Thom’s face twists. He’s about to correct her: not that crown. But then his eyes lighten.
‘What did she show an interest in?’ he asks.
Eleanor is terrified. Her mind darts so quickly that she can’t hold on to a single thought. ‘The church,’ she gets out.
Thom brings down his cane, sharp upon the bench. ‘The church in the castle?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She’s said it now. ‘The chapel. Mrs Moore is devout,’ she adds, managing one lie in her terror, at least.
‘And what did she find there?’
‘Find, sir?’
‘What attracted her attention?’
‘The windows,’ Eleanor burbles. ‘The view. I don’t know. She loitered by the window.’
She starts to wail. Mr Thom puts his hand round her throat.
‘Do you swear it?’ He squeezes, not hard enough to throttle her but enough that she wheezes.
‘Yes, sir.’
He holds his hand on her windpipe for five more seconds that feel like five minutes. She kicks out uselessly. Behind him McGhie watches. His eyes are alight. Eleanor thinks she’ll die in this back room, amid the ledgers and the wooden boxes of spirits packed in hay. She wonders if her soul will be able to return to Wimbledon if her body expires in Scotland. When Thom desists it takes her a moment to understand that he’s let go. McGhie swipes the coins off the desk and returns them to his pocket. ‘Filthy lying bitch,’ he growls.
Thom removes a carefully folded handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face as if strangling Eleanor has worn him out. ‘This shouldn’t be necessary,’ he says, as if it’s the girl’s fault. ‘Make no mistake, I’ll hunt you down, Eleanor Thrale, if you defy me again. If you run, I’ll not cease until I have you. Now go to your mistress and do what we’ve commissioned. Next time I’ll not be so lenient.’
Eleanor blinks. She doesn’t understand. Hunt me down, she thinks, before her an image of dogs to the chase up Richmond Hill. He can’t really expect her to return, can he?
‘Go!’ Thom shouts, and she jumps up like a fox out of a hole.
McGhie laughs and opens the office door, leading her through the shop. He pauses before unlocking the door to Princes Street. ‘I never trusted you,’ he snarls.
The cold air is a relief as she tumbles onto the pavement. Two cab drivers opposite watch as she scrabbles, almost tripping over her own feet before finally making off. It feels as if she’s being followed but she dare not look back, so she fixes hergaze on the pavement and charges towards the West End. At Charlotte Square she doesn’t walk down the steep hill at the far corner for that, she thinks, is where they’ll expect her to go. Instead, she cuts down the side of St George’s with the merest brave glance behind as she continues into the mews courtyard where two carriages are being brought out by stable boys from other houses. She doesn’t acknowledge them, but pushes open the door to the McKenzie stable. The carriage is gone. Davey must have been summoned. She feels sick as she flops onto an upturned crate and begins to cry, cursing as she runs over the mistakes she’s made. She believes Mr Thom will pursue her if she runs, and he knows well enough where she comes from. Why did she stay to help Mrs Moore? The mistress doesn’t care about her anyway. ‘I’m in a bloody rat trap,’ she sobs and tries not to think what happens in those.
The stable is freezing. She warms herself beside the embers in the stove until she hears the carriage pulling up. The doors open and Davey removes the harness on the first horse before he realises she’s there.
‘Eleanor! You were right.’ He sounds triumphant as he removes two shillings from his tweed waistcoat and holds them up like a prize. Then he notices her swollen eyes. ‘What is it?’
Eleanor shakes her head. ‘Mr Thom realised I wasn’t telling the truth.’
Davey leads the horse into a stall and draws a bucket of water. ‘I told him what you said, that Mrs Moore visited a fancy house today. He asked where it was, so I said one of the new ones down at the botanic garden. I couldn’t think of anywhere further from where we really went. I said my rate was up anaw and he made no fuss about that.’ He returns for the other horse and peers at Eleanor, realising that something serious is wrong.
Eleanor pulls back her scarf. The skin round her neck is circled in pink. ‘He took me by the throat,’ she says. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
Davey stables the second horse. ‘He can’t do that.’
Eleanor begins to cry. ‘I wish I’d never...’
Davey puts his arm round her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re all right now.’
Eleanor sniffs. ‘I’ve got bruises on my wrist too,’ she adds. ‘I thought I was a goner.’
‘I’ll get you a cup of beer.’ Davey goes to the firkin, propped on an old, oak saddle rack. The barrel is refilled monthly on the McKenzie account at Mrs Hamilton’s. He’s seeing to Eleanor like one of his horses, she realises. Tears roll silently down the girl’s cheeks. ‘I wish I could just disappear,’ she whispers.
Davey pauses. ‘You can stay here if you like.’
Chapter Eighteen
