was largely empty now of the humanity that crowded along its length by day, from the bewigged barristers of the Temple and the Courts to the curiosities and freaks of Fleet Street. Julie slipped by booksellers and printing houses, repairers of ‘Umbrellas &c’, purveyors of fine spirits and tea. She attracted no attention in her shabby clothing, a cap pulled over her bright hair, dirt smeared on her face.
Noises echoed eerily through the thick sooty fog, the sounds of distant revelry, argument, debaucheries the nature of which Julie could only guess. Moisture dripped off the brim of her cap and trickled down her chin. She ducked deeper into the shadows as a watchman passed by on his rounds, listened to the clatter of the night-soil man’s cart wheels on the cobblestones, inhaled the smell of wet animals and decaying garbage and the stench of the Thames.
Rose’s lodgings were in Russell Court. Julie slipped around the corner of the building, shimmied up a drainpipe, crept along a ledge; crouched outside a third-floor window and peered in. Rose sat in a large winged armchair, writing in her journal by the light of an oil lamp. In her ruffled muslin wrapper, her hair loose around her shoulders, she appeared much younger than her actual years. Snoozing in her lap was Ophelia, the Drury Lane cat. Julie tapped on the glass.
Rose started, and her pen skittered across the page. Her eyes widened when she saw Julie perched on the ledge.
She set aside Ophelia, hurried to the window. “Jules! What’s wrong with using the front door?”
“I didn’t want to be seen.” Julie scrambled across the sill. This way no one might remember that Mrs. Scarron had been visited by a grubby boy in the wee hours of the night. Rose closed the window against the damp.
Her journal lay open. Julie sneaked a peek, but reading didn’t come easily to her, wouldn’t have come at all had Rose not seduced her with children’s tales. The actress had been offered a handsome sum by a Fleet Street firm to publish her memoirs, but had refused it out of loyalty to those with whom she’d shared the experiences that would have made her autobiography profitable. Too, without the letters and mementos that had been stolen from her, Rose was fuzzy on some of the details.
Julie took off her sodden cap and jacket and backed up to the fire. “You brought Ophelia home with you?”
“I was lonely. Ophelia is good company.” As if the cat under stood the compliment, it began to purr. Julie regarded the bottle sitting on the table beside Rose’s book. Rose followed her gaze. “Pritchett stopped by.”
Pritchett had probably brought the gin. Like Satan tempting Christ on a mountaintop. At least, Julie thought that was where Satan had tempted Christ. “It’s none of my affair.”
That it was not. Rose turned away. Her reflection in the pier-glass strongly indicated that she was in need of fresh cucumber juice to rejuvenate her skin. Followed by water in which spinach had been boiled. Finished off with twenty pounds of strawberries and two of raspberries crushed and thrown into a bath.
“Stop frowning,” advised Julie. “Or you’ll get lines between your eyes. You’ve told me so often enough.”
Rose didn’t have lines, did she? With her fingertips, she smoothed her brow . “I want to know what you’ve been about.”
What Rose wanted was a wealthy protector, so she didn’t have to fill her empty evenings with Bow Street Runners and Blue Ruin. Julie met her friend’s eyes in the glass. “Pritchett mustn’t learn any of what I’m about to tell you,” she warned. Had Cap’n Jack known of Julie’s previous encounter with Lord Dorset, she wouldn’t have met him again in the crowded rooms of Carlton House, because her neck would have been broke first.
“As if I would.” Rose picked up the gin bottle, and held it to the light. “It wasn’t but a nipperkin, Jules.”
It had been rather more than a nipperkin, unless Pritchett had drunk
Noises echoed eerily through the thick sooty fog, the sounds of distant revelry, argument, debaucheries the nature of which Julie could only guess. Moisture dripped off the brim of her cap and trickled down her chin. She ducked deeper into the shadows as a watchman passed by on his rounds, listened to the clatter of the night-soil man’s cart wheels on the cobblestones, inhaled the smell of wet animals and decaying garbage and the stench of the Thames.
Rose’s lodgings were in Russell Court. Julie slipped around the corner of the building, shimmied up a drainpipe, crept along a ledge; crouched outside a third-floor window and peered in. Rose sat in a large winged armchair, writing in her journal by the light of an oil lamp. In her ruffled muslin wrapper, her hair loose around her shoulders, she appeared much younger than her actual years. Snoozing in her lap was Ophelia, the Drury Lane cat. Julie tapped on the glass.
Rose started, and her pen skittered across the page. Her eyes widened when she saw Julie perched on the ledge.
She set aside Ophelia, hurried to the window. “Jules! What’s wrong with using the front door?”
“I didn’t want to be seen.” Julie scrambled across the sill. This way no one might remember that Mrs. Scarron had been visited by a grubby boy in the wee hours of the night. Rose closed the window against the damp.
Her journal lay open. Julie sneaked a peek, but reading didn’t come easily to her, wouldn’t have come at all had Rose not seduced her with children’s tales. The actress had been offered a handsome sum by a Fleet Street firm to publish her memoirs, but had refused it out of loyalty to those with whom she’d shared the experiences that would have made her autobiography profitable. Too, without the letters and mementos that had been stolen from her, Rose was fuzzy on some of the details.
Julie took off her sodden cap and jacket and backed up to the fire. “You brought Ophelia home with you?”
“I was lonely. Ophelia is good company.” As if the cat under stood the compliment, it began to purr. Julie regarded the bottle sitting on the table beside Rose’s book. Rose followed her gaze. “Pritchett stopped by.”
Pritchett had probably brought the gin. Like Satan tempting Christ on a mountaintop. At least, Julie thought that was where Satan had tempted Christ. “It’s none of my affair.”
That it was not. Rose turned away. Her reflection in the pier-glass strongly indicated that she was in need of fresh cucumber juice to rejuvenate her skin. Followed by water in which spinach had been boiled. Finished off with twenty pounds of strawberries and two of raspberries crushed and thrown into a bath.
“Stop frowning,” advised Julie. “Or you’ll get lines between your eyes. You’ve told me so often enough.”
Rose didn’t have lines, did she? With her fingertips, she smoothed her brow . “I want to know what you’ve been about.”
What Rose wanted was a wealthy protector, so she didn’t have to fill her empty evenings with Bow Street Runners and Blue Ruin. Julie met her friend’s eyes in the glass. “Pritchett mustn’t learn any of what I’m about to tell you,” she warned. Had Cap’n Jack known of Julie’s previous encounter with Lord Dorset, she wouldn’t have met him again in the crowded rooms of Carlton House, because her neck would have been broke first.
“As if I would.” Rose picked up the gin bottle, and held it to the light. “It wasn’t but a nipperkin, Jules.”
It had been rather more than a nipperkin, unless Pritchett had drunk
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