The Dark Affair (15 page)

J
ames was exceptionally familiar with the East End. At night. During daylight hours, he had primarily been incapacitated and indoors, recovering from the previous night’s events.

The murky daylight London’s coal-stained sky had to offer didn’t improve this part of the city. In fact, the watery light spilling over everything left a deeply depressing lump in his throat. At night, it was rough, but at least there was merrymaking, music pouring out of the public houses, and the general wild disorder that came with people living as if they might be dead in a few hours’ time.

And in the East End, they just might. Despite his own financial blessings, he’d chosen to spend his nights just like the people now doing whatever they might to earn the few pennies that would secure the night’s gin.

“Why, pray, could we not take the coach?”

Margaret took his father’s arm. “A coach in these parts is most inadvisable. First, it would draw far more attention than we already do, and second, they cannot maneuver the crowded streets and rabbit warrens that we are traversing.”

The earl gave a tight nod, then pressed a gloved hand to his nose.

The old man was trying. James had to give him that. He doubted if his father had ever set a toe past Drury Lane in this entire life. Covent Garden was probably as daring as the man had gotten.

The thought gave him pause. What would his father think of some of the pits he’d lain in, waiting for everything to go black?

He’d be horrified. Many had no idea of the half-life lived by so many in the empire’s greatest city.

“Besides,” Margaret added, “when you take to the street, you can truly see the suffering about you. No glass windows and posh velvet to mask it.”

“And that is a good thing?” the earl queried, his gaze darting side to side.

“I suppose it all depends,” James intervened. “If you wish to know the reality of this world and do anything about it, you best know what’s happening about you.”

Margaret beamed. “And isn’t that a fact?”

He wanted to preen like a schoolboy under her praise. Instead he scowled, refusing to let her see that her opinion meant a jot. “We’ll never truly be able to make a difference. Misery has existed since the dawn of time.”

That radiance that had sent her pale skin glowing dimmed. “You’re right, of course.”

“I am?” he teased. “Could it be?”

She snorted. “Don’t be letting it get to your big head.”

“I shan’t. My hats barely fit as it is.”

She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the slight twitch of her lips.

“I’m surprised you agree with me, Maggie,” he said. “You strike me as an idealist.”

She shook her head, the soft curls teasing her face beneath her coal-gray bonnet. “I’m a realist. It’ll take generations to change things. But if we can help just one person, for one moment, and not think only of ourselves, I’ll say that’s a good day spent.”

Powers frowned. “It sounds tiring.”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t assisted people before, though while he’d occasionally lent financial support, generally his assistance was the martial sort. Something he relished.

“It is,” she confirmed, striding along, picking her way through the street sellers with ridiculous ease.

His own father, on the other hand, kept halting and then jerking as he attempted to avoid running into the raggedy people of London’s poor district.

“But it’s worth it.” She picked up her pace, swerving around a matchstick girl.

Generally, people got out of his way wherever he went. Something about his bearing sent them scattering. And when on a bender, it was easy to ignore these people or to just drink and fight with them.

Now, unswayed by any substance and in Maggie’s presence, he couldn’t ignore the poverty around him. Especially since with each step, she was taking them farther and farther away from the glittering wealth and safe streets of the West End.

The stench alone was overpowering. He’d never noticed before, not when he could reach into his pocket and take out a flask of gin. Now the tide of unwashed humanity and the scent of daily living wafting up from the pools in the muddy streets hit him as hard as any brick wall.

And the clothing?

James clapped eyes on a young boy of no more than ten. His bare feet were so blackened James couldn’t spot the no doubt bluish toes. Dirt streaked his face and hands and his shirtsleeves were worn, ending just below his elbows. His short pants were worse, the fabric torn at his thighs, hanging like scraps.

When he met the child’s gaze, the boy stared back, cold and hard, not a hint of youth about him. James’s own usually silent heart let out a cry that it wasn’t right. He blinked and forced himself to look away. If he started giving out coin right now, they’d be swamped. And if he were on his own, he might risk it. But he wouldn’t, not with Margaret beside him.

James forced his feet forward as an uncomfortable sorrow scraped at him. He hadn’t let himself feel much of anything in years, not counting the emotions Maggie had provoked. He was shocked how suddenly that boy’s state had touched him.

He thought he’d long ago hardened to such things.

“Are you off with the sheep?”

Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to Margaret. “The only sheep in London are in Smithfield, thank you very much.”

“And they’ll likely be in our stew before the week’s out,” she replied.

“Exactly.”

“You looked quite far away.”

“It was nothing.” He focused ahead, spotting his father just a few feet in front of them, peering into a smudged storefront window.

He refused to let her see he’d been bothered by the scene about him. He had a strange feeling his father felt the same way, which was why the old man was so fixedly staring at secondhand tatting.

She gently placed her hand on his forearm. “All those nothings? They destroy you. If you don’t ever say what upsets you, you will drown.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that that was utter shite, that every good Englishman knew you kept your mouth shut. But so many good Englishmen were indeed drowning. He gritted his teeth before stating lowly, “I saw a boy back there; he looked at me as if he were half dead already.”

“And it bothered you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because no one should have to suffer like that. It’s wrong,” he spat.

Margaret nodded. “Lord Carlyle, did your son’s nanny read him a good many fairy tales?”

His father snapped his gaze away from the window and gave Margaret a look to say she was utterly bumble brained. “How should I have any idea? Most likely.”

“Well?” she asked, looking now to him as they strode along.

“As I recall”—and usually he tried not to recall his relative happiness as a child lest he long to regress—“there were many stories involving St. George.”

“Aha,” she exclaimed.

“Is there something inordinately profound about St. George?” he mocked.

“Yes. He defeats the dragon and saves the maiden. All works out. Good triumphs over evil.”

“Who ever said that poor dragon was evil?” James insisted, not really caring for where she was heading with all this. He’d much prefer a lecture on the statistics of the place they were heading. Wherever that was.

“Well, in the story, he’s evil,” she huffed. “And when we’re children, we’re taught that good always wins. It’s very hard for us to learn as adults that’s not true. Not true at all. Frankly, evil seems to win far more often.”

“Life should not have so much suffering,” he said firmly.

She stopped in the street and grabbed his arm. “It is that expectation that breaks our hearts.”

“Are you saying we should all fall down and accept this world is full of suffering?”

Those damned indigo eyes of hers darkened with intensity. “Yes.”

“If that’s the case, tell me why I shouldn’t just go to the nearest opium den and smoke my brains away.”

“Son,” his father cut in, his voice strained. “Now, you mustn’t—”

“No, my lord, your son has a valid question.” Margaret licked her lips. “You may do as you choose, of course. You can see all the suffering and go and smoke your brains away as you say, or you can accept that there is suffering, but know there is also pure joy all about you. That joy makes the suffering bearable.”

“And they tried to say I was the one acting without sense. You’re speaking balderdash.”

She smiled. “Am I?”

“What joy is there?” he demanded.

Maggie shrugged. “It is not my fault if you cannot see it.”

“Whose fault is it, then?”

She lifted both brows and said simply, “Yours.”

He opened his mouth to retaliate but then quickly shut it. He longed to shout that it was his father’s fault, the world’s, anyone’s and anything’s but his own. He refused to accept that kind of responsibility. Didn’t he?

“Shall we continue?” she asked. “We’re in the way here.”

“Lead on, my dear,” his father said. “This is turning into a most interesting morning. Your philosophies are rather shocking.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

James tugged at his coat, frustrated, suddenly wishing he could head off to a boxing match. “Of course you would.”

But he couldn’t help wondering if Margaret followed her own advice. For all her teasings and bravado, there was a hollowness in her own eyes, a fear even. Somehow, she managed to hide it behind her perfect facade. In his experience, anyone who pretended to be as perfect as Margaret was hiding a wound that had never healed.

Perhaps he and Margaret were far more alike than she’d ever cared to admit. Only they had handled their wounds with far different methods. He’d tried to drown them, and she’d simply pretended they weren’t there at all.

And if that was the case, someone needed to rip that facade away from her if she was ever truly to live.

She lifted her hand and pointed. “We take a left there.”

Clamping his mouth shut, James took a step back and followed his father and Margaret.

To his utter amazement, the two leaned their heads together. They chattered away as they continued to the crossroads.

A growing sense of irritation rubbed at him. How was it possible that such a small woman could say things that shook him? It didn’t seem like much, but in fact, when one analyzed it, she had thrown his years of unhappiness at his own feet. Nowhere else.

And if there was no one else to blame?

Such a thought couldn’t be contemplated. He’d clung to his fury at his father and the unfairness of life for years. Granted, he took his fair share of the blame in what had happened to Jane and Sophia. But he’d never considered that he might be responsible for his
own
misery, not circumstance.

She had to be mistaken.

This whole venture was likely a mistake. But he wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Oh no, he wouldn’t give up until at least in this he could prove that she was wrong.

There was no joy in this world. At least, not enough to counter the suffering that inundated it.

M
argaret loved the soup kitchen. The large brick building had been gutted some years ago and completely refurbished by a wealthy merchant who had risen from the ashes of the famine refugees.

Above the archway door read the words
IN HONOR OF OUR LADY OF THE SORROWS
. Mostly Irish Catholics graced the place, but the soup kitchen made it a rule to never discriminate. They would not repeat the hypocrisies doled out to the Irish in the soup kitchens run by so many Anglican orders in Ireland.

She still blanched at the thought of those too weak to stand being forced to renounce their faith for a bowl of gruel. Here anyone who needed a meal would be served, and she was proud to be a part of it.

Lord Carlyle wandered around the currently empty hall lined with wide plank tables, taking to the place with a surprising degree of curiosity. He called back over his shoulder, “How many does this place serve?”

One of the women, Kathryn, sorting bowls in the corner smiled. “A day? A week? A year, my lord?”

The earl had the good grace to appear chagrined. “Do forgive me. I’ve obviously no notion of the intimate workings of such a place.”

Margaret quickly crossed over to them, then glanced back, realizing that James hadn’t followed. She waved her hand at him. For some strange reason, he was holding back, silent.

Perhaps it was overwhelming for him. But she wanted that. She wanted him to feel again and have to face those feelings. Far better that they were the simple feelings of societal injustice first. Later they would face the traumas of his wife’s and daughter’s passing.

He lingered by the doorway for a moment, as if entering meant something much more powerful than it truly did.

Trusting that he would join them, she turned to Kathryn. “Now, you mustn’t think Lord Carlyle knows nothing of charity, or his son.”

At that, James strode beside her. “‘Charity, Faith, and Love’ is the motto of the Earl of Carlyle.”

Kathryn narrowed her blue eyes, slightly faded with the passing of many years. “Is that so? I rather think you’ve had a go at Lord Blarney’s stone.”

Powers coughed. “Perhaps I have. Do forgive me. My sense of humor—”

“Is rather senseless?” Kathryn sniffed. “We’ve no time for gawpers. You know that, Margaret.”

It took all her willpower not to drive her elbow into Powers’s side. On the other hand, his father was smiling at Kathryn, a look of genuine interest softening his usually stoic face. “My son is not as blessed with goodness as you so clearly are, madam. Your patience is greatly appreciated.”

“Well.” Kathryn sighed, then held out her wrinkled hand. “I did ask the good Lord that today be one full of new friends. It appears he has a sense of humor as well.”

Lord Carlyle took her hand gently in his. “A pleasure.”

James stuck his palm out and shook her hand without nearly as much grace. “Margaret tells me there is nothing to be done for the suffering outside these walls.”

Kathryn pulled her hand back, her lips puckering with annoyance. “Does she, now?”

James nodded. “Yes. Do you agree?”

Kathryn gave her a sideways glance, one that asked where Margaret had picked up this
loo lah
. “Is he twisting your words?”

“He is.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s clear to see you’ve the devil in you, my lord.”

“Am I possessed, then?” James inquired. “Have you any holy water?”

Kathryn threw back her head and laughed. “Sure we could have Father Gallagher in here for a week, bathing you in the stuff, but it’d do you no good.” Kathryn cocked her head to the side and eyed him up and down. “You like having the devil inside you, so he won’t be off.”

James grew dangerously quiet.

Kathryn folded her arms under her apron-covered breasts. “You’re rather sensitive for such a tough man. Have I come too close to the mark?”

Margaret reached out to Kathryn, ready to stop her. Perhaps this was too much. She’d not thought of how freely spoken some of the women here were, or how little ingrained respect they had for men of high rank.

James said quietly, “I may have been accused of enjoying my misery before.”

Kathryn nodded. “There you have it, then. And it’s right sorry I am for you. For our Margaret wouldn’t have brought you if she didn’t think you were worth something.”

“She had to bring me,” James said. “I’m her husband.”

Margaret cringed. She’d never thought of telling the people she worked with in such a way.

Kathryn’s eyes bugged. “Never on your life.” She thumbed at James. “To that devil, Margaret? Did he ruin you, then?”

Margaret threw her hands up in the air, unable to keep composed. “No. Good God, no.”

The earl cleared his throat. “My son is not quite politic. Margaret has married my son for very good reasons.”

“I can see only one good reason,” Kathryn lilted. “The man has a body on him that would send every virgin in Ireland on the path to sin. But that’s all.”

James started to laugh. “Is that not enough?”

Kathryn took a step back at that deep laugh. “Saints alive.”

“I assure you Margaret is the most virtuous young woman,” James placated. “I am constantly remarking on it.”

“Stop.” Margaret covered her eyes with her hands. Unable to face how quickly Powers had steered what was usually such a simple part of her week into such strange waters. “Both of you. I was trying to explain the earl’s and his son’s charitable work. How in the name of the saints did we come to this?”

Kathryn placed her fists upon her soft hips. “Lord High-’n’-Mighty there was expounding on his family motto, ‘Charity, Faith, and Love.’”

The earl winced. “In truth, it’s actually ‘Mercy Be Not Given.’”

Red stained Kathryn’s cheeks, and Margaret was certain that they were all about to be sent packing, the whole affair ruined, until she began to laugh so hard, tears trickled down the older woman’s cheeks.

“Kathryn?” Margaret ventured. “Are you all right?”

“Faith, these lords are quite the pair. I should curse them, but God would never forgive me. Shall we put them to work to see if they might cleanse their wicked souls by just a shade?”

“Wonderful,” Margaret replied, nearly sagging with relief. “And as I said, they’re not all bad.”

“Am I finally to learn what great charity they did?”

Margaret felt a swell of pride. Despite how low Powers had fallen, he’d once been noble, and now she was helping him. “These two men sent enough funds to my father’s works during the famine that many, many families were saved.”

“Bless you both,” Kathryn said. “And it’s thankful I am that you’ve nothing against the Irish. For today you’ll be surrounded.”

Lord Carlyle patted James’s shoulder. “I think my son and I have the fortitude for it.”

“You’ll need it,” Kathryn teased.

Margaret didn’t miss the look of shock on James’s hard face as his father touched his shoulder.

And there was pride in the older man’s gaze. Not just the pride of having managed to father a son, but genuine pride.

Her heart did a dangerous little dance. It was remarkable how they were coming together after so much dissonance.

Kathryn gestured to a long row of tables at the top of the room. “Now, the soup pots will be brought there in less than an hour.”

“We can—” the earl started.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Kathryn countered. “I’ve several boys for that.” She gave the men a wide, puckish grin. “I’d actually like you to serve the soup as people come in.”

The earl stilled. “Serve.”

“Yes,” Kathryn confirmed.

Margaret remained silent, waiting to see how the two gentlemen would react. Neither of them knew how truly important this moment was.

James spoke first, “For Margaret? Anything.”

Giving James a smile, Kathryn nodded with approval.

Margaret couldn’t tear her eyes away from James. Despite his wickedness, he was exceeding her expectations for the day so far, and it gave her so much hope. Still, she didn’t want him to know, so she said playfully, “Be careful. Anything is quite a lot. Kathryn will have you out cleaning the privies.”

“I do hope not,” scoffed Lord Carlyle.

Kathryn
tsk
ed. “Why, Margaret, I’d never do such a thing. Not on their first visit. Now, off you lads go to that table. We’ll be along in a moment to show you what to do.”

As James and his father surprisingly did as they were told, Margaret braced herself. “Do you have something to say?”

“Have you gone soft in the head?” Kathryn whispered.

“No.” It was not a good sign if Kathryn felt this way. Among the women she worked with, Kathryn was the most open.

“He’s an English lord.”

“I’m a lady,” she replied.

“You’re an
Irish
lady. And there’s something not right about him. He’s broken, Margaret. I can see it in his eyes. I wasn’t teasing when I said he had the devil in him.”

“I know.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her soft brown hair, laced with silver. “That’s what the earl meant. You married Lord Powers to set him straight.”

Margaret let silence be her answer.

“Why?”

“He needed help,” she replied, knowing it was no real answer at all.

“You’ve sacrificed yourself, haven’t you? You’re doing this for some grand reason.”

“Perhaps.” Her brother. Good Lord, the futility of her position hurt. She couldn’t even see the lad unless she wished to become embroiled in his political leanings. Something she would never do. But she couldn’t stifle her fear either. Her brother was one step away from the gallows if he was caught.

She didn’t even know where her brother was at this moment. She hoped to God it wasn’t in some Fenian horde planning the destruction of the empire.

As if the older woman could read her thoughts, she hissed, “Surely, this will displease your brother, the young lord. Have you not heard from him at all?”

The mention of her brother sent another stab of pain through her heart. “Matthew knows.”

“You’re a grown woman, Margaret, with a strong mind, so I shan’t say more. I’m your friend, and I want you to remember that, if aught goes wrong.”

“Thank you, Kathryn.” And she meant it. She didn’t dare think of such a circumstance in which she would need such help. But she was no fool. She wouldn’t be a little girl who believed in happy endings. For little girls and boys who believed in such things met only with disappointment.