Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Knowing now that the plan was in motion – that Archie would begin his unimpeded expansion into the East End – made the next two weeks just bearable for Violet. She still had her sketchbook, which blessedly passed the hours trapped in her little room, and John had even convinced Archie to let her have a book or two. But at night, alone in the darkness, she felt herself crawling out of her skin, trying desperately not to think of the four walls surrounding her. Instead, she would draw upon the memory of her afternoon with John in Bess’s room, how the rain had streaked down the windowpane as he had bent over her in the flickering candlelight to press his mouth to hers, to skim his hands over her flesh, taking her in one, hard thrust and dashing any doubts she might have harboured. Those memories, and his brief visits in the morning to bring her breakfast, were all that were getting her through each long, interminable day.

On the fifteenth day, as she lay upon the hard, narrow bed, staring up at the low ceiling and wondering if she and John would ever have the chance to be together again, the door opened. She rose with a long sigh, her breath catching as Archie stepped into the room, followed by John, who once again braced himself in the doorway and stared at some invisible spot on the opposite wall. Violet was very careful not to glance his way, keeping her sullen gaze fixed on Archie, instead. He was not smirking today, or thunderous with anger, as he usually was when he deigned to visit her down here in the cellars, happy to let her rot away until she agreed to keep her promise. He knew she was breaking; she could hardly hide the desperation which threatened to burst from her with each passing day. No, today he looked resigned, if a little resentful as he turned to face her, his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

“Been nearly a month now, Violet,” he began, giving his head a slow shake. “How long are you gonna keep this up?”

Violet said nothing as she glared up at him, and he let out a heavy sigh before lifting his shoulders.

“I’ve been in a generous mood lately and thinkin’ that you just need a little push. So, I’ve decided to put you to work – let you out of here for a bit.”

Violet couldn’t stop the widening of her eyes, and his expression immediately darkened as he pointed a stern finger at her chest, dropping his voice to speak in a low, threatening tone.

“Now don’t go gettin’ any notions, Violet – this ain’t me lettin’ you off the hook. You still made a promise, and you’re still gonna keep it.” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “That said, since you once did me a kindness, I’m gonna return the favour” – he paused and arched an expectant brow – “with the understandin’ that you have until the end of the year to keep that promise. If not…” Archie met her gaze, then, as he let the reminder of his threat to Della hang in the air between them. Violet’s chest grew cold, and she fought back a scowl, nodding instead as she looked down to her feet.

“Thank you, Archie.”

He sniffed in reply, as though not entirely pleased with the bargain he had offered before he waved a careless hand at John, who remained silent and stoic in the doorway.

“Johnny here says we need help up in the bar, cleanin’ it and so on. He’s gonna be keepin’ an eye on you for me whilst I’m expandin’ into the East End. And Violet…”

She looked up and there was a menacing gleam in his eyes.

“Don’t you even think about runnin’ off.”

Archie’s tone was sharp, and she shivered beneath his baleful glare, nodding quickly to appease him. He held her gaze for a few, tense moments before turning without another word and motioning for John, who caught her eye before turning to leave to give her a quick, knowing look. She let out a shuddering breath as the door closed behind the two men and lowered herself to the bed. A giddy laugh threatened to burst from her at the thought of finally being released from this room, but she swallowed it back as the weight of Archie’s new deadline grew heavy upon her. She closed her eyes, practically hearing the tick of the clock he had set, but quickly reminded herself that it wouldn’t matter in the end. John was prepared; he would be gathering all his evidence now, and she would finally get out of here. That night, she slept better than she had in weeks.

Archie was true to his word. Each morning, either Tommy or John would arrive to take Violet from the box and put her to work in the club, wiping down the bar and the tables from the night before, scrubbing dishes in the scullery or peeling potatoes in the back of the kitchens. She grinned as she worked, thrilled to simply be looking at more than four white walls, and if she was alone with John, he would smile back at her, and her heart would flutter as though she were some lovesick schoolgirl.

And then, one chill October morning, John came down to escort her up to the club, as he so often did, but this time, they did not stay to complete the usual chores.

“We have an errand to run,” John said to her with a smile as he opened the front doors and gestured for her to go ahead of him. She frowned, confused.

“Surely Archie’s not lettin’ me leave?”

John shrugged as she slowly walked by him and out into the brisk morning air.

“I’m to pick up some supplies for the kitchen and I said I would need someone to help. He suggested you go with me.” He gave her a wry smile as he set his hat upon his head. “I think he’s trying to butter you up. Been asking me if you’re finally warming up to him.”

Violet fell into step beside him as she pulled her dolman coat tighter about her throat to ward off the cold. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said you seemed happy enough, that I even caught you humming to yourself one day. That seemed to please him.”

Violet gave a disdainful sniff as they headed towards the market. “Well on my way to fallin’ head over heels, I am,” she said in a scathing voice as John let out a low chuckle.

Even away from the club and Covent Garden, John and Violet never once allowed the mask to slip; she remained his surly captive and he her put-upon minder. Archie still ruled over this territory and had eyes everywhere. But as they made their way through the narrow alleys and rows of tenement housing which would take them to the market, they found themselves alone in a small courtyard surrounded by brick walls. John did not pause as they made their way through to the gate embedded in the wall on the far side, but he did take the opportunity to reach out and touch Violet, gently, upon the small of her back. She did not break stride as they reached the gate and he pulled it open with a deafening squeal, but she did smile as he gestured for her to go ahead of him.

“I ran into Cora after the fight last night,” he said as they passed through the gate. Violet instinctively glanced down at his hands and saw the bruised, scraped knuckles – she would be very much relieved when he no longer had to engage in such brutal fighting to maintain his cover in the gang. She spoke as she looked back up at him.

“How is she? I’m afraid I got rather bad at writin’ to her.”

He waited until they crossed through a jumbled intersection busy with horses and carts and streetsweepers before he replied.

“She’s well. I’ve been helping her with a few of the girls who wanted to go to school. One of them has even left to do the books at a brewery in Rotherhithe.”

Violet glanced over at him, impressed.

“Really? How’d you convince them to do that?”

One side of John’s mouth turned up as they stopped in front of a little shop, its grubby window filled with pots and pans and other cooking supplies.

“Oh, they didn’t need convincing. They wanted to go. I just made sure they had clothes and books… there’s a charity in Whitechapel that helps women ‘ in need of saving ’” – he emphasized the last words with a knowing smile as he looked over at her – “and I’ll send anyone their way who’s looking to get out.”

“Why, aren’t you just a knight in shinin’ armour?” Violet said with a wink as John reached for the doorlatch. He allowed a small, conspiratorial smile as he swung the door open.

“Would you like to wait out here?” he asked.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off?” she replied with an arch of her brow. He shook his head.

“Violet the prisoner has far too much sense to run off from Archie Neville again.”

She sighed. “Yes, unfortunately, she does.”

John offered a sympathetic look as he stepped inside and left her to watch the people bustling past. For a while, she was content to sit on the steps outside the shop and let the world pass her by, happy to have more than four white walls to look at. Eventually, a spark of inspiration struck her, and she reached into her pocket to withdraw her sketchbook and a pencil, opening to a blank page, and raising her gaze to the little butcher shop across the street. She liked their sign – a fattened pig carved into wood, surmounted by the name of the shop in letters painted in bold red: Smith a taste of Paris dropped right in the middle of Soho, with pale marble counters and crystal chandeliers and silvered mirror on the wall behind the counter, inscribed with the words Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. The plain red flag of the Paris Commune had been strung up over the door to the kitchen, and Violet grinned before greeting the shopgirl in French.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. May we have two pains au chocolat ? And two of the Dijon squares?”

“And two cups of tea, please,” John added, meeting Violet’s gaze. “We can eat here. There’s no hurry.”

Violet breathed a small sigh of gratitude – she would do anything to avoid going back to the box and its bare walls. More than that, though… she had found herself anticipating every minute she could spend with John. At first, it had been out of relief. He was not Archie, or Tommy, and that was enough to be grateful for his presence. But now, after that rainy afternoon in Bess’s room, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. Occasionally, that little voice would slip into her consciousness, to whisper that he was the same as the others… he had fucked her, and what need had he for her now? After all, he still maintained his demeanor of polite amiability. He was never short, nor distant, nor cold. But he’s never said he cares for you; he’s never asked you to stay. He will never love you.

That voice had kept her up for far more nights than she cared to admit. But just when the voice began to grow louder, John would always do something to prove it wrong. He got her books. He always brought her good food: sneaking her meat pies from the club, or little biscuits, or fresh fruit, or the occasional sandwich. And, most importantly, she was sure her being let out of the box was partly his doing; a hint or suggestion made to Archie which had convinced her would-be fiancé that he might persuade her if he gave her just a bit more freedom.

And so, she had managed to quieten that little voice, telling herself that he was simply being professional, keeping them safe from Archie’s wrath should they ever be discovered. She had even considered, in a moment of carefree joy, when he had opened the door to the club to indicate that she was to go with him, asking him to join her in Paris. Not to visit. To stay. Even the thought had made her chest grow warm, envisioning him living with her in her little flat in Montmartre, waking up with the sun dappling the peach-coloured walls of her bedroom, sliding her hands over his chest, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles, and lower, making love with him before heading to her little studio. John could surely find work with the police or gendarmerie… if he wanted.

Violet blinked away the doubts as she took the seat he pulled out for her at one of the small, marble-topped tables, smiling as he set down a plate with the pastries. The girl behind the counter arrived shortly thereafter with cups and saucers, and a small pot of tea.

John was careful to take the seat which looked out onto the street, and smiled as he lifted the pot to fill her cup.

“We’re very close now, Violet. Archie and Tommy have already shaken down a whole section of businesses in Wapping, and they’re moving into Limehouse next. I’m already collecting evidence – names, dates, everything.” He glanced around the shop with a smile. “Soon, you’ll be back to the real thing.”

Violet grinned as she bit into one of the Dijon squares, a cheesy, mustardy little tart, and closed her eyes as she savoured the treat.

“Mmm, this is as close to the real thing as I could’ve hoped for.” She opened her eyes once more to find him watching her, the corner of his mouth hitched up. “Thank you, John. Truly. You’ve made this whole horrible ordeal bearable.”

His smile faded as he set down his cup. “I’ve tried… I felt so badly that you had to be involved at all, I wanted to make sure that you were comfortable at the very least.”

Violet shrugged and met his gaze, holding it for a moment before she replied, direct and unblinking, “It hasn’t been all bad.”

John’s lips parted and his eyes grew dark as he stared at her across the little table, the steam from the tea curling up between them. “No,” he finally said in a low, husky voice, his mouth turning up. “It hasn’t.”

Violet bit her lip and her skin tingled as though in anticipation of his touch. Her fingers inched towards his hand, stopping only when a bell rang and the door to the patisserie opened. A woman in navy plaid along with two little girls stepped into the shop amid a gust of biting autumn wind, and Violet pulled her hand back, swallowing the rising heat. John gave a quick smile and cleared his throat as he lifted his cup once more and took a quick sip.

“I’ve one more stop to make before we head back to the Devil’s Den, if you don’t mind.”

Violet shook her head as she sat up straighter in her chair. “No, not at all. Anythin’ to avoid goin’ back to that bloody room.”

He grinned as he popped the last bite of the pain au chocolat into his mouth, swallowed it back with the dregs of his tea, and rose from his seat to offer his hand. Violet quickly emptied her own cup and took it, brushing the crumbs from her lap. She drew on her gloves as he moved ahead to open the door to the tinkling of the bell. Once outside, he gave her a quick, knowing smile before settling his expression into that of unduly burdened minder, and she into resentful captive as they made their way back into the twist of streets that formed Covent Garden.

Passing through the tenements, they found themselves on a narrow street, walking by a greengrocer with stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables on display outside. John paused and turned to her.

“Do you want to pick out a few things?” he asked, gesturing to a table covered in shiny yellow apples.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, snatching up one of the apples before wandering further along to have a look at the oranges. John nodded and moved further up the street to a boy standing next to a stack of newspapers. He offered the boy a coin and was handed a paper as Violet turned away to pluck up one of the oranges, examining it for a moment before moving on to have a look at a display of pears. She picked out two, saving one for John, and when she turned to show him, saw that he was chatting with the newspaper boy, a lad of ten or eleven. The boy was smiling as he pulled a little book from his pocket and held it up to show John, who nodded in approval. Violet watched them for a moment, her eyes narrowed, before she shoved the fruit into her pockets and snatched out her sketchbook once more. She drew quickly, capturing the boy’s bright smile and threadbare little coat, and was just adding in the lamppost he stood beside when John laid a friendly hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his hair before waving goodbye. When he turned and came towards her, John was smiling, and she tucked away her sketchbook and held out one of the pears as he approached.

“Who was that?” she asked as he took the fruit, stepping away to hand a few coins over to the shopkeeper who was sweeping off the front steps. John bit into it as he joined her once more and started walking with her towards Covent Garden.

“Oh, that’s William. I got used to seeing him every morning on the way to sparring practice and asked if he was going to school. He said his mum had him out selling papers since his father died last winter. He’s learning his letters and wanted to show me the primer he’s reading.”

“Oh… the poor lad,” Violet said as she tucked the pear and the orange into her pockets before taking a bite of her apple. John nodded.

“I hated seeing someone so young having to work just to keep a roof over his family’s head, like I did.” He glanced at her. “Like so many of us did.”

Violet said nothing as she took another bite of her apple.

“So, I spoke with his mum, told her if he was able to go to school during the day and only sell papers on Sundays, I’d make sure he got whatever he made for selling them during the week.” He sighed and bit into the pear, chewing before he continued. “I can’t do it for all of them, of course. But he’s a good lad, got a good head on his shoulders. Once I’m promoted, I’ll be able to do so much more.”

He nodded as they crossed the street, and Violet thought back to the boy’s wide smile and how proudly he had shown off his book. The image she had had of John with her in her little flat in Paris suddenly seemed like an impossibility, for how could she possibly ask him to abandon the people he seemed so eager to help? How could she ask him to give that up? It was with that question in her mind that the day suddenly became a little less bright.