The Dark Affair (16 page)

T
he scent of rich stew wafted upward, and James leaned in appreciatively. Earlier, he had teased Margaret about the sheep in the markets. Several had clearly somehow made their way to this haven amid hovels. He was stunned.

Good-size pieces of mutton filled the brown sauce of the stew, mixed with carrots and potatoes and onions. He’d heard stories of gruel and broths not fit for consumption in charity houses. This? He’d happily eat it, mutton and all.

Kathryn elbowed him gently. “Admiring our fare, my lord?”

The woman reminded him of a benevolent fly buzzing about his ears. She’d hardly left him on his own. Perhaps she was afraid he’d slip arsenic into the meal. She’d certainly grown irritated when he’d announced his status as Margaret’s husband. “I am.”

“We pride ourselves on what we’re able to give.”

The doors opened at the end of the hall.

Several other volunteers, women mostly, bustled about wearing simple gowns and long white aprons. When would the poor straggle in?

He knew Margaret wanted him to see their suffering, but he was damn well going to try to ignore it. He’d send a few hundred pounds over later if it would soothe his wife’s sensibilities. He’d seen more than enough suffering already. Years of war after his wife’s and daughter’s deaths had seen to that.

Kathryn adjusted the thick netting over her hair, tucking a strand back into place. “Do you have any questions?”

To his surprise, he did. “How is it you serve meat?”

“Our benefactor is Irish.”

He failed to see how that affected the stew.

She clucked. “The Irish are very economical. As opposed to the English, the Irish will deny themselves meat or anything costly. They’ll boil the cheapest bits of fish with a few potatoes, and that’s their tea. Our patron scrimped, saved, and worked himself right to the bone and is now a leading merchant in the city. He wants his people to be able to have what he never did every now and again.”

“Do most of the Irish in London eat so frugally when not here?” he asked, the ramifications of her words landing on him.

Kathryn nodded. “They do. It’s better than in Ireland. There they had potatoes if they could be gotten during the famine, which of course they couldn’t. When they came back, they ate them with hardly anything else. Perhaps a bit of fat or bacon if they were lucky.”

“My God.” He stared down at the stew, seeing it as a veritable feast now.

“I’d no idea you were so ignorant, my lord.”

“Neither did I.”

She gave him a strange look. “At least you’re curious. Most wouldn’t give it a second thought.”

“So, the benefactor?” James prompted, wondering at a man who’d give such an exorbitant amount to feed what most considered the dregs of society.

“He came over in the middle of the famine and slaved his way out of the gutter. As I said, he now donates money so that his people can know a touch of kindness when they come to this hopeless city.”

A hopeless city. So, he wasn’t alone in such a feeling. He’d often stared up at the blackened buildings, the low, dank sky, and wondered what God would allow people to live so. But then again, the same God had let his wife and little girl die.

Unlike the people here, after such ponderings, he’d be able to go home to a soft bed, a good meal, and never have to scrounge money together to chase oblivion if he so chose.

Margaret whisked up beside them. “You both look very serious.”

“Your husband has been asking many good questions.”

Margaret’s eyes lit with pleasure. “He’s very clever.”

“Too clever,” said Kathryn, though now she was smiling at him.

“Are you ready, my lord?” Margaret asked.

He grabbed the long wooden ladle, his heart hammering fast. Something was happening to him in this place. Something that had never happened before when he’d been drunk or after escape. And it was all because of Margaret. “James.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“Not ‘my lord.’” He swallowed, wondering what possessed him. “James.”

“James,” Kathryn burst in. “A good Irish name. I think we’ll let you stay, my lord.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. Her lips had parted and her breathing had slowed.

She knew the meaning of his words. Just days ago he’d raged at her when she’d called him by his name. Now he was inviting it.

If ever there had been a moment where he wished they were in private, this was it. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her lips for no other reason than to know her. To know her lips, and tongue, and breath as they mingled with his.

This time he wouldn’t stop because of a memory, because strange as it felt, he was beginning to wish to make new memories.

“James,” she whispered . . . And then she laughed.

He tensed. How could she make light in such a moment? “What?”

She pointed. “You’re dripping gravy on the floor.”

He glanced down, and indeed, gravy was dripping from the ladle to the stone floor. He whipped the utensil back over the pot of stew and cursed. But then he was laughing as well, not a dark, sardonic laugh, but the laugh that was coming ever more frequently with Margaret near him. One that actually held that thing she promised existed in the world. Joy.

“It’s time,” she said, leaning in toward him. She gently ran her fingers over his, then squeezed.

He savored that gentle touch even after she headed toward the large line forming by the thick, dark bread down the table. He studied the swish of her charcoal skirt, wondering how something so simple could have such an effect on him.

He’d done things, violent things. And sex? There was little he hadn’t done. Yet Margaret’s gentle caress made all those memories fade as if he were a blank slate on which any story he chose might be written upon.

A bowl was suddenly thrust forward.

James shook himself.

The young woman standing before him couldn’t have been fifteen years of age, but like the boy in the street, she had the look of one who’d seen far too many years.

Her auburn hair was braided carefully but clearly hadn’t been washed in God knew how long. Her bony fingers gripped the wood bowl as if it were a lifeline. Most likely it was.

Her big green eyes stared up at him, waiting. “What are you starin’ at, then?”

He cleared his throat. “I do beg your pardon.”

James placed a hefty ladleful of stew into her bowl, and she was off before he could say another word. Quickly, another bowl was thrust before him.

Worn face after worn face, broken, defiant, came before him, waiting for sustenance.

With each bowl he filled, he should have felt the horror of all this tragedy, but there was nothing sad about this place. In fact, laughter was drifting from the many seated people.

Where was the abject misery?

He ladled as quickly as he could.

“What’s a fancy fellow like you doing here?”

James focused on the young voice that had finally dared speak to him.

A little girl of about eight years old peered up at him, barely as tall as the table.

“Am I fancy?” he asked, his throat tightening.

She gave him a look that said while he might be fancy, he was certainly dim. “Aye, you are.”

The line had dissipated, and there was no one standing behind the little girl. She stretched her arms up, extending the bowl again. “Stew, if you please.”

James felt as if he were moving through mud as he stirred the stew, ensuring that he would give her several pieces of meat and vegetables. Her blond hair tumbled about her pert face in riotous curls.

Unlike the little girl he’d seen in the park the day before, this child was interacting with him.

A good part of him wanted to back up and head out the entrance just to get away from her. Instead he forced himself to move slowly.

“How old are you?”

She gave him another look that said he was a bit more dim-witted than she’d thought before. “I’m as old my tongue but older than my teeth.”

James smiled. “Who taught you that?”

“Me gran.”

“Is she here?”

The little girl’s face darkened. “She’s in Ireland.”

“You miss her?”

“Are you daft, mister? Of course I do.”

“But you have people here.”

“Me mam. She’s after getting a seat for me so I don’t have to eat standing up.”

“May I meet your mother?”

“What for? She’s not one of those ladies on the street.”

James blanched. How did the child know about such things?

He cursed himself for a fool. He’d seen girls as young as this one trying to offer themselves in the dark shadows of St. Giles. “No, young madam. I’d just like to meet your mother.”

She eyed him, surveying him like a costermonger carefully picking new wares. “I suppose it’s all right.”

“Good.” He placed the ladle down and then wiped his hands on a towel, feeling it was safe to leave his post for a few moments. “Shall we?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve a funny way of speaking.”

He leaned down. “So have you.”

“I have not,” she scoffed.

Clutching her bowl of stew, she headed off carefully.

“Would you like me to carry that for you?”

The little girl shot him a suspicious look. “Get your own stew.”

The idea that he might need to steal a child’s food was another blow. “What’s your name?”

“Bridget,” she said over her shoulder as she balanced the bowl, which was full to the brim.

At her remarkably cautious pace, he shortened his stride considerably, surveying the multiple people sitting, looking for her potential mother.

A young woman sat on the bench, her blond hair cut short to her chin. The palms of her hands were braced against the wooden table as if they were keeping her from falling, but she bore a bright smile.

Bridget scurried up to her and put down the bowl. “This man wants to meet you, Mammy.”

Bridget’s mother lifted her head. It seemed a considerable effort.

Powers clenched his jaw. She looked as if she was working herself into an early grave.

Bridget’s “mam
”
eyed him carefully
.
“Can I help you?”

“Your daughter,” he ventured. “She’s lovely.”

Her face tensed, and she tucked her arm around Bridget. “Thank you.”

He shifted on his boots. What had he hoped to accomplish by following Bridget? The little girl clearly had no interest in him whatsoever, and he sensed the mother immediately suspected his motives. What could he say? The truth? He swallowed. Yes. The truth. “I—I had a daughter.”

Bridget’s mother stroked her daughter’s hair back from her face. “Did you, now?”

“Yes.” The word came out pained, a hoarse, choking sound.

Understanding softened the young woman’s face. “She died, did she?”

The abrupt phrasing hit him, but instead of feeling the familiar fury at his helplessness, he nodded.

“’Tis a right cruel world, this.” The young woman shook her head. “And you had the money for medicine and all?”

He stared at Bridget’s mother, who had clearly known much suffering and was now ready to offer her sympathy to him. It was almost too much. He had no idea why, but it was. “My daughter died in an accident.”

She stroked her daughter’s back. “And our Bridget reminded you of her.”

His throat tightened. “Yes.”

The young woman stuck out her frail hand. “I’m Mrs. Lafferty.”

He took the offered hand gently. “I’m James.”

She looked him up and down. “That’s not all you are, if I’d any guess about it.”

“No.” He laughed, but it was shaky. “I’m Lord Stanhope, if you must know.”

Mrs. Lafferty hugged her daughter. “We like to know the lay of how things truly are. Don’t we, lass?”

Bridget nodded as she grabbed the spoon on the table and dug into the stew.

“Slowly,” admonished Mrs. Lafferty softly. “You mustn’t forget your manners.”

James winked at Bridget. “I forget my manners all the time.”

“You’re having a go at me.” Bridget pointed her spoon at him. “Are you not?”

“Indeed, I’m not.” He glanced around and spotted Margaret helping an old man to a seat on the other side of the room. “Do you see that lady there?”

“Miss Margaret?” Bridget’s face lit up with admiration.

“Yes,” he said gravely. “She’s always having to tell me to mind my manners.”

Bridget took a large bit of stew, thinking. At last she said, “If that’s so, you should go to confession. Surely testing Miss Margaret is a sin.”

James sighed. If he went to confession, he’d be in the box for a full year, and he doubted he could do enough penance to pull his way out of hell. “I’m sure it is.”

Bridget looked down at her stew and then back up to James. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“No, dear heart. I’m not hungry at all.” James reached out and patted Bridget’s hand, for the first time, not minding at all that he was suddenly reminded of the marvelous feel of his own daughter’s fingers beneath his.

•   •   •

Margaret couldn’t believe her eyes. Just yesterday the sight of a child playing had sent Powers halfway across London to have his face beaten in.

Today he was sitting with a little girl and her mother, chatting away.

“She looks remarkably like my granddaughter.”

Margaret twisted toward James’s father. “Does she?”

The earl picked up an empty basket from the table before them. “They’d be about of an age.”

“Has he ever talked about her?”

The earl’s face strained. “It depends on what you mean.”

“Yes?”

A sheen cooled the old man’s eyes, and he glanced away. “He blames me for her death, you see.”

“Surely not,” Margaret protested.

“Oh, he does. And he has some point, though I’ve never admitted it to him.” The earl adjusted the basket, clearly uncomfortable. “There are things I wish . . . I wish I had done differently. Still, I’m just glad he’s here.”

Margaret could scarce believe the words coming out of Lord Carlyle’s mouth. Could it be possible that both father and son were changing and growing so quickly? It almost seemed too good to be hoped for. “Thank you for coming.”