3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Enzo tapped the sharp edge of the envelope against his palm. He spun it by its corners so that his name flashed in and out of view before he scrunched it into his fists. A small tear split the long edge. The thin opening bulged, as if it might burst and its secrets would spew out. He tore a little more, willing himself to shred the thick ivory parchment into fragments and let the letter inside scatter onto the filthy street.

Damn Matron.

Hadn't he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with that world? He didn't care if blue or red blood had made him a bastard—in a fight, all men bled the same. At Duke Street they imbued the young with the belief that a life of service was somehow noble, that they should be grateful, that each well-to-do gent with a guilty conscience who threw a little coin their way was a man to be admired, even as many of them deposited their own bastards into Matron's keeping by the back door.

He wouldn't shred the letter. He'd burn it. Maybe use it for fuel in the furnace, and slip the coin Harry made somewhere around Pall Mall, just to show he didn't care.

He shoved the envelope back into his pocket.

Southwark hummed different to the rookery. Closer to the river, it clanged and bellowed with the echo of boats and dock work, and the grinding activity from the shipyards further along the banks rolled over the water. Why Mina thought this place better than what he'd offered was beyond him. Surely one miserly slum, with boarded windows and doors that didn't hang straight, was as good as another.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door to her boarding house opened and Mina stepped onto the landing. She tugged her skirt straight, scanned the street, spotted him, and smiled.

To think sunlight slanted over her would be a lie—Southwark was too tightly packed and thick with fog for any sunbeams to bother reaching so far into misery. Yet, she shone like a little burst of light refracting off a sovereign. When Mina had first arrived at Duke Street, she'd been thin and frightened, and when she spoke, her words oscillated between garbled English and heavy German. Matron had taught her how to tie her thick, gold ringlets into plaits that he'd delighted in tugging, but never so hard it hurt, just enough to make her spin around. Even now, with her hair pulled back in a severe bun and the pinafore replaced with a dark grey skirt, white blouse and a thick pink sash, her smile seemed unaltered by time. As she crossed the street with a purposeful step, he had to brush away the urge to slap her arm and shout ‘catch me.'

As she pulled up before him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you steal that hat?' she asked.

Enzo tipped his new bowler and bent into an exaggerated bow. ‘I am offended. I scrubbed up for you.'

She crossed her arms and pinned him with a look patented by Matron.

‘Borrowed, from a vendor along the way. I intend to return it.' He held out his elbow. ‘Where to, Miss Fischer?'

‘Grosvenor Square,' she murmured.

Enzo whistled. ‘Nothing like aiming high.'

How quickly London morphed from slum to luxury, and how gently the tension seeped out of Mina as the streets shifted from dilapidation to affluence. As they crossed the Hungerford footbridge and negotiated the crowds, they made small talk about the clouds, the traffic, and exchanged tidbits of knowledge about other Duke Street kids. Her gaze darted between the people they passed, following a thick skirt of velvet, or eyeing a hat, like she was gathering them all up to save for later.

Right from her first day, Mina had always been too eager to learn how to please the uppers and had never set a toe wrong. Yet somehow, she'd been dismissed, and, to his delight, had enough gumption to be offended by it. As she chatted, he tried to imagine some scenario that led her to his door, but nothing fit with the well-behaved Mina he had known. By Trafalgar Square, busy with horse cabs, sightseers, and traders, he jostled her hip.

‘Out with it. What's the story?'

‘I told you.' Her grip around his elbow tightened. ‘They refuse to pay my wages. It's not right .'

‘Right and wrong, black and white, good and bad… the world is not as simple as you like to believe.' Enzo pulled one of Harry's sovereigns from his pocket. He flicked it off his thumb, and it spun one full revolution in the air before he snatched it in his palm.

Mina watched the glint of gold with working class hunger, before realisation lit her eyes. ‘Is that a fake coin? What are you going to do with it?'

‘Buy something small and pocket heavier change. Does that offend you?'

‘You shouldn't do that. It's not right. Rules exist for a reason.' Across the square, a policeman ambled into view. Mina followed his step and wrung her hands.

‘Are you going to report me?' Enzo tapped his cheek, as if in thought. ‘Dilemma, dilemma. If I were to do something outrageous… even illegal… you would be aiding a criminal. But if I was arrested, you would lose your helper. What are you going to do, little matron Mina? Side with what's right? Or with what you need?'

He spun the coin again, and it winked with light. Mina, her eyes wide with a slight horror, lunged to snatch it, but he had been palming purses for years, and the coin was safely in his pocket before she could blink in confusion. Enzo scanned the crowd. Well-trimmed coats, rabbit skin hats, plump feathers and fabric covered buttons… who, who, who would be the right sort of cove to offload a dimmick on? Enzo's gaze settled. Mr Howard. How perfectly serendipitous.

Two steps into the crowd, and Enzo slipped an umbrella from a man's elbow. Another two, and he replaced his bowler for a top hat from a man engrossed in his newspaper. With a ridiculously easy flick of the wrist, he acquired a monocle from a waistcoat, and squinted it into place. He turned to stare upward, as if enraptured with the statue of Nelson, sidled close to his target, then knocked against him in a stumble.

‘Apologies, chap.' He slipped into his formal tone, with its rounded consonants and vowels full of condescension. ‘Didn't see you there. Was distracted taking in the old duke.'

The man turned with a slight alarm, but as he scanned the new hat, the shell inlaid umbrella handle and the gold-rimmed monocle, he relaxed. As predicted, he looked, but didn't see past the trappings of a gent to Enzo's scuffed shoes and dirt hemmed trousers. Mr Howard's shoulders sagged with relief. ‘No harm done. I thought you were one of those pickpockets. It's disgraceful how they work the crowd.'

‘Here isn't so bad. But over by the gardens, watch your treasures. I heard there's a gang around there that target gentlemen with fair companions.' Enzo tipped the hat and bowed to the bright young woman at the man's side. ‘If you forgive me for being so forward with a compliment. They assume a man is too distracted by a pretty face to notice a fleecing.'

‘I appreciate the advice.' He shuffled, pulled a coin purse from his pocket, then tucked it into his inner coat.

Enzo let the silence stretch until it threatened to become uncomfortable.

‘I don't suppose there's any chance that I could trouble you…' he let his sentence trail. ‘No, it's not appropriate. Forget I mentioned it.'

The man's mouth set into a grim line. ‘I'm happy to help a fellow gentleman.' He forced the words out, as manners demanded a reply, even though he clearly wished Enzo gone. This was the best part. Using their own rules to skin them.

‘I'm heading for church, and all I have is a sovereign. I lost all my small coins at baccy, I mean…' Enzo pretended to hesitate. The man smirked, as if following the innuendo of a bad night at the illegal baccarat. ‘ Entertainment , last night. I don't want to put the whole thing on the plate. Who knows what they do with the collection? Any chance you would trade me for small change? And keep a shilling back for your troubles.'

With an easy chuckle, the man retrieved his purse. It was a deal good enough to make the exchange, but not so good as to arouse suspicion. Mr Howard counted until he had made a small stack of shillings and coppers between his fingers, then exchanged them for the sovereign with a greedy grin. With a tip of his top-hat and a good day, Enzo bowed and merged into the crowd.

Enzo returned the gold-rimmed glass. He swapped the top-hat for his bowler and delicately dropped the umbrella to the ground. As he spun to face Mina, the delighted gasp of ‘Oh, my brolly,' reached his ears.

The coins rustled as he shook them. A good mix of silver and copper, all heavy and clean, not one of them showing signs of thinning. He secreted them into his pocket. ‘Not a bad take.'

Mina chewed her lip. ‘Fake coins are thieving. If that poor man takes his money to the bank, it'll be confiscated. He'll lose it all.'

‘That poor man is Mr Howard, from Howard's glassworks. When he found out Harry, who had been his foreman for more than 10 years, had lost most of his hearing, he turfed him out without notice. And when Mrs Secombe's son lost an arm in the stamper, he sent them a bill for the time the machine was down.' Enzo pointed at the elegant beauty who hung from the man's elbow. ‘That woman is not his wife. Mr Howard is not a good man, yet the world rewards him for it. Why shouldn't I redistribute his wealth?' Enzo nodded at the bobby swaggering across the square. ‘Come on, little matron. Are you going to turn me in? Your wages, or the law? What's the story?'

‘I'm with child,' she said.

His smugness shrivelled to the size of a barley corn. ‘What? How?' he stammered.

Mina rolled her eyes. ‘What do you mean, how? The usual way. Or had you left before Matron's talk?'

‘I got Matron's talk.' The fear of it had never left him. ‘But this is you. Little matron Mina who never puts a foot wrong. You don't just be all…' Enzo waved a half circle in the vague direction of her middle. ‘Knapped.'

She hung her head as she threaded her hand through his crook. ‘Please save your judgement. I have enough of it for myself.'

Her tiny grip directed them away from the crowd and toward a side street. She led him into the genteel suburbs, with rich green leaves hanging plump from grey branches and doors thick with glistening paint. How could Mina be having a baby, with no hasty wedding, or even a speedy engagement?

Enzo squeezed her hand. ‘Did someone hurt you?'

‘Would you think better of me if they had?' Mina, again his little robin, with wide eyes begging for acceptance, looked up at him.

‘I don't think bad of you either way,' he said.

‘No, you wouldn't. I always liked that about you.' Her gaze followed the cracks in the pavement, and a thin smile stretched her lips, but did not inch to her eyes. ‘He twisted the truth, he flattered, and he said many things with one intention. I allowed myself to be a fool. But no. He did not hurt me.'

What type of man seduced a woman like Mina, then stood by as she was dismissed? What type of man didn't scoop her into his arms and declare her his own, or at least give her some kind of safety? A cad, the worst type of rake. A demon.

‘My hope is to leave the city,' she continued. ‘Make for Newcastle, or York. I'm sure most people will know it's a lie if I say I'm widowed, but in the bigger towns, people pry less. Or so I've heard. That's why I need my pay. For a ticket and a few weeks lodging. Patsy has been so helpful, but her kindness cannot last forever.'

‘Matron would look after your baby. She'd probably help you find another placement.' London wouldn't be the same if he knew Mina wasn't in it.

‘I will not have my child chasing the postmaster along the fence line, wondering if someone loves them, when already… oh dear God, I am so sick, all the time, and I mean, almost all the time, but I already love them so much. It's been so long since someone was part of me. I will not give that up without a fight.'

Mina remembered a love he had never known—the love of a mother. A corner of envelope pricked through his inner coat pocket, and into his chest. Enzo patted it down and creased it to comfort.

‘The house mistress guessed my condition when I was sick too many mornings in a row,' she said. ‘I'd worked almost the full month. Perhaps she had a right to dismiss me without a reference, but she had no right to keep my wages.'

They turned onto a well-bred street. He knew this place and knew it was better to keep his distance from it. During the peak of the season, they placed guards and gates at either end each night, so that the gentry could stumble about from house to house, party to party, without the risk of the lower orders getting in the way or taking advantage of them while soused. A few hobs swanned out of a villa as tall as a tenement, walked down the stairs, and turned in the direction of the park. Mina's grip on his elbow tightened.

‘Stand tall,' he said. ‘You're a Londoner; they're not. Your boots have more right to these stones than theirs.'

The steady clop and jingle of horses bounced between the walls, and Mina shrunk even more. Enzo steered them into a shadow before she cowered fully, and the ripple running through her body told him that this was the upper crust that had cushioned their lives with her labours, then refused to pay her the pittance they owed.

The carriage rolled to a stop. A man dressed in livery leapt from the rumble seat and disappeared behind the vehicle, presumably to open the door. A step folded out. Boots and skirt hems appeared through the gaps between the wheels. The lady of the house alighted. She ascended the stairs to a tall, brown brick townhouse, followed by an older man, likely her husband. A young man who looked about their own age followed.

Mina watched the small progression. The sparkle in her eyes wilted. He knew their sort. All proper manners and chivalry with upper ladies, but as rough as any rake with the maids and servants. Indignation filled his chest.

‘Goddam heirs,' Enzo grumbled.

‘Not him.' Mina pointed at the older man. A red blush flushed her cheeks. ‘Him. The husband.'

‘You must be kidding me,' he said with a grunt. ‘That's my sponsoring duke.'