Gasping, I clutched Nora’s arm. “There! Do you see him?”
Nora cried out. “Look away, miss. It ain’t a sight for a lady.”
Ignoring Nora, as I was prone to do from time to time, I glanced to the others, who appeared completely remiss of the situation. “Excuse me, sirs!” I called to the two men. “There is a man in the alley in dire need of aid.”
The younger man laughed. “Indeed, I would not be surprised if he has been there for days.”
“D-days?” I stuttered.
The older man nodded. “Don’t worry, miss. The constable was sent for to take his body to the deadhouse.”
“If there’s room,” the younger man responded. “I heard they cannot keep up with the burials. Even with the famine over, those blasted Irish are still dying like flies.”
I had never taken lightly to any disparagement toward the Irish—not when my own mother, despite how she tried to hide it, was as Irish as they came. But I had been fairly protected from the cruelness of Society, and this was far worse than anything I had experienced before. “But he’s still alive,” I exclaimed. “Why would they take him to the deadhouse?”
“He won’t last much longer.” The younger man shrugged before eyeing my fashionable bell-shaped dress. “But I wouldn’t linger here, miss. It’s not the most respectable part of town, or whoever did that to him wouldn’t have dumped him here.”
I squirmed with the reminder of my reputation—or what was left of it, since I had decided to take up employment. “Canyounot help him?”
The men looked at each other. “Sorry, miss.” The older man tipped his hat toward me, put his hand on his companion’s back, and led him away.
Sorry? I scoffed. That was the word of a gentleman? Where was his honor? Had all the deaths of the starving Irish and disease made them immune to others’ suffering?
Angered, I rushed to the obscure carriage and rapped smartly on the door. Nora hurried to catch up with me.
The middle-aged woman inside startled, her feathered hat slapping against her seat as she flung her head up. From this position, I could make out a maid inside as well.
“Yes?” the genteel woman said through the open window.
“There is a man in need of medical assistance,” I explained, borrowing Mother’s assertive voice she used with our housekeeper. “Can you offer him any aid?”
The woman balked. “I am not a doctor.” Then she shut the shade on the window, abruptly ending our conversation.
I looked up at the driver, who gave me an apologetic look before averting his gaze.
The world was not at all a friendly place, was it? How I missed Norwood Hall.
Once more, the frail voice from the alley croaked for help.
My heart raced as I deliberated. If I lingered, would the proprietor of my rooms lock me out? It was a respectable place, and I had been fortunate to secure it on such short notice. But regardless of my situation, I could not in good conscience walk away and leave this man to die. I put my gloved fingers to my lips. If only I knew someone in London I could call on for help. I had not been permitted a Season with our extended grieving of Father and Mother. Beside my brief interaction with Lord Winterton, where he confessed to have hired someone else while waiting for my overdue response, there was no one here for me to turn to.
I glanced back down the alley and felt an unmistakable pull. Whoever he was, he needed me.
I made what was probably another reckless decision in a long line of reckless decisions and marched into the alley.
“Miss,” Nora cried after me. “Miss!”
I could not answer her. She would have a list of reasons why I should leave the alley that very minute, but this man required immediate assistance—and regardless of being the least qualified to help, I was the only one willing to give it. Behind me, I heard the carriage wheels grind against the road and pull away. I did not look back, my eyes arrested on the trail of blood dotting the dirt. A smell of rotting potatoes punctuated the air, and I put my hand to my nose. Rounding the crates, I prepared myself for the worst. It was good I did, because the sight before me was by far the most horrific I had seen in my entire life.
Nora whimpered as she came up beside me.
The injured man lay prostrate on his stomach, wearing only his drawers, which were filthy and stained with his blood, as was every inch of his person. He was no small man either. I wagered he was taller than Reginald’s six feet. And though he was beaten and battered, he had a strong frame and broad shoulders. I could not see his face, since his sandy hair was matted to it with a mixture of something dark . . . good gracious, more dried blood. Besides the shocking abundance of dark bruises, the worst from this angle seemed to be his head wound and a few small gashes along his side.
I lowered myself into a crouched position, my gown pooling wide around me. “Excuse me, sir? Sir?”
“Help.” His voice scratched out the sound as if it pained him to do so.
“What is your name? Can I send for your family?”
