The Virgin's Auction (2 page)

She reached out and put her hand on the wall, stopping for a moment, dizzy with her own circling.

“No, we must away first. And it must be safely.”

If she put everything on sale – the few remaining paintings, the furniture, anything not nailed down – it would appear she was gathering funds for
payment. Might the watchers relax? Could she and Peter escape when their guard was down? 

They would need a
n easily carried bag, with clothes in it, and food. Supplies so they could take advantage of any opportunity to leave, or flee if that man or his colleagues returned.

She considered the bare essentials to get by and not perish before find
ing work. To be on foot travelling through an unfriendly city or the countryside in late winter with only the clothes on their back . . . that was a fearful idea. She had never thought of herself as protected in Father’s house, but there had always been food on the table and a roof over their heads. If they could not find employment they faced destitution.

D
eath.

But escape first, and let the rest take care of itself. She could put together a bag ready for flight.

Feeling better to be doing something,
anything
, she ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, her skirts caught up around her knees.

In her bedroom she flung back the wardrobe
doors and rooted through, pushing aside her two pretty winter frocks. Here was a sturdy work dress in a solid russet brown. There a stern dark green gown in a thick, warm fabric. Good petticoats, shoes for walking – her only pair of shoes other than her slippers for in the house – her hairbrush and her tiny trinket box.

The box was the size of her palm and held a lock of her mother’s
hair alongside an elegant pendant and chain she had inherited when Mama died eight years ago. She clutched at it, kissed it once, a forlorn link to a security long vanished.

Six guineas – which she had be
en hoarding and thinking of as prosperity before father’s death – and the bare bones of her sewing kit. That was all she could take.

With a pang,
she skimmed a palm over the spines of her collection of dog-eared books; so too the pile of fabrics and embroideries she had collected or stitched. It must all stay.

When her fingers trembled she held before herself the grim spectre of Peter at Black Jack’s mercy. That dreadful picture made the loss of material possessions of no consequence. T
he pain was not so great after all.

She
put her armload onto the bed and went out into the hall and down the narrow corridor to his room, lifting a hand as always to touch the darker square on the wall where mama’s portrait had once hung, before father had sold it.

Peter was
curled up peacefully with his own book in the window seat overlooking the street, untouched by worry, a strange contrast to her inner world. As usual, the chamber was a jumble of open books, pencil sketches and crumpled paper. She pretended not to notice how he flinched as she swept suddenly through the doorway.

Curse Father
for that flinch! Curse him for his brutality!

She had so hoped
Peter could find peace now, in a house occupied by just the two of them and the two servants. But that was before Father’s bills had made the future so uncertain, this final one the ultimate blight.

“My love,” she exclaimed, fixing a smile to her lips. It felt dreadfully
fake, but then Peter was hardly observant at the best of times, still less when absorbed in a book. “Reading again, are you?” She could hear the shrillness lying under her tone “Come, out! I must tidy a little so this room of yours is in good order. Out, out out!”

“But
Lissa,” he protested, not even glancing up. “I’m in the middle of a good story.”

“Yes.
The Odyssey. I can see. But you can find somewhere else to read it.”

“What did you think of the Isle of Circe? I thought-
”

“Yes darling, we can disc
uss it later. Not now. I am terribly busy. No arguing. Out you go!” She hauled him to his feet by main force, chivvied him into the hall with a firm push and shut the door in his face.

It
took moments to extract a bundle of various heavy clothes from the drawers, to choose Peter’s most durable shoes, to sweep like a whirlwind through the rest of his possessions and make a single pile, all too small when set against a wilderness of possible futures.

Peter
was gone from the hall; no doubt hidden away in a comfortable corner, once again deep within the pages of his book.

It wasn’t worth telling him of their changed circumstances yet. She was the elder
by far, and the responsibility of handling it fell squarely on her shoulders. Once the plan was set there would be time for a full disclosure.

Or maybe she would not tell him at all. It would only frighten him, and he must be kept secure.

Back in her room she put Peter’s belongings next to her own on the narrow bed and stared at them.

Food!
That was essential. She stuffed all she had collected so far into a disreputable portmanteau – faded and torn but the only piece of luggage she owned – and took it down to the kitchen.

She carefully wrapped up a wheel of cheese still fully enrobed in wax, several carrots and onions, and contemplated the rest of the stores. They were scant. Cook had taken to buying only what was necessary and, with Melissa’s encouragement and a wary eye on the ever-dwindling budget
, serving the plainest of fare.

Melissa added a jar of vinegar pickles and a smoked sausage to her small hoard. That would have to see them through until they could
safely seek out a public inn.

She set the scant
supplies in the portmanteau and put it in the butler’s cupboard under the shelf where the silver had once stood. There was no butler anymore, and nothing to polish. It would be safe there, and quick to grab if they must run.

There Melissa paused, stymied. What now? Which plan of escape could they follow?

There was no one to turn to for help, no friends she could call on for aid. Oh, girlfriends she had in plenty. Friends to walk with in the park, chat with after church, or call on in the mornings to share a pot of tea and biscuits. Not to lend her ten thousand pounds.

While one of tho
se kind young ladies might hide her and Peter away, if Melissa was followed she was simply directing trouble to come knocking on the friend’s door and threatening the unfortunate girl to find out where the fugitives had flown.

Men wou
ld kill for ten thousand pounds; she had no doubt. She could not lead them to anyone she knew.

There were no relatives anywhere closer than Yorkshire.
A great uncle and great aunt, living together in a decaying manor house, aging, penniless and childless. No connections that could provide any real assistance at all, in fact.

Never had she felt more alone, more forsaken. But sorrow would get her nowhere. Anger was a more potent force for strength.

Stupid
Father; reckless, heedless, selfish,
awful
man. Tipping himself and his children into this fearful hole from whence they might never escape. Or escape only in death, as had he.

It was up to her. She must accomplish their escape, though God only knew how

At that moment she heard a stir from the back door of the house, which led directly into the kitchen. There was the sound of low voices, and fear leapt up inside her. Had Black Jack returned early, deciding there was no point delaying their seizure?

“Who is there?” she called out harshly, taking up a heavy candlestick from the nearby table, her heart beating hard.

Hetty opened the outside door, flushed and out of breath, and Melissa lowered the candlestick, then put it carefully back on the table, her hand shaking with relief.

“Miss, we
was in luck. My cousin was home. I brought him direct.” She stepped aside to make way for a blunt-featured fellow, solidly built, with ruddy cheeks and ash brown hair. He held the brim of his hat loosely in one hand, and when he came to stand before her he stood with his weight on one leg, his face solemn.

“Your cousin?” repeated Melissa, puzzled for a moment. Then she remembered their brief exchange, driven completely out of her head.  “Oh, yes.
Of course.”

She wished fervently he had never come.
What could this man possibly offer her, really? And it was shameful, shameful to have this sorry business known.

But he had come to aid her, a stranger, and she was polite by habit
, so she swallowed down her desire to push him right back out of the door.

“I . . . thank you for coming, sir. You are uncommonly kind.” And truly,
she acknowledged, this was no time for false pride. She was desperate. Any mite of help might tip the scales. “Perhaps you will come to the drawing room?” She gestured and led the way.

The man followed in her footsteps, and as he entered the room he cast a searching glance about it and then went to stand facing the door, as if to watch for anyone else entering. “
Might you close the door, Miss?” he said gruffly, and Melissa, who had been standing staring at him blankly, gave a start and then followed his advice.

Did he think others might be listening? Perhaps that was not so foolish an idea, in a world where she was being followed and watched by strangers who might abduct her at any moment. Heaven knew she had no experience with any of this.

Mr Tell did not mince words. As soon as the door was closed he said: “Scuse me coming here to you so sudden like, Miss Spencer. But when I heard what Hetty had to say I knew you’d be in a hurry.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr Tell. Do please sit down.”

Melissa sat down herself. Mr Tell followed suit, and Hetty stood by awkwardly until she was also gestured to a seat. She plonked down obediently, all big eyes and elbows.

“It’s some fearsome bad luck you’ve had, Miss,” said Mr Tell
, his brows drawing down into a frown. He shifted a little in his chair as if not used to upholstery. “There be plenty of scallawags to chose from in this town, but Black Jack be near the worst. He runs most half the rotten brothels and opium dens in the docklands, has gangs of thieves roaming the street and I don’t know what other nastiness. Lending money – which Hetty said is what nabbed your Pa – isn’t the half of it.”

“Good heavens,” said Melissa, her eyes widening. “Is he that
notorious?”

“In my neck of the woods it p
ays to know him and his lot.” His eyes flicked away from her and gazed at the blank wall, narrowed grimly as if seeing some other room, some other scene. “Nasty pieces of work, every last one of ‘em. No one would want to have dealings with them, that was an honest gent. No disrespect meant to your late father, Miss,” he added a moment later, returning his gaze to her face and shifting again in his seat, this time with a hint of embarrassing.

“Yes. Quite,” said Melissa stiffly. Oh, it was humiliating to have others know this sordid tale, and
Hetty too looked uncomfortable to be in unpleasantly intimate conversation.

“Now I don’t rightly like to be interfering, and I’d never do it for just anyone, Miss. Only a fool crosses that man if there’s no need.”

“Yes. Quite. I’m sure I-”

“But you’ve been a right solid sort to
Hetty, hiring her at first and then turning off that footman as was bothering her improper-like,” he carried on implacably, obviously determined to get out what he had to say. “And only on her say-so, her word against his. I marked that, Miss. I marked it for sure.” He nodded in firm agreement with himself. “Hetty’s my little angel. I’m right fond of her and she’s crying and snivelling about this and saying her heart’s fit to break and I must do something.”

“Simon!”

“Hush now, Hetty,” he said, holding up a commanding hand to the girl, who pressed her lips together and was silent again. “I’ll say my piece.” He turned back to Melissa. “I’ve a mind to help you; and,” his bow beetled, his eyes sparking dangerously, “to spike Black Jack’s guns for my own reasons. But that’s ten thousand pounds you’re talking about owing Black Jack. There ain’t no way he’s letting that slip through his fingers. I’ll wager anything you like this house is being watched by at least four men, night and day.” He pursed his lips. “He’ll mark us. He has already, us coming here like this. And once you take off for good he’ll have us to see if we’ll sing for him, that he will. If we’re to get you clear away, Hetty and I must go too. So I’ll help you, but you’ll need to pay us for it.”

“Simon. What are you saying?” It seemed
Hetty had no idea of attaching a price to their assistance.

“We’ll
hie ourselves to Brackenby Village, Hetty. James Crocker has a offer of an inn to buy, if he has a partner. I turned him down, but I’ll take the chance, and you can come too. You in an apron and cap, the mistress of a snug wee inn of your own. It’ll be just right. Straight and honest for us both.”

Melissa listened to this byplay, her eyes narrowed, trying to judge if this was a man to be trusted. She did not trust men easily, but she was frighteningly short of options, and it seemed he had a far better idea than she of how to deal with this problem. She could hear him out, at the very least.