Jane was a little harder to win round. ‘Are you sure about this, Flissy? Is it not better to let Mr Hart go alone? What about Lucy? She is very close to her due date.’
‘I feel I must, Jane. Maurice believes Dorian wishes to ask forgiveness for his sins before he passes. It is a situation that calls for sensitivity and understanding. To turn a blind eye to him feels wrong, and I’m not sure I could live with myself if I did.’
‘You are a generous soul,’ she said. ‘As is Mr Hart. I do not trust that scoundrel an inch, even if he is incapacitated on his deathbed. But you must act on your own conscience.’
I was glad to have her unwavering support in the matter. But there was one person who had not been pleased to hearof this new development: Lucinda.
She paced backwards and forwards in front of me in the cottage, wringing her hands in a distraught manner, until I grew concerned for her state of mind. Such high anxiety surely was not good for the baby?
‘Please calm yourself, dearest. It is only for a few days, and we will be back in the blink of an eye.’
‘But what if it is a trick to draw you to him?’ she whimpered. ‘You know what Dorian is like—he will say anything to get his way.’
‘Yes, that is true of our dealings with him in the past. But in this case, I am inclined to believe it is not a ploy. Maurice would not have written such a letter to Mr Hart if the circumstances weren’t deadly serious. And I will not be alone with him—Mr Hart and Maurice will be there.’
‘Oh, I do not want you to go, Aunty Fliss,’ she moaned. ‘I need you here with me—and my Harry too! What if the baby comes?’
She burst into tears, and I gazed at her helplessly, feeling terrible for abandoning her. But what could I do? I had to leave at once. The carriage was waiting, and Dorian was dying.
Embracing her tightly, I said, ‘I am sorry, dearest. But I have to do this. Please try to understand. Everything will be well. But you must stay calm and strong for the baby, if notfor yourself. Remember we love you and will be back very soon.’
Kissing her wet cheek soundly, I left the cottage with my eyes welling and a pain in my chest. Before I climbed into the carriage, I hugged Jane goodbye and asked her to hasten to the cottage as Lucinda was upset and needed comforting plus some steady counsel.
The moment I settled myself, Harry had knocked on the roof, and we were off!
But as the miles increased between us and Godmersham, I could not help wondering if things were all right. That day Mrs Busby had gone into a trance, why had she not been able to see anything about the baby? It was worrying me a lot. I closed my eyes and tried to think happy thoughts as we raced through the streets of London. I couldn’t let a bad fortune teller get to me. It was not an exact science. And if she was actually good at predicting the future, then why had she not seen that Dorian would be run over by a carriage and there would be ‘an unexpected journey’ on my part? It would have been much more helpful!
***
Harry had not given me any information about his house, only that it was in Holborn and he deemed it ‘suitable forhis purposes’. From that description, I had been expecting something clean, but shabby. So I received a pleasant surprise when we alighted from the carriage in Southampton Row outside an elegant Georgian townhouse. It was not too small, with decorative white stucco around the windows and doors. The entranceway had a pediment with classical columns, and the door was painted a dark green.
‘How charming,’ I remarked, admiring the house and the other similar properties on either side. The street was clean and quiet and lined with bare-boughed trees. Some were already tentatively sprouting green leaves, for it was warmer in London than in the country. ‘It must be lovely here in the spring.’
‘Yes, the street does not look its best at present. But in a few months’ time, the outlook from the windows will be quite changed,’ he said. ‘Do you ... do you think Lucy would like living here?’
‘I think she would like it very much indeed,’ I replied, picturing Lucinda and Harry walking arm in arm to the theatre or a nearby park.
‘I am glad to hear that, as the rent is affordable,’ he said, gesturing for me to walk up the path. ‘And it is close to the British Museum, as well as some specialty cake shops.’
Specialty cake shops,I thought.That is most excellent.Now I was imagining myself and Max coming to visit Lucinda and Harrywith our child in tow for a London cake break!
But I could not dwell on future holidays where I sat around, eating slices of sponge. Time was of the essence. I quickly freshened up in the guest bedroom (simply furnished with a bed, small wardrobe, and washstand) while Harry paid the driver and saw to his horse at the rear of the property. Then he flagged down a passing hackney, and we were on our way to Saffron Hill.
The last time I had seen Dorian was in a castle playing lord of the manor. But as the streets narrowed and the houses became cramped, I realised that poverty had finally caught up with him.
We alighted in a very different world to Harry’s neighbourhood. There was only one word to describe the sights before me: ‘disgusting’. A persistent and pungent odour floated around, and I hastily drew my scented handkerchief out of my reticule and held it over my nose.
‘We are close to Smithfield Market,’ Harry informed me, his nostrils flaring. ‘The cattle are butchered on-site.’
‘Lovely.’
Keeping my handkerchief firmly pressed, I followed him down a slimy cobblestone alley with buildings tightly packed on either side. Trade workshops lined the lower levels, with leather workers and shoemakers tuckedinto basements. Butcher’s stalls showcased freshly slaughtered meat. The air vibrated with the shouts of men and the distant shrieks of livestock while the cloying stench of animal skins and offal hung around us like a dirty cloak. Navigating puddles of brown ooze soon became a necessity to avoid stepping in a mess—it was either animal or human. I did not linger long enough to determine which. I had to hurry to keep up with Harry, shouldering his way through the crowds of unwashed.
When we reached number 33 Saffron Hill, my eyes were smarting, my nose was flinching, and my mouth felt polluted. If I had known that Dorian lived in Hades, I may have heeded Lucinda’s plea and stayed in Kent!
‘That was an experience,’ I said, inspecting the hem of my skirt, which had a three-inch muck stain.
‘It’s certainly a vibrant area,’ replied Harry deadpan. ‘Shall we go inside before pickpockets, muggers, and God knows what else descend upon us?’
