.
Every second that Blythe was gone seemed to drag like an hour. Thomas forced himself to stop thinking about what terrible things might be happening to her and instead concentrated on his job: keeping watch. Things were going well until he saw a pair of drunks, real ones, reeling down the alley.
Thomas pulled himself a little closer to the wall, willing them to pass by, and for a little while, he thought they were going to do just that. He had just started to relax when one drunk drained the blue glass bottle he'd been sucking on, drew back with his arm, and sent it sailing up to shatter against the very building that Thomas was leaning against and Blythe was creeping around in.
Thomas swore, and as he stepped into the alley to look, one of the windows above lit up.
For a terrible moment, he thought his throat was too dry to whistle, and then he forced out the first few bars of the ridiculous song Blythe had indicated.
Was that it? Did she sincerely expect him to just whistle and hope it all came out for the best? If that's what Blythe genuinely expected from him, she was going to learn better. He had to get whoever was coming down the stairs focused on something else besides the tiny woman exploring the house. Fortunately, he was a Martin, and making a scene was something of his specialty.
The second run through the back of the alley was far less careful than the first one. Thomas banged his wrist hard against a bit of protruding stone, and when his sleeve caught on something and he kept running, a big chunk of his sleeve stayed behind. He caught his breath when he hit the thoroughfare again but then spun right around toward the door. He practically fell on it, pounding on the splintery wood with his fists and shouting in a slurred voice for the proprietor to open up.
For a moment, he thought nothing was going to happen and he'd have to break in a window, but then he heard a heavy step on the other side of the door.
The door cracked open, and someone thrust a lantern into Thomas’ face. "What the hell do you want?"
"Clothes, my good man! I was told this was just the spot to go, or at least, that's what they told me a few streets back before they kicked me out. Can you believe it? Kicked out? Me?"
Thomas figured that the only thing that kept the man from slamming the door in his face was hearing Thomas’ expensive accent and seeing the gleam of Thomas’ good boots.
"You're... looking for clothes here? Right now?"
"Well, when else would I be looking for them? I need some good clothes for an event Lady Sefton is throwing this week, and I have no interest in looking like less than the best, so let me in."
Not waiting for an answer, Thomas pushed his way into the house, startling the man so badly that he didn't stop him. The room was shabby with a pervasive smell of mild rot, but Thomas didn't let that stop him as he started to reel around the room, slurring and knocking into the tables and chairs.
"Ha, so sorry, my good man, I suppose I got a little half-seas over at the last place, or maybe one of the places before that..."
The man tried to make Thomas sit in a chair, but Thomas fell out of the chair and then was up in a heartbeat, inspecting the dummy, exclaiming over how dark everything was, and he'd better not see the same design on Lord Castlereagh at the opera next week.
He was too big for the man to wrestle to a stop, too rich for the man to want to kick him out, and too loud for the man to get a word in edgewise.
Thomas kept at it for what felt like a small eternity until he heard it.
From somewhere outside the house, he heard the sharp clear whistle of “Parson Hollis,” the staid processional that he and Blythe had danced just a few days before.
Still slurring, still reeling, Thomas shoved a handful of shillings at the man, letting half that handful drop to the floor. "Oh, just put it toward the suit you are making me. Mother will be ever so cross if I don't make it home for breakfast..."
Once he was out on the street, he reeled his way toward another few whistled bars of “Parson Hollis,” staving off the instinct to run. When he made it to the end of the street, Blythe's small face peeked around the corner of a public-house and he went to join her.
"Are you all right? What's happening? Are you hurt, did you find..." Thomas’ voice trailed off as he stared in shock.
Blythe looked hale and hearty, thank the gods, but he hadn't been expecting the four girls behind her. They seemed to range in age from ten to sixteen. The tallest one held the two youngest close to her body, while the fourth girl, a dark red birthmark on her face, stood with her shoulders squared and a rock in each hand, as if she was ready to batter him to the ground the moment he offered her or her friends harm. The fear on their faces made his heart wrench.
"Well, I can see that you've been busy."
Blythe grinned. "So have you. Come on. We need to find a hack to hire so we can get these girls someplace safe."
In the end, it took less time than Thomas had feared. Constables wouldn't go down into the Dials, but coachmen could not afford to be so picky. The public houses had standing agreements with the hacks, and in less than twenty minutes, all six of them were loaded into a coach that smelled rather unfortunately of old pork and turnips. However, there were stiff baize curtains to draw over the small windows, and though it was dark, everyone breathed a sigh of relief to be safely out of sight.
Thomas decided to wait until he was alone with Blythe for the story. In the darkness, he could hear more than one girl sniffle, and he wondered what they had gone through.
"The people we're taking you to are very good," Blythe assured the girls. "They'll take care of you, feed you, and make sure that you find some kind of safe harbor."
"We have heard that before," said the oldest girl. Thomas was surprised to hear a trace of a Russian accent in her voice. "That is what they tell me when I come here as maid. Then, I am locked in chains, and I never see the light."
Chains? A hot rill of anger ran down Thomas’ spine.
"I know you have. And if you want to leave, if you have people you can get back to, I will do everything I can to get you there," Blythe told her.
The girl's head dropped. "There is no one."
Blythe reached over to squeeze the Russian girl's hand. "Believe me, this is not the first time I've heard that. My friends are Quakers, and they will help you. I don't know what form that help might take for each of you specifically, but you need never be locked up in a cellar and chained again."
The girl with the birthmark, Rose, reached for the Russian girl's other hand. "Maybe we can all go live with my ma. Miss, you said she was safe and living well?"
"I did, though I don't know much. She's in service in a house up north, but she says the people she's with are very kind. Perhaps something might be worked out; we shall explore all the options."
The Abeggs were not ready for them this time, but there was only a second of surprise before the girls were ushered inside and the lady of the house, a woman as gray and kind as her husband, led them to the kitchen to give them some food.
"And how is Honey?"
Thomas turned around to find Blythe speaking quietly with Mr. Abegg.
"Frightened and angry many days. She is learning the extent of what was taken from her, and she has some very dark moments. She is strong, however, and I believe she will come through the storm to a harbor."
"Please let her know she can write me, and I will always respond, Mr. Abegg. Thank you for taking in these girls."
Back out on the street, Blythe took Thomas’ hand as if they had been doing it for years.
"Feels like we've been here before," Thomas commented.
She smiled. "Well, why tamper with a perfect situation? Are you going to walk me all the way home since you sent away the hack?"
"We've hours before dawn yet. I was thinking we could get some food. I don't know about you but housebreaking and the liberation of slaves always leaves me feeling fair famished.”
"Where in the world are we going to get food at this hour?"
Thomas grinned.
The Glass Palace had the sort of reputation as a place where London gentlemen took their country friends when said friends wanted to see some excitement without danger. Thomas had outgrown the place years ago, and he'd never come back at all if they didn't have one of the best roast beef sandwiches he'd ever eaten.
In a small private room at the back of the gambling hell, Thomas and Blythe sat at a table that was barely bigger than a large atlas, the remnants of two large sandwiches between them. Thomas was impressed by how much Blythe had managed to put away before she gave up.
"It's so good, I just want another bite. But I'm afraid if I do, something inside me will pop."
"That's normal. Give it a few minutes, and maybe your belly will settle down enough for you to have a little more."
"It's just so good. Why do they have food this good here, where only the gentlemen can get at it? I've never had anything this good at a ladies' luncheon."
"I'm sure I couldn't tell you, Blythe."
Thomas leaned back in his chair. Blythe’s hair was too fiercely pinned in place to dare come down, but tendrils escaped to frame her pretty face. Her gray dress was rumpled, and an unlikely smudge of mustard high on her cheek made her utterly adorable. She looked as if she were being held up by the power of the Glass Palace's roast beef sandwich alone. She looked beautiful.
"You're staring."
"I am."
"I feel as if I should tell you to stop it."
"But you're not going to?"
"I'm too tired to do anything besides hope I can have more of this sandwich. And I still have to think about getting home before it gets light out."
"This place keeps hacks in business. There will be one outside when we need it. We have plenty of time."
"Time to do what?"
"What in the hell are you doing, Blythe?"
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, without turning her head. "I suppose you're speaking more of the housebreaking and less of the wanting to eat more sandwich."
"Well, if it were actually housebreaking, I would understand it. Maybe not condone it, though depending on who it was from, I might. But you're coming down to the London stews to... what? Help those who can't help themselves? Free every single abused woman from shackles?"
"Would it be so bad if I were? These women are in need, Thomas. Some of them might actually be dead if I wasn't—"
"You're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart."
Blythe shrugged. "It would be a better story if I was, wouldn't it? Missionary by day, the avenger of hurt women by night. I seem to have fallen into the business of helping those who can't help themselves, but that is not why I started."
"So, why did you start?"
"I assumed being a Martin, you might have guessed."
"Not yet, anyway."
"I was bored. I was so, so bored. When I was a little girl, all I wanted to do was have adventures. I played at pirates and explorers and big game hunters with the other children, and then they... just stopped. They were happy to do what their parents had done before them and to never go beyond the confines of the village. I couldn't stand that."
"So, you became a missionary?"
"Not exactly. I've never felt a calling or wanted to spread the word of God to the savage places of the world. I figure those places have gotten along just fine without me, so why change a good thing?"
"Wise."
"But the old missionary lady who lived in our village, she had been to the most amazing places. She never married or had a family, but she went to Peru, Shanghai, and Australia. She had shelves full of these beautiful and strange things she had brought back from her travels, and every month, it seemed, she would receive a pack of letters from the most exotic lands."
"Sounds like she led a full life.”
"It was more than that, although I think just about anyone would be lucky enough to have as many wonderful experiences as she had. She often said that if arthritis hadn't gotten into her hip and her feet, she would be seeing the world still."
"And that's what you want?"
"Yes. From the time I was young, what I wanted most was to have an adventure. It was true when my parents were alive, and it was true even after I moved in with the Carrows after they died. Well-brought-up young women do not have adventures."
"That must have been a letdown for you."
Despite her exhaustion and full belly, Blythe lifted her chin and gave him a rather severe look.
"It was a letdown until I figured out how I could do it myself. I could be a missionary, and then no one would stop me. They might not be happy about letting a girl explore her world, but when she puts on drab clothing and says very earnestly that she is doing it for piety's sake, they stop asking so much."
"So, you came up with a disguise that let you have the life you wanted. And no one has ever caught you."
She hesitated. "Not until you showed up."
A world of meaning laced that comment, and Thomas couldn't stop himself from reaching over and taking her hand. For a moment, it seemed as if she would surely pull away, but then she squeezed his fingers gently.
“Blythe.”
“Yes, Thomas?”
“I'm afraid I am going to have to kiss you now.”
She looked startled, but she maintained that deep composure she always had. “I see. I am not going to stop you.”
Thomas laughed at her primness and leaned in. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck, which felt warmer than usual, as if she were fevered, and her eyes fluttered closed as he came close. God, he had never felt like this before, and the need to kiss her laced through him like a poison.
She was still at first as he kissed her, but when she parted her lips and her little tongue came out to brush against his, Thomas felt his body shudder with a burning, shattering need for her. Somehow, he tugged her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist as they kissed and kissed.
She must have felt the way his body responded to her. She gasped a little, shifting, which only made things worse, but she didn't pull away. Thomas was intoxicated by her closeness, by how warm and sweet and lovely she was. She tasted like heaven and roast beef, and he grinned into the kiss.
“God, you're beautiful, Blythe.”
His words seemed to break the spell, and she pulled away from him. For a moment, she looked like a woman who might not say no if he urged her on, but then she shook out her skirts and pulled on her missionary look again, albeit she was a rather rumpled missionary.
“Thank you. But I think we'd better leave things there, don't you?”
Thomas sighed. “You're probably right. I just don't agree with you at all.”