Nine Buck's Row (7 page)

“Both bedrooms open onto the sitting room,” she said. “I usually take my coffee here in the mornings. Come, your bedroom's back here—”

It wasn't a large room, but it was beautifully appointed. The walls were a very light blue, the furniture glossy ivory white. Lavender curtains hung at the windows, and there was a lavender satin counterpane, a canopy of old beige lace, a brown velvet chair. Tall golden cattails stood in a brown and gold Chinese vase in one corner, and a set of books bound in dark orange leather stood on the bedside table. It was warm and inviting, nothing new, everything slightly worn at the edges, a comfortable room that smelled of beeswax and lilacs.

“I hope you'll be happy here,” Maggie said. “I know you'll only be staying a few weeks, but—I wanted everything to be just right. It's going to be so nice to have someone to chat with. Nicky's such a sullen creature, and the servants—the servants! How I endure them I'll never know! Do you like the room, Susannah?”

“It's—it's charming,” I said awkwardly.

I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. This woman was a stranger to me, and I was little more than a charity case. I was moved by the beautiful room, by her generosity of spirit, but I found it difficult to express. I felt like crying again.

“You poor child,” Maggie said, sensing how I must feel. “You've been through so much—dreadful, dreadful experiences for a girl your age. But everything's going to be pleasant now. We'll see to that. You mustn't feel ill at ease. Think of this as your home—”

I felt much better, just being with her. The porters soon arrived with my trunks and Maggie scolded them roundly for dropping one of them and made them furious with her directions on getting up the narrow stairs. When they had gone, she helped me unpack and put away my things in the bureau and the large white wardrobe. She chattered merrily all the while, and I soon felt I had known her forever. My earlier discomfort vanished, as though by sorcery, and Maggie did, indeed, work a strange sort of magic. She made the drab, humdrum tasks seem festive and gay. I was soon smiling.

“You have a dazzling smile!” Maggie cried. “Twenty years ago I'd have hated you on sight, but now I can tolerate beauty in others. Would you believe I used to set the men on fire?”

“I'm sure you did.”

“My first husband—he stole me away from the bosom of my family. They were horrified that I'd eloped with such an obvious bounder. My father disinherited me, and my mother had vapors for a solid year. Ted was unbelievably handsome, but, alas, a perfect cad! He brought me here to London and soon deserted me. Killed in a duel, he was, and I was a widow at twenty! Without a penny, mind you, absolutely destitute. I could have gone back to my parents, the prodigal daughter, but I was much too stubborn.”

“What did you do?”

“I looked for another husband, preferably a rich one. I found Bobby James. Not at all rich, but the sweetest man alive. He bought this building for me and ran a grocery store downstairs where the shop is now. Bobby died when I was forty. I converted the grocery store into a hat shop, and I've been supporting myself ever since.”

“Your nephew—” I began.

“He's my only living relative. I'm his great-aunt—he's my sister's son's boy. When his parents died he inherited my brother-in-law's fortune. Unlike me, Tulla married a staunch, sober businessman. He established the paper factory and bought that spectacular house in the country—I believe Queen Elizabeth was supposed to have slept there. Nicky and I are the only ones left in the family, and he's rolling in wealth, although he despises it. Makes him feel guilty to have so much. I suppose that's why he spends so much time doing these reports—he wants to contribute something instead of just living the life of landed gentry.”

Maggie smiled, cheeks dimpling prettily. “I'm rather fond of my nephew. He's had a shockingly untidy life—scrapes in school, bachelor dissipations in London, a disastrous marriage, a scandalous divorce—but he's very kind to his old auntie. The only one of the family ever to come visit me, even though his parents disapproved. When he received his inheritance, he begged me to come live in the country, but I refused. This is my life—the house, the shop, the neighborhood—I couldn't leave it after all these years.”

We finished unpacking and carried the empty luggage across the hall to the closet, really a vast storage room that ran the length of the house. It was dark, only a few rays of sunlight seeping in through the tiny windows set high up near the eaves, and there were cobwebs everywhere, stretching from the corners to the piles of boxes, draping the dusty, broken furniture that cluttered the room. The air was clammy and fetid, and there was a horrible sour odor. I shuddered, looking around at the dark, shadowy corners. The room was so large, so unpleasant. A person could easily hide here, I thought, strangely apprehensive.

“Wretched place,” Maggie said as we dragged the trunk in, “but since the attics were converted into a studio, I had to have
some
place to store things. Gives me the willies, it does! Dark and spooky. Colleen says she hears things in here—funny noises. You couldn't
get
her to come in here, not for a million.”

When the crash sounded overhead, Maggie threw her hand over her heart and gave a shrill little cry of alarm.

There were footsteps above us and then a loud squeak as though someone had sat down on a sofa with broken springs. Maggie smiled, the color coming back to her face.

“Land's sakes!” she exclaimed. “I don't know what made me so jumpy. I suppose it's all these stories in the newspapers—” She cut herself short, remembering my experience.

“That must be Mr. Lord,” she said. “I didn't know he was in. Keeps such odd hours. He'll be gone for days on end, then won't leave his rooms for a week. Of course he's an artist, and they're
supposed
to be eccentric. He's quite charming, really, always prompt with his rent; and he paints the prettiest pictures—”

There were footsteps coming up the back stairs, and the much mentioned Colleen stepped around the corner, startled to see us standing there. She was a thin, scrawny little thing with enormous blue eyes and jet black hair clipped short, ragged locks framing the pale face. In faded blue dress and starched white apron, she looked painfully young, surely no more than fourteen.

“Yes, Colleen?” Maggie inquired.

“Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am, but the old battle-ax, Mrs. 'Enderson, she wants to know 'ow many for dinner?”

“There'll just be two of us, Colleen. Come here, I want you to meet Miss Hunt.”

The maid crept timidly forward, an embarrassed smile on her wide pink mouth. She seemed pleased to see another young person in the house, and I liked her immediately.

“Hello, Colleen,” I said warmly.

“'Appy to make your 'quaintance, I'm sure, Miss.”

She made a comic little curtsy, holding out the corners of her apron. Then she scurried back down the hall and around the corner. We could hear her clattering down the back stairs. Maggie raised her eyes heavenward and shook her head, but I could tell that she was fond of the girl. Colleen had an elfish charm that would be irresistible to anyone with Maggie's heart.

“An orphan,” she said. “Learned to read and write at the home before I took her in. She's a dear, actually. I'm sure you'll adore her as much as I do.”

Maggie reached down to brush a speck of lint off her purple and maroon skirts, then lifted a hand to pat a dangling red sausage curl. “I have to get back down to the shop, dear. There's a bonnet I must finish. You rest up a bit, and we'll have a long, long chat after dinner—”

Although I was certain it would be impossible, I went to sleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. I woke up with a start, my head pounding, every nerve alert. A scream. A terrible scream. The room was dim, and through the window I could see deep orange stains darkening on the blue-gray sky. I realized that I had been having a nightmare, yet the scream had been so real.… I heard it again, loud and shrill, rising up from the courtyard below.

I ran to the window and looked down. The courtyard was small, paved with flat gray stones, a few soot-layered green trees growing in huge black pots. It was completely enclosed by a tall gray brick fence, a gate opening onto the alley in back. Beyond the narrow alley the backs of buildings loomed up, second and third story windows looking down on the courtyard. I gripped the windowsill, peering into the shadowy well below. The courtyard was vacant, yet the scream came again, even louder this time, more pathetic than ever. There was a movement on the fence, and I could barely see the tiny silver-gray ball of fur.

“A kitten—” I whispered, relieved.

I hurried down the steep, narrow back stairs and found the door that opened onto the courtyard. The kitten had stopped screaming. Now he was making anguished little whining noises that wrung my heart. I stood up on tiptoes and reached for him. He gave no resistance, resting in the palm of my hand contentedly. A tiny pink tongue flicked out to lick my fingers, and I knew that I had to keep him.

“Gracious!” Maggie cried, slamming the screen door and rushing out to join me. “That racket! I thought I heard someone screaming. Colleen was huddled behind the wardrobe, white as a ghost, trembling, saying The Ripper was at it again—what on earth is that?”

“A kitten. He's been abandoned. I heard him crying—”

“
He
made all that racket?”

I nodded, stroking the soft, silvery fur. The kitten was purring happily now, and the tiny pink tongue continued to lick my fingers.

“He's hungry,” I said.

“Poor little thing—” Maggie cooed. “Take him on up to your room. I'll send Colleen up with a saucer of milk.”

“I can keep him?”

“Of course. Though I do hope he doesn't vocalize often. Such lungs!”

The kitten was intrigued with my bedroom, prowling here, sniffling there, making himself at home. He charged at the hem of the lavender counterpane, backing away rapidly when it billowed. He examined the brown and gold Chinese vase and waved his furry tail against the tall white wardrobe. Crouching down low, he leaped across the floor to have another go at the counterpane, screeching angrily when lavender folds enveloped him.

“You're a scrappy little thing,” I said, smiling. “That's what I'll call you. Scrappy.”

When Colleen brought the saucer of milk, he circled around it several times, tail in air, suspicious. He sniffed it, backed away, then lapped it up in noisy little slurps. Then he washed himself thoroughly, curled up on the faded Persian carpet with its lilac and rose designs and purred with contentment. He was soon asleep, obviously satisfied with his new home.

Colleen returned to light the oil lamps. She informed me that dinner would be served at eight o'clock. I wanted to ask her if Nicholas Craig had returned, but I didn't. I despised the man. I really didn't
want
him to dine with us. I didn't care if he never came back.… I wondered if he liked pink. Too girlish. I finally selected a dress of cream colored satin printed with delicate pink roses and tiny green leaves. It had puffed sleeves, a tight waist and a full skirt that swept the floor in creamy folds.

Marietta had bought the dress for me. She had been very generous with my clothes allowance and had enjoyed seeing me in pretty things. Marietta had been good to me in her way. I stood before the mirror, holding the dress in front of me, thinking about my aunt. I forgot the dress, the room, the kitten still sleeping on the carpet. For several long minutes there was nothing but pain and that nightmare scene in the alley repeating itself vividly in my mind. I was trembling, and the mirror looked blurry, a shimmering blue-gray sheen waving before my eyes.

I pressed my lips tightly together and forced a steely control. I had to forget. I knew that. I couldn't allow myself to think about it. It was over. Marietta was gone. If I gave way, if I let myself dwell on that horror, I would be lost. I pushed the terrible thoughts out of my mind and began to dress, deliberately thinking of something else.

I thought of Nicholas Craig.

What a strange, enigmatic man he was. He was wealthy, with a lavish annual income and a fine estate in Surrey, and yet he was prowling around the back streets of London, gathering material for a book about living conditions in the East End. He was hardly a reformer. He lacked the puritanical stiffness and the zeal. Why was he doing it? For his own amusement? Was it merely an excuse to visit those infamous houses and sordid dens that other gentlemen frequented for fun?

Sitting at the mirror, I brushed my hair, thinking about the man who would be legally responsible for me for the next two years. Maggie had mentioned a marriage, “disastrous,” she had called it, and a scandalous divorce. Divorce was very uncommon. I wondered what his wife had been like, what she had done to make him take her into the courts. Was she the cause of those bitter lines about his mouth, that mocking arrogance in his eyes? What kind of woman would appeal to a man like that.…

Frowning, I brushed my hair briskly until it fell to my shoulders in rich golden-brown waves and fastened a cream velvet bow in back. I applied a touch of coral to my lips and smoothed a little rouge over my cheekbones, not daring to use much. Although I saw nothing wrong with make-up and had frequently experimented with it, I knew that most people frowned upon it. Nice young girls didn't use rouge. Nice young girls didn't think about older men and wonder about their love affairs. Nice young girls sat around in parlors and did needlepoint and blushed furiously if they chanced to see a naked piano leg. Perhaps I was more like Millie than I thought.

Maggie was alone in the dining room when I entered. I smiled, trying to hide my disappointment.

“You look enchanting,” she said, tilting her head to one side and examining my dress. Her eyes lingered on the tight bodice. “
Very
mature for your age, aren't you, dear?”