She was almost asking a question, except that the sheer disbelief in her voice was too strong.
“And why not?” Stephen asked.
“Because you’ll die.” Mina put down her fork, half a slice of bacon still on the tines. “Definitely if you start asking questions and maybe even if you don’t.”
She spoke as if she was explaining some basic and obvious physical law—gravity or the need to breathe air.
“I’ve gotten the impression the last few years,” Stephen said, emphasizing years enough to let her know what other words he might have chosen, “that I’m a fair hand at taking care of myself.”
“Against a whole pub full of men? Without revealing more about yourself than you want?” Mina shook her head. “I wouldn’t put money on it. Anyhow, even if you did come out on top, the story’d be all over the street two hours later. Do you really want that?”
No, he didn’t. Last night’s burglary and its results would doubtless get back to Ward anyhow, sooner or later, and the other man had to know that Stephen would be asking questions. Still, the less Stephen gave away, the better—including how good he was in a fight, how much he’d been able to find out, and where he’d gotten that information.
“But,” he said, “if the man’s been offering work, surely plenty of people must have been asking about it.”
“Nobody like you,” said Mina.
That might have been flattering, but Stephen didn’t count on it. “I wouldn’t just be walking in there like this,” he said, a gesture taking in coat and waistcoat, pocket watch and cuff links. Although, in truth, he hadn’t thought of that until Mina mentioned it, nor was he sure where he’d get other clothes. Perhaps he could borrow Owens’s, though the groom’s shirt would be tight across the shoulders.
It didn’t matter because Mina, far from being convinced, laughed again. “You could go in wearing a convict’s uniform and it wouldn’t matter,” she said. “You look like a gentleman, and if you didn’t, you’d still look dangerous—and wealthy. And that’s the sort of man gets talked about in a place like the Dog and Moon. Especially if he’s asking about jobs. A gentleman might slum a bit, but he wouldn’t go and ask for work.”
“Thank you very much,” said Stephen, trying to sound sarcastic and not gratified. “Could you teach me?”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Mina, and the sarcasm was real for her. “But no. Teach you how to act like you’ve—like you’ve never had more than one pair of trousers without a patch on ’em? Like you’ve worried every winter about getting behind on the rent if the coal was too dear, or thought breaking a leg might break you? Maybe if I had a year.” She looked from the china on the table to the portraits on the walls, and then back to Stephen. This time her gaze had no desire in it. This time, she looked as if she was calculating the value of his clothes down to the shilling. “Maybe.”
The hell of it was that she didn’t even seem very angry. Her eyes shone like indigo glass, but the spark in them was at least half rueful humor. If the laughter in her voice had far more of a brittle edge than it had before, at least the laughter was still there.
Stephen flinched from it as he would never have winced at a blow.
“I hadn’t known that,” he said.
“Well, no. You wouldn’t. That’s my point.” Mina reached for her tea and bent her head to blow across its surface. Her face became hidden: a pale blank between china and hair. “Some have it worse than others, of course.”
“And which of those were you?” Stephen asked. He spoke before he thought; he wanted to reach out and cup her face again, to lift her chin and look into her eyes.
When Mina replied, he was glad he hadn’t. All the laughter had gone from her voice, leaving the crackle of ice in February. “We managed,” she said. “And I don’t see how my family’s got any bearing on our situation.”
“Look here, I was only—” Stephen began, and then he had nothing to say and no grounds for indignation.
Mina had never made any secret of where she came from. Stephen had always known; he just hadn’t known. The plain dresses and the occasional accent took on a new weight now. So did her determination to keep working for Carter, her concern over her reputation, and the look of mingled wonder and frustration that had crossed her face when Stephen had so casually offered his payment.
Everything meant more, and so there was nothing he could say.
Gradually, the anger went out of Mina’s face. That stung more, in its own way, because what replaced it was resignation borne of the knowledge that she couldn’t really have expected any better. Then it too was gone, covered by a blank and businesslike expression that might have been worst of all.
“In any case,” she said, “I can’t teach you how to blend in. Odds are you’d just stand out more if you did try.”
“Well, then,” Stephen asked, glad and sorry at the same time to return to the immediate problem, “what is it you’d have me do?”
“Nothing at all,” said Mina. “I’ll go.”
Fifteen
In the end, Stephen didn’t argue as much as Mina had thought he would. That wasn’t to say he didn’t protest—he did, almost as soon as she’d spoken—but the skirmish hadn’t lasted very long. After all, Mina had already pointed out all the reasons why Stephen couldn’t go and ask. He’d said that it wasn’t safe. She’d said that she’d already been in the neighborhood and that she’d probably be spending more time there than he would, once the matter of Ward had come to its end. He’d made several surly noises and eventually given up the fight.
Just as well. Mina still had one card left to play, but she hadn’t wanted to lay it down. It went, roughly: there are plenty of women there, and plenty of them are more delicate than I am, and you don’t worry about any of them, because you don’t want to take them to bed.
That wasn’t exactly fair—Stephen was enough of a gentleman that he’d probably be concerned about anyone he actually knew, even if lust hadn’t come into the picture—but it would do for an argument. With her pride still smarting from his earlier questions, Mina had almost been disappointed that she hadn’t had to go down that path.
She went down Cable Street instead. She wore her oldest dress and bundled her hair into an untidy knot at the back of her head. After a winter of smoke, rain, and crowded streetcars, her coat wouldn’t give anything away, and she was glad to have it. The night was warm enough to be foggy, but the wind off the water didn’t know it was May, whatever the calendar said.
Vague shadows moved through the yellow fog, stopping to join other silhouettes for a chat or a fight, then moving on. As she passed, Mina heard bits of conversation as disconnected as the shadows:
“…an’ I told ’im that there weren’t no more money, and ’e said…”
“C’mon, Ruthie, ’twas only the one time an’ it didn’t mean nothing. I swear it—”
“…don’t think much of it, whatever she says. No great judge, my sister. The first flat she an’ her husband took…”
It was all familiar enough; two years of Bulstrode Street and Professor Carter’s office hadn’t changed much, and neither had a few weeks with Stephen. The East End closed around her, and she slipped back into it, another almost formless shape in the mist.