The first time I saw London was a surreal experience. My father had just sold the house and moved us to a country that was better known for oppressing its colonial inhabitants than it was for its genteel manners and rich history. Thoughts of Eileen came to mind as I traveled down the gangway and my heart bled.
“What is it?” Jon hissed in my ear, gripping my arm with a strength that belied his current state. “Keep going!”
“I was just thinking about the first time I saw London,” I hissed back, my feet struggling to keep up with his. My eyes frantically skimmed the crowd, seeking a familiar black bowler. “See any spies?”
“Yes.”
“Wh-where?” My neck twisted painfully, trying to spot them. All I could see were throngs of eager families waiting to greet their loved ones. “I don’t—”
“Behind us,” he answered, steering me toward a particularly large group holding up signs for Mr. Rochester. “Once we’re through, grab hold of my jacket and don’t let go. Isaac arranged for a vehicle to meet us.”
Suddenly possessed with an icy tremor, I could only nod and obey like a trained seal. We were jostled and nearly trampled by the enthusiastic group. I lost a few buttons off my coat and my hat fell to the ground, meeting a gruesome fate beneath the scuffed boots of a boisterous group of German sailors. But like Jon requested, I grabbed hold of his jacket and did not let go until we were safely through the throng. Once inside the cab, I opened my eyes to find Jon regarding me with bemusement. “What?”
“Where is your hat?”
“I lost it in the crowd.”
He looked much the worse for wear, with his hat askew and his usually waxed mustache standing out at an awkward angle. “Well,” he said, placing his bag with the sari on the floor. “We’re here. Now all we must do is get to the townhouse.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
“Mr. Anderson’s spies. They followed us down and are probably checking vehicles as we speak.” He tapped the roof. “The driver has instructions to drop us off at the next street over. We’ll need to hoof it from there.”
“Wonderful.” I eyed him closely. He was still pale, and I asked him if he’d eaten breakfast. “Did you eat?”
“I didn’t dare.”
“What kind of sausages did you eat?”
“I think they were pork.”
“You look as if I should bury you.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” His hand shook as he patted his cracked lips with the blunt end of a creased handkerchief. “Don’t plan my funeral just yet.”
Shaking my head at him, I busied myself with the window. London still looked the same. The same cobbles. Strays wandering the alleys. The same neat rows of laundry flapping in the wind. “Does it never change?” I wondered aloud. “Why does it look as though someone left a bookmark on the same page before I left?”
“Maybe they did.” He squinted and sat back as if the gesture left him drained. “I’m not fond of London, you know. That’s why I always visit Grandfather.”
“You didn’t visit when I was there.”
“I couldn’t… get away.”
I didn’t believe him. “Were you ever going to visit when I was there?”
He looked ashamed. “I was terrified.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You were the first girl to survive a month in Grandfather’s presence. He was afraid I’d spirit you away or something.”
“That makes no sense to me.”
“I know it.”
“It would have been nice to have someone to talk to,” I shouted, making him wince. “Do you know how lonely I was?”
“You had Mrs. Hutchins.”
“Oh, yes. I thoroughly enjoyed our weekly gossip sessions while shopping for sponges!”
He flinched. “What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness?”
I shook my head, tears pricking behind my lids. “I want to know how far you were willing to go with the charade. Do you know he came at me with his wheelchair? Would I even have survived another month?”
“He wouldn’t have—”
“Oh, no?” I held up my scarred hand. “He nearly crushed it in his, you know! He had me on the floor and crushed it until I thought I would die. What do your gentlemanly sensibilities say about that?”
Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I should have hired a young man instead of a young woman. But Grandfather was adamant.”
“That’s no apology.”
“It’s not meant to be,” he snapped. “I know what he did and shall make amends. But now is not the time. Our primary concern is getting to the townhouse and informing Grandfather of our arrival.”
“And then?”
“We wait.”
Refusing to forgive him, I turned back to my view of the dilapidated rookeries and piles of horse manure. Suspecting Jon knew far more than he was letting on about what happened at Briarwood, I nursed a growing resentment and vowed to abandon him on his sickbed.
* * *
Half an hour later, the cab pulled up in front of an empty house with an overgrown lawn. The driver assisted us with our bags and left us on the curb in the pouring rain. “Come on,” my companion said, clasping his valise close to his chest. I carried our two other bags as rain poured into my eyes. “It’s not far,” he called over his shoulder.
Jon may not have thought the distance costly, but after a transatlantic crossing in which I nearly half-starved myself, I was in no condition to navigate alleys and high rock walls separating backyards patrolled by aggressive lapdogs. I ripped my petticoats climbing over one such wall and ended up with a mouthful of mud after the rotten crate I was standing on collapsed under my weight.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, watching as I spat out a glob of black mud. He helped me over another wall where the landing was about as painful as the time Joshua shot me with his air rifle. I sat gazing up at Jon with murder in my eyes. He wisely helped me to my feet and dusted me off. “Sorry about that.”
I slapped his hands away, too angry to do much but seethe and hope he’d had more than tainted sausages. “Kindly refrain from placing your hands on my person,” I muttered, ignoring his startled look. “How do we get in?”
He stood back, peering up at the Georgian façade. “Grandfather usually keeps a key under the mat,” he said, using his foot to pry up a corner, “but it appears to be missing.”
The rain slowly seeped through my woolen gown, dampening my undergarments, and leaving me with a nascent chill that would prove impenetrable against a roaring fire and a chair near the stove. I watched Jon search fruitlessly for the key before I finally lost my temper. I bent, retrieved a large brick, and lobbed it through the window. His shock was matched only by the oaths streaming past his parched lips. “What the hell?” he cried.
“You may bill me,” I replied tartly, reaching in to unlatch the window. I pushed it open enough to allow entry and climbed in, narrowly avoiding a glass vase filled with dead flowers. I dodged sheet-draped furniture and cluttered hallways used to store everything from old newspapers to rusted garden tools. The front door stood at the end of one such hallway, and Jon’s angry visage almost prompted me to slam it shut. “What?” I asked innocently.
“Did you have to break the window?” he demanded, flinging our baggage inside the foyer. He kicked them aside, shaking rain off his hat and coat. “Another break-in!” he fussed. “Aren’t we becoming quite the miscreants?”
“Save it for my trial,” I quipped, closing the door. “Where’s the kitchen?”
He pointed. “Down the hall and to the right.”
Kitchens.
They were all the same.
Though it would have been nice to have a functioning stove. What stood before me was a relic from a bygone era in all its potbellied glory. I gave up on starting a fire and lit one in the fireplace instead. “We should have tea in about a year or two.”
“Most amusing,” Jon grunted, dragging our baggage with him to leave in an untidy pile beside the table. He doffed his jacket, draping it on a chair, and went about inspecting cupboards and the lone pantry. “Damn,” he exploded when a mouse shot out from a dingy stack of dinner plates. “Where’s the broom?”
“Don’t kill it!” I cried when he found the thing cowering under a cabinet. “Trap it and fling it outside.”
“Really?”
“Please…”
“I think he’s dead,” Jon informed me five minutes into the chase. “He’s not moving.”
I dared a peek. “Great. You frightened him to death.”
“It’s for the best when you think about it,” Jon said dismissively. He made a show of dusting himself off. “I’ll retrieve him later. In the meantime, let’s try to survive until morning.”
He straightened, turned a wonderful shade of green, and promptly sped off to the nearest water closet. As I stood there with the sounds of his retching reverberating throughout the house, I thought his punishment was solely inadequate for his earlier deception. Now, if he had a 100-degree fever and necrotizing fasciitis, I might be inclined to be merciful.
But, as an excruciating pain shot from my hand and up my arm, I decided projectile vomiting was punishment enough.
