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5

She was in no hurry to leave. Estelle lingered at the counter, talking to the shopgirl about hats and gloves and coats as if they were the most important things in the world. I was desperate to get away—to share with Mrs. Dickens what I had just learned. Estelle Dumbleby was bound for Butterfield Park! That could not be a coincidence, could it?

“I’m sure you’ll be the belle of the ball,” said the shopgirl when Estelle picked up the large box tied with red ribbon. “Those other young ladies will be green with envy.”

“What a lovely thing to say,” said Estelle with a giggle. “Though I’m sure there will be many pretty girls at Butterfield Park.”

The shopgirl declared Estelle would be the prettiest of the lot. When the devious Miss Dumbleby finally left the shop, I prepared to make my exit. In fact, I was poised rather like a tiger, waiting for her to step into the carriage so I could steal away. But that is not what happened.

“Can I help you?” It was the shopgirl. Who was now standing directly behind me.

I pulled the oversized bonnet around my face. “If you could go away, that would be a tremendous help.”

“Why are you staring out the window? What are you up to?”

“Just waiting for my aunt Patricia to come. She is helping me pick out a dress for my coronation.”

“I do not think you are in the right shop,” said the girl haughtily. “There is a seamstress at the end of the street who caters to the working class.”

At that, I was forced to turn around. “I’m not here for a dress, dear—I came to pick out a new horse for the big parade. You do sell horses, don’t you?”

She looked appalled. “Horses? This is the finest dress boutique in London.”

“My apologies,” I said brightly. “I just assumed this was a stable, what with all the manure you shovel at your customer’s feet.”

“You horror!” she spat.

Fortunately, at that exact moment, the lady with the antelope on her head called the girl over to enquire about a pair of gloves. “Leave at once,” the girl hissed at me, before departing, “or I will call for the constable.”

When she was gone, I turned back to the window, fully expecting to see Estelle’s grand carriage rolling away. Instead, it was still parked outside the dress shop. Estelle stood with the carriage door open, deep in conversation with a woman. The unidentified stranger had her back to me and wore a rather sad-looking tan dress. Her hair was matted in the style of a vagabond. And she had a shabby bag in her hand.

Estelle’s face had lost much of its sweetness. She seemed to be giving the woman a thorough talking-to—pointing at the stranger in a most unpleasant manner. Perhaps the vagrant was a beggar asking for money? Whatever the case, when Estelle turned to enter the carriage, the woman grabbed her arm. Then dropped to her knees. The poor creature appeared to be pleading.

Estelle responded by hitting the woman over the head with her parasol. The woman slumped to the pavement, using her arms to shield her head. And all the while, the well-dressed people of Mayfair strolled by with barely a sideways glance. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Even at the risk of exposing myself, I had to stop that monstrous cow from inflicting such a brutal beating!

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I charged across the shop and threw open the door. As I ran out onto the pavement, the bright sun hit my face with such heat it made me woozy. I blinked several times, and when my eyes cleared Estelle’s carriage was roaring away. Her victim lay in a ball upon the ground, hiding her face in shame and sobbing like a lost child. I crouched down beside her and gently touched her hand—there were red welts upon it. “Are you all right, dear?”

She was all a-tremble. “Miss Estelle was the only one who could help.” Then another violent sob exploded from behind her hands. “I’m ruined. Ruined!”

“Codswallop! As long as you are breathing, there is hope. Now quit your sniveling and tell me what business have you with Estelle Dumbleby.”

My kind words seemed to work their magic. She lowered her hands, and I got my first glimpse of her face. Which is why I let out a small gasp.

“Bertha?”

We sat down on a bench outside a chocolate shop.

“Oh, miss, how could she be so cruel?” Bertha heaved another sob and blew her nose with great commitment. “I’m no beggar—I only wanted a reference.”

From my limited experience with Bertha, it was clear she was prone to dramatic outbursts. But on this occasion, she had good reason. Her story was indeed a sorry one.

“My ma was awful sick,” she said.

“Yes, I remember you mentioning that the night I escaped from Lashwood. Has your mother’s health not improved?”

Bertha shook her head. “Ma died.”

“I’m very sorry, dear.”

“I had to take a day off work to tend to her funeral,” said Bertha solemnly. “When I returned, Lampton, the head butler, told me my services were no longer required.”

“He fired you?”

“Miss Estelle fired me.”

I wiped beads of sweat from my fevered brow. “But why?”

Bertha did not answer right away. She looked sideways at me. Seemed to be struggling with what to say. Finally she said, “She guessed I’d been talking to you—about when my ma worked for the Dumblebys and about Anastasia and that woman with red hair.”

Bertha was a monstrous blabbermouth, but as a result of telling me about Miss Frost’s visit to the Dumblebys in search of Anastasia, she was now out of a job. Though barely twenty, the poor creature had the sort of wilting features that made her look eternally disappointed—and now fate had given her a life to match.

“The funeral ate up all the savings I had,” she went on. “I’m behind on my rent, and the landlady says she’ll have her brother round today to turn me out.” She looked at the bag sitting on her lap. “This morning I packed up what I had and left.”

“And that is why you were begging Estelle for help?”

“I’m no beggar, Miss,” said Bertha firmly, wiping her eyes. “I was asking for a reference so I could gain another position somewhere else.” Bertha shook her head slowly. “But Miss Estelle said I deserved to be homeless. She said she would make sure I wasn’t given a position at any decent house in London.”

“The devil!”

“I think you’re right about that.” Then Bertha looked at me with the eyes of a frightened child. “What am I to do?”

“Fear not, dear. I will help you.”

Exactly how I would help wasn’t clear. After all, I was penniless and soon to be homeless myself. I might have given the problem some serious thought, were it not for the man I spotted on the crowded footpath just twenty feet away.

He stood out from the subdued frock coats and somber day dresses of the pedestrians around him. In fact, he looked rather dashing in his white suit and top hat. Either the pie stains had been expertly removed, or he had more than one white suit. Whatever the case, he had me in his sights, a boyish grin upon his lips.

“I am in a spot of danger,” I said quickly, jumping to my feet. “Nothing too serious, just a violent hag’s well-dressed henchman. Are you with me, dear?”

Bertha nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “Course I am.”

Then she leaped up, and we bolted into the crowd.

Running for your life can be a tricky business. Especially when you’re ill. My head had begun to churn again. The bright sun hurt my eyes. The footpath was teeming with pedestrians as Bertha and I zipped through the crowd. A crowd that seemed to swell and multiply the deeper we journeyed into it—a great ocean of frock coats and boots, wool skirts and raised parasols.

I stole a backwards glance and saw the man in white coming up behind us.

“It’s awful crowded.” Bertha was panting beside me, struggling with her bag. “Shouldn’t we cross the road where there’s less people about?”

“No, dear,” I called back, pulling the sluggish girl along. “We are safer in a crowd.”

“Who is he, miss?”

“No idea!” I shouted. “But he works for a dangerous woman who has wicked plans for me.”

A spark lit up in Bertha’s dull eyes. “He won’t get you if I have anything to say about it!”

We ran past a theater—the entertainment must have just ended, for a crowd erupted from the doors, swarming the pavement. People stepped in front of our path, or crisscrossed, or stopped suddenly to chat. It involved a tremendous amount of sidestepping and spinning to keep moving forward.

I felt the perspiration dripping from my face and neck. The heat pressing in on me like an oven. Glancing back, I looked for the man in white. He was nowhere to be seen. I checked again. No sign of him. Bertha, despite huffing and puffing like an exhausted donkey, was keeping up admirably. In fact, she was slightly ahead of me. For my legs had begun to slow now, stiff and heavy as two blocks of stone.

“You’re burning up, Miss,” shouted Bertha. “Your face is awful damp!”

I leaped over an impossibly selfish gentleman tying his shoes, but landed heavily. The straw bonnet blew off my head as a shiver of pain rushed from my feet up to my skull. “Stuff and nonsense,” I wheezed. “I think . . . we have lost him. Let us keep going just a little longer.”

“Miss, watch out!”

Something flashed to my left. Then an arm seized mine, gripping me like an iron shackle. I was pulled to a sudden stop. “You’re a hard one to catch, Ivy Pocket,” said the man in white.

Bertha gave a startled cry. I lashed out—though all the strength seemed to have left my body—pummeling my attacker about the chest and head with my free hand. I heard gasps coming from the crowd. Strangely, as I looked at him, the man in white appeared to be shooting up above me. Too late, I realized that the one moving was me. I was falling to the ground. In an instant, the dazzling shimmer of daylight vanished, as if the world had pulled the curtains shut.

The darkness swallowed me whole.

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