Eve Silver (20 page)

Abigail frowned, then her eyebrows arched high. “Oh, no. I never loved Damien Cole. By the time I met him I had long ago given up such dreams. I only meant that men are fickle creatures, loving you, cherishing you until they get what they want. Then their love evaporates like morning dew.”

Darcie’s heart gave a pathetic lurch at Abigail's words, but she forged on bravely. “No, Abigail. Not all men. I cannot believe that all men are so callous.” Oh, but she
could
believe it. She thought of Steppy, the way he had turned on her like a rabid dog. “I
choose
not to believe that all men are so callous.” Or that Damien would purposely betray her heart.

“Believe what you wish. You will learn.” Abigail nodded sagely. “You will learn.”

Pressing her lips together, Darcie held her silence. She had come here for answers, not arguments.

Suddenly, Abigail looked at her sharply. “When you knocked on my door weeks ago, you were a timid little mouse, scared of your own shadow, barely able to raise your eyes and look in my face. You are different today. Less timid, less afraid.” She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. “Don't think he will protect you, stand by you. If this bravery comes from him, then it is a false bravado, my girl. He'll be gone, or worse, he'll send you away, and you'll be the timid mouse once more. And you'll be brokenhearted, to boot.”

Darcie digested Abigail's words for a moment, wondering at their veracity. Was her confidence just a shallow reflection of Damien's support? Or had she truly come into her own, regained some of the self-assurance that had bled out of her that long-ago night when Steppy had sold her? She thought it was the latter that was true. She hoped it was the latter.

“Abigail, was Dr. Cole here that night? The night Sally was killed?” The questions tumbled from her lips. She thought that if she did not ask them aloud in a rush, she would not find the courage to speak them at all.

A faraway look came into Abigail's eyes, a look of unbearable heartbreak and dread.

“He was here,” she said softly, her confirmation sending Darcie's spirits plummeting. “In spirit first, then in body. He was here.” Abruptly, Abigail rose from the table. “Come with me and I will show you the legacy of blood he left me.”

Abigail’s words fell like leaden weights on Darcie’s hope, squelching it beneath the load. Heart hammering, Darcie rose and followed her sister from the room.

“You wonder how I came to be acquainted with Dr. Damien Cole.” Abigail paused on the landing, her expression shuttered as she turned to watch Darcie ascend the remaining steps behind her.

She
did
wonder, but did she truly want to know?

“The night I met him was clear and cold. There was no wind.” Abigail moved along the cramped hallway, speaking over her shoulder, her tone clipped. “Curious the things a person remembers. I don't recall the exact date, or even the month, but I can see the stars winking down at me as clearly as if I were looking at them right now.”

She glanced back at Darcie, a sharp piercing look, before she continued. “I was hurrying back after visiting a sick friend. I was late. The house was about to open for the night and I knew the customers would begin to arrive in just a few moments. As I came round the corner there was a noise, pitiable really, so faint and desperate. Following the sound of that soft cry, I found a woman...” Abigail's voice trailed off and she paused for a long moment, saying nothing.

Though it was warm in the hallway, Darcie rubbed her hands along her arms, feeling a chill settling in her bones, a premonition of what was to come. There was nothing threatening about the dark-paneled walls or the simple carpet whose threads were worn from the passage of so many booted feet. Nonetheless, she felt a dark and frightening aura descend upon her. She could not help the furtive glance she cast over her shoulder.

A dog barked in the distance, the sharp sound cutting the silence. The noise jolted her, and seemed to affect Abigail, as well, for she shook her head and led Darcie the rest of the way along the hall, to the door at the far end. There, she paused before continuing her story in a subdued tone.

“She wasn't a woman, really. She was little more than a girl, doubled over, clutching her belly, huddled in a puddle of blood. I couldn't leave her there in the alley, so I brought her home. Here. Half dragging her, half carrying her.” Waving her hand in the direction of the closed door before her, Abigail stepped aside. “Go on, open it.”

Darcie moved forward to rest her hand on the door handle, the vague feeling of unease growing stronger. She hesitated, not sure that she could face what she might find.

“He came here that long ago night,” Abigail said, moving closer as she spoke. Darcie felt the whispered words on her skin. “He came to this very room where she lay on the bed, her blood soaking the sheets.”

“Dying?” Darcie whispered, questions rioting in her mind, her fingers curling painfully tight around the handle of the unopened door.

“Yes, she was beyond the hope of recovery.” Abigail laid her hand on Darcie's arm. “The girl was with child. I suppose the father refused to do right by her. Wouldn’t marry her. Or couldn’t. She came to Whitechapel in search of a way out.”

Frowning, Darcie turned her head and met her sister's steady gaze. “You mean she visited someone who would—who ended—”

“Who could end her pregnancy? Yes. I found her in the back alley, bleeding, too weak to move. It was obvious that she wasn't from these parts. No stink of whiskey on her, and her clothes were clean. Her cloak was too fine, her hands soft and smooth. Quality.” Abigail gave a harsh, self-mocking laugh. “I suppose I recognized the signs because I'd left them behind myself, not so long ago. She was out of her head, weak, and in pain. I brought her inside, here to this room, laid her on the bed. Too late. With her last breath, she gasped a name. Dr. Damien Cole.”

Darcie recoiled, a sharp pain knifing into her heart. No, not Damien. Whatever she had expected Abigail to tell her, it was not this. He could not have fathered a child with an innocent girl, then left her to fend for herself. She refused to believe it of him. “He would never—”

“I sent for him,” Abigail continued, ignoring Darcie’s frantic objection. “He came through the door, gaunt and drawn, looking as though the demons of hell gnawed at his heels. Took the stairs three at a time. Flung himself on the bed, kissing the girl's cold cheek, touching her hair, whispering his love. Foolish man. A dead woman hears nothing.” She shrugged, the motion nonchalant, seemingly uncaring, but in her eyes Darcie saw compassion, sadness.

“Who was she?” Darcie knew the pain in her chest would not kill her, but, oh, the heartache was near unbearable. Had Damien fathered a child, deserted the mother, only to realize, too late, that he loved her? No, no, a thousand times no.

Abigail shook her head. “He never said who she was, and
she
was far beyond any communication. He just gathered her in his arms and carried her to his carriage. I never knew more than that. He paused at the door, the dead girl limp in his arms. I'll never forget the look on his face, his beautiful features twisted by grief, his eyes cold and flat. Still, he spoke to me as civilly as you please. Thanked me for trying to help her, polite as if I'd served him tea.”

Nodding, Darcie pictured Damien, cool, controlled, doing exactly as Abigail described.

“And he said that if ever I needed a favor, I had only to ask. Then, months later, he began to come round regularly—oh, no, you can take that look from your face. He came round to see to the girls if they were sick or hurt. Talking to them, to me, as though we were his equals. Imagine.”

Stunned, mesmerized by the terrible story, Darcie tried to assimilate its meaning. She thought of the small miniature on Damien's desk. “The girl who died...Did she have dark hair?”

Abigail looked at her quizzically. “She did.”

A sick feeling curdled in Darcie's belly. She recalled with striking clarity the way Damien had spoken of the girl in the miniature. There was no doubt in her mind that he had loved her. Darcie shivered, a deep chill permeating her bones. She had come here for answers, but instead had found more questions. The only answer she had, she'd already known before she came here. Damien had loved that girl, and he loved her still.

Perhaps the dead girl had taken all Damien’s love with her to the grave. A knife twisted in Darcie’s gut at the thought.

“What about the night Sally died? You said that Damien was here...in spirit first, then in body. What did you mean by that?” Darcie demanded, staring at her sister intently, searching for answers in her eyes.

“One of my girls, Mayna, made a mistake. Got caught, if you know what I mean.”

“With child?”

Abigail nodded. “Not many men will pay to lie with a pregnant whore once she’s grown heavy and round. So she went and found someone to get rid of it. Never asked me or I would have helped her. The woman she went to see was a back-alley butcher...” She paused, snorting derisively. “Maybe the same one who did that young girl wrong. But Mayna made it here on her own. She was in a terrible way, lying on this bed, crying and bleeding. Looking at her, I thought of that night, thought of Damien Cole and the girl who died in this room, on this bed. That's what I meant when I said he was here in spirit.”

“Then in body...” Darcie prodded.

“Yes. He came as though he knew something was amiss. Came to this chamber, did what he could.” Abigail shook her head. “There have been times... Sometimes I wonder if he has some strange way of foretelling the future, or sensing tragedy as it unfolds. He has a way of arriving at the most uncanny of times.”

Darcie shivered as Abigail voiced her own thoughts aloud. She herself had wondered if Damien possessed some inexplicable otherworldly knowledge. Even their first meeting, the night he had almost run her down with his carriage, had felt like something more than mere coincidence. “Did he save her?”

“Mayna? She'll never have a child,” Abigail said gruffly. “But she survived.”

“Why did you say he left you a legacy of blood?”

Abigail brushed Darcie’s hand aside, twisted the knob, and pushed open the chamber door. Darcie stumbled back in horror.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, pressing her knuckles to her lips. The light-colored walls were stained crimson, as though someone had taken a bucket full of dark red paint and tossed it against the pale surface, then let the rivulets flow unheeded to the floor. The color was darker in places, paler in others, suggesting that someone had tried to scrub away the stain.

“Surgery is messy work,” Abigail said dryly, shaking her head. “We tried to clean it, but those walls will need fresh paint. The carpet was good for nothing but the rag bin.” She jutted her chin toward the naked floor.

Darcie whirled towards her, grasping her arms. “What of Sally? When was she killed? When exactly did Damien leave?” She trembled, waiting for the answer, knowing it might be far from anything she wanted to hear.

Abigail froze, her brow furrowed as Darcie's fingers curled about her arms in a frantic grasp. She pressed two fingers to her lips in silent contemplation.

“I don't know,” she said slowly, her head tipping to one side as she tried to recall. “I stayed alone here with Mayna. The other girls went about their business. I never knew about little Sally”—her breath hitched—”until the constable banged on my door the next morning.”

Darcie's hands shook as she lowered them to her sides. She felt drained, bruised. The explanation she so desperately desired eluded her, and she was left in a knotted turmoil of helpless confusion. Damien had been here that night. He had saved one woman’s life. Could he possibly have killed another? The thought of it was both intolerable and incredibly implausible.

With a last lingering glance at the bloodstained walls, she acknowledged that she would find no further answers here.

“I must go.” Back to Damien’s home, to confront him, to demand answers. Only if she were brave enough. She gazed searchingly into Abigail's eyes, but found no further answers there, either.

“Yes, I understand.”

Darcie thought her sister understood much: the need to know the truth warring with the need to hold fast to the ideal of Damien she had created in her heart.

The two women made their way along the narrow hallway, and then descended to the main floor. Darcie paused in the entryway. With a shallow sob, she flung her arms around Abigail, holding her tight.

“You are my sister, and I love you,” Darcie said. “No matter what has happened, no matter what the future brings, I love you. I should have said it before, should have come to find you long ago.”

Abigail's arms tightened around her.

“What I said, about never coming back here,” Abigail began, her voice choked, the words tremulous. “I hope...that is...if you should wish to visit, I would be glad to see you any time. I mean, any time during the daylight hours. It wouldn't do for you to come at night.”

“I will come back,” Darcie promised, glad that from the depths of all this sadness, one good thing had arisen. Her sister was returned to her. Oh, not the sister of her youth. That woman was gone. But this Abigail who stood before her—this brave woman who had survived despite life's treachery—this woman had invited her into her life. Darcie had no intention of turning down that invitation, regardless of how society might view Abigail now.

“You saved me, you know. That night you sent me to Dr. Cole.” Darcie whispered the words against her sister's shoulder. “Thank you.”

Drawing back, Abigail stared at her, her expression infinitely solemn. “Never think it, Darcie girl. I might have given you a push, but it was you who saved yourself. You are a woman of great strength. Never doubt it.”

Darcie nodded, wishing she could feel as certain as Abigail sounded. She didn't feel particularly strong, only horribly confused and afraid that she had become tangled in a web that was more complicated than she could ever hope to comprehend.

“You remember, Darcie girl. Damien Cole is not an easy man to understand. I have known him for years, yet I know him not at all. But one thing I do know...he has terrible secrets and even more terrible guilt.”