Dancing with the Devil
Peter Moore’s modestterraced house sat wedged between identical dwellings on Turnmill Street, their brick facades darkened by years of soot and grime. Amelia adjusted her plain wool cloak and gripped her cane more tightly. The silver lioness head felt cool beneath her palm, a reminder of Charles’ faith in her strength.
The house was respectable by local standards, with clean windows and a well-maintained front step. A few hardy flowers struggled against the smoky air in the small patch of ground before the door.
She lifted the brass door knocker and rapped firmly. From within came the sounds of domestic life—children’s voices, the clatter of crockery, a woman’s voice attempting to impose order on chaos.
The door opened to reveal a neat woman with her hair arranged beneath a modest cap. Her eyes widened at Amelia’s refined bearing and the quality of her dress visible beneath the plain cloak.
“Good evening,” Amelia said. “I need to speak with Mr. Peter Moore. It concerns Crown Street Textiles.”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Moore’s features. “And you are, my lady?”
“Someone with questions about an incident from thirteen years past.”
The woman paled but stepped aside. “Please, come in. Peter’s just finished his dinner.”
The front parlor was small but scrupulously clean, walls papered in a pattern that showed signs of age. Children’s voices grew louder fromthe back room.
“I’ll fetch him directly.” Mrs. Moore hurried toward the rear of the house, calling, “Peter! There’s a lady here to see you.”
Heavy footsteps approached, and Peter Moore appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin. His face, marked by years of factory dust and worry, showed immediate confusion at the sight of a well-dressed lady in his home.
Before he could speak, three children peered around their father—a boy of perhaps twelve, a girl slightly younger, and a small child of six or seven who clung to her father’s leg. The sight of them made something twist in Amelia’s chest. These children could run, could dance, had all their limbs intact.
“Back to the kitchen with you,” Mrs. Moore said, reappearing to shepherd them away. “Let Papa speak with the lady.”
“But Mama—” the youngest protested.
“Now, Alice.” Mrs. Moore’s tone brooked no argument, though she cast worried glances between her husband and Amelia.
Once the children’s voices receded to the kitchen, Moore gestured awkwardly to a chair. “I’m Peter Moore, my lady. How may I help you?”
He took the chair nearest the door—positioned to flee, Amelia noted.
“I am the Marchioness of Hereford. You were foreman at Crown Street Textiles thirteen years ago,” she stated.
His brows furrowed as he answered cautiously, “Yes, my lady. That was many years past.”
“There was an accident. A girl named Amelia Thornton.”
Color drained from his face and his whole body seemed to crumple. “That poor child.” His voice broke. “I’ve never forgotten. Such a young thing, barely fourteen.”
From the kitchen came the sound of children laughing, quickly hushed by their mother. The domesticity of it all—this man who hadbeen complicit in destroying her future, surrounded by his intact, happy family—made Amelia’s chest tight with complicated emotions.
“Tell me what you remember,” she said quietly.
Moore’s eyes filled with tears. “Everything. I remember everything. The sound when the machine caught her. Her screams. So much blood.” He buried his face in his hands. “I carried her out myself. She was so small in my arms, so frightened. Her eyes… the way she looked at me, begging for help.”
“What did you do?”
“I held her hand while we waited for the doctor. Tried to keep her conscious. I didn’t know what else to do.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “When they said they’d have to take the leg, I begged them to reconsider. Dr. Morrison, he said it could be saved with time and proper care, but…”
“But?”
“Mr. Bigham had orders. From the owner. He didn’t know which one. The letter demanded economies. No extended treatments, nothing that would cost more than quick solutions.” Moore rubbed his weathered face with shaky hands. “I had to… I was forced to hold her down while the doctor…” Amelia thought he might break down and start sobbing, but he suddenly looked up, awareness dawning. “Why are you asking about her? How are you related to Amelia Thornton?”
Amelia lifted her chin, perhaps to erase that pitiful girl from his memory. “I am Amelia Thornton.”
