out from the pain of it, thrusting her from him so forcefully that she fell against the table and toppled a chair over. ‘That’s a foretaste of the punishment you can expect if I have to come lookin’ for you.’
Jack’s parting words seared into Edwina’s memory with the bitter gall of betrayal. The fact that she could have been so stupid as to believe she could go on her way when the fancy took her, that Jack would simply let her walk away, showed her weakness of character, in her mind. Her thoughts traced over the events that had led up to her present predicament, seeking to find the exact moment when she had become Jack’s property, and she knew it had been right from the very beginning.
She was thrown into a dilemma as to what to do next. Its solution concealed itself in the chaotic frenzy of her thoughts. With nothing to her name but a few coppers, where could she go? There was no one she could turn to, no safe haven she could seek, and if she ran from Jack her fortune would be what she could make herself.
Feeling a bone weariness creeping over her, she sat and placed her forearms on the table, lowering her head upon them and sighing. ‘Oh, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to leave me to the mercy of Uncle Henry?’
Gordon Marchant had been a good father to her. She recalled how, handsome and proud, he’d smiled down at her from the saddle that last morning when he’d left Oakwood Hall, their fine Hertfordshire home, with his brother Henry, prepared to meet his creditor Silas Clifford, the Earl of Taplow, and beg for more time to pay back what he owed, and how she had stood on tiptoe to meet his parting embrace. The warmth and safety of his tone enclosed her for a moment.
‘Promise me you’ll have a care,’ she’d said.
‘Don’t worry, Edwina.’ His voice was quiet and he released her gently. ‘I’ll be back, and, if not, you can trust Henry. He’ll take care of you.’ Those had been his last words to her.
Henry had brought him home across the saddle of his horse, his fine clothes stained dark crimson with his life’s blood. Her heart hardened. He had claimed her father had had a run in with a thief on the road to Taplow Court. She had believed him. Henry had smiled and promised to handle everything—and he’d handled it very well…the blackguard.
Together Henry and the Earl of Taplow had drawn up a marriage contract. The Earl had proposed to disregard his losses and marry her without a dowry. Anger welled up in her, anger at Uncle Henry, at the Earl of Taplow. They had done this to her. She would never forgive them, either of them, ever!
In her mind’s eyes she saw Silas Clifford. To a seventeen-year-old girl, at fifty he was an old man. He was thin, his skin pale with prominent veins. His hair was white and he gave the impression of deformity without any obvious malformation. In fact, she had found everything about him displeasing. When he had come across her riding her horse along the lane near Oakwood Hall, his attention had been sharply and decisively arrested.
She recalled how he had called on her father soon after, how he had run his eyes over her, examining her face and figure as he would a prize cow. His hissing intake of breath as he did so had reminded her of a snake, and she had been glad when his business with her father had been concluded and he had gone on his way.
But following his visit her father had been uneasy and nervous, and to this day she did not know why. Soon afterwards he had been killed and Henry had become her guardian, and with it came the suspicion that he had killed her father. His odd behaviour, and the way he had of avoiding her eyes and refusing to speak of the tragic incident that had occurred on the road to Taplow Court, fuelled this suspicion, until she became certain of it.
What would her father think of Henry now? It had never occurred to him to doubt the honour of his own brother. Henry had fooled her father. He had taken his trust and trampled it. By running away she had made him pay for his lies.
Tears of fear, sorrow and frustration welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Father, why did you desert me? I have lost everything.’
It was a cry from the heart, the cry of a lost and lonely child, but the sorrow that shaped it was soon spent. Jack and his kind would not defeat her. The food Adam had bought her still filled her stomach and lent support to her resolve. All she needed was the courage to remove herself as far away from Jack as she possibly could. She had not escaped from her uncle’s clutches only to die a lingering death in the filth and squalor of St Giles, wretched and without hope.
She would not be beaten. She was young. She had the strength and the power to survive and grasp for herself a better future. She would make it happen because, if she didn’t, no one else would. What was it Adam had said—that a person must have faith and pride in oneself, must believe in oneself? Well, she did believe in herself, and she would start by taking control of her life.
There would be no more Jack. No more Silas Clifford. No more Uncle Henry. Somehow she must find her way back to her own kind, but first she must have money, and Adam would give her that. She would find the boy Toby and take the reward he had promised for herself.
Her spirits strengthened, the following morning she left her squalid room for the last time and took her first steps into an uncertain future. If Jack caught her, there was no telling what he would do. But maybe he wouldn’t catch her. It was a risk she was willing to take.
For three days Edwina scoured the vast network of alleyways and yards of St Giles, certain they had been built for the very purpose of concealment. It was like a vast jungle, which harboured criminals with as great a security as accorded to wild beasts in the jungles of Africa and India.
Careful to avoid the places where she knew Jack would be, she entered and searched places she would have steered clear of before—the meanest hovels, from the cellars to the rooms stacked on top. In the streets clouds of flies hovered over horse dung and offal from the slaughterhouses, mingling with the stench of unwashed humanity. Edwina was oblivious of everything outside her own purpose. She questioned fellow thieves and beggars. Everyone had seen crippled boys, and there were some who did fit Toby’s description, but they were nameless.
It was almost dark and Edwina, utterly dejected and suffering from exhaustion, found herself in Covent Garden. Sitting on a low wall at the base of some iron railings, she kept herself awake only by a prodigious effort of will. Her whole body ached as if she had been beaten, and she blinked like a night-bird at the many bright lights around her.
She often found her way to the busy piazza. It was famous for its gaming, rowdy taverns, chocolate and coffee houses, and brothels filled with loose women. Its marvellous fruit and vegetable market and theatres giving it flavour and vitality, Covent Garden was pervaded by an atmosphere of uninhibited pleasure, attracting all kinds of folk—in particular actors, painters and writers—both day and night. Tonight was no different to all the others, as people came to savour the high life. Even in the fading light the vibrant colours drew Edwina into the tableau, and she listened to the din of voices as they laughed and boasted, cursed and argued.
Theatre-goers were beginning to arrive for the evening’s performances in fine carriages, and she watched enviously as fashionable men and women in glittering and dazzling attire climbed out, the ladies holding froths of lace dipped in perfume to their noses to kill the unpleasant odour of rotting garbage. Creamy bosoms bedecked with jewels rose out of fitted bodices, slender waists accentuated by flowing skirts.
The gentlemen were no less magnificent in their leather pumps with silver buckles, white silk stockings and knee-length pale-coloured breeches, and superbly tailored frock coats over elaborately embroidered waistcoats. Most of the upper classes, both men and women, wore powdered wigs, but those of lesser means could not afford them. Eager to see the night’s performances, with much laughter and
