‘Ahh,un joaillierfor the English lady!’ the second lady cried in such excitement that Sophie immediately forgave her the rouge wedged between her yellow front teeth.
Not everyone had the benefit of a vanity mirror about their person after all.
‘C’est proche. Near…Suivez… follow, follow!’ the first lady insisted, beckoning so vigorously, while the other stood by and grinned, that Sophie began to feel a little unsure.
And yet, jolly female company had to be far less risky than traversing the streets of Calais alone, particularly when they did seem to know their way around.
Smiling politely, Sophie fell in beside the chattering ladies, who seemed only too delighted to lead the way to the local traders. And for the first few minutes she was quite content to have the local sights pointed out via a mix of stilted French and happy gesticulations. Indeed, it was only when they swapped the open dockside for squalid, shady streets with grime-streaked urchins and leering faces, that she began to wonder if she might have been a little hasty. She wasn’t too sure a jeweller’s in such a district would be very interested in a pearl-inlaid crossbow, particularly when half of the inhabitants looked as though they could barely afford food.
Anxiously, she slipped her hand into her cloak pocket, wondering how to excuse herself, only to discover her pocket was completely empty. Swiftly, Sophie fumbled for her left pocket, telling herself she couldn’t have been so naive as to lose her only means of paying her way within a half hour of leaving Lord Rotherby. But much to her mounting horror, her left pocket was empty too.
For the briefest of moments, Sophie’s eyes prickled uncomfortably, and she had the feeling she might actually bawl like Edward the day his grandfather newt died. Then she recalled that no amount of tears had prevented the newt’s Viking funeral across Knightsmoor lake in a rain that had extinguished three of cook’s best candles. And crying certainly wouldn’t change the stark and unwelcome conclusion that her newfound friends weren’t really friends at all.
Rapidly, Sophie considered her options before alighting on the only item she had remaining that might help her cause: a hairpin. With just a moment’s sorrow for her curls àla Sévigné, she reached up and dragged the pin out, leaving the rest of her curls to fall around her face in what she hoped was more of a renaissance tumble than a hedgerow-bird’s-nest. Then she gripped it tightly, and waited until they turned onto a busier street, with market traders hawking a number of wares that looked as though they deserved burial, more than someone’s plate.
‘Oh, how pretty!’ Sophie exclaimed, feigning interest in a small arrangement of dead flowers she wouldn’t even give to Aurelia.
Her companions leered momentarily, giving Sophie the opportunity to thrust her arm into her pocket with a dramatic flourish.
‘I think I would like to buy— Oh!’ she gasped, channelling a Fairfax production ofOliver Twist. ‘I’ve been robbed! But who would rob an innocent lady in broad daylight, I ask you?’
Then she clamped her hands together, with a most appealing expression.
‘Non, non!’ her first companion shushed, taking her arm tightly.
‘Venez avec nous… come with us…et nous le chercherons.’
‘Arrêt! Quittez la jeune femme!’ the woman selling the dubious flowers called out.
‘Yes, let go of the young lady,’ Sophie repeated loudly, before lifting her boot and driving it down onto her captor’s toe.
Her captor obliged instantly, her painted face twisting up in a toothy grimace that gave Sophie the most delightful sense of satisfaction before her companion closed in with a coarse laugh.
‘Bravo, ma petite, bravo!Vous êtesune naturelle!’ she said loudly, gripping Sophie’s other arm and extending her other as though they were on stage.
‘Et maintenant… we go…au théâtre!’
It was clear no one was convinced, and briefly Sophie wondered how even she could have been so easily duped. Yet, they’d stolen her only means of paying for food and lodgings, and there really was no time for regret.
‘Really?’ Sophie threw fiercely, ‘but we already have an audience right here!’
Then she jabbed her hairpin directly at her captor’s hand, who yelled, as Sophie tried for what her brothers would call a stranglehold– to find herself counter-thrusted, unceremoniously, onto the cold, wet cobbles instead. Furiously, she used all her strength to pull her captor down with her; resulting in the most undignified roll through a muddy puddle which did not improve her complexion at all.
‘How dare you!’ Sophie gasped, gripping her opponent’s hair, only to find it lifting away in her hands entirely.
A shocked gasp rippled through the watching crowd as Sophie gazed at the mangled item in disbelief, before offering it back. There were some things even she couldn’t fix.
‘Non, non, non!’ the furious woman moaned, grabbing the wig and attempting to replace it, just as a black barouche rounded the end of the street.
Sophie glanced up, too distracted by the offence on her captor’s head to be much disturbed by a hire barouche. Yet when it careered to an abrupt halt beside them, and a familiar tiger jumped down with a deprecatory look that confirmed he did not understand the gravity of her situation one bit, reality began to dawn.
‘Not quite la Rue Saint-Denis,’ drawled a familiar voice, ‘though damnably close and a little swifter than I predicted too. Regrettably, the show is over, my dear, and it is time for you to say farewell.’
Slowly Sophie swung her gaze, fully aware of the comical figure she must present, to find Lord Rotherby regarding her back with a highly amused expression. Inhaling deeply, she drew herself up and hobbled towards the barouche, as though one approaching her own funeral.
‘Well, you needn’t look so pleased with yourself,’ she hissed, climbing in opposite the shadowed lord, who’d given in to a silent mirth that only enraged Sophie further.
Yet he only wiped his eyes and tipped his hat, before swinging his attention back to the watching crowd.
