IT WAS A FULL WEEK LATER AND EARLY DECEMBER before the horridly soggy winter weather lifted. Sir Henry was soon to depart for Avon to spend time with his daughter and celebrate Christmas with his family.
To that purpose, a beautiful dappled gray two-year-old filly, who was to be Emily’s Christmas present, had been delivered and duly admired on Tuesday afternoon. But when Wednesday dawned crisply cold and sunny, it was finally time for their outing to Covent Garden. They took the town coach since it was too cold for the curricle, and both William and Roberts were to accompany them for security.
Eliza was clad in a high-waisted, claret-colored wool dress, the skirts of which flared out rather voluminously due to the extra petticoats Mrs. Tibbit had insisted upon. She was wrapped in her gray cloak and had pulled on the tan-colored kid gloves that had magically appeared on her dresser a couple of days ago. Her hair was held back by two combs and uncovered apart from the hood of her cloak.
Traffic slowed their progress as they traveled along Oxford Street and then down Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus. The sidewalks of the big avenues were full of shoppers so close to the Christmas holiday, and Eliza marveled at the decorations the various shopkeepers had put up in their windows.
A confectioner had fashioned a nativity scene out of marzipan, and a baker had made icing-frosted gingerbread snowflakes and hung them on red and green satin ribbons in his window. A boot maker had stuffed his boots with nuts and oranges, and more than one merchant had hung mistletoe in their doorways and evergreens in their windows. It was lovely and festive and, although Hampstead boasted a few shops that decorated for the holidays, Eliza had never seen anything like it. She resolved to go for a walk along those streets in the next couple of days to have a closer look at some of the displays.
How Eliza wished her mother could have seen this. Mum had loved Christmas, and one of the last happy memories Eliza had of her mother was last year’s trip to see the Christmas decorations on Hampstead High Street.
They had admired the window displays, bought all the necessary ingredients for their plum pudding, and then Mum had pulled her to a bench built around one of the huge oak trees by the well. She had pulled out the silver locket holding a lock of her father’s hair, the one her mother had worn daily before she had married Horace, and put it around Eliza’s neck.
“That’s the last I have of my Jack,” she’d said with a sad smile. “Wear it for me, but make sure Horace never sees it. He’d filch it from you and give it to that whore of his.”
Eliza’s hand crept under her cloak to check for where she had pinned the locket to the shoulder straps of her chemise. Sometimes it felt like that smooth bit of silver was the only thing keeping the image of her mother’s broken body at the foot of the stairs at bay, the only thing that stood between Eliza and despair. She knew she was able to wear it openly, now that Horace was no longer there to take it from her, but she still couldn’t quite trust her safety and, until she did, she would keep the locket right where it was.
FROM PICCADILLY THEY TURNED EAST into a warren of smaller streets until they reached the huge market in front of the opera house, commonly known as Covent Garden, even though there had been no gardens in this area for several centuries.
It was a large, cobbled area, covered in market stalls and one rather grand permanent structure, housing the more affluent traders and craftsmen.
They left the coach outside the gates, and Henry took Eliza’s arm while Roberts and William followed behind. It was no doubt a risk bringing her to such a crowded place. But Henry reasoned that with the three of them ready to protect Eliza, this would also be an opportune moment to draw out Wilkins, if he was indeed still after her.
But mostly, Henry wanted to put a smile on his fair companion’s face.
Eliza had never seen so many people in one place. The sights, sounds, and smells made up an almost celebratory atmosphere. It was noisy with all the vendors vying for the shoppers’ attention and joking good-naturedly with their customers in their thick cockney accents. The stalls were covered with colorful canapés, and as far as Eliza could tell, anything one could possibly desire was for sale somewhere in this market, from sweet apples to small mountains of exotic spices and dried fruit, to bales of wool and silk cloth, to books and cheap trinkets, as well as shoes, hats, and furs. It smelled of roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, and unwashed bodies, and someone, somewhere, was roasting meat.
The cries of the hawkers were underscored by the occasional sounds of a fiddle, an old English ballad, and even the distant strains of a bagpipe. Henry explained the best musicians would be at the plaza in front of the Opera House, where the Punch and Judy show was and where the acrobats performed. He promised they would stop there later after they were done shopping.
Sir Henry insisted on freshly roasted chestnuts to munch on while they explored. They meandered through the seasonally large crowd. Representatives of all social strata could be observed perusing the stalls—the market was one of those rare places where the classes mingled naturally, all drawn by the festive atmosphere and the bargains to be had.
They bought cone-shaped bags of sugar plums and candied almonds for Mrs. Tibbit, some delicate doll clothes for Emily’s favorite doll, a length of lovely white-on-white sprigged muslin for Eliza to practice her sewing upon, and, of course, the gloves and muff they had come for.
The gloves were soft gray leather and slid onto Eliza’s fingers like a second skin. Not that she could bear to wear gloves in a place where every stall seemed to hold something that just had to be touched or smelled to be fully appreciated. The muff was, at least to Eliza’s mind, a decadent creation, made of gray rabbit fur and covered on the outside with red velvet.
Rubbing the soft fur against her cheek, she thanked Sir Henry for the handsome gift. But, afraid she would lose the lovely thing in the crush, she let the vendor wrap it for her and handed it to William to carry.
Henry watched Eliza explore, and smiling to himself, relaxed into the experience.
The two servants took the opportunity to do a little Christmas shopping of their own and were soon laden down with purchases. It seemed prudent to send Roberts back to the coach with all the packages and then meet them in the plaza before the Opera House, where the buskers and acrobats performed.
On the way to the plaza, they cut through the big market hall, where Eliza admired a hat in a milliner’s shop. Henry saw the fur-trimmed gray hat with the dark red ribbons and was about to suggest they go in when she hustled past him and pretended to be impatient to see the acrobats. Obviously she was embarrassed about the money he had already spent on her, but the hat would go perfectly with Eliza’s new muff and cape and would make a splendid Christmas present, even if he couldn’t be there to see her unwrap it on Christmas morning.
Henry hadn’t seen anybody who looked remotely how Eliza had described Wilkins, and he felt confident no one had followed them. So he called to William to stay close to Eliza and ducked into the small shop to buy the hat.
AS SOON AS ELIZA STEPPED into the plaza she felt exposed, vulnerable. She couldn’t have explained why; it was just a cold prickle at the nape of her neck, and she told herself to stop being such a ninny and that both Sir Henry and Roberts would be back in a trice. Besides, the burly William stood right next to her, sharing his sugared doughnuts with her, so she was hardly alone. But the prickle of warning would not go away.
They had worked their way into the crowd to get a better look at the tumblers, and so while William marveled at a girl cartwheeling on a tight rope, she looked around her, unable to dismiss her feeling of unease.
There were no familiar faces in the crowd, but the handsome gent in the dapper rust-colored suit and the brown top hat behind her had an odd glint in his eye when he said to no one in particular: “She’s a pretty pigeon.”
The smile he bestowed on her made her skin crawl, and the thought that this creature was ten times worse than Horace occurred to her. But before she could nudge William or cry out around her last bite of doughnut, a broad, callused hand closed over her mouth and a beefy arm pulled her backwards through the crowd. Then the stench of onions and rotting teeth threatened to overwhelm her when Wilkins’s voice whispered in her right ear, “Come along, Liza, play time’s over! I come to collect what’s mine.”
Eyes wide with panic, Eliza tried to get William’s attention by the sheer force of her will. She scratched at Wilkins’s hand as he dragged her mercilessly backwards and kicked at the dapper gent who had parted her cloak to grab her around her waist and kept smiling at her as if they were playing some sort of game.
Within seconds, she couldn’t see William anymore and knew herself to be lost if she couldn’t alert anyone to her plight. She swallowed the last bit of doughnut lodged in her throat and bit down as hard as she could on Wilkins’s fat, dirty middle digit. He bellowed and cursed, but let go of her mouth. By this time they were out of the crowd, and she was being dragged between stalls toward a dark little lane beyond. Eliza threw her head back in desperation, head-butting Wilkins in the process, and screamed with the full force of her lungs.
“HELP! HENRYYYY!!!! HE…AHHH!”
Her scream for help turned into a cry of pain as Wilkins cuffed her around her ear, and the other man’s hand grabbed her breast in a viselike grip and twisted her nipple with excruciating efficiency. “Shut up, bitch, or I’ll tweak the other one too!”
Fear froze any further sound in Eliza’s throat as she looked into the man’s pale, menacing eyes. The smile creeping over his face was pure evil. The vise grip around her nipple relaxed, and his hand started to massage the pain away. She thought she would be sick on his polished boots.
“See Wilkins, it’s always a question of findin’ the right mo’ivator. Soon as we’re in me alley, she can scream all she likes, no one will take no notice.”
With that, he turned her and grabbed her around her waist as Wilkins’s fist closed around her upper arm on the other side. His stupid grin held the promise of more pain to come.
“Right ya are, Mr. Hobbs.”
Now that she could see they were only one stall away from said alley, Eliza knew with blinding clarity she had to make one last stand. Neither Henry nor William could come to her aid if they didn’t know which way she’d gone.
She fervently wished she had ignored the doctor’s advice and donned her stays just for today. They would have offered some protection from Hobbs’s evil fingers. But there was nothing for it: she ignored all the fear pooling in her belly and used the fact they were practically carrying her to pull up her knees and slam down her booted heels on both her captors’ toes. In the same movement, she twisted her arm out of Wilkins’s slackened grip and turned under Hobbs’s arm to head back toward the stall behind her.
“SIR HENRY! HELP!”
She managed to grab the canvas of the rickety stall and upend a table full of brass oil lamps. They clattered to the ground, making an unholy racket, before a merciless hand grabbed her hair right at the nape and yanked her back. Then his hand closed around her other breast, and the white hot fury of pain he inflicted on her rendered her helpless. The pain had left her no breath to scream, but the stall holder’s anger lent her hope he might remember her if Sir Henry came to see what the commotion was all about.
Hobbs hauled her through the last row of stalls and into the alley.
THE ALLEY WAS DARK AND stank of sex and human refuse. Farther into the shadows, one could just make out girls for sale loitering against the walls. This was obviously Hobbs’s kingdom and he didn’t expect anyone to dare follow him here. He pushed Eliza forward. “Crikey, the bint ’as more spirit than what’s good for ’er. Now she’s got matching fucking marks on ’er titties. ’Ow am I supposed to sell ’er if she can’t show ’er tits?”
Wilkins’s laugh was mirthless and derisive. “She’ll have plenty more marks by the time I’m done with ’er. I owe ’er a few just for today, never mind that that nob took what was mine.”
Hobbs, suddenly all business, stopped to square off with Wilkins, keeping an iron grip on Eliza’s arm. “Stop whining, ya snifflin’ pillock. Virgins are overrated anyways, she’ll still be young and tight. But get this straight: this one’s trouble as-is and the only reason I’m still ’ere is ’cause the good Sir Henry owes me a pigeon. So fuck ’er all ya want and I won’t even say anythin’ if ya prefer the wrong ’ole, but put another mark on ’er and ya’ll ’ave a hard time gettin’ your twenty quid off me. Are we understood?”
Wilkins planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and yanked Eliza closer to his side. He extended his neck to get farther into Hobbs’s face and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do with ’er what I want and I don’t know what ya’re complainin’ about. Ya’re getting ’er all broke in. Since ’er fine gent has already done half the work, all I have to do is make sure she knows one cock’s as good as the next and that gin takes the edge off. That’s what you said. Besides, a deal’s a deal.”
As the pain subsided, Eliza started to follow their exchange and finally found enough breath to voice her disgust. “Fucking bastards! You think I’m Sir Henry’s whore, and now you,” she indicated Wilkins with her head, “are going to force yourself on me and then sell me to this demon here out of revenge? Because you think I gave Sir Henry my virginity, instead of guarding it faithfully so you could be the first bastard to rape me?”
Her eyes flashed angry fire as she looked from one to the other, questioning whether she had all the facts straight. Hobbs assumed a calm, almost gentle demeanor, making Eliza cringe with apprehension. “Come, come now, pigeon, of course he’s had ya. Ya’ve been living in ’is ’ouse and ’e’s famous for ’is great big cock and ’is liking for the ladies. So we’re going to let Wilkins ’ere ’ave his pound of flesh and then … ”
At that moment, Sir Henry emerged from between two stalls with a pistol firmly trained on Hobbs. Eliza wanted to sag in relief, but was all too aware one man against the two of them on Hobbs’s turf was probably a very bad idea, so she shook her head at Henry to warn him away. He nevertheless smiled reassuringly and stepped forward. “Ah, but I’m not done with Miss Eliza yet. So if you would step aside, Mr. Hobbs.”
Hobbs turned to him with a grin and raised his hand, also holding a pistol. “And why would I? This ’ere is my world.”
Henry nodded and seemed to think for a moment. “True enough. But you see … ” He indicated a low roof behind Hobbs, where William was just coming into view with a rifle trained on Hobbs. “This here is William, and he would like nothing better than to put a bullet in your head for hurting his girl. Daisie, you might remember her? I persuaded you to leave her in my care?”
Hobbs was a businessman at heart and had no trouble realizing when a deal was no longer to his advantage. He released Eliza from his grip, lifted his hat, bowed with a flourish, and then retreated farther into the alley, all the while keeping his gun at the ready, just in case.
Wilkins, stunned by this development, yanked Eliza back to him before she could step closer to Sir Henry, and furiously shouted after Hobbs, “You lily-livered bastard! Ya’re supposed ta ’ave me back.”
Hobbs fixed him with cold, hard eyes. “She ain’t worth the trouble. Get yar twenty quid off ’im. He obviously enjoyed her, so he might as well pay. And a word of warning, mate—if ’e still wants ’er, you won’t get ’er off ’im. He can be a right ’ard bastard.” The pimp turned and walked away.
Wilkins took a moment to assimilate what Hobbs had said, then turned to Henry to rail at him. “I paid for a virgin and ya bloody ruined ’er! So if ya want ’er back, it’s gonna cost ya.”
Henry regarded him for a moment. “I’m willing to gift you fifty pounds if you will sign a contract that says you give up all rights to Miss Eliza and you will never come near her again.”
Eliza quickly calculated—Wilkins had only valued her as long as she was a virgin, and he would let her go more readily if he thought her spoiled goods. What Eliza found troubling was that Sir Henry was about to buy her. Her heart sank further as she realized fifty pounds was not a sum she could hope to repay anytime soon. Her only consolation was that being owned by Sir Henry was infinitely preferable to being owned by Wilkins.
Wilkins agreed to the deal. “All right. But show me the money first.”
Henry handed his gun to Roberts, who had appeared behind him, and retrieved a crisp fifty-pound note from his wallet, holding it up for Wilkins to see, right there in a Covent Garden back alley. Eliza couldn’t make up her mind whether it was the bravest or the stupidest thing she had ever seen anybody do.
“There is a scribe in the market, so if you let Eliza go with my man here, we can have the contract drawn up for you to sign. William and I will witness it.”
Wilkins thought about it for a few seconds, but eventually let go of her arm. Henry took Eliza’s shaking hand, held her close for a moment, then handed her over to Roberts. He met her eyes and gave her a little smile, hoping to reassure her. “Wait for me in the carriage. I won’t be long, and then you will be rid of him once and for all,” he whispered to her.
Eliza returned a shaky smile and nodded.