At the mention of Julian’s name Nellie’s gaze flickered downwards. Despite his enigmatic ways, Elijah was a good and loving father to Julian. It was plain to see in their daily interactions, even when they disagreed. She held Elijah in high regard, which made her surreptitious admiration for his son all the more discomfiting, now that Elijah knew of her marital status. If he had seen her walking outside, she hoped to high heaven he hadn’t spotted her spying on Julian. “Thank you,” she murmured in some confusion. “I shall give your offer my utmost consideration.”
“Indeed. No need to rush into a decision.” The elderly man rocked back and forth on his heels, his expression gradually becoming more sombre. “Miss Barchester, there is another matter I must mention. You’ve endured a great many tribulations for such a young woman, and you will have many more trials to face, but I feel you have the necessary strength to cope with them.”
“What do you mean? Is—is there something I’m not aware of? Some dire news?”
“Well…” Elijah adjusted his spectacles on his long, narrow nose. “I’m unsure if it can be classified as dire, but there has been a further development.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Perhaps it would be best if I left you here to absorb it on your own. Yes, that is probably best.” He drew out the newspaper from under his arm and held it out to her. “Second column. Third item down. You have my sympathies, Miss Barchester. I shall be in my examining room should you need me.” After a quick bow, he retreated from the library.
Nellie scanned the folded newspaper and quickly located the article. She read the news item in a matter of seconds, then reread it a dozen times. Finally she sank into an armchair, the newspaper crumpling between her hands.
The article was brief and to the point. A woman’s body had been fished out of the Thames. Her face had been violently mutilated, and that, together with the ravages of the river, had rendered her features unrecognisable. But she had been identified by the rings attached to her fingers. She was Eleanor Ormond, nineteen, wife of Phillip Arthur Ormond of Mayfair.
Her body was shaking, Nellie realised. Relinquishing her death grip on the newspaper, she opened her hands and saw ink smeared across her damp palms. She scrubbed her handkerchief back and forth over her hands until her palms stung. She pinched herself everywhere, her hair, her cheeks, her earlobes, her knees, her thighs. She was alive, she was flesh and blood and beating heart. She existed.
Yet the newspaper said otherwise. To the world, she was dead and gone. Nothing but a hacked and bloated corpse.
She stood and moved to the window to feel the sun, but her skin remained cold and clammy, and when she raised her hand to the light she could barely make out any veins beneath the pale skin. Like the wraiths in the asylum, she was a person who did not exist. A woman buried alive.
A cool zephyr filtered through the cracks around the window and streamed over her face. Well, she might be legally dead, but she was still living flesh and blood. Her heart pumped, her blood flowed, her brain functioned. Holding up her gloved hand, she flexed her mechanical fingers pensively. By now she looked forward to putting on the glove each morning. The artificial digits were an integral part of her; at times she even fancied there was genuine feeling in them and not just wayward tingling in her finger stumps. The old Nellie Barchester would’ve had trouble recognising her today. If she were a ghost, then, just as ghosts did, she could roam about when the sun set. Exposing herself to the harsh light of day was still an ordeal, but she’d been looking at the problem the wrong way. Now that she was a spectre, she could turn her back on the light and instead embrace the shadows.
Chapter Eight
The youth shoved past Nellie and knocked her hat askew, causing her to stagger back. She clutched at the thick veil draped over her face as the boy guffawed and ran after the rest of his gang. The night market was far more crowded and boisterous than she’d anticipated. Booths and carts had sprung up like mushrooms out of the packed dirt, their wares displayed by the flickering light of torches and lamps. Sellers of pies, oysters and sheep’s trotters jostled with those hawking knives, matches, buttons and second-hand boots. All manner of people pressed past her, some in rags, some dressed in hard-wearing labourers’ clothing.
“’alloo preety gurl.” A man lurched towards her, attempting to tweak at her veil.
She drew back from his gin-soaked odour and pushed past him. His was not the first foreign accent she’d heard tonight. This part of London teemed with new arrivals who’d fled from the upheaval on the Continent and now found themselves scraping for survival in an overcrowded and ruthless city.
The youth and the foreigner had distracted her from her mission. She threaded her way through the crowd, fearing she’d lost her quarry. No, there he was up ahead. The smell of roasting chestnuts wafted after her as she pursued him. Dampness beaded her brow, and her scalp itched beneath the cumbersome hat. How good it would be to feel the fresh air against her cheeks, even this greasy, noisome atmosphere around her. One day she’d have the nerve to travel about without the hat and veil, but not yet.
The man she was tailing paused outside a mean little gin shop. Nellie stopped behind a tottering pile of crates filled with rotting cabbages. Now she was nearer she could make out the man’s fair curls peeping below the brim of his fashionable top hat. He dithered on the threshold of the shop, then plunged in and emerged a minute later, shuddering and wiping his mouth after his quick dram. His Savile Row suit and polished boots attracted a few sidelong glances and mutters, but he appeared not to notice as he hurried down a side street.
Nellie skulked after him. This secondary road was darker, quieter, the cacophony of the night market gradually subsiding to a low hubbub. Fog wreathed the dwellings and dulled her ears. The heels of her boots clicked on the cobblestones. From an alleyway, a cat yowled. Up ahead, the man dipped past a hazy pool of gaslight from a lone streetlamp.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but wraiths of mist. It must have been those rats rooting through a rubbish heap she’d heard. She pushed on. A moment later the footsteps behind her resumed. This time she spun round, the hairs on her nape standing on end as she scanned the length of road she’d just crossed. Through the gathering fog, she could make out nothing. Then, from one of the nearby houses, an enormously fat crone meandered out, bunched up her skirts and squatted in the gutter to relieve herself.
Nellie expelled a deep breath and turned around just in time to see the object of her pursuit enter the last house of a row of terraces. Well, she’d suspected this was his destination as soon as she’d realised he was heading for Aldgate. This would be the third visit she’d witnessed; who knew how many times he’d come before? She edged her way to the shadow of a high, blank wall opposite the house and settled down to wait. A few minutes ticked by. On the upper floor of the house, the light shining from the windows faded and remained dim for a further five minutes. Slowly the windows brightened, and moments later the young man clattered out of the house.
As he approached her, Nellie’s heart beat faster. He was so close! She had just to step out of the shadows and call out his name. Pip. It was so easy, so tempting. Pip, I’m still alive. I’m not dead.
He drew nearer, and she opened her mouth, but at that moment she caught a glimpse of his face and slowly shut her mouth. She’d never seen such a confusing mix of emotions on someone. Pip seemed to be simultaneously stricken and relieved, as if he was suffering some terrible pain and had just received a temporary respite. So dazed and euphoric was he, if she didn’t know better she might have suspected he’d been drugged.