Into The Hall Of Vice. Anabelle Bryant
gentleman was cunning. A promise of information in exchange for a kiss. Cole admired the gentry cove’s smooth efforts, surprised and pleased when the clever lady caught him in the trap and reversed the proposition.
Charing Cross? Is that what the man had mentioned? Cole knew the roadway and every corner of the surrounding area from his tragic youth. Little more than a street urchin, he’d roamed the connected alleys of nearby neighbourhoods, nabbing whatever odd tasks were offered, mucking stalls, catching vermin for the grocer or scraping soot from narrow chimneys, although the confined space of the firebox always caused his heart to pound. Two pence from a lazy stable hand, a shilling from a nob who needed a message delivered, and another earned for discarding innards for the fishmonger. The sum added to a bowl of broth by end of day. Life was easier then. A wistful frown curled his lips with the melancholic remembrance. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.
Without further hesitation, he eased closer to the wall, waited until silence insisted safety abound and then, with nothing more than a fleeting glance of the woman’s blonde hair and slim figure as she ventured indoors, he moved on.
‘Good morning, Gemma. What are your plans for the day?’
Gemma smiled in automatic greeting to her brother though inside she fought an instant spark of frustration. She understood the responsibility of care and protection for her and her sister rested upon his shoulders, but each day, week, month since their father’s sudden passing, Kent demanded a precise accounting of her daily schedule, making her personal endeavours near impossible to achieve. Nevertheless, as had become habit, she detailed her plans in respect of his request. ‘I thought to convince Rosalind to take some air in our open carriage with a ride through Hyde Park.’
‘Brilliant. She remains indoors too often.’ Genuine concern marked his reply.
‘She may not wish to speak right now, but society does not need to know about her prolonged reticence. Let them see her on the bench beside me and assume life continues as always. Our mourning period spent in the country stifled any wayward speculation.’ She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. ‘Besides, I hold hope someone will ignite an interest and cause her to respond from necessity or curiosity, an impossible circumstance if she remains locked away here at home.’ Perhaps she’d spoken too forthright, her imagery coloured by inner conflict. Her brother’s brows climbed high before he answered.
‘What if someone aligns with the cabriolet and wishes to converse? How will you explain your sister’s lack of communication?’
‘A sore throat or megrim? A prolonged malaise? If I’m chattering and supplying an explanation of her silence, how dare anyone persist?’ She took another sip, seeking comfort and reassurance in the hot brew. ‘I believe in my heart the right instigation will cause her to speak again. If only I knew what it was. I dare say I would go mad trapped inside my head with nothing but the thrum of my pulse for company, but as we discussed with each and every doctor, the matter cannot be forced. Rosalind maintains fine health otherwise. She may find comfort in no longer using her voice, broken from Father’s death, but how I wish I knew what troubled her to such extreme she chooses to remain quiet.’
‘There is no understanding it. Every physician asserts Rosalind’s silence is a subconscious choice and she will return to rights again, but nonetheless, when I look into her sorrowful face, I question their medical integrity as nothing more than quacks. What sane person chooses to become mute? I wonder if they simply appease me, afeared to inform me of a grave diagnosis that might shade them in disfavour. Meanwhile, it is difficult to sit idle and wait for her to return to the vociferous young girl who added amusement to each day.’ He rifled through a stack of correspondence before he spoke again. ‘Do not mistake my silence on the subject as dismissal. I am at a loss and cannot invest the time I should.’ He continued after the sentimental admittance, reassembled into the stern brother she knew well. ‘It seems I’m forever seeking solutions. Parliament’s most recent bills are a travesty.’ He unfolded another letter as was routine during breakfast and pierced her with a meaningful glare. ‘Return to Stratton House if Rosalind appears uncomfortable in any respect. I know you have her best interest in mind but there are times…’
‘Of course. I would never inflict more harm.’ Her words faded on a mutter, daunted by her brother’s chastisement. How he divided his attention between multiple subjects, when one seemed more important, was beyond her comprehension.
‘I don’t mean to sound harsh. Obey my wishes and do not cause difficulty. I wouldn’t want your best intentions to go awry by way of enthusiasm.’ He splayed a hand and indicated the pile of papers on the table. ‘Everywhere I look I find opposition. I’ll not have it in my household as well.’
‘I understand.’ But she didn’t. Not in truth. Everything had changed since Father’s death. She had lost not just her dear, kind father, but her sister, who chose a lonely silence and incommunicable coexistence. Meanwhile, her brother had assumed the title and since dedicated his time to the consuming demands of the House of Lords more than his own house. With their mother long ago buried, Rosalind was her closest confidante aside from her maid.
‘Is that all?’ Kent resumed his interest in the message left resting near his plate.
‘Perhaps after we return from the park, I’ll visit a new modiste outside Mayfair.’ She strove to inject a pleasant note.
‘Do you want for anything?’ He barely raised his eyes with the question.
‘No. Not at all, though I understand this shop creates the newest fashions and it bides well for Rosalind and I to present our best now that we’ve put away our mourning blacks.’ She took another sip of tea in an effort to keep her expression neutral.
‘Talk of fabric and frippery is best left to your maid.’ His steely gaze punctuated his dismissal. ‘Be sure to take Nan with you.’ Then, with split interest, he glanced to the letter in hand. ‘Another Poor Bill to contend? This proposed system will distort the free market.’
She wrinkled her nose, eschewing concerns of Parliament’s business for another reason entirely. Explaining a stop in Charing Cross to her maid would require some inventive storytelling. When her mother died nine years ago, Nan had stepped in to raise her. The line between servant and friend blurred over time and while the woman was not old enough to serve as mother, there were often instances when the maid assumed the role. Still, Gemma had achieved her goal with a modicum of honesty so she would not waste the unexpected boon.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose from the chair with energised purpose. ‘Let me inform Rosalind so she may make ready for the park.’
Mayhap it was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that jarred loose the tender memory and freed the stifled yearning for kindness, but whatever the cause, Cole woke the next afternoon with a desire to visit Charing Cross. There his makeshift mother lived in a stark flat where, over several past years, she’d housed and protected numerous lost boys, sharing what little she had and wanting nothing in return. As when she’d raised him, the only rules to abide were a strict sense of purpose and honesty in every form, most especially in regard to crime. She kept the lads fed and clothed, taught them the barest education and left each with an indelible understanding of gratitude and kindness to do better by others. It wasn’t until many years later that he understood the sacrifices she made in order to pay rent and purchase necessities.
Two decades ago Cole was one of these lads.
Cole.
He grinned. The remembrance of how he’d chosen his name still held the power to amuse. Shoved from a fancy carriage out onto the street as a tiny lad, his aristocratic father demanded he not return.
‘I have no need of a dirty bastard. Your mother should have known that before she left you on my doorstep. Now off with you and forget this day.’
The stranger, his father, waved his arm as one might shoo away a stray dog. With a forceful push down the extended steps, Cole butted into the side of a merchant’s wagon and watched his father’s fancy carriage roll away, unable to forget the barren fear and utter dejection as he wept