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It turned out to be a filthy two-masted schooner, low in the water but seaworthy enough to cross the Channel—as long as the weather was easy. He would not have backed her across the Bay of Biscay.
Two of the fishermen came with him, armed with boat hooks and spikes.
Monk led them, facing the captain squarely as they were challenged on deck. He stood arms akimbo, a boat hook held crossways in front of him like a staff.
“You’ve got two girls on board. I want them. They’re taken illegally. Ten guineas reward for you if you give them up … a spike in your gut if you don’t.”
The captain resented the force, but he looked at Monk’s eyes, and the size and weight of the men behind him, and decided ten guineas was sufficient to save his honor.
“I’ll bring ’em up, no need to be nasty about it. Ten guineas, yer said?”
“That’s right.”
“Before I sail? I’m goin’ on the tide.”
“After. You’ll be back.”
“How do I know you’ll be back, eh?”
“I’ll pledge it to the harbormaster. I’ll leave it with him.” Monk lifted the staff a little, and behind him one of the fishermen fingered his spike.
The captain shrugged. He would not have got much for the girls anyway; they were as ugly as sin, and stupider than cows.
He came back less than four minutes later half struggling with two girls of about twenty years of age or a little more. They were matted with filth, clothed in little more than rags, and obviously terrified. They both had mouths with twisted lips drawn back from their teeth in something close to a snarl or a sneer, but their eyes were wide and, even through the filth, clear and lovely. Above the twisted mouths their bones were delicate, with winged brows and soft, exquisite hairlines.
Monk stared at them in shattering, overwhelming disbelief. He was almost choked by it, his heart beating in his throat. He was looking at faces which were caricatures of Delphine Lambert’s. Robbed of speech, almost of coherent thought, he simply held out his hands and let the staff fall.
“Come …” he croaked. “I’ve come to take you home … Leda … Phemie!”
12
MONK THANKED THE FISHERMEN, unnecessarily for them. In their eyes the act had been its own reward. One of them had a sister who was blind. His imagination told him all too clearly how such a fate could have happened to her. They even helped Monk find a hansom and get the two terrified girls into it and made sure Monk had sufficient money for the fare to Tavistock Square.
It was late afternoon and still raining hard. They were all filthy and shivering with cold. Perhaps it would have been more reasonable to go around to the back door, but Monk was so fired with triumph he did not even consider it. He paid the driver and helped the girls down onto the curb. He had actually given little thought as to what Martha would do with them, or what Gabriel Sheldon’s reaction would be to these two ragged and all but u
ncivilized creatures brought unannounced to his home. But surely he, of all people, would at least accept their deformities without mockery or revulsion.
All the journey from the Surrey Docks, as he had sought to comfort and reassure the girls, his mind had been filled with the shattering realization that Delphine Lambert must be the same person as Dolly Jackson. The turmoil of emotions in her heart he could barely guess at! Now he set all thought of her aside and knocked on the door, then stood, holding the girls on either side of him, his arms around their shoulders. They were thin, undernourished, nothing like Zillah Lambert. But then Zillah was no blood relative, as he knew.
The door was opened by Martha Jackson. At first she did not recognize Monk, let alone the two young women with him. Her face showed weariness and impatience, not unmixed with pity.
“If you go to the kitchen door Cook will give you a hot cup of soup,” she offered with a shake of her head.
“Miss Jackson,” Monk said clearly, grinning at her in spite of himself. He had meant to retain some dignity and detachment. “These are your nieces, Leda and Phemie.” He kept his arms around them. “They’ve had a bad experience, and they are cold and hungry and frightened, but I told them they were coming home and that you would be very pleased to see them.”
Martha stared at him, unable to grasp or believe. She looked at the two girls in front of her, their faces wide with wonder, not daring to hope that Monk’s words were true. They were dazed with exhaustion and the speed with which things had happened. And they only heard part of what was said. They needed to see a face, read an expression. They had to have words said slowly and with clear enunciation.
Martha searched their expressions, their features beneath the dirt, and slowly her eyes widened and filled with tears. She took a gulp of air and with a mighty effort controlled herself.
“Phemie?” she whispered, swallowing again. “Leda?”
They nodded, still clinging to Monk.
“I’m … Martha…. I’m your papa’s sister.” The tears spilled over as she said it, a rush of memory overwhelming her.
“M-Martha?” Phemie said awkwardly. Her voice was not unpleasant, but she found speech difficult as no one had taken the time to try to teach her to master her disability.
“That’s right,” Monk encouraged her. He looked at Leda, the younger, and he already knew her the more serious, more conscious of her affliction.
