Chapter 8

EIGHT

A week passed. Two weeks. Mr. Barrow had not yet returned – had sent no word of what was happening – and all Violet could do was bake bread and paint. Her baking had improved significantly – Mrs. Beatty had even served her last loaf for the staff dinner the night before and everyone had proclaimed it to be perfection, causing the cook to beam proudly at her protégée. Her painting, however, had taken a different turn. The little winged cherub in the conservatory had become her muse. She spent hours there now, dressed in an old, paint-splattered wrapper, and had already produced three different paintings of the statue. They had grown darker, somehow, the burst of colour in the background from the riot of tropical flowers fading from the first painting to become a muddle of greys and browns in the latest.

A letter came from Della, and she read it over and over, as though it were a lifeline in a stormy sea.

Dearest Violet,

I have been assured that you are safe at Bradford House, and I hope you are finding it comfortable. I know Detective Inspector Barrow will be working hard to conclude this operation so that you may have your freedom once more. He was taught by the very best, you know. All the same, I worry. I’ve been kept awake at night with dreams of Archie and the time we spent with him. Our training. Our escape. I’ve told Cole about what happened. Not everything. There are some things I cannot bring myself to speak of even after all these years, and I’m sure you would agree. I wish with all my heart I could be there with you, but Cole says it would not be wise for me to return to London and draw attention to Bradford House. Archie will surely know who I am now, and he will be waiting for me to contact you. It is quite difficult to remain incognito as the Countess of Bradford, I’m afraid.

Instead, little Clara and I shall wait until we can finally make good on our plans to visit you in Paris. Notre Dame awaits! And if you should ever need anything – anything at all – Mrs. Cooper will be happy to oblige. She has become a trusted friend and I know she will care for you as she cared for me. I’ll write often, and I look forward to your response. Please be safe… we have plans, you and I.

Love always,

Your friend,

Della

After reading the missive, Violet carefully refolded the paper and tucked it into the small drawer in her bedside table before taking up a fountain pen and fresh sheet of paper to respond.

Dearest Della,

I am safe and well. I cannot thank your husband enough for letting me stay here. I don’t know where I would have gone without him. Detective Inspector Barrow has been most helpful. He even sent me some art supplies and I haven’t stopped painting since. I shall send you one of my pieces when it’s finished.

He’s back now. He’s looking for me, and he’s looking for whoever turned him in. Della, I hardly sleep at night, thinking about what he would do if he found me. Worse, if he knew it was me that got him put away. I know Detective Inspector Barrow will do his best, but you and I both know how single-minded Archie can be. He trusts no one, and he’ll be even less trusting now, knowing whoever turned him in is still out there. I’m afraid I’ll be here in this house forever, and we’ll never get to meet in Paris. I’m afraid I’ll never see my little studio again, I’ll lose my patrons, I’ll lose everything I built there.

I think often of those talks we had at night, of what we would do if we had the money and the power to change the rookery. I hadn’t thought of those talks in years, but I have so much time now, I can’t stop thinking. I don’t believe we ever thought we’d actually get out of there, but I never dreamed I’d have to go back. I hated it there, Della, it felt like I couldn’t get clean of it, and I was there for hardly more than a few hours.

Did you ever consider going back, like we talked about all those years ago? Or is it all a bad memory?

I look forward to your next letter and seeing you and Clara again.

Love always,

Your dearest friend,

Violet

Violet set down the pen and stared down at the letter as she waited for the ink to dry on the last paragraph she had added on a whim. She and Della had, indeed, discussed what they would do to change the rookery, given enough money and power, whispering to each other at night in the orphanage before being scolded by the matron. When they had left and had to worry about food and shelter, and how they might escape Archie and his gang, they had forgotten their talks and their dreams of making St. Giles a better place for those who called it home. But Mr. Barrow’s words hadn’t stopped playing in her head since that day in the garden: I’m back where I started, trying to make the rookery better for the folks living there now , and they had reminded her of the dreams she and Della had shared.

But she had gone back – been forced to, but had gone back, nonetheless – and she had hated it. She couldn’t wait to scrub it from her skin, as though the very essence of the rookery had clung to her, reminding her of her past self. And Violet never wanted to be her past self again: the woman who had fallen utterly and completely for a man who had revealed himself to be a monster, who had risked her life to escape him, who had sold herself rather than be married to him. It was nearly a decade of her life that she would be happy to wipe from her memory and never revisit. She could hardly believe that Mr. Barrow, finally freed of the grasping poverty to rise to such heights, had gone back of his own volition.

Violet shuddered as she stood from the writing desk and drifted to the window, envelope still in hand. She peered down at the gardens below, as though he would appear there, and sighed. The garden was quiet, not even a gardener to be seen, and a small knot of worry tightened in her chest. It had been two weeks now, two weeks without so much as a note to let her know how the operation was progressing, or if he was safe. She swallowed back the rising lump in her throat. Had Archie found him out? Was it as she had warned him, and he was now drifting along the banks of the Thames, another unidentified body, another victim of the gangs who controlled the rookeries?

She exhaled a short, sharp breath and turned away from the window to leave her room, making her way down to the kitchens in the hopes of finding a footman to post her letter. She poked her head around the door, but the room was empty. A stack of newspapers had been left on the table and, curious, she drifted idly towards it to pluck up one of the papers. There was little of interest on the front page – something about the war in Egypt, about the founding of a new football club, and she slowly turned to the next page, and the next, until a small headline caught her eye.

Dismembered Body Found in Covent Garden, Police Report

A cold shiver ran up Violet’s back as the knot in her chest tightened once more. She read on. The unidentified body of a man, approximately 25-30 years of age, was discovered outside a brothel in Covent Garden on Thursday evening, police report. The body had been dismembered, but so far police have been unable to find witnesses to this ghastly crime. Neighbours attribute the murder to the work of local gangs, who have become increasingly violent over the last several weeks. An anonymous source blames the leader of the Bruisers, one Archie ‘Iron Fist’ Neville, who was recently released from Newgate Prison after serving a sentence of eight years in relation to charges of assault, prostitution, and robbery. With no witnesses, however, police say the investigation may be unable to continue. If anyone was witness to this crime or has any additional information, they are asked to contact the Metropolitan Police.

Violet’s hands shook as she slowly closed the paper and stepped back, the envelope left, forgotten, on the table. A terrible dread filled her, suffocating her, until she was gasping, bent over the table, her fingers clutching the scarred wooden top. Mrs. Beatty found her thusly and rushed over to lay a comforting hand upon Violet’s back.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

Violet could barely say the words. “I think… I think Mr. Barrow might be dead. Oh, no.” Her hand came up to her lips as the last sentence gasped out of her. Mrs. Beatty stilled and put a hand to her chest.

“Dead? How?”

Violet almost didn’t hear the woman as she stared down at the text on the paper, the words blurring together as tears filled her vision. But slowly, rising through her like water boiling in a kettle, anger replaced the fear as she thought of all Archie had done – to her, to the people of St. Giles and Covent Garden, and the rage filled her like a terrible storm, battering at her until she turned, her jaw set, and made for the back door. Mrs. Beatty rushed after her.

“Where are you going? What’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out.”

She had just about reached the door when Mrs. Cooper stepped out of her office and set her hands upon her hips, staring Violet down with an admittedly fierce expression.

“Where are you going, Miss Latimer?”

Violet stopped short. “I’m gonna find out if Mr. Barrow is alright.”

There was a flash of emotion in the older woman’s grey eyes before she slowly shook her head, softening her features just as she reached out and laid her hand over Violet’s.

“Now you know I cannot let you leave without word from the police. You are an important witness. If you are referring to the story about the man found in Covent Garden” – her voice wavered briefly as she said this – “we do not yet know if that was Detective Inspector Barrow. Let us not go rushing headlong into dangerous situations without first understanding the facts.”

“But I must know?—”

“Calm, Miss Latimer, let us remain calm. I am certain if anything had happened to him, someone from Scotland Yard would have sent word. Let us wait. And pray.” She paused and gave Violet a meaningful look, squeezing her hand before withdrawing. The rage continued to burn, but Violet pushed it down for the moment, took a deep breath, and managed a small nod of agreement.

“Yes, Mrs. Cooper. You’re right. We mustn’t be rash.”

“Very good. Now, why don’t you go on up to your rooms and I’ll send Penny up to help you dress for dinner.”

Mrs. Beatty’s hand touched hers, taking it to guide her back to the kitchens, and Violet followed mutely, numb with shock, burning with rage.

Dinner with the staff was decidedly restrained, no one daring to breathe the name Barrow. Penny’s eyes were noticeably red, and she was subdued as she poked at her beef stew. Mrs. Beatty was unnaturally cheerful, her attempts to get the staff talking valiant indeed. Violet said little and ate her meal with cold determination as the anger continued to simmer low in the pit of her stomach. By God, if she ever saw Archie again, she would not run this time – she would claw his cursed eyes out of his head if he had laid a single hand on Mr. Barrow. Dinner ended quickly, for no one seemed eager for conversation with the unspoken understanding that their former co-worker may be dead; dismembered in a back alley in Covent Garden.

After helping to clear the dishes, Violet returned to the conservatory, making her way through scented blossoms and waving palm fronds to where her easel had been left at the back of the room. For a long moment, she stared at the canvas and the half-finished painting upon it but could not find the will to put brush to paint and so sat with a heavy sigh and picked up the leather-bound sketchbook she had left on the bench. Her thumb caressed the soft cover as she unspooled the twine which held the book closed, opening it to where she had tucked a scrap of ribbon between the pages. There, beside smaller drawings of the cherub she had used to map out her canvas, were several sketches of a man’s face, drawn from different angles. They were little more than line drawings, done during moments of idle musing, but they were all of the same man. John Barrow, brought to life on the page with a series of slashing lines and subtle shading. Unusual for her, and she frowned at the page. Faces, and people in general, were something she had always struggled to draw – it had always seemed too personal, too intimate, as though she would be seeing into someone by capturing their likeness. She had always preferred her subjects to be closed to her – railyards and bridges rarely asked anything of her and demanded little introspection. But with John Barrow… she had been compelled to depict him in some manner. Certainly, he was handsome, with all those sharp lines and defined muscles, but there was something more, something in his eyes, that she couldn’t help but want to recreate.

Anger rose in her suddenly, at the same time tears stung her eyes, and she quickly closed the book and set it aside. For a long time, she sat in the quiet of the conservatory as night closed around her until someone cleared their throat and she looked up.

And there he was, standing at the end of the path which led to the fountain as he had the last time they had been here together, very much alive. Something broke inside Violet at that moment. The last month spent hanging on by a thread, the constant fear and worry and sleepless nights, collided with the sudden, gut-wrenching relief to see Mr. Barrow still alive. Her face burned and she couldn’t help it; the sob burst from her as she pushed herself up from the bench and raced to him. Last time it had been in gratitude for the art supplies; now it was only immense relief and she gasped as she flung herself into his arms, clinging to him as though she would never let go. He said nothing, just folded his arms around her, holding her as she sobbed against his chest.

“I thought… I thought you were dead,” she choked out against the soft wool of his overcoat. His hand came up to caress the back of her head as he tutted softly.

“I’m safe, Miss Latimer, perfectly safe. You must have seen the paper.”

She drew away from him now, wiping hastily at her eyes before she spoke, her voice low. “Who was it?’

He sighed and stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “A member of the Limehouse Gang. Archie’s getting very serious about finding whoever turned him in, and he suspects Edward Brill.”

Violet froze as she was struck by the sudden, terrible realization. A man was dead. For something she had done. Someone had been murdered while she sat amid ferns and palms, painting her little cherubs, foolishly thinking that Archie would just go on looking for the person who had sent him to Newgate and there would be no consequences. Worse than foolish. Stupid. Ignorant. Her hands balled into fists, and she lowered her tearful gaze to the ground, unable to bear Mr. Barrow’s scrutiny.

“Miss Latimer,” he said softly. She shook her head, refusing to look up. “This is not your fault.”

“A man is dead. A man is dead for what I did.”

“Miss Latimer.”

She raised a reluctant gaze and met warm, brown eyes.

“You know as well as I do that Archie belonged in Newgate. Still belongs. He wasn’t convicted of anything serious enough to be put away for good last time, but I promise you that he will not get off so lightly again. This was not your fault.” He said the words again, stronger this time and touched a finger to her chin so that she was compelled to meet his earnest gaze. Violet’s heart sank.

“He’s gonna start a war.”

“It’s likely his intention.”

“Likely?”

He sighed again. “I can’t be sure… Archie hasn’t been forthcoming with his plans.”

Violet shook her head, confused. “You’ve been gone two weeks now and you still don’t know his plans?” Despair edged her voice and suddenly, Paris and her art and her friends seemed to grow even further beyond her reach.

Mr. Barrow’s brow quirked up. “He’s not a trusting man. Less so since leaving Newgate. All I do for him now is fight and search for you.”

Violet looked down, saw his arms were still around her and felt a warm flush. She cleared her throat as she stepped out of his embrace, turning away to draw in a deep breath.

“What do I do to get him to trust me?” he asked as she rubbed a hand over her face. She shook her head.

“I told you – give him what he wants and don’t question him.”

There was a long pause.

“You know there’s only one thing he really wants.”

Violet’s breath came out in a shuddering sigh as she turned back to him.

“I know.”

The corner of Mr. Barrow’s mouth turned up. “Not to worry – got another fight next week, some fella from Holborn. If I keep winning, I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Violet was beginning to doubt that any amount of winning would get Archie to trust John Barrow, but she had to hold on to that paper-thin shred of hope. How else was she to get out of this place and back home? She forced a smile and gestured to his mouth, noting the split lip he had been nursing when she saw him last was now almost healed.

“If you’ve a sweetheart you’re goin’ home to, she’s done a decent job patchin’ that up for you.”

He gave a short laugh and absently touched a finger to his mouth, while Violet immediately chided herself for making such a personal remark. Why on earth would she want to know who he was going home to or not?

“All my doing, I’m afraid – I’ve become rather good at fixing myself up. A necessary evil in my current line of work. Though it would be nice to have someone else do it for me.”

His words hung in the air between them, seeming to last an eternity before Violet spoke, concerned. “You don’t have a cornerman during fights?”

He shrugged. “Tommy’ll act as cornerman if he’s at the fight, or one of the other lads, but we’re not exactly following the Queensberry Rules.”

Violet managed a lame grin as she rubbed an awkward hand over the back of her neck, chiding herself for uttering something so daft, and at the same time feeling a mild thrill at the confirmation that there was no woman waiting for him. Why do you care, you silly twit? You’ll never be his woman. You’ll never be anyone’s woman. She swallowed back the rising flush creeping up her cheeks, hating that voice that seemed to follow her; it was a constant and unwelcome reminder of her past and how she could not escape it, no matter how much she wanted to. In a feeble attempt to change the subject, she asked, “I don’t suppose you want to stay and have a drink? I’m sure Lord Bradford won’t mind if we help ourselves to the good stuff.”

Mr. Barrow laughed at that, a deep, rumbling sound that she felt all the way down to her bones. He shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’m expected back at the club to work the door. I’m security now, as well, it would seem. I just… I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Oh… of course. Then I suppose you ought to get goin’.” Disappointment filled Violet, but she fought to keep it from her voice. He clearly heard it anyway, for his expression softened and he reached out then and, much to her shock, brushed away the stray tendril of hair she didn’t realize had slipped from her chignon. His hand lingered there by her ear as he tucked it away and all the muscles in her belly grew taut, desire coiling down from her sternum to between her thighs. He held her gaze, his velvet-brown eyes growing darker with something Violet would recognize from a mile away – lust. Dozens and dozens of men had looked at her like that when she had dealt in engendering lust, but few had ever caused her to reciprocate the feeling.

And oh, wouldn’t it be so easy to let him fold her back up in those arms, hard with sinew and muscle, and kiss him again. Perhaps let him lift her onto one of the potting tables and open her legs around his hips, forgetting Archie and all he no doubt had in store for her.

But it had been so long, and there was still that small part of her, deep inside, the part of her body she had sold, that was suspicious of intimacy; that whoever was offering it only sought a warm body, never anything more. Worse, that the instincts which had let her fall for Archie would be wrong again. And so, she slowly took a step back and said again, in a strained whisper, “You should get goin’.”

Mr. Barrow blinked at her and shook his head. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll return when I’m able to update you… and please don’t worry about me, Miss Latimer. Archie doesn’t trust me just yet, but he’s not suspicious. This will take time, and we anticipated that it would.” The corners of his mouth turned up, just a little. “I will be very careful.”

She nodded but didn’t smile as he paused, seeming to want to say something to her before he dipped his head.

“Goodnight, Miss Latimer.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Barrow.”

He pulled away and disappeared into the darkness and Violet tried not to think of where he was headed and the danger that awaited him.