Loving Julia (4 page)

“You are in trouble, my child?” The priest had not spoken for nearly an hour. Jewel jumped before the sense of the words sank in and she stared at him out of wide, distrustful eyes.

“Wot’s yer meanin’, Father?”

He sighed. “Come, Jewel, I am your friend. Can’t you trust me? I will help you, if I can.”

Jewel snorted. “Oh, yeah, out o’ the bloomin’ kindness of yer ’eart. Wot’s in it fer yerself, Father, if ya was to ’elp me?”

Father Simon shook his head sadly. In the near darkness his bald pate shone with the reflected light of the fire. His eyes looked blurred and rheumy, but his voice was gentle.

“Must everyone want something in return for a kindness, Jewel?”

“Most do,” she replied with a shrug.

Father Simon sighed again, but before he could reply the toff began to mutter distractedly, tossing and turning in the bed. Jewel rose with some difficulty, her bones aching from her uncomfortable vigil on the cold floor. She crossed to the bedside to offer her patient some water. Anything to end the priest’s talk, she thought as she slipped a hand behind the man’s head and slid a spoonful of water between his parched lips. He choked, coughing. His skin was burning hot beneath her hand.

Suddenly, his hand came up to catch hers. Jewel jumped, spilling what few drops remained of the water down his cheek, and looked down into pale blue eyes that were once again foggy but aware. For a moment he looked as if he couldn’t quite place her.

“Ah, yes, the whore,” he muttered. Jewel stiffened, letting his head fall back on the nearly flat pillow.

“I ain’t no whore,” she said angrily, glaring down at him. Father Simon came to stand beside her.

“Indeed, she’s not. She has been caring for you since you were attacked, you know.”

The toff—Timothy—grimaced, a weak and barely discernible gesture.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” He moved his head as if to clear it, but the motion must have hurt because he stopped and groaned. “You must … let me pay you for your trouble.” His eyes clouded, then cleared again. “Oh, that’s right, I was robbed, was I not? Did they get … everything?”

Wordlessly Jewel nodded. Timothy closed his eyes. “Damn! I had more than four hundred pounds in that purse! Just after quarter day, you know! I was in … high gear.” His head moved with impotent anger against the pillows. “Sorry again. I guess I … owe you. But don’t worry. Everybody knows that Timothy Stratham always, always pays his debts.”

He started to cough then. He hadn’t coughed before, and Jewel and Father Simon looked at each other with alarm as the spasms racked him. When the attack was over, he lay without moving, looking so white and drawn that Jewel thought for an instant that he had died in that moment. But his pale eyes opened again, resting wearily on her before moving on to the priest.

“Am I going … to die, Father?”

Father Simon pursed his lips, and reached to pick up the white, almost womanish hand that lay so limply atop the grimy blanket.

“Yes, my son, I fear so. But like everything, it is in God’s hands.”

Timothy’s lips made a weak attempt at a smile. “My family always said that I’d come to a bad end.” He closed his eyes for a long moment, and the priest seemed nervous that the boy would slip into unconsciousness again.

“Won’t you tell us where to reach your family, my son? I’m sure that any estrangement between you was not meant to withstand your finding yourself in such dire straits.”

Timothy’s mouth twisted again in that pathetic smile, but his blue eyes remained closed. “You don’t know my family, Father,” he repeated. “They have been trying to be rid of me for years. They will be relieved, if nothing more, when I am gone.”

“They should be contacted….”

Timothy moved his head impatiently, then grimaced with pain. “Very well, Father, I will furnish you with their direction. If you will first do something for me.” He opened his eyes and fixed them on Jewel with an expression she could not decipher.

“Anything within my power, my son.”

“Is it within your power to wed me to this young lady, Father?”

Jewel blinked, staring down at the toff as if she suspected he might have sunk back into delirium without their having noticed. Father Simon cleared his throat.

“Why should you wish to do that, Timothy?”

Timothy’s burning eyes shifted to the priest. “When I turn twenty-five, in four years time, I come into an inheritance from my mother. A very substantial inheritance. It would keep this young lady in comfort for the rest of her life. If I die without an heir, the cousin who is my guardian will merely add my modest fortune to his own much greater one. I would rather this young lady—what is your name, by the way?” he added impatiently to Jewel. She told him, and he went on. “I would rather Jewel here have my money in payment for her kindness than see it go to my cousin. He is a cold bastard—begging your pardon, Father—and besides, he has no need of it.”

Father Simon was silent for a moment. Jewel was, too. They both stared down at the pale face that appeared perfectly serious and perfectly sane. But of course he could not be. His offer of marriage had to be the product of delirium. Didn’t it? Did he really have money—and would he, could he, be serious about marrying her and leaving it to her when he died? To have enough money for good food and warm clothes and a room all to herself with a big, blazing fire every night if she wished—to never be hungry or cold again … or afraid … Jewel felt dizzy from the very thought of it.

“Jewel?” Father Simon murmured at last. “It would be a … solution for you.”

Jewel stared at him for a moment without speaking. Her thoughts were churning so fast she felt dizzy.

“Well?” the toff demanded irritably, his voice weaker than it had been before. “Will you or won’t you? I can’t see any reason for you to refuse.”

“Be a bleedin’ fool to, wouldn’t I?” Jewel answered slowly, still not trusting the possibility. There had to be some catch to this; the toff couldn’t be just going to hand over money to her.

“Make the arrangements, Father. Quickly, please.” Timothy closed his eyes on that last. As quickly as that he was asleep. Father Simon looked at Jewel again.

“I’ll have to see about a special license.”

Jewel nodded, still staring down at the unconscious form of the boy in the bed. He would be her husband. Every nerve in her body shrank from the idea. But of course he would never be her husband in anything but name. He was dying. She would not have to put up with the reality of a man who owned her as he might own a dog, and use her worse—as man after man had used her mother. She forced the thought from her consciousness.

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

Jewel nodded in reply to the priest’s soft statement, but remained by Timothy’s bedside, staring down at him blankly long after Father Simon had gone. She felt very calm, almost unnaturally so. If the toff lasted until Father Simon got back, she would go through the ceremony required to make her his wife, be he delirious or crazed or what. Be a bleedin’ fool if she didn’t, she told herself again, and settled down with a blanket on the floor to wait.

III

Rain fell in icy sheets that had long since soaked through the thin shawl that Jewel had wrapped around her red silk dress. She was soaked to the skin, with long strands of her black hair straggling down from the fancy upsweep that had looked so elegant in the glass when she had fixed it to lie in freezing, dripping rat’s tails against her bare white neck. Her grand red velvet hat with its perky ostrich plume—which, like the shawl, she had “borrowed” from a friend—tilted soggily over one eye, its wide brim allowing a torrent of water to stream down a scant inch in front of her reddened nose.

But still she stood on the edge of the small triangular park like a foolish gawk, staring up wide-eyed at the imposing stone facade of the mansion on Grosvenor Square. She had been standing there for nearly three hours, heedless of the occasional splashing carriage or hurrying maidservant, all the while trying to work up the courage to march to that massive oak door and make use of the gleaming brass knocker. It was formed in the shape of a lion’s head, and for some reason, that made the knot in her stomach twist even tighter. Even the bloomin’ knocker was grand.

But she belonged to that house now. Or so she had been telling herself for the past week, ever since Timothy had died. She had married him, all legal so Father Simon said at the time. Timothy had told her to come to this address with the proof of their marriage after he was gone. He had told her to present their marriage lines to the Earl of Moorland, whom he claimed was his guardian, with his compliments. So Jewel had decided to try her luck. The worst they could do to her was throw her out on her arse, right?

After Timothy had passed over, only hours after they were wed, Jewel had been considerably shaken. In fact, although it shamed her to admit it, she had shed more than a few tears. Father Simon had put his arm around her shoulders, and Jewel had had to stifle an urge to collapse sobbing against his chest. But instead she had lifted her chin and pulled away to stand alone. As she had always been alone…. Father Simon had told her not to worry, that he would see to everything, including the body. Jewel had not waited around to see what happened next. There were too many problems—Willy for one, and what might happen when Timothy’s family was notified to claim his body. It seemed likely they would send a runner to investigate, and she wasn’t having truck with no runner.

Thoroughly unnerved, she had instinctively melted into the streets. For a week she had scavenged for food in the alleys behind Kensington Palace, taking care to stay out of her old neighborhood. At night she had cadged pallet space from an old friend of her mother’s, an ex-opera dancer turned whore named Cilla. But staying with Cilla meant trying not to listen when the woman brought her customers home with her. Jewel had hidden beneath her blanket on the floor, feeling sick at the sound of a man’s earthy groans and the wildly creaking bedsprings.

Then, last night, when she had slipped from Cilla’s flat rather than listen to another bout of creaking springs, she had seen Mick. And he had seen her. She had started to run, on instinct, and he had chased her through the tangle of dark alleys, the look in his eyes confirming her very worst nightmares. Terrified, knowing with terrible certainty how little her life was worth if Mick should catch her, she had fled to Father Simon’s small house after giving Mick the slip at last. But the scrawny old woman who answered the door in response to her frantic pounding said that Father Simon was “indisposed” and couldn’t be disturbed. Jewel had known that meant drunk. Of course, she hadn’t really expected to be rescued that easily, had she? Life wasn’t like that.

With a proud stiffening of her spine, Jewel had turned from the priest’s door even as the woman had closed it in her face. There was no help for her here—or anywhere. She was on her own, just as she had been nearly all her life. It was up to Jewel to take care of Jewel.

She had to get right away, she knew, where Mick and Jem could never find her. What better place was there to hide out than a mansion in the fancy part of town? Anyway, it was time she found out if Timothy’s claim of being cousin to an earl was air or truth. She had been squeamish to put it to the touch before, but now she felt that the choice had been taken out of her hands. So she had slunk back to Cilla’s flat around noontime when she knew the other woman would be sound asleep, and the street people who might be willing to give her up to Mick for a farthing or so would be in their daytime hidey-holes. She had cleaned herself up as quietly as she could to the tune of Cilla’s resonant snores. Then she had taken her courage and her marriage lines—as well as Cilla’s Norwich silk shawl and best bonnet—and gone to present herself in Grosvenor Square, the most posh address in the city. To her new cousin. A bloomin’ belted earl, if Timothy had been telling the truth. And what his worship would make of Mistress Timothy Stratham, there was no telling.

The knot in her stomach twisted again. Cor, she was goin’ to lose the measly bit of bread that had been her dinner if she wasn’t careful. How could she, Jewel Combs, go up those curving white marble steps to that elegant front door and ask for a bleedin’ earl? They would likely spit on her. The notion stiffened her spine. Jewel looked up at the imposing facade of the three-storied brick structure and felt her throat go dry. Surely she was not afraid of a
house
? It was getting dark, the rain had settled to a cold drizzle, and her growling stomach reminded her that she had not eaten at all that day. Looking around at the nearly deserted park, Jewel knew that she had to do it
now
. She had to make herself known to the people inside that house—to the earl. But knocking on that door with the brass lion’s head growling at her was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

“They be people jest like me, even that bloody earl,” she told herself with determination. Then, before she could change her mind, she clutched the beaded and spangled reticule—another “loan” from Cilla—that held her marriage lines and stepped into the road. Her foot immediately sank into a puddle that was calf deep, immersing her whole foot and the hem of her dress in icy water.

“Bloody ’ell!” Jewel muttered under her breath. Annoyed color mounted in her cheeks as she hitched up her skirts and stomped across the cobbled road and up the rain slickened steps. Some impression she was going to make, her grand hat drooping like a soused whore’s, her silk dress so wet it was clinging to her like was indecent, and her nose running from the wet and cold.

“Them that’s inside be no better than me,” she said aloud, then sniffed mightily to give herself courage as she let the knocker fall. The resounding boom was louder than she had expected, but despite the sudden quiver in her knees—it was bloody cold, whose knees wouldn’t shake like jelly?—she stood her ground, chin up, expression determined. When the door swung open, a black-clad personage with a dignity to rival God’s stood staring down at her with an expression of disbelief.