stars through that opaque mantle.
She had been to other cities in the course of her education, generally small university towns, but never to London. In her imagination it had loomed as a repository of all that was great in England: art, music, mathematics, science. But this was noisome and cold and loud ! Horses neighed, dogs barked, hooves clattered, and axles squealed. Heavily laden carts rumbled over the cobbled pavement, an underscore to carters bawling, coachmen shouting, and vendors hollering.
And it stank! She pushed the handkerchief to her mouth again and looked about. Surely all of this great city could not be so foul?
“Here, boy!”
She turned in the direction of the shout and the stagecoach driver tossed her valise to her with so much velocity that she staggered backward as she caught it. He smirked. “London’s gonna eat you alive, youngster, lest you grow some muscle ’neath all that fat.”
She flushed, clasping the valise to her chest. She realized her disguise made her a target for censorious eyes, but there had been no practical alternative. After several hours of experimentation, she and Mrs. Bedling had agreed that the amount of constriction necessary to bind her bosom flat would have rendered her unconscious. So instead, they’d concocted a way to hide it amidst layers of padding sewed into one of Mrs. Bedling’s corsets.
Had she been vain she would have been embarrassed by her appearance. She was not vain. Having people think she was a fat young man suited her purpose. If they were looking at her waistline they would not be looking at her face.
She and Strand had parted ways nearly three weeks earlier. Strand had given her a purse full of coin and explicit instructions: In twenty days’ time, Miss Avery was to take the stagecoach to Whitchurch, procure a private room at the last coaching inn, and there transform herself into Mr. Quinn. Before daybreak the next morning she was to leave the room by way of the window and wait outside the inn until the coachman arrived to rouse the other passengers. Once in London she was to hire a hackney carriage to take her to Strand’s house. She would be expected.
“You planning to stand there interferin’ with traffic all day, son?” the innkeeper shouted at her from the tavern’s open door. She looked around uncertainly and spied a hansom carriage parked just outside the courtyard. Hefting the valise to her shoulder, she trudged through the icy muck to its side. The driver leaned over from his seat, looking her up and down. “You kin pay?”
“Yes.” She nodded, squinting up at him through the thickening drizzle.
He eyed her doubtfully. “Let’s see the color of yer coin.”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew the tightly laced purse, untying it with cold fingers. She pulled a pair of shillings out and heldthem up for his inspection. He gave a grunt, bent at the waist from atop his perch, and yanked open the door.
“Where to?” he asked as she shoved the valise inside.
She gave him the address on Half Moon Street, drawing a low appreciative whistle as she climbed in and shut the door. “Is it far?” she called up once settled inside.
“Far?” She heard him laugh. “Nay. T’aint far. But in London, lad, it’s never how far a thing is away, it’s how long it takes to get there!” And with a flick of his whip, he sent the carriage lurching forth.
An hour later, Avery understood what he meant. They seemed to spend more time standing, backing up, and skirting around things than moving forward. Traffic choked every avenue and street. A van lying on its side obstructed traffic for blocks, its spilled contents swarming with a hoard of raggedy children darting beneath the cudgel-wielding arm of the driver trying futilely to defend his goods. Men unloading a brick wagon clogged another intersection and everywhere a river of pedestrian traffic flowed thick as sludge.
Just when she thought she might never reach her destination and
She had been to other cities in the course of her education, generally small university towns, but never to London. In her imagination it had loomed as a repository of all that was great in England: art, music, mathematics, science. But this was noisome and cold and loud ! Horses neighed, dogs barked, hooves clattered, and axles squealed. Heavily laden carts rumbled over the cobbled pavement, an underscore to carters bawling, coachmen shouting, and vendors hollering.
And it stank! She pushed the handkerchief to her mouth again and looked about. Surely all of this great city could not be so foul?
“Here, boy!”
She turned in the direction of the shout and the stagecoach driver tossed her valise to her with so much velocity that she staggered backward as she caught it. He smirked. “London’s gonna eat you alive, youngster, lest you grow some muscle ’neath all that fat.”
She flushed, clasping the valise to her chest. She realized her disguise made her a target for censorious eyes, but there had been no practical alternative. After several hours of experimentation, she and Mrs. Bedling had agreed that the amount of constriction necessary to bind her bosom flat would have rendered her unconscious. So instead, they’d concocted a way to hide it amidst layers of padding sewed into one of Mrs. Bedling’s corsets.
Had she been vain she would have been embarrassed by her appearance. She was not vain. Having people think she was a fat young man suited her purpose. If they were looking at her waistline they would not be looking at her face.
She and Strand had parted ways nearly three weeks earlier. Strand had given her a purse full of coin and explicit instructions: In twenty days’ time, Miss Avery was to take the stagecoach to Whitchurch, procure a private room at the last coaching inn, and there transform herself into Mr. Quinn. Before daybreak the next morning she was to leave the room by way of the window and wait outside the inn until the coachman arrived to rouse the other passengers. Once in London she was to hire a hackney carriage to take her to Strand’s house. She would be expected.
“You planning to stand there interferin’ with traffic all day, son?” the innkeeper shouted at her from the tavern’s open door. She looked around uncertainly and spied a hansom carriage parked just outside the courtyard. Hefting the valise to her shoulder, she trudged through the icy muck to its side. The driver leaned over from his seat, looking her up and down. “You kin pay?”
“Yes.” She nodded, squinting up at him through the thickening drizzle.
He eyed her doubtfully. “Let’s see the color of yer coin.”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew the tightly laced purse, untying it with cold fingers. She pulled a pair of shillings out and heldthem up for his inspection. He gave a grunt, bent at the waist from atop his perch, and yanked open the door.
“Where to?” he asked as she shoved the valise inside.
She gave him the address on Half Moon Street, drawing a low appreciative whistle as she climbed in and shut the door. “Is it far?” she called up once settled inside.
“Far?” She heard him laugh. “Nay. T’aint far. But in London, lad, it’s never how far a thing is away, it’s how long it takes to get there!” And with a flick of his whip, he sent the carriage lurching forth.
An hour later, Avery understood what he meant. They seemed to spend more time standing, backing up, and skirting around things than moving forward. Traffic choked every avenue and street. A van lying on its side obstructed traffic for blocks, its spilled contents swarming with a hoard of raggedy children darting beneath the cudgel-wielding arm of the driver trying futilely to defend his goods. Men unloading a brick wagon clogged another intersection and everywhere a river of pedestrian traffic flowed thick as sludge.
Just when she thought she might never reach her destination and
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