He’d reached the gangway just as they’d pulled it halfway inside the belly of the ship, and it’d taken pleas, threats, and then him balancing dangerously on the very tip of the wobbling walkway for them to agree to roll it out again, the two men swearing profusely at his back as he lurched towards land.
The crowd was all the thicker here – the docks creaking and groaning as women dangled handkerchiefs, and young boys with wobbling lips were held in place to wave goodbye. Damien turned with them, watching as the ship pulled free of the harbour, and black smoke began to rise like ash into the air. That was his chance. His opportunity, and he was watching it sail away.
And his heart lifted in his chest.
He would go straight to the theatre. He would tell her that she was right. He would face up to it. Heshouldface up to it, for if he didn’t then wasn’t he admitting guilt? Wasn’t he doing the very same thing he’d been doing all his life? And then he would beg her forgiveness. He would grovel if he had to, get upon his knees and—
‘Mr Carter?’
Damien froze. For it was a male voice that had spoken in his ear, a male hand that now gripped his elbow, holding him in place. Damien kept his expression relaxed, his voice low.
‘Mr Briggs.’
The man’s grip didn’t slacken, though now a tight smile appeared beneath his carefully oiled moustache. He wore a coat that was surely worth twice the amount Damien had ever swindled, his obsidian silk neck-tie held in place with a tiny, teardrop-shaped diamond.
‘I think it’s time you and I had a talk.’
Damien half suspected the man would be dragging him to a stuffy, windowless room to ask him a thousand and one questions – but instead Mr Briggs lead him to an inn crouched on the corner of Chapel Street.
Inside, oil lamps cast a greasy glow across the tables – the windows too mottled with soot to catch the last of the day’s sun. Men clustered around the bar in salt-starched coats, and a sour staleness hung in the air; a mixture of wet wool, tobacco, and onions left too long on the boil.
Mr Briggs took a table in the corner – gesturing for Damien to sit, too.
‘Coffee,’ he said to the innkeeper when he approached, a broad-shouldered man with a weather-beaten face.
‘We’ve got ale, or ale.’
‘Ale, then,’ said Mr Briggs, nose wrinkling a little in distaste. ‘And something to eat, if you have anything that’s not fish.’
The man looked expectantly at Damien.
‘Just the ale, thank you.’
Mr Briggs waited until the innkeeper had ambled back towards the bar before clearing his throat. ‘He’s been looking for you for a very long time,’ he said. ‘Your father.’
Damien couldn’t help it. A small smile twitched at his lips. ‘I didn’t make it easy for him, did I?’
Mr Briggs didn’t return his smile. ‘Why did you get off the ship?’
Damien felt the muscle in his jaw flicker. ‘Perhaps I disliked the prospect of Boston.’
Mr Brigg’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Or perhaps you preferred the prospect of … hang on, I’ll have it here somewhere.’ Mr Briggs reached into his breast pocket, and pulled a small notebook from it. He licked his thumb, and began to leaf through the pages. ‘Ah, yes. Miss Ava Adams, of Park Lane. Given how fiercely she defended you the last time we met, I imagine she might have something to do with your sudden change of heart? Oh, I saw the way her eyes lit up when I suggested I could help you stay there, in Liverpool. I saw it.’
Damien’s heart begun to thud uncomfortably in his ribcage. ‘You used her. You used her to get to me.’
‘You could say it was a mutually beneficial agreement,’ said Mr Briggs, head tilted to one side. ‘I got what I wanted: you, and she believed she got the same. Of course your father wouldn’t want you to stay in Liverpool. He wants you back in London. He wants his son back.’
Damien gave the man a terse smile. ‘He should’ve thought of that a decade ago,’ he said. ‘When I would’ve given anything to have him come and spirit me away from that boarding school. Every Easter, every Christmas, I’d hoped he’d send a letter. Even the damned summer he was never there – always off on business to France, or Spain.’
‘Your father regrets that most deeply.’
Mr Briggs leaned forwards, but the barman returned then, with two pints of ale and a plate of bread. There was no butter – and the bread looked on the brink of moulding – but Mr Briggs thanked him all the same, before pushing the plate to one side.
‘He regrets a great deal of what happened between you, Mr Carter.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Damien said, his voice low and cutting.
‘It was the grief,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘It caused him to do things that he now sees were very wrong. He knows your mother’s death was a tragic accident. He knows—‘
