Avalon Revamped (7 page)

However, soon thereafter, he began shunning me in public, like he did earlier this evening, and his intentions became quite clear to me, but Charlotte, as young and hopeful and idealistic as she was, wouldn’t know any difference. She would believe this was the way things worked, as so many before her had believed.

He took their articles and added his own byline, passing them off as his work, after bedding them and blackmailing them into silence. Then, of course, he abandoned the poor girls, ruined and betrayed all while profiting off their work. He had done so she who had summoned me, and so many before, I had since learned.

Now it was my turn.

Then, his.

Yes. He was ripe for punishment, this one.

I looked out of the left side of the carriage as we turned onto Knightsbridge and passed Hyde Park, dark at such a late hour besides the gaslights along the streets. Still, it was lovely. From each gaslamp hung a Christmas wreath, above the reach of ne’er-do-wells. The warm golden glow fell on the evergreen boughs and continued onto the streets below, lighting those out for a late evening stroll after their holiday festivities. Perhaps heading back home to their families, preparing for Christmas in a few days.

The light of the waxing moon created a visible outline of the trees in the park, but before I could make out much more, the carriage had entered Mayfair with its tall, brick buildings, much like those in Brompton and along Knightsbridge. I imagined the families asleep behind those darkened windows, snuggled up from the cold London night air. It was quite nippy and, of course, wet this time of year, as it was every time of the year in London, which suited me just fine.

I nestled under my cloak, made of thick red wool and lined with a black velvet collar, protecting my cheeks from the night air, and let my mind drift from this to that until I felt the carriage slow and ultimately stop. The door remained closed until I slipped the fare up through the driver’s hatch. He opened the doors and I climbed out onto the sidewalk.

“Where from here?” I asked up to the driver, standing beneath the light of a black iron gaslamp on the curb. Best to stay in the light, as a woman alone in London at night. It wasn’t much, but it was some measure of safety.

“Just down there.” He pointed to a white marble archway. Narrow. I wondered if my bustle would even fit through. Over the top of the arch between two white columns hung a sign that read
Ye Olde Mitre, Estd 1546
. I looked back up at the driver, and he nodded with determination. “Through there, Miss.” He pointed through the archway, down a rather long, dark alley. “Not at all safe for a lady, especially at night. Are you quite sure, Miss?”

“I can take care of myself, sir, but I thank you for your concern. I’m headed to a business meeting.”

“Strange place for a business meeting, mind. On Yule, as well. Strange business for a lady. Strange time a-night, too. What kind of business, miss, if ya don’t mind me asking.”

“Not any of yours, I’m afraid. Thank you for the ride.”

The driver grumbled something under his breath before cracking his whip in the air above the horse, whose huff of breath at the sound caused a cloud of frozen breath around his big black nose. With a jolt, the carriage was off, and so was I. Toward the middle of the alley, which stretched through to the next street over, a singular gaslamp lit the entrance of the Mitre Tavern. Between me and the entrance, only one other gaslight stood, closer to the tavern than to me. Many nasties could be hiding in the shadows along the way. No, not a safe place for a lady at night. Not a safe place for anyone at night.

Moving down the alley, I focused on the light over the Mitre’s door. The warm glow of the interior, where a welcoming fire awaited me, became closer with every step. The sounds from inside filled the dank alley with a hushed roar.

“Well. What ‘ave we ‘ere?” Foul, hot breath hit my face. As soon as he stepped out from against the wall, I could see his shape, just inches in front of me, backlit by the gaslamp. “Out for a stroll, are we, Miss?”

“I’m just heading to the tavern, please let me pass.”

“Whatcha gonna give me in return, eh? ‘Ows about a kiss?” He smacked his lips a few times and my stomach turned.

“No, sir, please. I’m meeting my husband, just inside there.”

“And what kinda ‘usband would let ‘is pretty little wife walk all by ‘er lonesome a’night? Eh? What kind? Just a little kiss and you’ll be on your way.”

“I don’t have time for this. I’m already late.”

“You’d rather ‘ave a quick one against the wall, wouldn’t ya, love? Yah. You’re beggin’ for it.”

“They’ll hear me scream. Just let me pass.” I never raised my voice or showed an ounce of fear, for there was none there to show. Insects like this were far from frightening. More of an annoyance.

“They won’t hear nothin’, never do.” He laughed once, then shoved me against the brick. His foul tongue licked up the side of my face while a hand hiked up my skirts.

“Good,” I said. “Then they won’t hear you, either.”

He didn’t have time to blink before I had him pinned by the throat against the opposite wall. The far glow illuminated half of his grotesque face, and his eyes were wide with horror.

Good.

“You’re lucky I’m not hungry or properly prepared, or this would be much worse. You’ll get off easy. Too easy, but I haven’t the time.”

His snaggletoothed mouth sputtered and spat, trying to say something. I didn’t care what. After another moment, he lost consciousness. He fell to the ground in a heap of filth, and I spat on him, then wiped the side of my face dry. A few words and a finger snap later, his outer appearance mirrored that of the inside. With a pivot of my boot and a satisfying crunch, the cockroach would never again make a woman scream.

The tavern bustled with people, mostly men, of course, although there was a woman here and there, and a haggard barmaid, too. Most didn’t notice my entry, as they were all too wrapped up in their own lives, but the few who did gaped. A lady of my standing, or how I, at least, appeared, was certainly a rarity in an establishment like this. Most definitely at this hour. One or two men elbowed his mate to draw their attention.

I absorbed the place. Walnut beams lined the ceiling. Dark wood covered the entire interior. Panels. Tables. Chairs. The bar and even the barstools all constructed from fine wood. Photographs and posters adorned the walls and mugs hung from the ceiling near the bar.

But, I didn’t see McFerret.

The note had said
Ye Closet
, but surely he wasn’t meeting me in a cupboard. A fire roared in the fireplace, and even after just a few moments. The chill of the night melted away. I took off my coat and draped it over one arm, which drew even more looks. Two gentleman, trying to get closer to the fire, moved away from an open doorway I hadn’t seen before. A couple of leather upholstered chairs sat against the wall beside it. Over the doorway a small sign read:
Ye Closet
. That must be the place. I made my way through the crowd and looks, and although more than one hand brushed against my breast or bottom, I truly did not have time. Nor was this the place.

A quaint alcove lay just beyond the doorway where McFerret spoke with another man. He saw me, and his eyes lit up, almost surprised. His bristly mustache broadened with his smile. “Would you excuse us, sir? I have
urgent
business with this lady.”

The other gentleman nodded and gave a slow, deliberate wink to McFerret, and then laughed when he looked at me. “Fanks for the autograph, sir,” he said as he grabbed his pint and his signed copy of
The Times
as he scooted out of the alcove, chuckling again when he passed me.

“Charlotte. I must say, I’m quite impressed you got here.” He motioned for me to sit beside him, so I did. He leaned in a little too close, and continued, “Your determination and bravery are astounding. That’s good, because that’s what you need, that and ambition, to make it in the newspaper business. To make it as a writer anywhere, especially with the hindrance of your gender, my darling. You must be shrewd and clever. Ambition! Perseverance! Courage! Yes, courage. You’ve got that in spades as well, don’t you, my dear.”

“What was that at the ball, William? You treated me like your mistress, and I was quite clear about this remaining professional. I shan’t be reduced to a trollop, sir.”

“Of course not! I’m offended that you would think such a thing, as that was exactly what I was protecting you from at the ball, Charlotte. Truly offended. I was thinking of your honor, and you accuse me of… My wife was there, as you know, as was all of her close friends who love to gossip and make trouble where there is none.” He chuckled and swirled the Gin in his glass, then continued, “They excel at it. A young pretty lady talking to me as familiar as you have a tendency to do, and as frankly. It would be half across London by now had I indulged in any conversation with you at that party. Really, Charlotte, I thought you were smarter than that. Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea after all.” He sipped his drink and looked away from me, face full of mock disappointment and offense.

The games had begun.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McFerret. I spoke out of turn, sir. You have been nothing but a complete gentleman and professional from the start, and I truly appreciate what you’re doing for me sir. I truly do!” Determined to push me further into desperation, McFerret let the silence between us linger as the voices of men singing in the back courtyard wafted in through the thin paneled walls and thick, smoky window.

“I don’t know. You’re behaving like a child.”

“I’m not a child, Mr. McFerret. You’ve read my work. You know I have talent.”

“Of that there’s no doubt, but—” He shook his head, looking down into his drink. I couldn’t help but notice that the painting of a drunken, bloated monk held a striking resemblance to the drunken, bloated journalist who sat beneath it.

“Please, sir. Give me another chance.”

“I can’t talk work now. I’m too distressed and distracted by this nonsense.” He finished off the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. “I’m getting another Gin. Drink? I’ll buy.”

“I—I don’t drink, sir. I mean, I wouldn’t know what to get.”

“Gin. Always Gin. It’s the drink of writers. Get used to it.” He held up two fingers, getting the attention of a passing barmaid. “Two. In fact, bring the bottle. We’re not to be disturbed, understand?”

Although young, about twenty, the woman looked quite worn. Stray strands of dark hair fell about her face, and although she smiled, there was no delight in her eyes. Dead, killed, more like. Hollowed out by the pain that emanated from her in waves, making me nauseous. I focused on McFerret’s bushy jawline, looking away from the barmaid, trying to put up a barrier between us.

“A-course, sir. Anyfink for you, gov. Two comin’ up.” Her voice was pleasant enough and she smiled with as much sweetness as she could muster. My nausea rose, but she left to get more liquor before I had to excuse myself.

So much pain, all over. Everywhere I went. There just wasn’t enough time.

“You see, Charlotte, that’s the kind of treatment you can look forward to. Once your name is known, people will be falling over themselves to serve you, to help you.”

“Well, I don’t care about that. I just want to write.”

“Don’t we all.” He got a faraway look, then threw back his Gin. “Where’s that damn barmaid?” he said, slamming his glass down on the table.

“What did you think of my article?”

“It could use some work, but it’s a fine start. A fine start.”

The barmaid arrived with two fresh glasses and a bottle of Gin. “Any fink else for you, sir?”

“Not at the moment. In fact, we are not to be disturbed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Fank you, sir.” She took his dirty glass and left.

McFerret poured me two fingers of Gin and himself four. “To the written word,” he said, holding his glass up. I picked up mine and clinked with his.

“The written word,” I repeated. He swallowed his in one go. As he poured another for himself, he saw that I had not yet touched mine.

“Well, drink up. What are you waiting for? If you’re going to be a working writer in this town, you had better learn to drink. Drink up!”

I sipped, grimacing as I did. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I had Gin, but it was Charlotte’s first time and so it was mine, too. Quite literally. It was this tongue’s first time to taste the bitterness and bite, so the grimace was real. When I created a persona, I became that new person: body, mind, and soul. Although my thoughts were still in there and I knew what I was doing, hers were, too. It was like my mind was split with me in the background, guiding. Remaining grounded. Keeping reality in mind, but the innocence of the personas I played was real, too. It had to be for these kinds of men. They sensed prey, so I had to become prey.

McFerret laughed at me and clinked glasses again. “That’s my girl,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Now, onto business.” He poured himself another and held the bottle over my glass until I forced down the Gin, enabling him to refill it.

My body shuddered as the drink burned my throat and sat heavy in my stomach.

McFerret laughed again.

“I’ve arranged a meeting with the editor on the Pearson’s dirigible cruise this weekend. I’ve procured you a ticket again, and there’s money in there for a new dress as well. You can’t wear the same one you did tonight, not in this society, although you look stunning in it, my darling.” He pulled an envelope out of his inner pocket and slid it in front of me. His eyes trailed down my neck, over my collar bones, and rested on my décolletage. I opened the envelope, and his eyes bore into my breasts, thinking, no doubt, that mine were on the envelope and didn’t notice what he was doing, but they weren’t.