Instead, he settled for a simple cock of his head. “An idea, eh? Do tell.”
She fairly bounced on her toes. “How would you like to escort me to London?”
28
London never slept, and neither had Eva. They’d gotten a late start on Monday after her stop at the tax office and her secret visit to Mr. Toffit. She and Bram arrived too late the previous evening to visit Penny, and though she ought to have been weary from the eight-hour drive, sleep had eluded her all night. Even now as she descended the stairs to the lobby of the Great Eastern Hotel, she still wasn’t tired. Too much nervous energy bubbled inside her at the thought of seeing her sister, which was silly, really. Now that she’d declined Mrs. Pempernill’s lady’s companion position, she could visit her little sister any time. Mrs. Mortimer might frown upon it, as might the headmaster, but hang it all—she missed Penny, and shewouldsee her, if only for a few minutes.
Eva descended the last stair, clutching her copy ofGood Wiveswhile scanning the busy entryway. An ornate chandelier cast a warm glow over the scene, each crystal shimmering with light. Plush velvet curtains framed the tall front windows, and though it was morning, not much light seeped in from the grey day outside. Several gents strolled out the door with newspapers curledbeneath their arms. Some ladies huddled near the restaurant entrance, the clack of flatware against china plates drifting out.
Finally, her gaze snagged upon a familiar figure. Bram stood tall and resolute by the front desk, his presence commanding attention even amidst the bustle of other guests. His shaggy hair framed his face in a tousled halo, lending him a rugged charm she found endearing. Despite the grind of yesterday’s journey, he appeared refreshed. He smelled as such, too, for when she drew close, she inhaled the crisp scent of sandalwood shaving tonic on his skin.
“There you are.” He grinned down at her. “Would you like breakfast?”
“I could not eat a thing. I am too excited to see my sister.”
“It has only been four days since you said good-bye to the little imp, but I expected as much. I had the pony cart brought round to the front.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Heart warmed by his intuitive thoughtfulness, she placed her gloved fingers on his sleeve. “Thank you.”
They stepped into a December morn devoid of colour. Dusty stamped a hoof at their approach, tossing his head as if to say he’d had enough of this dirty city and its noise. Bram helped her to the seat, his fingers lingering a beat too long against hers after she sat. Her heart fluttered. An easy smile spread on his lips as if he knew. And when he leapt up to the driver’s seat and his thigh brushed against hers, that flutter turned into a full-fledged gallop. Sweet heaven. It may as well be an August afternoon for all the warmth surging to her cheeks. She averted her face as he urged Dusty to walk on. Better to study the passing buildings than reveal what an effect he had on her, for no doubt he’d have something to say about it.
They drove in silence for some time, he directing the pony cart in a river of traffic and she trying to ignore the rhythmic press of Bram’s body against her side as the cart bumped through ruts and potholes.
Tiring of watching the passing buildings, she turned to him. “How do you know where to go? Do you frequent London often?”
“I have been to the British Museum several times. Other than that, no.”
“Ah, I see. Your sense of direction stems from an extra keen awareness, the kind that locates relics at a dig, eh?”
He cut her a sideways glance, one brow arching. “Would that impress you?”
Everything about the man impressed her. Not that he need know, however. She clutched the seat as they juddered along. “Were you wanting to impress me?”
“If I could be the one to turn your head, I would die a happy man.” His lips broke into a charming smile. “But the truth is, I showed the address you gave me to the desk clerk at the hotel. He was very helpful with directions. We should be there shortly.”
Her gaze drifted to the sooty buildings leaning against one another on each side of the road. They’d left behind the tidier streets, and now the tang of coal smoke was thick on the air. Neglect walked these grimy lanes, as thoroughly depressing as the somber-garbed labourers scrambling to their workplaces. “Are you sure we are going the right way?”
“I thought so.” He produced a slip of paper from inside his coat and handed it over. “But maybe you had better check.”
She glanced at the handwriting, then searched for the next street sign. Sure enough,Woolpack Lanestood out in white letters against a black background. “It says here Spindle Street is where you turn left.”
“Which ought to be the upcoming crossroad.”
Bram guided the horse around the corner. She stifled a moan. Factories loomed like titans of progress, sucking in human souls and spitting out commodities all crated and ready to ship. Her nose burned, a metallic tang of chemicals and machinery coating each breath like a filmy oil that couldn’t be scrubbed off.Inside each great beast they passed, pistons pounded and gears whirred, the drone climbing inside of her bones, shaking her from the core outward. It was surreal, this cheerless, hopeless, strangling district of commerce.
She scooted closer to Bram. “Why would a school be in this neighbourhood?”
He did not meet her gaze. “Cheap rent, I suppose.”
Good thing she wore gloves, or her nails would be chewed to nubs, especially when Bram halted the pony cart in front of a monstrous building. The bricks were held together with grime and despair, a high bank of windows at the top cranked open, the glass opaque with a smoky pall. The placard above the wide front doors readGreenwell’s, but this was no merry institution of higher learning or academic gleanings. This was a grotesque shell of horror.
“I—” Bram cleared his throat. “I am sure it is much more polished inside.”
Hah. What a lie.
They stepped into a grinding, clacking, vast expanse filled with rows of tables and labourers, machinery and pulleys, and so much dust it coated the lungs. Dim light made it hard to see faces, giving the shadowed workers an eerie appearance, like ghosts in a graveyard. It smelled of linseed oil and sweat, the only fresh air leaking in from windows high on the walls. Just like all the other buildings they’d passed, this was a factory, and judging by the lint floating in the air and buzz of sewing machines, it was some sort of garment manufacturer.
A half-wall partition sectioned off a reception area of sorts, where a needle-nosed fellow perched on a stool behind a counter. Lint covered his suit like a late-winter snow, all grey and mottling into patches on his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at them.
