Blood Feud
Page 53
But now that she stood on the wharf, being jostled by surly merchants and sailors eager for the nearest pub and prostitute, she felt more uncertain than she thought. She’d been saving up for this moment for so long, had held it up as torchlight in the dark nights to see her through.
The reality was somewhat daunting.
Wagons trundled by, children in dirty, torn clothes waded into the mud of the Thames for abandoned goods that might fetch a pretty price streetside. Voices and horse hooves and smoke from countless chimneys made a soup of sound and smel that had her holding her nose.
“Do you know where society lives?” she asked her elderly companion.
“Lookin’ for the fancy, are you? They don’t take kindly to urchins and pickpockets, my lad.”
“I wasn’t—”
He harrumphed. “I was young once, my boy. No need to worry I’l give you away.” He nodded to the west end of the sprawling city. “Mayfair is where polite society resides and best of luck to you.”
“Thank you.” She handed him one of her pennies. He bit into it to check its worth and then slipped it into his pocket with more nimble fingers than she might have given him credit for. They were gnarled and bent but fast al the same.
“Mind the watchmen, lad,” he said in parting before tottering away. He paused long enough to make eyes at a buxom fishwife with a stained apron. She laughed and went back to shouting about mackerel and eel.
Isabeau huddled into her jacket and lifted her chin determinedly. If you looked like prey, the world treated you as determinedly. If you looked like prey, the world treated you as such. She walked easily and confidently, strol ing westward as if she knew exactly where she was going, as if she’d lived here al her life. No one had to know that her heart was thundering so quickly she felt il and the muscles in the back of her neck were so tight she’d have a splitting headache by nightfal . Al they had to see was a young boy with a quick step and a clever eye who was able to take care of himself.
She walked for a couple of hours, trying to count right and left turns so she wouldn’t be hopelessly lost. There were girls with baskets of violets and oranges for sale, muffins and baked potatoes and shops with towers of candies decorated with powdered sugar, hats with plumes dyed yel ow and pink and green, ribbons of every description, lemon ices, books, anything anyone could ever conceive of buying was available.
There were no scorched stones or broken windows from riots, no smel of fires or radicals shouting on every corner. It was utterly alien, decadent, and soft. But she couldn’t afford to let her guard down just yet, if ever.
She began to notice the state of carriages improving; the streets were cleaner with boys waiting with brooms to clear a path through the horse droppings for a coin. The houses grew larger, the smel s less pungent. Trees clustered in back gardens. When she came across the huge park, she stopped abruptly. She’d missed lawns of grass and thick oak trees and flowers everywhere. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until now. At least she knew where she would sleep tonight if she couldn’t find her uncle. The thought bolstered her.
“Here now, mind yourself,” a gentleman snapped, nearly walking into her immobile form. She snapped her jaw shut. She ducked her face into the shadows under the brim of her cap and stepped aside to let him pass.
She tore her gaze away from the horses and their wel -clad riders picking their way into the park and fol owed the ornate carriages that trundled past. A vast majority of them were headed in the same direction and she took that as a good sign.
It was stil early morning; they wouldn’t be off to bal s and parties or shopping for new gowns. She didn’t think the English aristocracy was that different from the French; mornings were for long breakfasts, correspondence, and resting after the excesses of the night before. More than a few of the carriage occupants were probably on their way home and hadn’t even been to bed yet.
The houses became palatial, with gleaming brass door knockers and giant urns overflowing with every kind of flower.
Maids walked smal pet dogs on leashes and the occasional cat. Delivery boys, fish carts, and muffin sel ers made their way to and from back doors. She stopped a rag man.
“St. Croix house?” she asked in halting English.
“Eh, Frenchie? Speak up?” He cupped his hand to his ear, barely stopping as he pul ed his cart past. She helped him maneuver it over a protruding cobblestone.
“St. Croix?” she repeated.
“You mean St. Cross? House at the end of the street with the blue door.” He waved in its direction and continued on his way without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.
without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.
Part of her wanted to run toward it, another part briefly considered running in the opposite direction. She would never let that part win. She forced herself to pick up her pace, though she did pause at the end of the walkway to catch her breath.
The townhouse loomed over her, several stories high, with a freshly painted blue door and brocade curtains in every window.
Carriages rumbled behind her. An oak sapling dropped acorns on the street and sidewalk. Roses bloomed in copper urns. A lane led along the house to the back, where the gardens and stables and servant entrances were located.
She climbed the steps, which were swept clean of even a single petal. The door knocker was in the shape of a lion with a cross in its mouth. Isabeau ran her fingers over her family crest before letting it fal with a thud against the door. It swung open and a man with thick gray hair looked down his nose at her. His black jacket was perfectly pressed, his cravat immaculate.
The reality was somewhat daunting.
Wagons trundled by, children in dirty, torn clothes waded into the mud of the Thames for abandoned goods that might fetch a pretty price streetside. Voices and horse hooves and smoke from countless chimneys made a soup of sound and smel that had her holding her nose.
“Do you know where society lives?” she asked her elderly companion.
“Lookin’ for the fancy, are you? They don’t take kindly to urchins and pickpockets, my lad.”
“I wasn’t—”
He harrumphed. “I was young once, my boy. No need to worry I’l give you away.” He nodded to the west end of the sprawling city. “Mayfair is where polite society resides and best of luck to you.”
“Thank you.” She handed him one of her pennies. He bit into it to check its worth and then slipped it into his pocket with more nimble fingers than she might have given him credit for. They were gnarled and bent but fast al the same.
“Mind the watchmen, lad,” he said in parting before tottering away. He paused long enough to make eyes at a buxom fishwife with a stained apron. She laughed and went back to shouting about mackerel and eel.
Isabeau huddled into her jacket and lifted her chin determinedly. If you looked like prey, the world treated you as determinedly. If you looked like prey, the world treated you as such. She walked easily and confidently, strol ing westward as if she knew exactly where she was going, as if she’d lived here al her life. No one had to know that her heart was thundering so quickly she felt il and the muscles in the back of her neck were so tight she’d have a splitting headache by nightfal . Al they had to see was a young boy with a quick step and a clever eye who was able to take care of himself.
She walked for a couple of hours, trying to count right and left turns so she wouldn’t be hopelessly lost. There were girls with baskets of violets and oranges for sale, muffins and baked potatoes and shops with towers of candies decorated with powdered sugar, hats with plumes dyed yel ow and pink and green, ribbons of every description, lemon ices, books, anything anyone could ever conceive of buying was available.
There were no scorched stones or broken windows from riots, no smel of fires or radicals shouting on every corner. It was utterly alien, decadent, and soft. But she couldn’t afford to let her guard down just yet, if ever.
She began to notice the state of carriages improving; the streets were cleaner with boys waiting with brooms to clear a path through the horse droppings for a coin. The houses grew larger, the smel s less pungent. Trees clustered in back gardens. When she came across the huge park, she stopped abruptly. She’d missed lawns of grass and thick oak trees and flowers everywhere. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until now. At least she knew where she would sleep tonight if she couldn’t find her uncle. The thought bolstered her.
“Here now, mind yourself,” a gentleman snapped, nearly walking into her immobile form. She snapped her jaw shut. She ducked her face into the shadows under the brim of her cap and stepped aside to let him pass.
She tore her gaze away from the horses and their wel -clad riders picking their way into the park and fol owed the ornate carriages that trundled past. A vast majority of them were headed in the same direction and she took that as a good sign.
It was stil early morning; they wouldn’t be off to bal s and parties or shopping for new gowns. She didn’t think the English aristocracy was that different from the French; mornings were for long breakfasts, correspondence, and resting after the excesses of the night before. More than a few of the carriage occupants were probably on their way home and hadn’t even been to bed yet.
The houses became palatial, with gleaming brass door knockers and giant urns overflowing with every kind of flower.
Maids walked smal pet dogs on leashes and the occasional cat. Delivery boys, fish carts, and muffin sel ers made their way to and from back doors. She stopped a rag man.
“St. Croix house?” she asked in halting English.
“Eh, Frenchie? Speak up?” He cupped his hand to his ear, barely stopping as he pul ed his cart past. She helped him maneuver it over a protruding cobblestone.
“St. Croix?” she repeated.
“You mean St. Cross? House at the end of the street with the blue door.” He waved in its direction and continued on his way without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.
without a backward glance. Her heart started to race again.
Part of her wanted to run toward it, another part briefly considered running in the opposite direction. She would never let that part win. She forced herself to pick up her pace, though she did pause at the end of the walkway to catch her breath.
The townhouse loomed over her, several stories high, with a freshly painted blue door and brocade curtains in every window.
Carriages rumbled behind her. An oak sapling dropped acorns on the street and sidewalk. Roses bloomed in copper urns. A lane led along the house to the back, where the gardens and stables and servant entrances were located.
She climbed the steps, which were swept clean of even a single petal. The door knocker was in the shape of a lion with a cross in its mouth. Isabeau ran her fingers over her family crest before letting it fal with a thud against the door. It swung open and a man with thick gray hair looked down his nose at her. His black jacket was perfectly pressed, his cravat immaculate.
