He broke off as her expression changed. Eliza shook her head again, meaning to say that no, she didn’t know anything about it—but it was a lie, because she did know something. She knew that faeries had helped the men who bombed Charing Cross, and maybe the ones at Praed Street, too; and they must have had a reason for it.
Iron, she thought. She’d always assumed it was just goblin mischief, or maybe sympathy for the Fenian cause; maybe Irish faeries immigrated during the Great Hunger, just as mortal folk did, and wanted to see their homeland free of British rule. If they were striking at the Underground in particular, though… but why hadn’t they bombed railways before?
It was all speculation. Just as likely the Fenians were the ones planning more Underground trouble, because it was a good place to make people afraid. With their dark tunnels and clouds of choking steam, they were already a little like Hell on earth.
“Eliza,” Father Tooley said gently.
She gripped his hands in her own and said, “’Tis all right, Father. If I find out anything, you may be sure I’ll not just sit on it. I don’t want to see anyone hurt, any more than yourself—or the peelers, for that matter.” Hesitantly, her mind ventured past that hazy day when she would have Owen back, and thought about what she could do once he was safe. Could be I can do more than just help him, and myself. And that might get the Special Branch boys off my back at last.
He kissed her on the forehead, then blessed her. “But you still need confession,” he said, with kind sternness. “If you’ve spent the last six months as a lily-white saint, then I’m a Methodist.”
Lying, spying, threatening Louisa Kittering. No, not a lily-white saint. But it wasn’t worth the danger of coming back to a place where the constables knew to look for her. “I will when I can, Father,” Eliza promised.
If God granted her prayer, “when” might even be soon.
Cromwell Road, South Kensington: April 14, 1884
When Eliza went up to air out Louisa Kittering’s bedding the next morning, Mrs. Fowler was not on guard at the door, and the bedroom itself was empty.
“Mrs. Kittering reckons church yesterday did her some good,” Ann Wick said, when Eliza questioned her. “Won’t let her out of the house yet, but she’s at least free of her room.” The other housemaid frowned at Eliza and added, “I don’t know what nonsense went on the other night, but you’d best not repeat it, if you know what’s good for you. Mrs. Kittering won’t just have you beaten; she’ll find a way to toss you into prison, she’s that vindictive.”
It hardly mattered. Louisa Kittering was free—free enough that Eliza could contrive a way to speak with her privately—and that meant her time at Cromwell Road might be drawing to an end at last.
Any further doubts that God had heard her prayer were banished when she carried the ashes out to the bin behind the house. The gardener, Mr. Phillips, caught her before she could go back inside. “Miss Kittering says she wants to see you, girl. In the conservatory.”
Eliza thanked him, and added a second, silent thanks to God as she hurried to the conservatory, wiping her hands clean on her apron.
Inside, the glass roof of the structure magnified spring’s faint warmth; that and the blooming flowers made the place a miniature Eden. It formed a pretty background for Miss Kittering, who stood in an ivory morning dress in the far corner, fingering the half-opened buds of an Oriental poppy.
They were alone, and as long as no one shouted, the gardener would not hear them outside. Eliza still dipped into a curtsy out of habit, thinking as she did so that this was not the best way to begin following up on a threat. Before she could say anything, though, Miss Kittering spoke.
“You addressed me in a very unacceptable fashion the other night.” Her fingers brushed the brilliant tips of the poppy petals, then curled around the stem. “In fact, I would go so far as to say you attempted to blackmail me.”
Eliza’s breath drew short. I should have done this sooner. Before she had time to think about it. But if Miss Kittering thought strength of will alone would be enough to protect her, she was wrong. “Call it whatever you like, miss; it doesn’t change anything. I can still tell your mother things that will make life very hard for you, whether they’re true or not.”
“You can—but you won’t.” Miss Kittering turned to face her. The young woman’s face looked pale and bruised, as if she’d not slept well during her captivity, but above the dark circles her eyes glittered like two brown agates. “Because I heard two interesting things lately. One was gossip about a constable who came to question my father the other day. And the other was your voice that night—sounding very distinctly Irish.”
At those words, a lump of lead took the place of Eliza’s heart. It felt like her blood had truly stopped flowing, and metal coldness spread throughout her body.
“I may have secrets,” Miss Kittering said, a small, triumphant smile curving her lips, “but so do you. And it seems we’re each in a position to ruin the other. So this is our agreement: that you will say nothing, and neither will I. Out of gratitude for your assistance the other night, I will tell no one of how you threatened me; but that is all the help you will receive. Whatever further price you intended to extort from me, you can give up on it now—for if you attempt to force me, then you will end in prison. However little I inherited from my mother, I can promise you, that is one thing we share.”
All Eliza’s hope of a moment before had crumbled into ash. Darkness at the edge of her vision made her realize she wasn’t breathing; when she gasped air in once more, Miss Kittering’s smile deepened. How could she rejoice? A boy’s life was at stake, maybe his very soul—
But Eliza had never told her that. And now it was too late. Miss Kittering might have believed, had she heard the tale sooner… but not now, not after Eliza’s terrible misstep. Or rather, if she did believe, she still would have no reason to help. What did a rich, sheltered young miss from South Kensington care what happened to a poor Irish lad from Whitechapel? She wouldn’t give tuppence for Owen, any more than the peelers had when he disappeared.
Eliza refused to give up. Not when she was this close. “Then let me help you,” she said, coming forward with her hands raised in supplication. “If you sneak away again, your mother will thrash you within an inch of your life; but what if I helped you hide it? Say you’d gone to call on a friend, or—or close the windows behind you, if it must be at night.”
Miss Kittering laughed. She’d pulled the bud off its stem, and was now shredding the delicate, half-formed petals, letting them fall to the ground like drops of bright blood. “I have better allies than you, and shan’t have to worry about my mother much longer. Now get out of here; I’ve said what I must, and have no desire to hear anything else you might say.”
Eliza went. There was nothing to be gained by staying; she had missed her chance. But like a drunken man in a brawl, the hits she’d taken only made her angrier, and more determined. Louisa Kittering could go to the devil; Eliza O’Malley would rescue her friend.
She went about her duties like the clockwork doll she’d once seen exhibited in Covent Garden, while her mind wrestled her problems toward a solution. The next meeting of the London Fairy Society was in a bit more than a fortnight. Eliza would be there if she had to quit her position to go—but in the meantime, she might as well stay here. Her long vigil in Newgate had produced nothing, and her earnings as a costerwoman were barely enough to keep her fed. Better to stay where there was actual money, and look for another opportunity to get the upper hand over Miss Kittering. Given the young woman’s behavior, surely she’d have one before long.