delicate bones. Felt Rab’s bone-crushing grip in the dark, dragging her into him.
Some ancient instinct screamed at her to run, but instead she turned and walked slowly up the staircase, forcing her feet to move unhurriedly from one step to the next.
Behind her, she heard Rab enter the dining room to another chorus of cheers, but she did not stop until she had reached her own door and locked it behind her.
She stood with her back against the wood and breathed deeply. Here in her room, with its yellow quilt and cheerful wallpaper, her fear seemed ridiculous. The men at the table were odd, surely, but not sinister. And Rab…Rab was drunk.
Her lamp was not lit, but the moonlight was bright enough to see by. Caroline undressed in the dark, pulling the pins from her hair until it tumbled down her back. She stood for a long moment at the window, gazing out at the white face of the full moon, before climbing into bed.
She swallowed one of Dr. Hoffman’s pills and fell asleep quickly and deeply, so she did not hear the house shifting as a dozen pairs of feet climbed the main staircase to the second floor.
She did not hear the iron-belted door squeal open on its reinforced hinges, did not hear the bar slide across the wood.
She woke only once, when the moon was so bright through her window she thought, for a moment, it was morning.
She turned her face into the shadow. She would not remember the howl of a dog somewhere far below her, in the streets of Whitechapel, as she drifted back to sleep.