Vanquished Page 11

  She flushed but to her credit held his gaze. "I have read accounts of women who must walk the streets to feed themselves."

  "Accounts, is it? Tell me, Caledonia, have you ever condescended to speak to such a woman? Face to face, that is?"

  "No, not exactly."

  "Not exactly?" Fingering the glass fragment buried in his palm, he made no attempt to strain the sarcasm from his tone. "Tell me, what manner of recompense are such women paid to give their testimonials? Five shillings? As much as ten? More perhaps but then such titillating gossip would be worth a great deal, wouldn't it, for spinsters too gutless to allow a man near enough to touch them, really touch them."

  Cheeks dyed a wind-chapped red, Callie pushed back from the table, and rose. "For whatever reason, you seem determined we should be at odds. You are in a foul humor, and I've no mind to be made the butt of it so much as a moment more." She snatched up her parcel in shaking hands and turned to go, leaving her gloves lie.

  Like a drunk who'd just come to, he took a stumbling step toward her. "Caledonia. Callie." He reached out to touch her but something in her ramrod straight stance called him to take his hand back.

  Bottom lip trembling, she shook her head. "Mind you don't say a word more, not a single flipping word. Hang your bloody photographs and . . . hang you."

  With that, she turned her back on him and stalked off. He steeled himself for the requisite slamming of the door but when she only drew it quietly closed, he knew in his heart she meant never to come back, that this was farewell, not merely goodbye. The very worst part was that he couldn't fault her for it. Not a jot. If he had so much as a drop of decency left, he would let her go, let her save herself, and accept whatever consequences came his way.

  Yet somehow, he couldn't resign himself to bidding her farewell. Not just yet. Not like this.

  "Callie, hold." He vaulted out into the hallway. Catching her on the stair landing, he took firm hold of her shoulders.

  Whirling about, she struggled to shake him off, the parcel falling to the floor. "Take your bloody hands off me."

  He held firm, absorbing her hurt, her anger, the heat of her all but searing his palms. "Callie, please. Don't go. Not like this."

  "If I do leave now, whose fault is it? First you insult me. No, worse yet, you skewer my intelligence and challenge my commitment, and impugn my honor by suggesting that I or my associates would bribe, actually bribe, other women to lie to advance our political ends. You poke fun at my . . . inexperience and in the next breath you manhandle me as you might some sort of . . . street woman. Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?"

  Who indeed? Harry Stone? Hadrian St. Claire? Somehow the two had gotten all mixed up in his head. "I think I'm the man, the lout, who owes you his most humble and heartfelt apology. I should never have spoken to you as I did." He let his hands fall away though even bristling with anger she felt so good, so right, in his arms.

  "Why did you?" She held herself stiff and apart from him but at least she wasn't fleeing.

  Choosing his words with care, he answered, "I had a visit the other day from a . . . patron, a very influential patron, displeased with my services. I've let it rattle me rather more than I should."

  Her expression softened. "I gather he is a very important client? Or perhaps I should say 'she'?" Beneath the brim of her hat, one dark brow edged upward, a frame for the unspoken question in her eyes.

  "No, it was--is--a man." Did he imagine it, or was that relief flickering across her face? "As for his importance, I venture to say he considers himself of great consequence indeed."

  God, but the melting expression in those big soulful eyes of hers very nearly wrecked him. "Hadrian, tell me true, have you been neglecting your other commissions to work on my portrait? If so, I shall telegraph Mrs. Fawcett directly and ask her to engage another photographer. I'm sure she'll--"

  "No, no need to do that." Heart racing, he took a moment to gather himself before continuing in a calmer voice, "Really, I've managed everything. The gentleman left with my complete assurance that the photograph I deliver shall be more than worth the wait."

  The tenseness about her mouth eased into that tentative half-smile he found so utterly disarming. "It will be all right then, won't it?"

  Oh God, as if anything would ever be all right again? "Yes, well, we shall have to wait and see." Desperate for distraction, he looked down to the fallen package at their feet. He bent to pick it up. "What is this?"

  She hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip. "It's a gift . . . for you," she added, rather unnecessarily, though her discomfiture was endearing all the same.

  "I can't say as I've done anything to merit presents, unless it's a lump of coal, but shall we go open it?"

  They walked back inside, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, his palm fitting the curve of her as though it belonged there.

  He set the parcel down atop the table and reached for the scissors to cut the cord. "It's been a very long time since someone's given me a present."

  Arms folded across her breasts, she said, "I hope you don't think me forward. It's only that after the other day, well, I wanted to give you something, too."

  He paused in ripping away the brown paper to look up at her. "Callie, what we shared together, that was hardly charity on my part." Rather than risk embarrassing her further, he turned his attention to stripping away the remainder of brown paper. He lifted out the contents, a proper businessman's case every bit as handsome as the one he'd seen Dandridge carry. His gaze shot to hers. "Oh, Callie, you shouldn't have."

  "I know it's not the sort of gift a woman normally gives to a man she's only just met but I thought . . . rather, I saw that yours was . . . is rather well-used, and I thought . . . it was a whim, silly of me, really, but I thought you might like to have it."

  Touched, he traced the tooled leather with a single finger. "You've had it engraved with my initials."

  She nodded. "The gentleman in the men's shop at Harrods was kind enough to take care of that for me. Unfortunately he couldn't get to it until today."

  So that was it, her real reason for arriving late. She'd stopped to pick up his present, the present he so ill deserved. Oh, Callie, forgive me.

  Mired in his misery, he was vaguely aware of her rambling on, "I didn't know if you had a middle name, so I settled on H.S. If it's not right, or if you prefer your old one, you needn't use it. I shan't be offended, truly. I just wanted . . . I just wanted to give you something."

  H.S.--be it Harry Stone or Hadrian St. Claire, either way it served. He dragged his gaze up to her face. Feeling as though his blackguard heart might cave at any moment, somehow he found his voice. "It's splendid." You're splendid. "It was . . . very good of you to think of me." Christ but how stiff he sounded, how formal, rather like the hoity-toity set he spent so much of his time aping but whose manners he could never quite carry off. "I shall be proud to carry it. Thank you."

  "I'm glad you like it." Looking anything but pleased, she glanced down at the watch pinned neatly to her bodice. Like the spectacles she'd recently left off wearing, he suspected the timepiece was mostly for show. "I should be going." She turned away.

  "Callie . . . wait up, will you . . . please."

  She turned slowly toward him. "Yes, Hadrian?"

  He hesitated, wondering what the devil he might say to her to ease the hurt, to make it all right between them again, at least as all right as things could be under such circumstances. "There's something, a place, I want to show you. Think of it as my gift to you, if you will." At her perplexed look, he elaborated, "A lecture, no matter how well intentioned, is no substitute for the genuine article."

  "Hadrian, what are you proposing?"

  "Before you take this cause of yours any farther, why not venture out and meet some of these so-called East Enders for yourself?"

  The hired hansom took them as far as Covent Garden Market. Hadrian paid the fare and directed the driver to let them out at the Russell Street ent
rance. Stepping inside the enclosed market, Callie saw that the aisles were largely deserted, the vendors' goods picked over from that morning. Hadrian explained that while some costers were packing up for the day, others would remain until dark to draw what custom they might from the early-evening theatergoers.

  Hadrian had a camera slung over his shoulder but so far he'd yet to remove it from its case. Wondering why he'd brought her if not to take pictures, Callie strolled down the line of food stalls, the displayed delicacies ranging from pineapple, lemon, and other imported fruits to hot cross buns and jellied eel. She was debating whether or not to purchase a paper cone of roasted chestnuts when a woman's high-pitched voice drew her attention to the other side of the room.

  Standing before a seller of hot pies, the tall blonde shrilled, "For the love of God, Tim Brody, 'ave a heart. Girl's gotta eat, don't she?"

  From behind the stall, the apron-clad merchant shouted back, "You're no girl, Pol, and 'aven't been for years. Now take your poxy hide out o' me sight before you chase away any more customers." Reaching over, he dealt the blonde a hard shove.

  Watching in horror, Callie caught at Hadrian's coat sleeve.

  The woman righted herself, stepping back to straighten her worn velvet bonnet with great dignity. "I'm going, aren't I, but mark me, ye'll pay for that if not in Heaven then in 'ell."

  Clutching a thin, fringed shawl about bony shoulders, she turned and staggered across the aisle, nearly careening into Callie and Hadrian. Looking up, her scowl lifted into a crooked smile. "'arry Stone, why bless me soul. Where've you been keeping yourself, love? I 'aven't set eyes on you in ages."

  Hadrian froze. Recovering, he tapped the side of his nose and said, "I'm afraid you've got the wrong fellow, but here's something for your trouble." He dug into his pocket and pulled out several one-pound notes.

  Eyes darting from right to left, Polly snatched the money and stuffed it down the front of her gown. Fingering the crusted sore at the side of her mouth, she shifted her gaze to Callie, looking her up and down. "Ah, so that's the way 'o it, now." She threw back her head and laughed as though someone had said something funny indeed. "Oh, nay trouble at all. My mistake, guv." She winked and continued on her way, but not before Callie caught the backward glance she sent them.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Callie leaned in to Hadrian and whispered, "Was that woman a--"

  "Streetwalker," he finished for her.

  "I thought as much. Poor thing, she looked so fragile and thin and unwell."

  Jaw set, he nodded though she couldn't miss how he avoided looking her in the eye. "Poverty, disease, and childbirth are of greater menace to the typical London prostitute than the Ripper ever was--or the lack of voting rights, for that matter."

  Ah, so now they'd got to the crux of why he'd brought her. Whatever had she been thinking to presume to be his teacher when it was clear, and painfully so, how very much she had to learn. "If your aim was to show me what a spoiled, unfeeling wretch I am, then point taken."

  She'd expected him to crow like a rooster but instead he turned and looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment before saying, "I don't think you're spoiled or unfeeling. If anything, you're one of the kindest, most feeling women I've ever had the privilege of knowing."

  Stunned as much by the warmth in his eyes as by the unexpected compliment, Callie was at a loss for words. "Thank you," she finally said, and without thinking took hold of his arm.

  They left the main market building for the outside, Hadrian occasionally pointing out some structure of note-- an orphanage for Jewish children, a soup kitchen, a gin palace that fronted for a thieves' academy. Hand resting in the crook of Hadrian's arm, it never occurred to her to feel frightened. So absorbed was she in all she saw, including the newly revealed depth to the man walking beside her, she came close to stepping on the wraithlike form sprawled on the sidewalk at her feet.

  "Spare a coin, lovey?"

  Startled, Callie looked down. Slumped against one of two pilasters announcing the gated entrance to an imposing brick building of several stories, the woman was of indeterminate age, the lower-left portion of her face wrapped up in a scarf and pitifully sagged, putting Callie in mind of a balloon with half the air let out. At her side were a moth-eaten tabby cat and several boxes of matches. Callie didn't know what to make of her. The match sellers she'd seen were girls, not adult women, and certainly not wizened creatures such as this poor soul.

  She was about to reach into her reticule when she spotted the empty flask in the woman's hand. She snapped the bag shut. "I will not finance your addiction, madam, but if you wish, I will gladly hire a hansom to convey you to the Salvation Army shelter. There you will find a hot meal and refuge." And medical attention, she almost added, but thought better of it.

  The woman coughed and spat a wad of yellow sputum on the pavement near Callie's foot. "Ha! Bloody Methodist do-gooders, I'll rot in 'ell before I let 'em get their filthy mitts on me."

  Wordlessly Hadrian reached into his pocket and took out his money clip. The woman's hazed eyes brightened when he handed her a bill.

  She snatched it up as though afraid he meant to take it back. Looking down at the money in her hand, she blinked, and then stared up at Hadrian, cracked lips breaking into a broad grin. "A fiver! Oh thank ye, sir. Warms the cockles of me heart, it does, to know there's still such a thing as a true gentleman--and true Christian charity."

  Shocked to her core, Callie would have repeated her offer of transportation and safe haven only Hadrian cut her off. "Leave her be," he said, tone sheathed in steel, and taking firm hold of her arm he steered them away.

  It wasn't until they crossed to the other side of the street that Callie had the presence of mind to break free. Indignant, she choked out, "What could you be thinking to give that woman money when you know she will only use it to buy more of the very spirit that enslaves her?"

  He turned on her then, hard fingers biting into her arm. "What if she does, poor devil? If a flask of Mother Geneva can carry her away from her pain for a few hours, then I for one look upon it as money well spent."

  Stunned to be the one under attack when she was so obviously in the right, Callie shot back, "In case you've failed to notice, it is winter. If she should fall asleep in this weather with gin thinning her blood, she may well freeze to death."

  He responded with one of his infuriating shrugs. "Who are we to say that might not be a blessing?"

  Could he really be that callused to the loss of a human life? "A blessing! Dear Lord, have you no human feeling at all?"

  His mouth dipped downward; his eyes were as bleak as the soot-stained sky above. "Have a look about you, Callie. Can you not see where it is we are?"

  Without waiting for her answer, he took hold of her shoulders, turning her so that she was facing across the street to where a clutch of women clustered about a rubbish bin. Hands outstretched, they took turns catching the warmth from the feeble flames coming up from the grate.

  "That large and undeniably handsome brick building across from us is the Bryant & May Match Factory. Those women standing outside the entrance all work there as once did that poor devil we just passed."

  She angled her head to look back at him. "What of it?"

  "Have you never heard of a condition known as phossy jaw?"

  As much as it irked her to admit ignorance, she admitted, "No, I haven't."

  Sliding his hands from her shoulders, he blew out a breath. It hovered between them for a handful of seconds like pixie dust, a small cloud of crystallized air. "The yellow phosphorous in which the match-heads are dipped is highly toxic," he explained, sounding much as he had when he'd first taken her through the mechanics of photography. "Prolonged contact causes all manner of maladies--burns to the skin, shortness of breath, jaundice. And, in advanced cases such as that woman's, it eats away at bone until teeth and sometimes even pieces of jaw can be pulled out."

  "Dear Lord." Callie fought nausea as the few bites of breakfast to
ast she'd had threatened to come up. She searched Hadrian's face, studying the resolute set of his own lovely squared jaw, before asking, "Is there no cure?"

  He shook his head, confirming what she'd already suspected. "Phossy-jaw is fatal, I'm afraid, a cancer of the bone, so no, she is beyond help except for what numbing comfort there's to be found in a bottle. As for the others . . ." He shrugged again, but the intensity of his gaze holding hers told her he was far from past caring. "The company could substitute red phosphorous instead, which is essentially harmless."

  "Allow me to guess--yellow phosphorous comes less dear?"

  His expression lightened although she had the disconcerting suspicion that inwardly he was laughing at her. "Ah, Callie, you begin to catch on. Beyond that, improving working conditions would go a long way in minimizing the problem if not eliminating it altogether. Better ventilation to increase the flow of fresh air, a separate room where the workers might take their meals rather than eating at their benches, shorter shifts. But then implementing such measures would gnaw away at the owner's profits as surely as yellow phosphorous gnaws away at bone." He jerked his head toward the afflicted woman slumped against the wall. "And God knows we can't have that."

  She was coming to see that he cared a great deal more than he let on. "Perhaps at first but surely healthier, happier workers would be more productive in the long term?"

  "True, but then, that is at the very heart of the problem. Most people cannot see beyond the here and now. It takes a true visionary to look beyond present circumstances to the future. It takes someone like you."

  Had he just paid her yet another compliment? Callie stared at him, trying to decide. Pulling her gaze away, she said, "Excuse me," and started back across the cobbled street.

  From behind her, he asked, "Where the devil do you think you're going?"