Thursday, August 9, 1888
Over the next week, my suspicions of Everett Rigby waned but I continued to carry my knife close at hand. After a while I put it away and forgot I had even wanted it. I reminded myself that just because he had deceived me did not immediately make him some kind of villain.
The days began to bleed together with absolutely no distinguishable difference between any of them; I prepared tea for Everett while he slept in his chair nearby, we ate a late breakfast together, he would leave for work, I would desperately look for things to do around the flat, Mrs. Harris would bring my supper, and then I would go to bed, not seeing Everett until the next morning. Sometimes I woke up when he returned home, sometimes I did not. I began to sleep a little easier, gradually becoming more accustomed to the hollers of merchants selling their wares, street performers, the occasional tussle between drunkards at night, and the amalgam of other sounds I was not used to.
When Everett was not home, I people-watched out the window, I read and reread my novel, napped, stared at the ceiling, and, on occasion, looked through Everett’s belongings. I never found anything interesting except for dozens of unfinished play drafts. Everett brought me a new novel days after I had arrived, and I had finished it in an afternoon. I was so desperate for entertainment I even considered cleaning or doing mending.
Between breakfast and Everett leaving for the day, he and I would play cards. On one particular day, he told me about a new play starting at the theater soon.
I sighed. “I wish I could go see it.”
“Who said you can’t?” He shuffled the cards and dealt them again. “One of the fellows at the ticket booth is a friend of mine. I can—”
“And risk running into an acquaintance? No, thank you.” I eyed the collection of cards in front of me. “It’s almost two o’clock. Won’t you be late?”
“Today is my day off.” He smiled wide and set the stack of cards down between us.
“Really? Can we go do something?”
“You just said you don’t want to risk seeing an acquaintance.”
“None of my acquaintances will be in this part of London,” I clarified.
The corners of Everett’s eyes pinched. “You want to do something around here?”
“Why not?” I knew my clothes would likely make me stand out a bit but that had never bothered me before. Besides, if anyone got too close, I had my knife. “What do your people do for entertainment?”
His eyebrows lifted. “My people?”
“You know what I mean.”
He thought for a moment. “Usually on my days off I run errands, maybe see some chums and the like.” Everett paused. “For a while, until quite recently, all my free time was spent trying to impress a lady.” He smiled weakly.
I lowered my eyes and busied myself by sliding my cards back in the deck. “What else do you do?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, there’s the zoo, music halls, the circus … or we could find a bookshop and get you a couple more novels and magazines to read?”
“Oh! Can we go to a music hall? That sounds—”
“I’d really rather not.” He frowned. “Why don’t I take you to the zoo this afternoon? It’ll be jolly—”
“Do you not care for music halls?”
He opened his mouth and then hesitated. “They’re … fine. I just have—”
There was a knock at the door. Everett and I exchanged glances before he raised from his chair to answer it. A messenger boy handed him a note and Everett, peering back at me, unfolded it. I could see the outline of his jaw shift as he clenched.
“They need me at the theater right away,” he said, glaring at the note. He gave the boy a coin. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly. That’s a good lad.” The boy nodded and disappeared down the hall. Everett looked back at me. “I’m afraid the zoo must wait.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, not bothering to mention that I had no interest in going to the zoo anyway. “Is something the matter at the theater?”
Everett rushed around the flat, collecting a few things. “One of the backstage lads got sacked. My guess is the director walked in on him and the director’s wife.”
Everett made a quick exit, leaving me alone. Again.
That evening after supper, Mrs. Harris arrived to collect her plate as usual. The meal had been bland, its horrid texture at least offering some kind of culinary interest. Despite the lack of flavor, I thanked her profusely for the food.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Pringle,” she said, before bumping her hip on the edge of the table, nearly dropping the plate. “Oops. Pardon me.” The gloss of her eyes and the pink cheeks gave her away.
“Mrs. Harris, are you … having a pleasant evening?”
Simpering, she looked half amused, half embarrassed. “Indeed I am. I like a bit o’ gin sometimes. But, then, who doesn’t?” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t you come over and ’ave a drink with me? You must be terrible lonely here all by yourself.”
She barely had the words out of her mouth before I was up out of my chair and following her across the hall.
Not used to the strength of gin, it did not take me long to feel its effects. Soon, Mrs. Harris and I were chatting and laughing comfortably like old friends, my cheeks hot. All the stresses of being a delicate and demure lady melted away with every drop that crossed my lips.
“I’m so sorry ’bout your husband, my dear,” Mrs. Harris said, raising a glass. “Let’s drink to his memory.”
That’s a waste of good gin, Mrs. Harris.
“No, let’s not.”
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Mrs. Harris blinked at me, her eyes like saucers.
“No,” I began again. “Let us drink to something a little cheerier, shall we?”
“Let us drink to your brother then. A finer man there was never.”
I raised my glass. “To Mr. Rigby.”
Oh. I shouldn’t have called him Mr. Rigby, that might sound strange to her. Oh dear.
Mrs. Harris did not notice. She looked quite peaceful, two hands cradling her glass as we sat by the fire. The empty gin bottle sat on the kitchen table. I made a plan to ask Everett to pick up a bottle for me. I wondered if he and I should have a drink together. Perhaps it would make things less tense between us.
“Good man,” Mrs. Harris said again, inspecting her glass. “Good taste in gin too for a teetotaler.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said with an arched brow. “Wait, did he recommend the gin or give it to you?”
Her mischievous smile returned once more. “He’s keepin’ me in gin while you’re stayin’ with ’im. Bringin’ you meals,” she glanced at me, “keeping an eye on you.”
I let myself slide further down in my armchair, turning my eyes to the fireplace. “Of course he is. He must think I am a child.”
“Don’t tell ’im I told you, miss, and don’t be too hard on ’im. He’s a good lad.”
Except when he lies.
I raised from my chair, a bit unsteadily, and frowned at the empty bottle on the table. “I suppose this means I should retire for the night.”
Mrs. Harris, peering at me from around the edge of her chair, gave a little shrug. “There’s a pub downstairs.”
“I’ve never had beer before,” I admitted to Mrs. Harris as we sat across from one another at our snug pub booth. “I don’t think I like the taste very much at all.”
Mrs. Harris, certainly more sober than I, smirked at the empty glasses on the table between us. “You sure about that, love?”
I bit the corner of my lip and struggled to smother my giggles, my nose making terrible snorting sounds instead.
“Miss How-Do-You-Do can’t hold her liquor. I bloody knew it,” Mrs. Harris said. “Well, your highness, unless you got a few coins tucked in there somewhere, we may need to call it a night.”
Slowly turning my head to scan the other pub customers, a plan began to form. I had noticed several customers watching me since I arrived, taking note of my gown. I certainly did not fit in well with the working-class crowd this pub catered to. But, perhaps, that could work to my advantage.
Leaning forward, closer to Mrs. Harris, I whispered, “Follow my lead.”
I grabbed Mrs. Harris’ hand and announced in a loud voice. “Oh, my word! The lines on your palm—you are bound for great fortune, Mrs. Harris!”
A few nearby bar patrons turned towards us, curious.
I studied the creases of her hands, tracing my finger across the deeper lines. “Yes, indeed! I see a voyage in your future, and soon, and it will lead you to vast riches.” I glanced around at the handful of interested spectators; a couple of them leaving their table to watch the palm reading. I continued. “Now, this line. This line tells me you’re going to live a long life. And this line—” I flashed a charming smile to the small crowd at our booth “—tells me about your love life.”
Someone in the group of spectators whooped. Just then, a tall handsome man with graying hair and whiskers spoke up from behind our small audience.
“What’s Mrs. Harris’ love line say, miss?” It was the barman who had taken our orders earlier when we’d arrived at the pub. He had winked at Mrs. Harris and I wondered how often she frequented his establishment.
Mrs. Harris looked at the barkeep like she wanted to take his shirt off with her teeth.
“Well, sir, her love line is solid, strong, and true,” I said.
A few people cheered and Mrs. Harris clapped her hands together and held her palm up. She slid out from behind the booth. “The lines don’t lie,” she announced, moving around the crowd to get closer to the barman. She flung her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss on his cheek. “Solid, strong, and true, like she said!”
The barkeep put his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight for a passionate kiss on the mouth and again our little audience cheered. He slapped her on the bottom before returning to his post behind the counter.
“I thought he was going to tell me to stop,” I said to her quietly. “Friend of yours?”
“Aye, ya daft girl,” she said with a chuckle. “That’s Mr. Harris!”
“Pardon me, would you do mine too?” A man shoved his open hand in front of me, palm up.
The woman next to him added, “Mine too?”
“My girl here will read both o’ your palms for a pint. How’s that for a good deal?”
The two exchanged uncertain looks.
I excitedly grabbed the woman’s hand. “Oh, my word!” I ran my fingertip down one line. “You will…” I paused. “No, I mustn’t.”
“What? What does it say?” she demanded.
While the man got me a drink, I told her about the handsome man she would meet in a year or so and he would whisk her away and it would be the great romance of her life.
She stared at her palm. “You can see all that on my hand?”
“Of course she can!” Mrs. Harris added. “This is the great and magical Madame Pringle. ’Ave you never heard o’ Madame Pringle?”
I forced myself not to giggle.
“I like the sounds of this gentleman I’m to meet. He won’t like it though.” She nodded to her male acquaintance who had returned with my beer. Thankfully, he hadn’t heard her comment. “What else does it say?”
I studied her palm again. “Hmm. This line here, see how it has multiple breaks in it? That means your life will be steady and calm for a while and then change suddenly and then be steady again.”
She nodded, her eyes growing wide. “That does sound like my life, miss!”
Since my tolerance for drink had reached its peak, Mrs. Harris began collecting payment on my behalf while I read palms for a small lineup of bar patrons, all of them happy to part with a couple shillings to know what the future held for them.
Just as I was about to read my twelfth palm for the night—or was it my thirteenth?—the front door of the pub swung open and Everett stormed over to our booth, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched.
He waved away the few other people in line. “Be gone, please. Cora, we’re going home.”
The man sitting across from us, his palm still in my hand, would not be so easily moved. “Wait your turn!”
Everett shot him a furious glare. I placed his payment back in his palm and softly curled his fingers around it. “Next time. My apologies, sir.”
Glancing at the coins and then at me, Everett watched and waited as the man grumbled and slid out of the booth. I had hoped Everett would sit down but he stayed planted in place.
“Sister,” he said. “We need to go.”
The edges around his face and form went a little fuzzy all of a sudden and I very much wanted to curl up in the corner of the booth and have a little nap.
“But can we not stay here?” I looked up at him through my thick eyelashes. “Please, sir?”
“No, we may not.” He lowered his voice. “This is no place for a lady.”
Biting my lip again and grinning, I looked at Mrs. Harris. “Why did you bring me here? You have tricked me!”
Her lips puckered as she tried not to burst before snorting with loud laughter along with me.
“Fine,” I said, “but only because I am quite tired.”
Mrs. Harris stayed to assist Mr. Harris, and I assume that meant to drink more, while Everett and I went upstairs to his flat, me clinging to his arm to steady myself.
Burying my face in his arm and breathing in his scent, I looked up at him.
He is so devastatingly beautiful.
“Is it true you’re a teetotaler?” I asked, somehow adding a few extra t’s into the word.
“Yes,” he said, helping me right my posture as we climbed the steps to his flat.
“Why?”
“I have seen too many people lose themselves at the bottom of a bottle.” He fished in his pocket for his key as I leaned against the wall next to his front door. “Other people can do as they like, but it is just not for me.”
He pushed the door open and I stumbled inside.
“Oh, look. Home again. How I adore this place.” I fell into the armchair by the window and watched the little people outside on the street, free to go as they pleased. I never thought I would envy poor people so much.
“If you dislike my home, you are free to leave at any time,” Everett said, his tone exhausted and burdened. He stripped off his coat and threw it over the back of the other chair. “I did not realize you loathed it so much.”
“It is not the place I mind. It is the company.”
“Oh, well, that is much better.”
“Not you, fool.” I turned my heavy head to look at him. “I am alone here all day. You are away all afternoon and late into the night and sleeping in the morning. Why must you be gone so often?”
Everett’s face and voice softened. “You would be happier if I were here more?”
“Of course,” I said, rising from my chair and heading to the bedroom.
I was so tired. Closing the door seemed like too much work at the time. As I began undressing, Everett’s eyes widened and he quickly turned around.
“So, you don’t despise me then?” he asked.
“Do you know how to unlace a corset?”
There was a long pause.
“Pardon?”
I had managed to get my skirt, bustle, and petticoats off. I had learned how to deal with the corset myself but my intoxicated and sleepy state had made this specific task challenging.
“I just want to go to sleep and I can’t get the laces untied,” I moaned, my semi-numb fingers fumbling with what suddenly felt like a snarl in the ribbons. “I’ve got a knot.”
My corset, stockings and chemise remained on, tied in place.
“Please,” I said softly.
I heard him clear his throat as he slowly turned around and approached me. Carefully, he pulled the laces loose without untying them all the way. I suddenly became very aware of his warm breath tickling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. His familiar manly, woodsy, entirely lovely smell made my stomach flutter. My heart was beating so fast, I thought he must be able to hear it.
“I could never despise you, Everett,” I said quietly.
After loosening the final lace, his fingertips grazed my lower back through the thin cotton of my chemise and I nearly shuddered from the shock running down my spine.
“Will that do?” he whispered.
I slowly turned to face him. He was even closer to me than I had originally thought.
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
I watched his eyes to see if they would dart down even for a second to admire me in my delicates. I wanted him to look. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted his hands to cup and caress the curves and valleys of my form. I wanted to feel his skin against mine.
But no. His gaze was only on my lips. It remained there as he spoke again. “You should go to bed, Cora.”
I stared at him for a moment, my mind wrapping itself around what he had said.
I disappeared behind the bedroom door and tugged the corset over my head, throwing it to the floor. I slid into bed, furious with myself and at him.
Perhaps he despises me. If not, perhaps he should.