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The dark was softer on the other side, the air cleaner. It held the unmistakable scent of churches. Slumping against the wall, waiting for the pain to loosen its teeth, Jem’s heart lurched as the gloom revealed a rope hanging from the ceiling. It was another second before he realised they were in the bell tower, where for so long Davy had carried out his unofficial duty.
It seemed that the prospect of getting home had made Davy impatient. He opened the low door into the porch and waited for Jem, twitching with pent-up energy. Keeping his arm folded close against his body, Jem followed, gathering strength from the thought that he was minutes away from Kate.
Her image burned in his mind like a beacon as he stole through the fading night behind Davy. He pictured her, as he had left her, in her bed, asleep on her front, one hand curled beneath her chin. He imagined himself kneeling beside the bed, stroking her hair back from her face—ever so gently—and kissing her awake.
I didn’t mean to let you down a second time. I didn’t want to abandon you. I’m here now…
The stable yard was sleeping as they passed through it, the horses silent in their stalls. Jem looked nervously up at the chauffeur’s loft, but no light showed.
Through the arch, the big kitchen window glowed with lamplight. Susan must be up, seeing to the water. In the yard he came up against the first flaw in his plan. He’d thought to wash in the stone trough; to submerge his head in the water and rub the dried blood from his matted hair and swollen face, but the trough was covered with a crust of ice an inch thick. The laundry house window reflected his image back at him; colourless but still horrifying. He looked like the ghost of someone who’d met a violent end.
He supposed he nearly had.
Behind him the back door opened; a slice of yellow reflected in the glassy black. A second later a little screech echoed around the yard as Susan spotted Davy.
‘Oh my lord—Davy Wells,’ she said in a furious whisper. ‘I thought you were a—a cutthroat or something. What are you doing hanging around in the dark like that? You nearly frightened me to—’
Jem turned, not knowing if Davy would speak and getting ready to step in and explain. She saw him, crossing the yard towards her.
And this time she began to scream properly.
Eliza heard the noise as she came down the back stairs, tying her apron. She hadn’t bothered to put her corset on this morning—since everyone knew about her predicament, or would do soon, she didn’t need to endure the discomfort of concealing it anymore. As the scream spiralled through the sleeping house she stopped, hands stilling behind her back, red hot alarm flushing through her, driving her down the rest of the stairs as quickly as she could in her new clumsiness.
Downstairs was still in disarray from last night. The table outside the scullery was piled high with serving dishes and plates, and the floor was smeared and scattered with crumbs. In the wreckage of the usually ordered basement and the wake of the scream, the silence felt sinister, but as she hurried past the kitchen Eliza heard low voices at the back door.
‘Susan, it’s all right—please—don’t wake everyone—’
She was standing in the doorway, her hands clamped over her mouth. And someone was outside in the yard, obscured by the lingering dark.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ Eliza went forward. ‘Jem?’
Dear God…
She’d thought what had happened that night before the London trip had been bad, but it was nothing to this. His clothes were filthy and his shirt torn, his face swollen on one side. A gash slashed across his forehead, just at his hairline, and had bled like nobody’s business, the blood in dried rivulets down his cheek and neck, blackening his collar. He had one arm crossed over his chest, and the curled fingers of his hand were blood crusted too.
‘We can’t let him in,’ Susan said in a shrill whisper. ‘He tried to steal—’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Susan—are you mad? It’s Jem. I don’t give a monkey’s what bloody Frederick Henderson said—stop dithering about like a halfwit and get some hot water and a cloth.’
She pushed her briskly back in the direction of the kitchen, then went to Jem, sliding her arm around his waist and drawing him gently forwards. In the passageway he winced at the light.
‘It doesn’t matter about the water,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I just need to see Mrs Furniss…’
‘Oh my life—’
Abigail had appeared, almost colliding with Susan rushing the other way. When she saw Jem, her mouth fell open in horror and she backed away. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Henderson,’ Jem said tersely. ‘I found out something he didn’t want anyone to know. He got Robson to do this, and if he finds me here, he’ll finish the job off. I need to—’
‘He won’t.’ Eliza kept her voice calm. ‘He won’t dare do anything with us here. Isn’t that right, Davy?’ The lad was hovering as close to Jem’s side as he dared, and she guessed that he had made all the difference between Jem quietly bleeding out somewhere and making it back here. ‘Let’s get you inside and cleaned up. Abigail, go and get Mrs Furniss.’
‘No, I’ll go—’
Jem made to push past her, but Eliza grabbed the arm that wasn’t crossed over his chest.
‘No, you won’t,’ she said firmly, lowering her voice so only he could hear. ‘You can’t. For her sake, Jem—think about it. Come on…’ She put his arm over her shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look at the damage and clean you up.’
She could feel the beat of Jem’s heart against her chest as she led him to the servants’ hall, and felt a surge of ferocious protectiveness. She tried to steer him into Mr Goddard’s chair, where Mrs Furniss had fussed over him last time, but he wouldn’t sit. Instead, he paced restlessly, putting his fingers to the cut on his head, his eyes returning every few seconds to the door.