The next morning Aurora found herself again alone in the attic rooms. Edward’s dark red suit lay folded upon the chest in which his clothes were kept, and his long wig was on its stand. He had dressed plainly for whatever business he was about today. The outer door, its lock broken, hung half open.
It took her a long time to dress in her sprigged gown. Her shoulder throbbed with insistent pain. She managed to wash her face, but she could not pin up her hair with one hand, so she left it as she had worn it for sleep, in a single plait. She sat at the table, read the precious letter from Flora two more times, then folded it and put it in her pocket.
It was after two o’clock when Mary came to clear the breakfast dishes. She gave Aurora an inquisitive look. Aurora knew it was foolish to pretend nothing had happened. Mary might be graceless and taciturn, but she was not an imbecile.
“I thank you, Mary, for your attempts to dissuade my visitor from coming upstairs last night,” she said. “But he was incensed, and would not listen to reason.”
Mary bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, ’m.”
“Mr Drayton dealt with him. He will not come back.”
“Yes, ’m.” Mary stretched for the butter dish, which was at Aurora’s elbow. Aurora, who was expected to help Hester at home, unthinkingly reached for it too. She gasped, the jolt of pain bringing tears to her eyes. “You ’urt, Miss?” asked Mary.
“It is nothing. Um … Mr Drayton will speak to Mr Marshall about the door lock. He will of course pay for its repair.”
Another curtsey, then Mary picked up the loaded tray, still eyeing Aurora. “Very well, ’m.”
Mary elbowed the half-open door wider and bustled through with her tray. Aurora heard her footsteps on the stairs, William’s inept whistling and the squawking of the chickens in the yard behind the house. Then the street door banged and Edward’s boots sounded on every second stair as he ran up to the attic rooms. Normal sounds in a normal world.
But Aurora’s world was no longer normal. When Edward came in, put a grease-stained package from a pie shop on the table and sat down in the other chair, she knew she had never felt such dread. She looked at him intently, imprinting his every feature on her memory.
“Your shoulder hurts you, does it not?” he asked.
She nodded. “But not as sorely as my dread of Joe Deede.”
“Do not think about him. You are nervous because you are in pain.” From the pocket of his waistcoat he took a small bottle. “I have brought you a draught of laudanum. It will make you sleep. You will not be anxious, and when you wake up your arm will feel better, and all will be over.”
“I thank you, but I cannot sleep,” she told him gravely. Unbidden by any conscious instruction, her good hand grasped his forearm as it lay on the table. Touching him, feeling his living flesh through his shirt and coat sleeve, seemed compellingly important. The idea that after tomorrow that flesh might be for ever cold seemed ludicrous, the suggestion of a madman. “I wish to be with you every minute until dawn.”
His eyes shone as he put the bottle containing the sleeping draught on the table and took her hand in both his. He seemed to wish to smile, but kept his countenance as grave as her own. “Be in no doubt of my gratitude for your concern, my dear,” he said, “but that cannot be. I have been to a knife-grinder this morning and had him sharpen my sword, and now I must rouse Richard.”
Aurora’s heart thudded, but she recovered herself enough to voice her surprise. “Surely Richard should rest today?”
“He has rested long enough. He has duties,” said Edward briskly. “He must act as my second.”
Aurora pictured Richard’s thin, watchful face and his bandaged head. She could not imagine him performing the duties of the duellist’s second man, making sure the rules of duelling were followed, calling the en garde for the start of the fight, dealing with his wounded, or dead, friend after the event. “I cannot think he is well enough for such a task,” she said dubiously.
The sounds of doors opening and closing and of Samuel Marshall’s voice came from below. Edward spoke softly. “He will have to be. He is a good swordsman, and even though he is injured I need his help. I must practise for many hours today. It is a while since I drew my sword.” He smiled thinly. “Until last night, that is.”
Aurora was dismayed. Women could not enter fencing-halls. “But I cannot stay here alone, Edward, waiting for you. I shall go mad.”
“Then take the laudanum and sleep. I will not be back tonight. Richard and I intend to go straight to Lincoln’s Inn Fields from the fencing-hall.”
Aurora gazed at him blankly. “But the duel is not until dawn!”
“The sun does not rise until half past five,” he explained gently, “but there are too many people going about their business by then. Deede will be there before four o’clock, you may be sure.”
Aurora’s heart felt swollen, as if it were too small to hold the many things she wanted to tell him. She wished he knew that his death would break her heart, and that she would give herself to another man only from the strictest necessity, as she had promised, that day in the drawing-room, to give herself to Edward. He had stirred something in her beyond the compassion, pity or indignation aroused by his plight – something inexpressible, yet which she longed to express. And although he seemed aware of the shift her feelings had undergone, he gave her no opportunity to speak of it. Wiser than she was, he would not allow her to say or do anything she might afterwards regret, at least until the outcome of tomorrow’s meeting on Lincoln’s Inn Fields was known.
So she said nothing of these thoughts. She put her hands in her lap and summoned a meek expression. “Very well, I shall obey. I shall sit here and write to my sister, and pray for your safe return.”
“God will protect me, as you yourself believe,” said Edward. “And I have right on my side.”
Aurora nodded. Men always thought they had right on their side, whichever side they were on. “Beware, though,” she warned, “and remember that it is your father’s death that has led you to this. Murder, as is often said, begets murder.”
Edward looked at her for a moment with his black eyes. Her heart quailed; she was near embracing him. But before she could move he stood and went to the door. “I bid you farewell,” he said flatly, and departed, pulling the broken latch behind him.
Mary was sweeping the stairs. Knock, knock, knock went the brush against each riser. Aurora heard Edward exchange greetings with Mr Marshall. She looked at the package of food before her. Its smell nauseated her; she had no appetite. Wearily, she rose and went into her bedchamber, where she sat on the bed, nursing her arm and thinking.
Her shoulder felt red-hot, as if pierced by needles, but she did not take the laudanum Edward had brought. She stared at the wall and imagined the next day’s events. Richard would come in the early hours and tell her Edward was dead. And she would tell Richard of her promise not to rest until she had exposed Josiah Deede and regained Henry Francis’s fortune.
Tears threatened, but she quelled them. She must not sit here weeping. She was responsible now. Together she and Richard would mourn Edward, pretending to her mother and sisters that he had died suddenly of his illness. Richard would give her money, and she would continue to live in the city, never ceasing her pursuit of Josiah Deede. Only when Deede had been tried and hanged would she return to Dacre Street and tell her family the truth. She tried to imagine being a rich widow, spending Edward’s fortune. But she could not; such a notion seemed fatuous. What did she care about the money if she were obliged to live her life alone?
Her heart leapt suddenly. She knew without question that she would lodge for ever above the bookshop and sew petticoats for bread if only Edward were alive, and by her side.
She got up and walked about the small room. Three steps this way, three steps that. And as she walked her desire to preserve Edward’s life consumed her. She became more and more resolute. The duel must not take place.
Pain shot through her left shoulder as she pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think. Where would Joe Deede be today, on a Monday afternoon? At home in Mill Street, taking tea with his sister? Was he at this very moment telling Celia that Aurora was an impostor, and that her husband had challenged him to a duel? A vision of Celia’s horror-stricken face came into her mind, but she dismissed it. Celia had been a means to an end, and Aurora must suppress any guilt arising out of her treatment of her. A girl such as Celia would quickly find herself another “dearest friend”.
She walked around the room again. At whatever cost to herself, her only choice was to persuade Joe Deede to withdraw his acceptance of the challenge. But she could not go to Mill Street as Miss Drayton, or as herself. She would have to become someone else. After all, she remained Edward’s spy as well as his obedient wife. Aurora the obedient wife had told him she would stay in all day and pray for him. But Aurora the spy had no intention of giving him up to Joe Deede’s sword without a fight of her own.
Her trunk still stood open by the bed. She took out the brown woollen gown she used to wear for helping her mother in the shop. Slowly, clenching her teeth whenever she had to use her left arm, she changed her clothes. She looped up her plait under her plainest cap and a small straw hat. Then she wrapped an old shawl she usually only wore indoors around her shoulders and tied it behind, servant-fashion. As an afterthought, she tucked her left arm inside it. The makeshift sling lessened the pain in her shoulder; she would be able to face with reasonable comfort whatever came to her today. She crossed the room to the mirror. To her satisfaction, it showed her a nondescript member of the servant class.
She set off towards Mayfair, a lively wind whisking her skirt. When she came within sight of the horse-trough, she noticed that an alley adjoining Conduit Street led past the back of the house. It was narrow and smelled foul, but widened into a yard where there were stables and a dairy. A woman in a pink second-hand gown, the skirt six inches deep in filth, crossed the yard with a bucket of slops. She did not even cast a glance at Aurora.
The windows of Edward’s house overlooked Mill Street and Conduit Street. But its rear wall was solid, except for attic windows, which were visible if Aurora stepped back far enough. No one could be watching from inside. She shivered, though the day and her clothes were warm. It was apprehension, she told herself, not fear. What she was about to do did not frighten her. It was a necessity.
A panelled door in a stout frame opened off the narrow part of the alley. Nailed to it was a piece of wood with the word “Deede” carved into it for the benefit of tradesmen, coachmen and messengers such as her disguised self. She climbed the step and knocked. While she waited she tried to picture the Deedes’ servants: Harrison, who had taken her cloak and brought water when she had pretended to faint; the young man, Robert, who had helped him wait at table; Missy, who had brought the tea. She thought wistfully of Hester, who had done whatever she was asked for ten years and had still had time to soothe grazed knees, invent rainy-day games and act as mediator in sisterly disputes.
“Yes?” It was Missy. Aurora dipped her chin.
“Message for Mr Deede,” she announced, imitating Mary by not using unnecessary words.
“Master, or young master?”
“Young master.”
“Who is the message from?”
“Mr Marshall of the sign of the Seven Stars in Covent Garden.”
Missy contemplated her with her head on one side. Aurora looked steadfastly at the doorstep, pretending the awkwardness of an inferior servant before a superior one.
“Mr Deede is from home,” said the maid. “If you will tell me your master’s message I will pass it to him when he returns.”
“Master said the message is to be delivered to Mr Deede himself.” From her pocket Aurora drew the letter from her sister, which had been the nearest paper to hand when she had changed her clothes. “He was most particular that I put this into his hands myself.”
An uncertain look came over Missy’s face. “Oh, very well. Mr Marshall should have sent a man-servant, though. Mr Deede will be at White’s.” And without any parting words, she shut the door.
Aurora hurried away, her brain busy. Joe Deede did not feel the need to practise fencing, then. He would rather spend the day discussing whichever subject arose with anyone who would listen. Everyone talked to everyone else in a coffee house, from aristocrats to journalists, from physicians to booksellers, from attorneys to slave-merchants.
Everyone, that is, except women.
There were plenty of people about, mostly of the middling sort, and mostly men. Nobody looked at Aurora as she approached White’s. The door stood open, but a thick fog of tobacco smoke hung between Aurora and proper sight of any of the customers. The place was crowded and very noisy, each voice raised over the din of all the others until every man was shouting. She knew that the only feminine presence would be the woman who operated the steaming, puffing array of coffee pots behind the counter. Ladies did not go into coffee houses, and neither, as Missy had pointed out, did female servants.
She loitered until one of the waiters who carried trays between the tables passed within calling distance of the doorway. “Sir, a word!” she shouted.
The man ignored her. She waited for another, and shouted louder. This time, she was rewarded with a stare. She waited again until an untidily dressed man smoking a pipe came to the door for some air. “Excuse me, sir, but I have an urgent message for a gentleman who might be here. Would you ask him to come to the door?”
The man, who was short, red-complexioned and, Aurora thought, unnecessarily dirty, looked her up and down. “Your mistress send you?”
“No, sir, my master. Please, sir, it is very important, and I must deliver the message personally. Master said.”
He continued to leer at her, sucking on his pipe. “And what reward will I receive for my trouble?”
Aurora bobbed another curtsey, her stomach lurching. “Sir, I wish merely—”
“You wish!” Offended, the man stared at her. “You should mind your manners, girl.” And with that he disappeared back into the gloom.
Aurora stood despondently on the pavement. Her arm throbbed. Longing to sit down, she leaned her right shoulder against the door jamb and peered into the room. A strong mixture of humanity, smoke and coffee grounds attacked her nostrils. No one had swept or dusted for a long time; the rushes strewn on the floor were matted with dirt and spilled drinks. The air away from the door was evidently very hot, for almost all the men were in their shirts and waistcoats, though they all retained their wigs, and some of them their hats. Aurora thought they looked comical, like a crowd of chattering, puff-chested birds, pecking at their drinks.
She stood on tiptoe, hoping to catch sight of Joe over all the heads. She could not see him; he might not be here at all, or he might be in the farther room. Even smokier than the room that opened onto the street, this inner room was lined with tables screened from each other by high partitions. How could she alert him to her presence? No one would help her. No one even noticed her. She was only a servant-girl.
Then she saw him. He walked quickly towards the door, pushing his way between the customers, pulling on a coat with wide, embroidered cuffs. He wore a curled wig and his plumed hat. Aurora was as impressed as ever by the beauty of his countenance. Indeed, now she had witnessed the volatile temperament it concealed, its smooth plausibility was the more astonishing.
He was in deep conversation with another man, young like himself, a stranger to Aurora. They spoke earnestly, their hats almost touching. Neither had seen her. Her courage faltered, but she steadied it. Keeping her head down, she waited in the shadow beneath the overhanging building, ready to step into their path.
The stranger suddenly raised his head in laughter. He spoke low, but Aurora was close enough to hear his words. “Tomorrow we shall drink to the death of a man too stupid to live!”
Joe was smiling, though his voice was full of contempt. “And too stupid to know he has set his murderer free.”
“Aye,” agreed the other man. He touched his hat. “Until tomorrow,” he said to Joe, and the two men shook hands.
“I will bring what I owe,” she heard Joe murmur, and then they parted. Joe set off towards Mill Street, the other man more slowly in the opposite direction.
Cold horror spread through Aurora’s body. She was too stunned to cry out. Poor, honourable Edward, practising his swordsmanship in some fencing-hall with his loyal friend! He believed that his opponent would abide by the rules of duelling, as a gentleman. But Joe had hired this unknown man not as his second in a duel, but as his accomplice in an assassination. By laying down the challenge, Edward had given Joe Deede the opportunity to kill him without fear of prosecution – he had indeed “set his murderer free”.
Her brain racing, she turned in the direction of the Black Swan, as unnoticeable in her maid’s garb as the stones on which she trod. How could she warn Edward? She must find him and Richard, wherever they had gone, and tell them of the plot against Edward’s life. Her arm had stiffened, but she clasped her hands under her shawl. Dear God, she prayed silently as she hurried on, I thank you for watching over me, and preventing me from stepping forth and revealing myself to Joe Deede. Now, I beseech you, in your almighty wisdom, let me find Edward before it is too late. Heavenly Father, protect my husband from harm!
Edward and Richard were not at the inn. Aurora again employed Flora’s folded letter, taking it from her pocket and imploring the innkeeper to tell her where Mr Hoggart had gone so that she could deliver an important message from her master.
“I know not,” he insisted. “I have not seen him today. Now be off with you.”
“Is there someone here who did see him?”
The man heard the desperation in her voice. He gave her a closer look, and relented. “Out the back,” he said, jerking his head. “Nathaniel might have spoken to him.”
Nathaniel was a wiry man of about thirty, employed to feed and water horses and haul casks of ale. He wore a leather apron and filth-encrusted boots. To Aurora’s dismay, he did not know which fencing-hall Mr Hoggart had gone to.
“Should never have been fencing at all, if you ask me,” he grumbled. “Nasty blow to his head. But that man came … his friend, and—”
“Mr Drayton?” volunteered Aurora eagerly.
“Aye, that be his name. Went off together, they did, about” – he looked at the clock above the stableyard – “must be about two hours ago now.”
The clock said a little after four o’clock. Twelve hours from now, unless Aurora could prevent it, two men would draw their swords, one with thoughts of honour satisfied, the other of murder. “Which direction did they go in?” she asked.
Nathaniel considered for a moment, then pointed to his left. “That way. No, I can’t be sure.”
Aurora’s heart dived, but lifted again when the man continued. “I can tell you, though, there is a fencing-hall in Bow Street, hard by the theatre.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!”
She set off for Bow Street, her spirits rising. Not only was the fencing-hall near the inn, it was a matter of yards from Mr Marshall’s shop. Taking the letter from her pocket once more, she waited by the door until two men came out. But her request met with stares and shrugs. No, they did not know Edward Drayton or Augustus Hoggart. No, they did not know Richard Allcott or Edward Francis. No, they would not go in and enquire.
A boy a few years younger than Aurora emerged from the fencing-hall. He smiled at her when she stepped forward and listened politely to her words.
“I do not know these gentlemen, but I will return and ask for them,” he said pleasantly.
Aurora thanked him, curtseying low, and waited with impatience for Richard or Edward to appear. But only the boy came back.
“Neither of them is here,” he told her. “You could try the hall in Duke Street, or the one on the Strand. That one is rather rough, I warn you.”
“Miss Drayton” in her silk dress might have persuaded this youth to accompany her, but helpful though he had proved, he was nevertheless of the class that could not associate publicly with a servant. “Thank you, sir, you have assisted me greatly,” she said, and watched him walk away.
At Duke Street, she hailed a liveried footman who was about to enter the side door of a grand house. She smiled flirtatiously and he went into the fencing-hall for her. But he too had no luck. And down by the river on the Strand, the fencing-hall was a dark bolt-hole at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs. Everyone who came and went was drunk. Perhaps the boy had been mistaken, and it was not a fencing-hall at all.
Aurora approached a passing couple in the hope that they would look more kindly upon a serving-girl than a man alone “I pray you, sir,” she asked the man, “do you know of any fencing-halls hereabouts? I am seeking my master with an urgent message.”
He and his lady stopped, and looked at her haughtily. “There is one in Bow Street and another in Duke Street,” said the man.
“What of this place, here?” asked Aurora, indicating the dark stairs. “Is this a fencing-hall?” asked Aurora.
“Yes,” said the woman, “but gentlemen do not fence there.”
“Thank you, madam, and you, sir,” she said, curtseying to their backs as they hastened away.
Despair closed around her. Edward and Richard were no longer at practice. They had gone somewhere else. She must go back to the rooms above the bookshop, though Edward had said he would not return there before tomorrow, and leave a message with Mary. She must put on her silk gown and leave the same message at the inn. Then, after nightfall, she would wait in St Paul’s Church, in case Edward and Richard should decide to ask for God’s guidance, and to ask for it herself. If all else failed, she must intercept them on their approach to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She must not give up.
Her plait had escaped from her cap and lay like a rope against her back. Dread had drained her blood from her cheeks, and her injured arm bumped lifelessly at her side as she hurried across the piazza and along Floral Street.
Mary opened the door and gaped at her.
“Mary, it is I!” Aurora took off her hat and cap. “Is Mr Drayton in?”
“No, ’m. Not seen ’im since ’e come in with that pie.”
Mary stood back and Aurora stepped into the vestibule. “Then please,” she implored the maid, “will you help me change my clothes? I must be quick, and my shoulder…”
“Yes, ’m.” Mary had collected herself swiftly and offered a sturdy arm. “Lean on me, if it please you.”
Aurora did so gratefully, and they mounted the stairs. The lock had not been repaired; the door swung open. “Mary, I cannot tell you why I am wearing the clothes of a maidservant,” Aurora explained as they entered, “but I must now change into my best dress.”
Mary set to work, unbuttoning the front of Aurora’s bodice, untying her petticoat. “’Ow did you get this on, with your shoulder an’ all?” she muttered.
“Very untidily, I fear,” said Aurora. “You are kind, Mary.”
Mary made a sound like “Heff!” and continued with her task. When Aurora stood in her chemise and corset, the maid scrutinized her blankly. “Shall I do something to your ’air, Miss?”
“Oh, if you would! Let me dress first, though.”
Aurora knelt by her trunk and took out her blue dress. Not allowing herself time to falter, she found the bodice and petticoat, and stood up. “Here, Mary, help me put this on. And my cloak too, that one with the wool lining.”
It was difficult not to cry out as Mary, who was not a lady’s maid, tied and buttoned the inner garments with blunt, work-worn fingers, then drew the blue silk sleeves over Aurora’s arms and fastened the waistband of the skirt. But the result looked neater than Aurora could have achieved alone. “Thank you,” she said. “I am sincerely grateful, and will give you something for your trouble if you will hand me my purse.”
“No, ’m,” said Mary unexpectedly, dropping a curtsey. “I don’ expect nothin’. An’ if it will please you to sit down, I will brush your ’air.”
Unplaited, Aurora’s coppery hair lay on her shoulders like strands of seaweed. Mary brushed it and tied the top up with blue ribbons. “Leave the bottom part loose,” instructed Aurora. “Edward … I prefer it loose around my neck.”
“Yes, ’m.”
Aurora sensed that Mary longed to know where she could be going that demanded such careful dressing. But how could she confess that she was adorning herself for her husband on what might prove to be the last day of his life? Even if she succeeded in warning Edward, he might still not escape the assassin. And he was still the man who, stubbornly concerned more with his honour than his life, had cast down Aurora’s lace-edged glove. His sense of honour might compel him to face Joe Deede in a duel anyway. A duel was a ritual, just as the aftermath of death was a ritual. Aurora must pay homage to those rituals, preserving as much dignity as she could, for herself, for Richard, but most of all for Edward.
“We have been invited to a musical recital in St Paul’s Church this evening,” she lied as Mary curled locks of hair around her fingers. “Mr Drayton is to meet me there. He loves music.”
She should not have said that. It took every ounce of her remaining strength to hide the rush of hard, unforgiving, relentless dread that pushed its way through her body. Her face in the mirror looked white, her eyes glittered. She put her head down. “I thank you, Mary, but I must go now. My hat and gloves are on the bench in the other room.”
Mary put her cloak around her shoulders and tied her hat-ribbons for her. But when the maid brought her the lace-edged gloves, Aurora did not put them on. She remembered too vividly her horror when Edward had thrown the right-hand glove down and Joe Deede had picked it up. She would never wear those gloves again. “No, I have changed my mind,” she told the maid. “I will wear the plain ones, which are longer, and will keep me warmer in the church. You will find them on the top of my trunk.”
Mary fetched Aurora’s long gloves and helped her put them on. At the door, Aurora paused. “Mary, would you do something else for me?” she asked.
“Yes, ’m,” said Mary, planting her feet, poised to fetch whatever Aurora requested.
“If Mr Drayton should return in my absence, will you tell him I am waiting for him at St Paul’s Church, and he must come there?”
Mary did not reply, but curtseyed, never taking her eyes off Aurora’s face.
“Then I bid you goodnight,” said Aurora. She turned to go, then turned back. “There is one more thing. If neither Mr Drayton nor I should return tonight, will you tell Mr Marshall – but only Mr Marshall – that messages sent to a Mr Augustus Hoggart at the Black Swan will reach us?”
“The Black Swan,” repeated Mary. “A Mr Hoggart.”
“That is correct. Thank you.”
Aurora went down the stairs and opened the door. Drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders, she stepped out into the shadowy, deserted street.