Mariel (38 page)

Her fingers lost their grasp on the windowsill, and she tried to land quietly and without breaking a bone. She slammed into the wall closest to her and sat down harshly on the sloping roof. Tears of pain stung her eyes and ran along her cheeks, but she did not bother to wipe them away as she drew another piece of the shattered pitcher from her pocket.

Gently, she shoved it away from her. It rolled a short distance and stopped. Although she did not want to leave her perch, she moved in the direction of the broken china. Her hand swept the cracked tiles until she found it. Cautiously, she explored the area beyond it. A drainpipe had halted it.

Wrapping her arm around the pipe, she leaned forward and tapped the china lightly on the roof until she found its edge. She dropped the ceramic again. A smile crossed her dirty face as she heard it hit quickly. The ground was not far below her.

She slid forward until her feet hung over the eaves. Behind her, her skirts left a pattern of torn cloth to decorate the roof and offer material for the starlings to use in building their nests. Her tongue dampened her chapped lips as she rolled over onto her stomach. Again she went feet first, grateful for the years of climbing trees at the Cloister.

When her toes touched the top of a window molding, she drew them back hastily. She could not risk being seen. Kitty would delight in punishing her for ruining the room and daring to defy her orders. Neither could she stay here long. Her hour dwindled away too quickly.

Moving a few feet farther along the eaves, she tried again. This time she felt only the crumbling brick beneath her feet. She breathed a prayer as she released her hands from the protesting eaves.

Pain shot along her body as she fell onto the hard street. She could not move as she fought to regain the breath knocked from her. If someone had come to see what had caused the noise, she would not have been able to run away. She concentrated on breathing. As soon as she thought she could stand, she fought her way to her feet.

With her head against the wall, she listened. At first, all she could hear was the harsh sound of her own breathing and the clangor of her pulse in her head. Then she noted the scurrying sound of rats followed by the victorious meow of a cat. From a good distance, away on the left, came the sound of jovial voices and the clank of metal. Whether that was Kitty's house or another serving libations to the residents of this slum, she did not care. She knew she did not want to go that way.

Determined to escape from this place, if only to make the Muirs pay for this cruelty, she turned her back on the voices. She did not know where she was going. All she knew was that she must succeed. To fail would mean her death, or working for another woman no better than Kitty.

Chapter Seventeen

Mariel lurched along the deserted street, trying not to notice the searing pain in her right ankle. Again she longed for her cane. Although she had despised it when Ian first gave it to her, she had come to appreciate what it could show her. Leaning on the staff to ease her anguish would have been welcome.

When she reached the end of the street, she turned right only because that way she did not have to cross the road. The Muirs had made sure she could not guess where they had taken her. Their antics in the carriage had distracted her from keeping track of the turns of the vehicle. Even so, she was sure their driver must have had instructions to take a circuitous journey to where they intended to abandon her.

Although she knew it was insane to be out on these streets at night, Mariel thought how much worse it would be to stay at Kitty's house. She could not blame that debacle on her blindness. Only her blatant naivete had led her into that situation.

She moaned as the agony in her leg increased. Dropping to a set of stairs, she touched the aching ankle. Tears burst from her eyes again. It felt as if a million small fires burned within it. She began to fear she might have broken something. That would be tragically ironic. In the automobile accident, she had survived with minor injuries except for her blindness. Here, in an insane race from a wicked woman determined to prostitute her, she had hurt herself this badly.

“Are you going to sit here in the cold all night?”

Her head jerked up at the male voice. She longed to flee, but she was too tired. Running through the labyrinth of streets would only send her into more trouble. She lowered her head to her arms, folded on her drawn-up knees.

“Answer me, girl!”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I am going to sit here as long as I please.”

A jovial laugh washed over her, coming closer as the man bent down to put his face even with hers. “What are you doing here? Why don't you go home?”

“I don't know how to get there.”

“So you intend to sit here until the sun shows you the way?”

She turned her face away from him. Her tangled hair dropped heavily along her arm. “I intend to sit here as long as I please.”

Broad fingers, rough with work, twisted with age, caught her chin between them. Instinctively, she drew back as she felt a motion in front of her face. Sympathy entered the man's voice. “Poor child. Can't see, can you? And lost, too. You can't sleep out here, even though it isn't long until dawn. Let me take you to my home. It is just across the street. You can sleep there.”

“No!” she stated emphatically when he tugged on her hand. “I have had enough of the hospitality of this part of London. I will stay here.”

Quietly, he asked, “Whose?”

“A woman named Kitty.”

His surprisingly cultured voice snapped a series of phrases she could not understand. She knew he must be speaking a language other than English, but she could not decipher any of the sounds to give her a clue to which one it might be. When he apologized, it confirmed her guess that they were curses.

“How did you convince Kitty to let you go?” Even in the dim light, he could see the young woman in her tattered dress was a beauty. If the madam trapped a girl like this in her house, she would not let her free until she sucked her dry of every bit of her self-respect. Then the girl would have no choice but to stay as one of Kitty's bedraggled whores.

“I didn't.” Proudly, she stated, “I broke the window and crawled across the roofs until I could find my way to the ground. I hurt my ankle when I dropped to the street.”

“Alone? Without seeing?” Admiration filled his aged voice. “You would make a damned good soldier. Excuse me, miss.”

She shook her head tiredly, trying to decide whether she wanted to cry or laugh. “Don't think about it. Please, just leave me alone.”

“No, miss. You can't stay here. I saw you reeling down the sidewalk from my window across the street. You must get some shelter. Kitty isn't the only one of her type on the streets. You might get robbed.”

Now she laughed. “That happened, too. I don't have anything left to give the street thieves.”

His gnarled hand reached under her elbow and brought her to her feet. When she moaned again as she inadvertently put weight on her foot, he drew her right arm over his shoulder. In this awkward position, he led her to the opposite side of the street and up a dank-smelling set of creaking stairs to a second floor room. She was too exhausted to speak her gratitude when he told her they had reached the last step. If he had not, she might have fallen on her face amid the dirt she could hear crunching beneath her shoes.

Mariel did not speak as he seated her in a chair. When he pushed the ripped remains of her skirt aside, she gasped. His hands were gentle as he unbuttoned and drew off her right boot. His murmur of dismay urged her to ask, “Is it that bad?”

“Purple as a royal robe. I mean—”

“It's all right,” she assured him. “I have been without my sight only a few months now. I know colors.”

She heard the clank of metal, and he explained he was getting a small tub for her, so she could soak her injured ankle. When he told her to be careful, for the water was hot, she lowered her foot into it slowly. The warmth was perfect, and she sighed gratefully.

“Thank you, Mr.—?”

“Sassoon, miss. And you are?”

“Mariel Wythe.”

He handed her a cup filled with tea. “Where do you live, Miss Wythe?”

“Foxbridge Cloister, in— Oh, you mean here. I don't know the street address. This is terrible. I am here to see an eye doctor and am staying at the house of a friend. His name is Ian Beckwith-Carter.”

“London is a big city, Miss Wythe. It could take us weeks to find your friend.”

“If we contact the police …”

“Hmm.” He seemed to consider it as if it was a novel suggestion. “Mayhap they can help. There is a constable who wanders by here occasionally. I will see him in the morning.”

She turned toward where he sat. “Thank you, Mr. Sassoon. I have interrupted your night and now ask you to run errands for me. That is so much to ask.”

“Nonsense.” His chair scraped the floor as he rose. “You sit there a minute while I find an extra blanket.”

Mariel savored the consoling warmth of the tea. Through its rich aroma, she could smell the grease of the poorly cleaned kitchen. The building reeked of too many people and too many years. She listened to the man's footsteps as he wandered about the small room.

When he put his hand on her shoulder, she started. She. had not realized she was nearly asleep. That he did not mention her skittishness added to her obligation to this kind stranger. He helped her towel off her foot. Determined to be brave, she bit her lip as he touched her tender ankle.

“Do you think you can stand?” His finger gently wiped away the involuntary tears rolling down her cheeks. “I am sorry to hurt you.”

“I know you did not mean to hurt me,” she gulped around the blockage in her throat. “I think I can stand.”

She learned how optimistic her words were when she tried and fell back into her chair with a soft cry. Mr. Sassoon patiently consoled her. Again he placed her arm around his neck. This time, she realized he could not be much taller than she, for he did not bend forward far.

He sat her on a narrow bed and told her to have a pleasant night's sleep. Running her hand along the coarse wool cover, she said, “But, Mr. Sassoon, I can't take your bed.”

His smile shone through his gentle reprimand. “Where I come from, and I suspect where you come from, Miss Wythe, a lady is given the best the house has to offer. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we will begin looking for your fellow. Good night, Miss Wythe.”

“Good night, Mr. Sassoon.” She knew it was useless to protest. Even if she could keep her eyes open, she did not want to argue any longer. She wanted to enjoy the relative luxury of this bed.

As she closed her eyes and drew the paper-thin blanket over her, she was unaware of the old man's gaze on her. It went from her to an age-dimmed photograph sitting on the sideboard. The beautiful woman in the picture shared Mariel's dark hair, although it was impossible to determine the color of her eyes. It did not matter to the old man. He held every facet of her face in his heart, although his wife had been dead for more than twenty years.

In his mind, he could hear her lyrical voice urging him to take good care of the lost lamb that had wandered into his life. He did not need to hear her on this matter. Too many he had seen destroyed by Kitty and her counterparts along these streets. This was one woman who would escape back to the world where once he was welcome.

Mariel woke to the aroma of fresh coffee and something frying. Grease snapped with the heat. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes. As she stretched, she heard threads break. She ran her hands along her ruined blouse and was pleased to discover it continued to protect her modesty.

“Good afternoon, Miss Wythe.”

“Afternoon?”

He chuckled, a sound like the distant boom of a cannon. “You did not get to sleep until near dawn. I figured it would be best if you woke on your own.”

From the jaunty tone of Mr. Sassoon's voice, she knew he had good news for her. She did not have to wait long to hear it. After he urged her to sit at the table, he checked her ankle for her with gentle, efficient fingers.

“Looks good,” he pronounced with satisfaction. “Never did see a sprain a good soak didn't help.” Like an elfin sprite, he jumped to his feet and sat in the other chair. “Saw the constable. He is going to see about finding your Mr. Beckwith-Carter.”

“That is wonderful!” she cried. “Thank you, Mr. Sassoon.”

“You're welcome and more, Miss Wythe.”

“Mariel,” she corrected gently.

He laughed. “Mariel, it shall be. Do not be expecting to hear from your fellow right away. Like everything else, the police department is overwhelmed by the activities for the queen's jubilee. Not that I am complaining. Our good Victoria has made this mighty Empire proud. She deserves this celebration.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “I wasn't here for the last one a decade ago, so I've been enjoying the pageantry. Of course, you don't remember the golden jubilee. You must have been not much more than a youngster then.”

His easy acceptance of her made her comfortable enough to tell him about the small celebration she recalled in Foxbridge. Memories of bonfires along the cliffs and dancing on the village green eased the lines of worry from her face. He asked many questions about the western coast.

“Been all over this world, but I have never seen that part of the island.” He chuckled. “Is it as wild as they say?”

“Not any longer. With the coming of the trains, we are much the same as the rest of England. I guess it was different years ago.” She took a sip of the rich coffee. “At least, that is what I hear from the stories of my more adventuresome ancestors.”

When they finished the late breakfast, Mr. Sassoon ordered her to soak her ankle again. He left her to that task as he went out to find food for their supper. She wondered how he could afford to feed an extra person. Her brief exploration of the room after he left showed her there was little of value here. A sideboard, the table, bed, and chairs nearly filled the room. On the shelves, she found several tins containing tobacco, coffee, tea and sugar. Nothing more.