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tea & sandwiches—what the dickens—an indecorous melee—our heroine sets forth—explosions—the perils of charity—interesting footwear—elizabeth bennet is not consulted—a bad decision
Charlotte could listen no more in silence. For several minutes now a young man at the teahouse counter had been abusing a waiter with language that pierced her soul. She had tried to behave as the other customers and look away—after all, who did not understand the pain of being disappointed in one’s hopes for a warm currant scone? But finally her patience broke, and she simply had to speak by such means as were within her reach—namely, a volume of Dickens she had been reading over tea and sandwiches.
Rising from her chair, she castGreat Expectationsat the young man’s head and then settled down once more to her luncheon.
The young man roared. Clutching his head, eyes blazing, he glared around the cafeteria. “Who did that?!”
Charlotte raised one delicate, lace-gloved hand.
“He did,” she said, pointing to a dark-haired gentleman at a nearby table.
Several ladies gasped. Her chosen scapegoat, however, gave noreaction. Charlotte was unsurprised. She had seen him enter the teahouse earlier and noted at a glance how everything about him was rich, from his long black overcoat to his gold-handled briefcase. She could not imagine him paying attention to anyone he might consider lesser than himself. Indeed, he read his newspaper and drank his coffee as if she had not even spoken.
The angry young man had heard her well enough, however. He stormed across to snatch the gentleman’s newspaper and fling it dramatically to the ground. The moment was rather spoiled by paper sheets fluttering about, one covering his face and thereby muting his tirade, but he pulled it away, scrunching it within a fist.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, brandishing his knuckles along with the rumpled paper.
The gentleman blinked composedly. “I beg your pardon?”
“You threw a book at me! Stand up, mister, and face justice!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the gentleman replied, unmoved. Charlotte noted that his voice was rich too, with a slight accent woven through like gold thread. “Compensate me for my newspaper then return to whatever gutter from which you crawled. You are disturbing the peace.”
“I’ll give you disturbing!” The young man grasped the coat lapels of the older and hauled him from his chair.
“Goodness me,” Charlotte murmured, leaning back as the men stumbled against her table. Screams arose from the other patrons, but Charlotte did not indulge in shock. Her teacup was rattling in its saucer. Her sandwiches almost leaped off their plate. If she sat around gasping, luncheon would be entirely spoiled.
With a sigh, she stood, laying her napkin on the table. She took a last sip of tea while the men knocked over chairs with their furious wrestling. She wrapped her sandwiches in the napkin, rescued herpurse from the table moments before the men crashed onto it, then left the teahouse, picking up the gentleman’s briefcase as she went.
A tiny bell tinkled as she opened the door and stepped out. A breeze plucked at her strawberry blonde coiffure but was unable to disrupt it. Charlotte paused, squinting against the lambent afternoon light, and considered her route ahead.
St. James’s Street was busy as usual with a bright drift of ladies going about their regular business, shopping and sightseeing and generally making a promenade of themselves. A woman dressed simply in gray, with only one feather on her hat and the smallest bustle possible without being indecent, would stand out most regrettably amongst them. But there was no choice. She closed the shop door just as a teapot smashed against it. From within the premises came a lady’s anguished cry, and then a man shouted: “Where is my briefcase?!” Charlotte straightened her modest hat, hung her purse from the crook of her elbow, and proceeded along the street.
She had not gone far when the tinkle of a doorbell shook through her consciousness. Without glancing back, she began to lengthen her stride. She managed to cover several yards of St. James’s Street within moments and, nodding to acknowledge a police constable who veered in his path to make way for her, turned onto King Street.
Almost at once she found herself stalled by a half dozen ladies laughing together as they moved at a rate that barely qualified as strolling. Charlotte managed to tap her foot impatiently even as she edged forward behind them.
“Stop, thief!” arose a shout from St. James’s Street, the force of its anger making it clearly audible despite the distance. Charlotte attempted to circumnavigate the ladies without success. Really, people had no consideration for others these days. How was one supposed to effect a robbery when dawdlers blocked the footpath in this disgracefulmanner? They left her no option but to cast off all decorum and step out amongst the wagons on the road.
A driver hollered at her to immediately evacuate his intended route (or at least words to that effect). As she looked back, Charlotte saw the gentleman from the teahouse enter King Street, his coat billowing as he strode toward her. Realizing that she would not be able to outpace him, she muttered under her breath.
All of a sudden, the wagon’s horses whinnied and reared, forcing their vehicle to a shuddering stop in the center of the road. Pumpkins flew from the back, bursting open on the cobblestones and causing ladies to scream as orange mush splattered over their gowns. A phaeton coming up behind narrowly avoided collision, and as its driver rose from his seat to shout abuse at the wagoner, various pedestrians rushed to join in.
Within seconds, the street was blocked.
Charlotte walked away from the tumult, her heels clicking delicately against the paving. Noticing Almack’s public assembly house farther along, she began to aim for it.
A policeman’s whistle pierced the clamor of the crowd, and Charlotte winced. Pain from the noise ricocheted along her nerves. If only she could leave London with all its cacophony and retire to Hampshire, birthplace of Jane Austen, where green peace whispered wild yet gentle poetry to one’s heart. It was never to be—duty forced her presence in London, noble duty (and the fact there was not much of value to steal in the countryside)—yet still she dreamed. And occasionally took brief jaunts by train because, truly, there was nothing like leaving home for real comfort.
Thus imagining oak trees and country lanes while behind her the brawl intensified, Charlotte made her way without further impediment toward Almack’s. Its door stood open, a delivery boy’s bicycle leaning on the wall beside it, and the warm interior shadows promised respitefrom London’s inconveniences—as well as a back door through which she could slip unnoticed by policemen, pumpkin carters, and aggravated briefcase owners. She was almost there when she saw the child.
A mere scrap of humanity, he huddled within torn and filthy clothes, his small hand extended pathetically. Charlotte looked at him and then at Almack’s door. She came to a decisive stop.
“Hello,” she said in the stiff tones of someone unused to conversing with children. “Are you hungry?”
The urchin nodded. Charlotte offered him her wrapped sandwiches but he hesitated, his eyes growing wide and fearful as he glanced over her shoulder. Suddenly, he snatched the food and ran.
