To Wed A Rebel. Sophie Dash
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this.
Well, this and a lot of other things.
“Follow me.” Isaac didn’t give Ruth time to think, to comprehend, as he moved to the door and checked the corridor. It seemed to be their habit, to skulk around in one another’s company.
“Be quick and be quiet,” he said.
They were not quick enough, for when they entered the darkened route, a figure peeled itself from the shadows. Isaac pulled Ruth into an alcove seconds before Griswell strolled by, lingered outside their vacated box and found it empty. The slimy git swore under his breath and kept on walking. He was looking for them and he knew what he wanted to find.
“Whose opera box were we in?”
“Mine,” said Isaac.
“Then why is he…”
“Quiet.”
Suspicion latched on to her words. “What’s going on?”
“We are getting you back to where you belong and then we will never cross paths again,” he said. “And whatever you do, Miss Osbourne, do not trust Griswell.”
They did not speak further, not until Isaac returned her to the others without incident. If she wanted to say farewell, he didn’t let her. He didn’t trust himself not to do the wrong thing. In all his years, he had never thought himself a moral man, but he hoped he wasn’t a complete bastard, at least not today.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Isaac’s steps halted on the floorboards, head down, back to her. In his mind’s eye he was already far from these London streets, in another city, another country, another continent.
“Not if you’re lucky,” he replied over his shoulder, feeling his guilt lessen with every step that took him from the girl and everything he might have done. “Goodbye, Miss Osbourne.”
Ruth
“A toast,” announced Griswell. “To the happy couple.”
The merchant had returned to the opera box shortly after Ruth and she did not miss the cryptic look he gave her, nor the annoyed flicker on his beak-like face. Roscoe’s warning was still in her ears, the warmth of his hands still on her skin, bringing an unsettled knot to her stomach. It was over, whatever it had been. Weakness – every human was prone to it, even she. This had been her one slip-up, the stumble before the rest of her life began. Mrs Pembroke. She knew who she was meant to be. Who everyone expected her to be.
The evening passed by without event, until the moment when a glass was positioned in Ruth’s hand. Although she’d had wine before, it had always been little sips, a drink in moderation, for her uncle disapproved. Not due to religious reasons, but due to the price. Alcohol was expensive and mishaps caused by intoxication even more so, both to a man’s pockets and his character.
Albert spotted her hesitation and gave her a meaningful look. The evening at the opera had gone poorly. Ruth knew she had been inattentive and lacking in enthusiasm. Her husband-to-be had noticed. To not drink would be to further insult him. Even Lottie shot Ruth a severe glance. Did they sense her reluctance? Ruth could not help but think on what her uncle might say at her conduct, at how she jeopardised all their futures.
Don’t be a burden, her mother had said. Don’t be a burden, my darling.
The wine had a queer, familiar taste.
Another toast, fuzzed words, Griswell’s piercing eyes.
Ruth put the glass to her lips again, until the entertainment before them was a distorted blur. The costumes, at first enchanting, now seemed like twisted, mocking devils. The floor sloped, her seat tipped, distant singers split in half, two bodies with mirror movements.
“A little air is all she needs.”
The glass was wrenched from her hand, barely touched, a few mere mouthfuls gone.
Griswell’s voice, she heard her name, a clicking tongue followed by Albert’s wet words, thick fingers, and Lottie’s fan inches from her face.
Cobblestones.
There shouldn’t be cobblestones in a theatre.
The air was sharper, a sudden coldness. They were outside.
Movement – a carriage – brought a half-formed question, perched on her lips, clumsy. Her chaperone didn’t answer.
“That’s right, don’t fight it,” she heard Griswell say. “Sleep. It will make this all the easier for you – for both of us.”
Isaac
Isaac wasn’t drunk, more’s the pity, but he was getting there. Port added a welcome numbness to his movements, until his joints were liquid and his head swam. It wasn’t enough. He was still painfully in the present. London grime was thick on his skin. The gin bars and brothels on Drury Lane were packed in the humid evening. The noise – like a locust’s hum – filtered up through the floorboards to his rented room. He missed the clear Cornish air and the old, rundown house his father had left to him – the only thing he’d left. It had to be a ruin by now. Isaac hadn’t seen it in years, but he needed a place to lie low and that would do. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned. The merchant had been meant to catch him with Ruth, in a compromising position – or something that could have been misconstrued as such. But he couldn’t do it, not to her. He’d take Griswell’s money and flee, revisit the haunted place he’d not set eyes on since he went off to sea.
A knock rattled the door.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” said the kitchen boy, a grubby, reedy child who probably wouldn’t live to see the year’s end.
Isaac didn’t answer. It was either someone he owed money to, a cuckolded husband, or an irate gambler who’d bet too much money on him and lost it over the last fight he’d thrown.
“Sir?” Another insistent knock. “Look, see I told ya, he’s not in.”
“Roscoe, open the damned door.” Griswell’s instruction was sharp. “It’s time to fulfil your end of the bargain.”
Isaac eyed the window. It was too great a drop onto the street below. No way out, nowhere to run. And he was so good at running. It was all he’d known for a long time.
The kitchen boy spoke again. “That lady going to be all right, sir? She’s all pale-lookin’. Want me to send for someone?”
Lady. Isaac stood, braced over the wash-table, with water dripping into the basin. No. A loping stumble and he was at the door, sliding back the lock and dragging it open with a stiff creak. The kitchen boy’s eyes – sunken with poverty – were wide and round as he looked from Griswell to Isaac to the third person; a half-conscious woman, propped up on the merchant’s arm like a scarecrow.
“Miss Osbourne?”
The girl didn’t answer and Griswell forced himself into their room, pulling the lifeless woman in with him, to the ragged cot in the corner.
“What did you do?” Isaac was beside her, pushing her hair back from her bloodless face, finding her unresponsive.
“Laudanum,” said Griswell.
“You could’ve killed her.” She was breathing. He could feel her chest rise and fall, though it was a shallow movement. She’d live, she’d live.
“It was a calculated risk I had to take.”
“We need a doctor – anyone, someone.”
“No.” There was no concern on Griswell’s part, as he stood, unruffled,