Page 40 of Eliza and the Duke
She was here because she couldn’t be anywhere else. Simon called to her, whether he knew it or not. Ever since he’d had dinner with them last night and they had shared the private moment in the dining room, she had been consumed by him. Her mother had noticed during the meal that there had been something between them. Fanny had found her before bed and inquired about Eliza’s interest in him. It had been on the tip of her tongue to confess everything to her mother. The only thing that had kept her silent was that Simon had given no indication that he wanted to try to figure out a way forward for them. It seemed impossible—probably was impossible—but didn’t they owe it to themselves to even consider the possibility?
The idea of them was foolish, but she’d never forgive herself if she married Mainwaring without talking to Simon first. It wouldn’t hurt to have one honest conversation about where things stood.
The attractive limestone building loomed across the road before her. Several carriages were stalled out front, busy with the late-afternoon traffic of people arriving at the club. Men in suits were loitering on the sidewalk, talking with one anotherbefore they went inside. It might have been less crowded had she been able to come earlier in the day, but there had been a luncheon with the London Suffrage Society that she hadn’t felt she could miss. Her only hope of avoiding detection was the kitchen entrance she and Jenny had used the last time.
The moment traffic let up, she hurried across the road. From her vantage point at the street corner, she could see that the kitchen door was closed. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be locked. She didn’t get a chance to find out, because as soon as she started down the sidewalk it opened. Startled, she stopped walking. Simon’s tall frame emerged, and she did a quick about-face so he wouldn’t catch sight of her.
Almost as quickly, she turned back around. She was here to see him, after all. There was no need to hide from him. He wore a bespoke suit, the same type that he wore when working at the club. It was different from what he’d worn the night they had gone to Whitechapel, which had been plain and hung looser on his frame. She knew the suit was custom because of the fineness of the broadcloth and how it fit his waist and shoulders, emphasizing the narrowness of the former while drawing just snug enough against the latter. He hadn’t yet looked in her direction, and she realized what had made her feel hesitant at his abrupt appearance. There was a look of single-minded determination on his face. He seemed concerned and carried a leather satchel. He crossed the sidewalk in only a couple of long strides and hopped up into the carriage waiting there. It took off at a fast clip before the door was even closed and before she could call out. Wherever he was going, he was in a hurry.
She should go back to the museum, but she couldn’t look away from his carriage. It had rolled to a stop at the intersection. Where was he going so fast? She couldn’t shake thefeeling that something was dreadfully wrong. Her good angel told her it was none of her business where he was going, but her bad angel told her that something was wrong and he might need her. She’d never seen him with such an expression on his face.
Should she follow him?
She paused, vacillating between going back to the museum and hailing a cab. Of course she should go back to the museum. There was always tomorrow. Yes, that is definitely what sheshoulddo. But it wasn’t yet dark, and Jones didn’t expect her back for a couple of hours. What harm would there be in following Simon? She’d never have to reveal herself.
No, she should definitely return to the museum. It was the obvious choice. She turned around and started walking back the way she had come. A hansom pulled around the corner, driving idly toward her. She looked back at Simon’s carriage just in time to see it turning left. Her decision made, she stepped out into the street to flag down the cab.
“Please follow that carriage,” she called up to the man before he could jump down and help her inside. Grabbing onto the handle, she pulled herself up and settled herself back against the seat.
The hansom took off and they were able to keep a fairly good pace. She only lost sight of Simon once, but by then she had already recognized the narrowing streets and buildings in need of upkeep. Simon was going to Whitechapel. But why? She had gotten the impression that he didn’t wear his club attire on Whitechapel streets. He had obviously left in a hurry. What would bring him here today?
When the cab came to a stop near Whitechapel High Street, the driver pulled to the side of the road and opened the hatch. His stern face appeared in the square opening above her. “I don’t drive here,” he announced.
“Fine, I’ll get out here.” She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out his fare.
His bushy eyebrows came together. “Are you certain, miss? This area—”
“Yes, I’m certain. Here.” She shoved the money at him and he shrugged and took it.
She fumbled her way out of the carriage and hurried toward the busy market. Panic began to overtake her because she didn’t see any sign of his carriage. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was late enough in the day that the streets were crowded. The White Hart pub was busy across the road.
A carriage had pulled up to the alley beside it, and she thought it might be his. Montague Club’s carriages were unmarked for anonymity with no crest on the door. It might have been anyone, but all the other vehicles in the market were either wagons or not as sleek and shiny. Pulling her skirts up to her ankles, she hurried across the road, dodging carts, wagons, and manure as she went. By the time she got there, the carriage was pulling off, but she saw Simon’s trim form disappearing down the alley. He wasn’t running, but he walked very fast. She had to nearly sprint to keep pace with him.
He turned down two more alleys that were too narrow for anything larger than a cart. Finally, his pace slowed as he came to a row of houses. They were narrow and tall and made of brown brick. He walked up to the front door at the third house and knocked. A sign hung out over him, but it was so faded that she couldn’t tell what was written on it from where she stood hidden at the end of the block. He glanced around as he waited, and she darted around the corner. Again, she should have revealed herself, but something kept her silent. By the time she peeked back around, the tall door had opened. It had once been green, but the paint had long since faded andpeeled away in sections. She couldn’t tell who stood inside the door, but, man or woman, they were shorter than Simon. He looked down as he spoke. The person stood back and allowed him to enter. He swept off his hat as he stepped inside.
Once the door closed behind him, she hurried to the building. She didn’t allow her good angel a say as she raised her hand and knocked on the door. An older woman opened it. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back into a tidy bun and her black gown quite conservative with a high neck and long sleeves.
“Yes?” she asked when Eliza didn’t speak right away.
Eliza opened her mouth, but realized she probably shouldn’t ask for Simon. What had she hoped to find out anyway? Her impulsive flight to find him had overtaken her good sense.
“Are you a new girl, child?” the woman asked. She spoke in the East End accent Eliza had come to expect, but it was tempered somehow, as if she wasn’t native to the area but had lived there a long time.
“Yes, I am new.” Eliza nodded and used the same contrived accent she had used that night with Mr. Brody.
The woman sighed. Her voice was kind, but stern as she said, “Only customers come through this entrance, dovey. Go round to the back.” Then the woman gave her a thorough once-over and shut the door in her face.
Customers? What sort of house would have customers? A sickening hollow opened up in her stomach. There was really only one thing it could be, but she didn’t want to believe that Simon would frequent such a place. Still, she hurried around the block to the back of the row of houses. She counted to the third house down and knocked on the door. A feminine voice yelled inside, though Eliza couldn’t make out the words. That was followed by heavy steps. A series of locks were beingunlatched; she could hear the springs and metal tapping against wood. When the door finally opened, heat from the kitchen to the right wafted over her. Ahead, the corridor loomed, dark and narrow, creating a straight path to the vacant front door.
The woman who had opened the door appeared to be the cook. She wore an apron and an affronted expression that Eliza would dare to appear there and disturb her. A trickle of sweat rolled down her brow, and she wiped it away with a hand reddened from the heat of the kitchen.
“I—I was told to come in the back,” Eliza said.
The cook huffed and waved her in before slamming the door behind her. Then she appeared to forget all about her as she returned to the kitchen and continued scolding the scullery girl who was on her hands and knees cleaning up a spill.
Eliza glanced toward the front of the house again and saw no sign of the woman in black. The woman’s voice drifted down the corridor to her from a front room, coupled with a man’s voice, but the man was not Simon. This was her chance. She needed to find him before someone stopped her.
A narrow and steep set of servants’ stairs was tacked to the side of the corridor, so she took them and cautiously made her way to the second level of the home. The upstairs was narrow with several rooms turning off of the corridor. One of the doors opened to reveal a young woman in a dingy white shift with nothing else underneath. The lamplight spilling from the room lit her sparse frame from behind.
