Chapter 13

 

 

 

Oliver listened attentively, concentrating on her words to forget his misery and the searing ache in his side. Whinstone? That loathsome excuse for a human being? Watford’s cruel stepfather, who caused no amount of trouble leading to his incarceration? To begin her life at Eaton Place, only to be moved constantly to cheaper lodgings?

“The money stopped completely when I turned 12 years old, and, for a short period, my mother made money the only way she knew how.” Claudia hesitated. “You are not shocked and disgusted?”

“Why would I be? Why would I judge anyone in a dire predicament?”

His answer must have satisfied her, for she continued, “Then, she met a man. By my thirteenth birthday, we lived with him in a small three-room flat in Vauxhall, within a cluster of boarding houses where manual laborers resided. Thankfully, William Murphy was not a cruel man. He was a sailor, away more than he was home. But when there, we were happy. William was more of a father to me than Whinstone ever was.”

“I am glad for that,” Oliver interjected quietly.

“William taught me how to defend myself. How to handle a knife, and where to cut to cause injury, either with a glancing slice or a fatal stab or evisceration. Regrettably, his ship sank off the Atlantic Ocean coast of Nova Scotia. There was no more money, but worst of all, no William coming home, his arms laden with parcels of food and gifts, or his laughing face greeting us each morning as he made us a hearty breakfast. Going shopping and for walks about the park, stopping for an orange ice or even vanilla bean ice cream.” 

Claudia gave a shuddering sigh. “I cried for his senseless loss. I cried for my poor mother. We were down to less than two pounds in coin, as William was due to make shore in a few weeks. How could we stay in that flat? We sold William’s clothing and furnishings and found cheaper lodgings elsewhere. My mother was wracked with grief, for she absolutely loved William. He wasn’t the most handsome of men, nor all that tall, but he was kind, generous, and loving. They had discussed marriage. I loved him, too. The thought of my heartbroken mother returning to the streets to earn coin twisted my insides.”

“What did you do?” Oliver asked, genuinely moved by her story. To find contentment within a family formation to have it cruelly ripped away? Unfathomable.

Claudia remained silent. 

“You can trust me,” he urged gently. “I can sense you already do, to a point. Anything you say will not change my high opinion of you.”

“High opinion? You do not know me at all,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Not completely accurate. You forget I know you as Tensbridge and The Sentinel. I observed your courage and determination—and how you labor at keeping people at a distance. Including me.”

“Bringing people close is allowing vulnerability, a lesson I learned the hard way. That I cannot tolerate.”

“You cried when you learned of William’s death. That shows compassion, not weakness. And vulnerabilities show that we are human, capable of deep emotions.”

Claudia snorted. “What does it matter? Any of it leaves a person defenseless. I will not put myself in that position. Not ever again.” She paused. “Or so I try and tell myself.”

Oliver wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms. But he remained on the pallet not only because of his injury but he did not wish to invade her space. “In my family, we show our affection readily. For one never knows when a certain day may be the last. Why have regrets over what was not done or said? Live and love to the fullest. ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

“Alfred Lord Tennyson. I do have some education. ‘I am mistress of mine own self and mine own soul,’ also from Tennyson. I am in charge of what happens to me. If I remain detached in certain situations, that is on me.”

Oliver smiled in the darkness. Oh, he adored this woman. Of that, there was no doubt. “But you are not remaining disconnected with me. You are telling me of your past.”

“Because you have been stabbed and are sick with a fever. I reckon that you will not remember most of it. How do you know I am even telling you the truth? I could be a consummate storyteller, weaving an overwrought fiction for your entertainment to keep your mind off your injury.”

“But you are not,” Oliver murmured. “I hear the sorrow in your voice. The anger when speaking of Whinstone. The regret and utter sadness when talking of your mother and William Murphy. It is sincere and deeply felt. I can ascertain that much. ‘The shell must break before the bird can fly.’”

“Oh, please. No more Tennyson.”

Oliver chuckled, then sobered. “Saying I am sorry for what you had to endure sounds futile, for I have no idea about any of it.”

“Don’t apologize for being raised in a loving and privileged home. Thank your lucky stars instead.”

“Does that upbringing make me a dullard in your eyes? Women seem to prefer the brooding, tortured type.”

“Brooding and tortured describes me, certainly not you. If I were to pick certain attributes preferable in a man, I would select stable, honorable, and confident. And a dullard? Come now, you are a vigilante! That gives you a wild and dangerous streak that is immensely appealing—to other women.”

“But not to you?” Oliver asked softly.

“Perhaps to me. You are certainly a wonder.”

A jolt of triumph raced through him. Oliver was about to speak, to tell her that she appealed to him in all ways when a scratching sound from above made Claudia grip his arm.

“Is it a rat?” she whispered worriedly.

He listened, and the sound moved away. “Do you detest rats because you came across them as your living quarters deteriorated? It is a silly question as no one likes rats.”

Claudia shuddered as she removed her hand. “Nothing is worse than awakening to find a rat inches from your face, nibbling on crumbs from your stale bread, practically staring you in the eye.”

“Well, I haven’t heard any rats moving about here since we arrived. I believe we are fine for now. Do not sit over there in the dark. Come and lie next to me. It is cold in here, or is that just me?”

“It’s a little chilly,” she replied. 

He could feel her slide in next to him. Claudia lay on her side, facing him. Gratified that she was near, Oliver placed the blanket over her. “So, I ask again, what did you do next after William died tragically?”

With a sigh of resignation, she continued. “I thought I might do what my mother had done when in desperate difficulties, what many women did and, horribly, what many girls had to do and still do to survive. But what did I know of pleasing men? So, I resorted to a little thieving—a wheel of cheese here, a loaf of bread there. We managed, living frugally on the few coins we had left, making plans to find other employment. Perhaps in a factory or mill. But my mother became seriously ill before we could carry the plan out. I swallowed my pride and went to the home Whinstone shared with his wife, the previous Duchess of Watford. To ask for money for my mother.”

“What happened?”

“He was home and refused to see me. I was physically removed from the property and told never to return.”

Oliver frowned. “Miserable bastard, but there is a part you have left out. Danaher factors in here somewhere, does he not?”

Claudia exhaled shakily. “I am exhausted. Let us sleep some more. Then we have to make plans for escaping. No one knows we are here.”

“That is not exactly true. Simpson knows of this place.”

Claudia laid a hand on his forehead. “You are still not well. Your fever could worsen. We cannot stay. You heard those men. Danaher will tear The Piggeries apart just because he can. And yes, Danaher fits into my story, but I cannot manage revealing it now.”

Oliver took her hand away from his forehead and squeezed it gently. “Then, later.”

“And you will tell me about The Sentinel?” she whispered.

“Yes, whatever you wish to know.” He leaned in as much as he was able and kissed her forehead. He was still holding her hand when he fell asleep.

 

 

 

Oliver awoke abruptly as Claudia gently shook him. “Are you well? You were groaning in your sleep. Are you in pain?”

Is he? God, his mouth was dry as a crust. “Water,” he croaked. 

He could hear Claudia searching in the dark for the water jug. She cursed when it fell over. Thankfully, it had a screw top so none could leak out.

“Found it. Should I light the lamp?” Claudia whispered.

“No. We must save the oil.” Oliver tried to sit up, and a roll of pain tore through his side. Another thing he neglected to pack in his medical kit was willow bark or even that new aspirin powder Doctor Drew Hornsby told him about. Again, he never imagined being stuck down here for hours or days.

Claudia came in close. “Just lift your head; do not try to sit upright.” 

He felt the rim of the jar touch his cheek and turned his head to drink. Oliver took two large swallows and then pushed the container away.

“Take some more,” Claudia urged.

“No. I’m fine.”

“I wonder how much time has passed,” Claudia mused as she screwed the top on the jar. “I napped more than slept.”

“I kept you awake. I do apologize.”

“It is understandable, considering your injury. You never answered me. Are you in pain?”

“It is not so bad if I lay still. It comes and goes. I ache all over, though, probably from the slight fever. I do not feel any worse, so that is a good sign. But who knows, I am not well versed in medical matters.”

“You should try and sleep some more. It is good for recovery, or so I’ve read.”

“I am wide awake now.”

“Our absence must have been noticed, or it will come the dawn. The Galway Agency knows I am in Notting Dale. Will they contact the police? Will your cousin raise the alarm? Or perhaps your lady fair wonders why you never arrived for your rendezvous.”

Oliver smiled. “Are you asking if I am attached to anyone, intimately speaking?”

Claudia remained silent for several moments. “I suppose I am. I am merely curious.”

Right. So much for Claudia’s declaration of keeping people at a distance. “I have never been involved seriously with anyone. Ever.”

“Wait. What? Are you saying what I think you are saying?”

Oliver heard the genuine shock in her voice. “That I am a virgin viscount? It is true.”

Claudia snorted. “You are having me on. In my many experiences in the East End, I could not turn around on the street or in the pub and not brush up against some toff out for cheap thrills.”

Oliver stayed silent. What possessed him to reveal such a personal fact? It slipped out—must be the slight fever addling his mind. Well, perhaps not. Claudia had shared so much; it was only fair he reciprocated.

“Oh,” Claudia said with a subdued tone. “It’s true, then. Not that there is anything wrong with that, not at all. But why? I thought all those with wealth and titles indulged—and frequently.”

“They do. I am a member of The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park.”

Claudia chuckled. “You joined as a cover.”

“Partly. I also thought it best to align myself with powerful men. If I were to move forward with my vigilante plan, I wanted to know where the worst of the vice is to be had. For that is where the underprivileged are forgotten and ignored.”

“That is certainly the case. Did you take a vow of celibacy?”

Was Claudia mocking him? Seeing he was ill, it was hard to judge, but he heard no sarcasm or scorn in her tone. She sounded genuinely inquisitive.

“No. I have had singular encounters with a few women. We gave each other sexual release. I just did not take the final step. As far as the peerage goes, perhaps I am old-fashioned. I believe it a deeply intimate act and not one I want to share with someone I hardly know.” Oliver paused. “Now that I say it aloud, it sounds peculiar. Why give a woman oral or touching pleasure but not go the rest of the way? I cannot explain it adequately. I want it to be with someone special.”

“I-I think the same. You may not believe this, but in ten years living on the street, I never—not all the way.” 

“Forgive the personal question, but in what way?”

Claudia sighed. “On the rare occasion we were desperate for money, I frigged men to completion. Are you disgusted now?”

“No. I have seen enough on the streets over the past several months to understand the desperation you are speaking of. I condemn no one, most of all—you.”

“I was not a prostitute in the strictest sense. I fell in with a group of women, and despite my young age, I became their protector, procurer, cash carrier—their pimp. They called me their captain, and I suppose I was, for I collected the money and, in wielding my knife, protected them on more than one occasion. I secured us at least one hot meal daily and a roof over our heads when possible. But it was precarious—our safety and our lives—from day to day.”

“I can see you in that role,” Oliver murmured, his heart aching for what she had to endure. “As a captain or leader. It suits you.”

“Keeping the gangs at bay was difficult and a constant struggle. The women looked to me, but I never let them close. Not really. What does it say about me that at the first opportunity, I turned from them, eager for a fresh start?” 

“There is more to it than that. There is part of your story you haven’t disclosed as yet.”

“And why am I telling you all this?” Claudia cried, clearly agitated. “Because I am scared, cold, hungry, and find myself in involuntary proximity and a dangerous situation with someone under normal circumstances, I would never share a conversation, let alone confide my horrid past.”

“Because I am a viscount? You would never let that stop you.”

Claudia sighed again. “Oliver, where would our paths ever cross in a social situation?”

“At our mutual acquaintances’ gatherings. This isn’t 1806, where everything is strict decorum occurring in ballrooms or other restrictive and monitored settings. Times have changed.”

Claudia snorted. “Not that much.”

“No, it has. Perhaps there is some truth in what you say for certain elites, but not any I know. Beyond that, you cared for the women under your protection. You kept them safe. In a way, you acted as a vigilante, like me. Not a pimp. Don’t ever think that.” Oliver exhaled, growing more fatigued by the moment. “I wish I could see your expression. I will wager emotions wreak havoc over you, and you fight it diligently.” Oliver started coughing.

“Enough for now,” Claudia urged. “You must sleep some more. We both must.”

Oliver brushed his fingers by her cheek. “I was correct. Tears. You feel things deeply, Claudia Ellingford. There is no need to hide it. Not with me.”

“You don’t know me—”

“Oh, but I want to know—every depth, every dark corner, and crevice, every aspect of your life, along with your hopes and dreams. All of you, Claudia, every inch of your skin…” 

He was too exhausted to form any further words. His eyelids fluttered shut, but he did not fall asleep right away. Oliver lay perfectly still, trying to will away the waves of aches and torrents of pain rippling through him. Finally, he started to drift into a troubled sleep.

“Oh, I feel,” Claudia whispered, “I was attracted to you as the viscount and the Sentinel. But I must fight it. However, you make it so blasted difficult—”

Oliver wasn’t sure if Claudia spoke those words or if it was all a dream. But he fell into a deep slumber with a hopeful smile on his face.