Chapter 1

ONE

PARIS

September 1882

Smoke billowed and engines whistled as the train from Normandy pulled into the station at Gare Saint-Lazare. Violet waited as a mother holding the hand of a young girl with yellow ribbons in her hair cut in front of where she stood with her portable easel. As soon as they had moved on towards the ticket booth, she snatched up a brush, swirled it about in a pan of black watercolour, and set about capturing the cloud of steam rising from the train as it came to a screeching halt some yards down the track from where she had set herself up. Already the sun had begun to descend, and the waning light angled through the massive glass wall at the end of the station. It was perfect.

Violet’s brow furrowed in concentration as she took up another brush, touched it to the yellow paint on her palette, and added highlights to the grey mass of the train she had already depicted on the canvas. It was a race, then, to get the lighting just right before the sun disappeared below the horizon, but she was smiling as she added a touch more white, a spot of lavender, and a bit more grey where the train fell into shadow.

And before she knew it, the sun was gone, the lights were coming on inside the station hall, and her painting was complete. Violet set the brush down and took a step back to examine her work. Not bad… she had captured that hazy afternoon light effectively, but the puffs of smoke could use some work. Still, she nodded and began to collect her materials. She could finish up the details back at her studio in Montmartre.

Violet was just gathering her brushes when she became conscious of a pair of eyes upon her. For the last half an hour, she had been aware of the man standing in a doorway not far away, watching her. She did not meet his gaze but steeled herself as he pushed himself away from the wall and came towards her. He stopped a few feet away, but she made no acknowledgement of his presence as he raised a cheroot to his mouth and drew upon it before nodding towards her canvas.

“Monsieur Monet has beat you to it, I’m afraid, mademoiselle. He was here years ago painting this very station.”

The back of Violet’s neck prickled with anger, but she continued to fill the leather pouch in which she stored her brushes and spoke without looking at the man.

“And many have also painted the gods of ancient Rome, the kings of England, the crucifixion of Christ himself… there are many ways to paint the same subject, as Monsieur Monet has done himself.”

There was a pause as she slipped a brush into the pouch.

“There is a park not far from here – many mothers and their children visit it. You’d surely find some good subjects there to paint.”

Violet was biting her tongue now as she deliberately gathered up her piece and slipped it into a canvas bag. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she said sharply in French, “but I prefer to paint the train station.”

He seemed not to notice the threat in her voice. “That’s curious. Seems an unusual subject for a young lady.”

She sighed deeply. “This was the first place I arrived at when I came to Paris.”

“You are English?”

She said nothing, just nodded as she began to fold up the easel. He paused as he drew upon the cheroot once more. “Do you model, perhaps?”

Violet clenched her jaw and gave him a pointed look. “No, but I know many artists up on the Butte who are lookin’ if you’re volunteerin’, monsieur.”

And without taking a moment to contemplate his blustering offense, she gathered up the last of her belongings and turned on a sharp heel to make her way to the station’s exit. It was only after she had crossed the bustling street beyond and began making her way up the hill towards Montmartre that her stride finally slackened, and her heart slowed its angry race. She could still feel the stranger’s eyes upon her and turned at one point to see if he had followed her, but there was no sign of him in the crowds. She frowned, sure she had sensed him behind her, but continued on her way.

Violet drew in a deep breath as she came to a stop outside le Chat Noir. It had opened only a year ago but already it was popular with everyone who had come to this hill to escape the conformity of Paris below – the artists and the musicians, the prostitutes and the pimps, and the bourgeoisie who fancied themselves a little bohemian. Violet shrugged and strode towards the doors. Regardless of who was here tonight, whether they be painter or poet, there was guaranteed to be alcohol and after her interaction with the man at the train station, she was in desperate need of a drink to shake off the lingering sensation of being watched.

It was busy now; music drifted out onto the street and smoke filled the air inside. She hefted up her canvas bag with the painting inside and crossed to the bar, scanning the crowd but seeing no one she knew, and so asked the bartender for a beer. He nodded and turned away as she set down her supplies and leaned her chin upon her hand with a heavy sigh. To think, only a few months ago she had been hanging her work alongside the likes of Morisot and Sisley, some of the biggest names in the Impressionist style. To have her paintings in such august company had been the pinnacle of her career, something she could never have hoped for back in England; not with her low beginnings and the stench of the rookery upon her. But here, in this city of light and cabarets and art, she had positioned herself as an enigma; a pretty, vivacious thing with no history that need get in the way of her rise.

And yet, she was a woman, and as that imbécile in the train station had reminded her, women in this world were usually expected to paint pretty things – children and flowers and scenes of domestic bliss. That, or be relegated to the role of muse or model, though the women Violet knew always managed to transcend such simple subjects in a way she had never been able to. She had no point of reference for soft things – not where she was from – and so found her own inspiration in the industry of Paris. The steelworks, the bridges, the trains – all that grinding metal and smoke and filth was so far from where she had come, and so comfortably impersonal. And slowly, bit by bit, she was making a name for herself as the archivist of industrial France, alongside those other artists who sought to record the fin de siècle. She nodded as the bartender set a glass brimming with foam before her.

“Violet, my pet.”

Violet froze with the beer halfway to her mouth as her stomach dropped. That voice. Not the voice of the man from the train station, but another. One she feared above all else. It had been nearly eight years since she had heard it last, but she would know that raspy, sly tone anywhere. For a moment, she considered not turning to face the speaker, relieved to languish in the moment before confirming who she knew stood there, in this small, crowded bar in Paris, a world away from where she had known them. But turn she did, and all her very worst fears were confirmed.

“Archie.” The words left her lips in a disbelieving whisper and suddenly, the din of the crowd surrounding them faded into a low murmur as she stared at the man who had spoken her name. He was dressed in brown tweed and wore a bowler hat low over his heavy brow. His smile was leering. He couldn’t seem to smile any other way, as she recalled. The smile grew wider as he contemplated her, for she was in no doubt that her face was ashen with shock. He took a step closer, knocking the brim of his hat back a fraction as though to get a better look at her.

“Violet, look at you – lovely as ever.”

A roar of laughter from somewhere at the back of the smoke-filled room broke her trance and she slowly shook her head, conscious suddenly of the glass in her hand. She set it down with trembling fingers upon the bar.

“Archie,” she said again, the disbelief now mixed with a trace of fear. She swallowed; tried her voice again. “How did you find me?”

“Why, you’re famous, Vi! In the papers and everythin’,” he replied, now reaching into his coat to withdraw a crumpled copy of The Times before unfolding it and snapping open to a page in the middle. His finger came to rest upon a small block of text in the upper right-hand corner. No picture; just a small, unassuming headline: Painter from St. Giles Making a Name for Herself in Paris.

Archie glanced up and gave her another leering grin. “Now how many artists do you know come from the rookery? Tommy found it and was keepin’ it for when I got out. Imagine, my Violet makin’ a name for herself. With the Frogs, no less.” He leaned in close and Violet would have shrunk back except she knew the pleasure he would take from that, so she remained still, trying not to let the fear show on her face. He knows . The wild thought raced through her mind, making her stomach clench with terror. He knew what she had done, and he was here to kill her.

“I thought you were doin’ bird at Newgate?” she finally said in a shaking voice, starting when he reached for the beer she had set on the bar and took a slow, deliberate sip. He grinned again.

“Got out, didn’t I? I have served my time, and I am a changed man,” he said, laying a mocking hand upon his chest and raising his eyes heavenward. Violet glanced towards the door. When her gaze returned to him, his expression was hard and she swallowed again, her body fairly vibrating with the need to move away from him. The edge of the bar was hard at her back. “I went to find you, Vi. Was the first thing I did when I got out of that shithole. Thought we was gonna get married – that’s what you promised, wasn’t it? When you told me you loved me.”

Violet said nothing, but her shoulders did sag with relief. He didn’t know. He was here, instead, to force her to make good on her promise to him. A prospect no less terrifying, but one for which her life was not in danger.

“I kept my promise; I got you both outta that home. The boys kept you safe – you’d both be dead now if it weren’t for me.” His eyes narrowed, eyes black as coal, and Violet’s throat tightened. She couldn’t help it. She leaned back as he closed in on her and the corner of his mouth turned up. “You were gone, Violet. Boys told me what you did. Didn’t even wait for the doors to close behind me.” His expression darkened; his eyes full of rage and… hurt? “Went and became a whore… sold yourself rather than be with me. And then Tommy tells me you’ve up and gone to France, and Della married herself some toff.”

Violet’s frown deepened as he said this. He’d better leave Della out of his dirty business. She was done with that life. Violet had tried to be done with it, too. But here it was, standing in front of her in a bar in Paris, the man who, as a boy, had got her and her friend out of the orphanage they had been raised in. The boy she had thought she loved, who had taken them into his gang, the Bruisers, and trained them to be thieves. Della had taken to it like a duck to water, had become Rosie Diver, the greatest pickpocket in St. Giles. But Violet had no talent for diving, and when they finally did escape, she had sold all she had – her body – to keep them fed. It had been Cora, the madam of a brothel in Seven Dials, who had taken her in and told her, if you’re going to sell yourself, do it where I can keep you safe.

“I’m not gonna marry you, Archie.”

His eyes narrowed and Violet, who had grown up in one of the worst slums, with some of the worst criminals in London, felt the terror crawling up inside her at that look. She pressed back further into the bar.

“What’s that, now?”

“I said, I’m not gonna marry you.” Violet’s voice grew stronger as she said this, even though she trembled in fear. The smile he gave her was chilling and he finally looked away from her, glancing towards the crowds surrounding them. She recognized a sculptor from the école des Beaux-Arts, and an art dealer who would frequent the exhibitions of the Impressionists. Most of these faces were those she recognized in passing. Archie returned his gaze to hers and her breath caught in her throat.

“Do they know, my love?”

She swallowed. “Know what?”

“Do they know you’re nothin’ but a Seven Dials whore?”

Violet winced and resisted the urge to push him away. Of course, they didn’t know. France had been a fresh start for her. Most of these people didn’t know Seven Dials from Shropshire. And they didn’t know her past. She had been scrupulous in keeping that from her fellow artists. She was pretty and young – they barely took her seriously as a painter. If they found out she had been a prostitute… well, that would spell the end of her art career, and the man at the train station would be her future. Do you model, perhaps?

“Archie, please…”

“You made a promise, Violet. I got you and Della out of that fuckin’ hole, I trained you both, and I did it all with your word that you’d be mine.”

Violet kept her voice low, but it was urgent. “I’ve got a life here now, Archie. A career, friends… I’m not goin’ back to London.”

His hand suddenly closed around her wrist and his face was in hers, red with fury. Her heart slammed against her ribs. “I take promises very seriously, Violet. I kept mine, and I killed to do it. You and that bitch Della would be dead if it weren’t for me. Let’s go.”

“Archie…” she started to protest but his fingers tightened upon her wrist, and she gasped, trying in vain to pull away.

“Shall I tell them?” His voice was low, threatening, as he looked slyly about them. Curious eyes turned towards them, and her heart lurched into her throat. For a moment she said nothing, swallowing back the rising anger at this man who would dare come here and threaten everything she had worked so hard for. A promise, indeed, had been made, but she had been young and desperate and had thought she was in love, never knowing at the time what a pledge made to a man like Archie Neville would entail.

“No,” she finally breathed out, closing her eyes against the wave of despair. “No, I’ll come with you.”

“Good girl,” he replied, his voice low and taunting. Tears pricked at her eyes as he drew away with a triumphant grin and she paused for a moment to compose herself before nodding towards him to lead the way. She spared a brief glance for the bag of art supplies on the floor near the bar but made no move to pick it up before following him to the door. Outside, night had fallen and though there was a chill in the early autumn air, the streets were busy as people made their way along the Boulevard de Rochechouart. Music wafted out from the many cabarets and bars lining the street and laughter erupted nearby as a group of men and women approached le Chat Noir. Violet made to step back as they reached the door and Archie did the same, stopping to pull on his gloves. She took a deep breath as the two gentlemen bringing up the rear of the group approached the door, both speaking in loud, rapid French and as one of them reached for the handle, she made her move. She darted under his outstretched arm, earning a disapproving shout, but never paused; never blinked to look back as she picked up her skirts and raced towards Rue Dancourt. Her heart thundered as Archie swore viciously and there was shouting – what she hoped was him getting into a scuffle with the two Frenchmen – but onwards she ran, pumping her arms and gasping as she careened down an alley between two restaurants.

Her footsteps echoed in the narrow passage and distant shouting reached her ears over the rush of blood at her temples. Down another alley, and another, until she was on Rue d’Orsel and carriages were rushing by as she skidded to a halt, finally daring to look back. A shadow moved far down the alley and her heart jumped, but she was off again, racing up another narrow lane, heedless of the shouted warnings and disapproving glares of those she passed.

She turned down another mews then, hoping to lose Archie in the warren of alleys and courtyards that he would be unfamiliar with as she made her way north to where her small flat was located just below the Butte, the hill that provided a sweeping view of Paris below. Her chest heaved now, and her legs ached, but she never slowed, knowing if he caught up with her, she faced a fate almost certainly worse than death. Sweat beaded down her back and her lungs burned as she burst onto Rue des Martyrs, pausing for only a moment to catch her breath before she darted across the street, cut through the small park there, and finally reached the neat, unassuming little building that had been her home for the last two years. She slowed to a walk as she followed the lane through to the rear of the building and slipped in through a back door.

Only when she was inside with the door closed firmly behind her did shefinally stop to draw breath, leaning against the wall and gasping before she mounted the narrow, steep steps to take her up to the second floor where her rooms were located. Her hands shook as she turned her key in the lock and stumbled inside. It was dark and quiet, the noise of the street below muffled, and Violet bit back a sob as she turned up the gas lamp that sat on the small table in the hall. She turned to lock the door behind her but paused as her fingers alighted upon the bolt when she realized, with a dreadful, sinking knowledge, that locking the door was an utterly futile endeavour. He found her in le Chat Noir, and he would find her here. Archie Neville was coming for her, and it was folly to think a locked door would prove any kind of barrier to him. She had to leave.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she staggered into her small bedchamber, its walls hung top to bottom with her sketches, scribbled on scraps of paper, and framed paintings, some of her own, some purchased from small art galleries around Montmartre. She turned up the lamp on the vanity, its surface scattered with powder pots, charcoal stubs, and scraps of ribbon, before glancing up to the gilt-framed canvas on the wall above her. It was a simple little still life – a ceramic bowl of cherries and peaches, sitting atop a scarred wooden tabletop draped with blue-and-white striped linen. It was the first painting she had completed after arriving in Paris two years ago, and it was with a heavy heart she turned from it and tugged an old leather suitcase out from under her bed.

There wasn’t any time to waste. Archie might be temporarily lost in the warren of streets which made up Montmartre, but there was little doubt in her mind that he would track her down soon enough. She might also have worried that he would simply go back to the busy bar and announce her secret to everyone there, but Archie was nothing if not predictable and she knew he would want her humiliation to be public, revenge for her betrayal. He would find her, and he would make sure she would not get away again. And then he would destroy her.

There was only one person Violet could think of who could help her; only one person she would trust in this world who would know what to do, and she had to get to them before Archie found her. She couldn’t help the tears now as they streamed down her cheeks, unchecked, as she stuffed gowns and underthings and food and whatever money she had tucked away into the case. She had a few pieces of jewellery, bought with the money she made from the first painting she sold, and she slipped those in, as well. When she had everything she thought she might need for the next week, she hefted the case up and carried it to the door. For a moment, she stood with her hand on the knob, her head bowed, and thought about turning back for one last look.

She shook her head instead, turned the knob, and carefully shut the door behind her.