The Matter of the Secret Bride

“. . . respecting the atrocious and horrible murder committed last evening . . .”

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

Our heroine, exhausted yet determined, leaned forward on her velvet seat, silently urging the coachman and the horses to greater efforts as they sped forward across the countryside. . . .

These were the words her imagination embroidered. The truth of the matter was that Alice sat with George in a hired cab and had to admit that they were making surprisingly good time as they drove toward Camden Town.

That did not stop her from wishing they could go faster.

Normally, Alice loved nothing better than to be on the hunt for news. As a schoolgirl, she had been famous for knowing what the entire population of Mrs. Wilson’s Select Academy for Young Ladies was doing, whether they wanted her to or not. When she was still having her season, and later when A. E. Littlefield was the toast of the gossip columns, she could follow the slimmest, most tangled thread of rumor to its source.

Looked at objectively, it was perhaps an odd skill, but it had served her well. And if it was not entirely proper to admit she enjoyed the challenge, well, her friends were (mostly) kind enough to overlook this flaw in her character.

Today, however, was different. Today all she could think of was that she wanted to find Judith (Faller?), and Tom Faller, and get word back to Rosalind. Even her busy writer’s mind had been unable to provide a narration to lighten up the worry she saw in Rosalind’s eyes when she and George had left the house that morning. She put part of that down to Adam’s news that George Dawson had already fled the country. But she knew that part of it was also Rosalind’s frustration at being stuck at home when she much rather would be going out herself.

Alice’s first course of action, naturally, had been to apply at Mrs. Percivale’s registry office. There she’d found lines of girls in their working-day best, some clutching valises of belongings, others with precious character references in their gloved hands. Mrs. Percivale herself was stout and stern and surrounded by stacks of cards and shelves of ledgers. She listened to Alice’s plea to find Judith. She had a job in hand, she said, but the woman in question was sailing the next day, and a decision needed to be made quickly. Mrs. Percivale listened, and at last, she believed, or at least believed enough. She wrote out an address in Camden Town and slipped it across her desk.

Now they had left London’s sprawl behind them and were passing through the ragged fringe at the edges of the city, where new manufacturies were separated by slag heaps and gray ponds, a few ashy fields and stands of houses that seemed—in Alice’s mind, anyway—to look nervously about them.

The ravaged landscape, victim of nothing so much as neglect, tugged at her susceptible heart, and she thought what might be accomplished by a kinder hand, a more lively heart, if these people had such a protector. . . .

“What’s the matter?” George asked his sister.

Alice shook her head, clearing away her private narrations. “It’s the same thing that’s been the matter for the past two days. Rosalind should have said no to . . . this.”

“Far too late for that,” George replied complacently. “You know how she is once she’s given her word.”

“Yes, I do,” said Alice. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry. Aren’t you worried?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But give me time. I’m sure I’ll get there soon enough.” He peered out the window at the smoky landscape. “Right about now, I think.”

Alice was used to London and its ways, but Camden Town was not somewhere she would choose to venture on her own. The houses here were low and battered; the narrow, crooked streets more mud than cobble. Women hardened by a lifetime’s endless work gathered around the public pump with buckets and baskets of laundry. The cab stopped for a flock of geese and again for a flock of sheep and again for a flock of ragged, shouting children chasing a stray cat.

Clusters of men and boys idled at the corners and in the doorways. They watched the geese and the sheep and the children and their cab with the same thoughtful speculation. It reminded her of the buyers in the market, weighing up the quality of the goods in front of them.

A moment later, Alice was struck by the most unusual feeling—that she was very glad she’d decided to bring George with her.

The cab rolled to a halt, and the driver climbed down to open the door. “Here’ll have to be good enough,” he told them.

“All right.” George fished the fee out of his waistcoat pocket and added an extra coin. “You’ll wait for us?”

While they haggled over the cost of the driver’s patience, Alice noted the flock of children had left off tormenting the stray and now watched her and George warily from the other side of the street. The sight of a cab and of coins was evidently much more interesting than a cat.

Alice beckoned to one of the girls. The child hung back for a moment, but a series of sharp pokes by her cohort sent her slowly forward.

“Can you help me?” Alice asked. “I’m looking for Judith Faller.” This was a guess, but it was based on what Rosalind believed, and Rosalind’s beliefs were usually very sound. She held up a penny. “That’s for the answer, and there’s another if you’ll take me to her.”

The penny disappeared so fast, she barely saw the girl’s hand move. The child took off at a run, with the entire gang behind her. Alice had to hike her skirts and run herself to keep up. At the sight of her ankles, the idling men whistled and cheered, which she ignored. George cursed and called her name. She ignored him, too, trusting he would eventually catch up.

The children tore down a narrow alley, out across a yard, and down another alley. Alice’s imagination was constructing monastery dungeons and sinister doorways and reflecting that no one ever mentioned the smell of such confined spaces.

Another yard opened in front of them. The girl and her gang skidded to a ragged halt. The girl, barely out of breath, Alice noted, pointed at one particular house edging the dingy, dusty yard.

“Upstairs. In back,” she said. She also held out her hand.

So, Rosalind had been right, yet again. Alice dropped the promised penny into it. The rest of the children surged forward, hands out, voices begging. But George was ready for them. He held up his cupped hands and tossed out a shower of coppers. The children cheered and scrambled after the coins. George took Alice’s arm, and they walked together to the house the girl had pointed out.

There was no bell or knocker, and when George rapped his knuckles against the unpainted wood, the door simply gave a groan and swung back for them.

Alice looked up at George. George looked down at Alice. He also took a firmer grip on the walking stick he’d brought with him.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

“No, I will,” said Alice. “I’m less likely to scare her.”

George looked skeptical at this, but he did step aside.

The stairs were as narrow and dingy as the door and creaked as loudly. It was utterly airless in the stairway and hot as an oven. Alice needed no narration from her well-honed imagination to supply the prickle of the hairs on her arms and under her bonnet.

In fact, she had to ruthlessly suppress the grim fancies trying to crowd in against rational thought. She did, however, quicken her steps.

I am not afraid. I am not alone, she told herself. We will find the Fallers, and we will learn just what they have to do with this business. And maybe, maybe, that they have the certificate with them . . .

The corridor was burning hot, airless, and dark as a winter’s evening. Alice found herself wishing she and George had brought a lantern as well as a stick and pockets full of coins. She muttered several of her favorite curses under her breath as she felt her way forward.

As her eyes adjusted, Alice could see that the door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar. Alice looked behind them. So did George. There was no one. She listened and heard nothing.

“Something’s wrong,” whispered George.

Alice nodded. Despite all her determination and bravado, there was something here. It hung in the suffocating atmosphere—not so much as a scent, but as a kind of metallic taste that grated hard against the back of her throat.

Memory rose up from the depths of her bones, and she knew.

“Oh my Lord,” she breathed. “Oh dear God in Heaven, George—”

Her hand was reaching out; she couldn’t stop it. Fingertips touched the door, and the door drifted open just a little farther. The gray light from the single window trickled out at their feet.

Alice looked into the dingy rooms and saw the man in scarlet livery lying sprawled on the floor.

A memory overcame her in one great roaring flood, of opening the door to her father’s apartments, of seeing him in his chair by the fire, the hunting rifle, and the red ruin around him.

Alice screamed. She couldn’t help it. George wrapped his arms tight around her and pulled her away. She heard the door slam as he kicked it shut.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Alice.”

But it wasn’t. Because she couldn’t move. Because she couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks, couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t hold herself upright.

For the first time in her life, Alice Littlefield sagged into a dead faint.