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Chapter Two
Dorian cut through alleyways and side-streets, listening out for the sounds of London’s nighttime creatures: thieves, miscreants, drunkards, brawlers, prostitutes, and beggars. He did not know what the darkness would hold for him. That was part of the thrill. His muscles tensed and his fists clenched, so he could launch into a retaliation if anyone lunged out of the shadows to try and attack him.
I suppose some would consider me quite mad.
He had not always been this way. As a child and a youth, he had been a cheerful, witty, sociable fellow, who adored everything that society could offer. He had danced at balls with abject glee and laughed with ease amongst groups of his peers, vying against Hudson to be the center of attention.
Then, at the tender age of ten-and-eight, his world had turned upside down. Events beyond his control had stormed his life and ripped out his heart, leaving an empty void there that could only be filled by the rush of putting himself in harm’s way. He had endured that pursuit of wholeness for twelve years now but had found no other cure.
War was my peace…He had only ever admitted that to Hudson, who never wasted an opportunity to chastise him for it. To his friend, the war was the closest thing to Hell on Earth. Still, Dorian missed riding into battle, not knowing if he would survive. He supposed it was his way of testing fate, and the heavens, to see just how far they would go to punish him. Thus far, no matter what he did, the heavens chose not to let him die. Evidently, they did not yet believe that he had paid his penance.
He walked on through the darkest streets, but the shadows refused to come out to play. Disappointed, he turned the corner out of a narrow back alley that ran behind one of the alehouses, praying for a thief or a vagabond when he emerged, who wanted to fight. Instead, he saw the familiar sight of Tower Bridge up ahead, the streets and roads around him devoid of people.
I wonder…Quickening his pace, he headed up onto the bridge and walked all the way along to the middle. There, he stopped and peered over the edge, staring down at the dark water below. A fetid stench wafted up from the moving current, carrying the sewage of the city beneath the surface.
He glanced left and right to make sure he was alone. Satisfied that no-one would disturb him, he carefully clambered up onto the stone balustrade and sat there for a moment, swinging his legs over the steep drop as though he were a child. The thrill did not come, as he had hoped it might.
Undeterred, he slid forward until his feet touched a narrow ledge and kept his arms behind him, his fingers gripping the inner edge of the stone balustrade. Taking a steadying breath, he leaned out over the water as far as he could stretch, the stone edge digging into his fingertips as they bore his muscular weight. He looked down at the black river, wondering if he would survive the fall if he just… let go.
“Please… let me feel something.” He leaned further until his arms burned under the strain. But the familiar sentiment that he craved would not come. It was as though his body knew that he would not release his grip and send him plummeting into the dark water, so it could not give any reward for the danger he had put himself in.
Frustrated, he pulled himself back into the side of the balustrade and clambered over to the safety of the solid ground, stretching out his arms until the burning faded.
“I am tired of London,” he muttered to himself. He only came here to appease Hudson’s thirst for women and gambling and to indulge in a brawl or two, where chance allowed. He much preferred the solitude of his home, Langton House, where he could ride until the hollowness did not feel as overwhelming. Hudson often resided there with him, usually for entire seasons. Dorian was grateful for that, for he had no other friends or acquaintances to distract him from his destructive thoughts.
I hope he is finished with his merriments.Puffing air through his lips, he began to retrace his steps back to the gambling hall, so he could haul Hudson away and return home.
He was halfway up the street where the gambling hall was positioned when a sound made him stop in his tracks- a blood-curdling scream, shivering through the still summer night and reverberating up his spine. Scenting the danger he sought on the tepid breeze, he whirled around and ran in the direction of the scream. He could not let such an opportunity pass him by.
* * *
Alone in the one-room lodging she called home, Rose stirred a pot of thin broth, where two paltry potatoes and some carrot and turnip tops bobbed sadly in the tasteless hot water. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, which were itchy from the fibers of the cloth she had spent the day sewing.
Dipping a ladle into the pot, she spooned out a bowlful of the broth and took it to the window so she could watch the street below as she ate. She rarely ate anywhere else, for it meant having to face the poverty that surrounded her and the suffocating feeling it elicited.
The lodging walls were dappled with mold, the ceiling stained with water damage from the room above, the floorboards warped and cracked, always spiking her feet with loose splinters. But the rents here were relatively cheap, and they might have lived a bearable life, had her father not stolen everything she earned and made appeasing the landlord a weekly nightmare.
Halfway through her bowl of broth, a loud bang on the door interrupted her peace. “Rose! Rose, are you in there?”
“Coming!” she shouted back, recognizing her neighbor, Mrs. Bowland’s voice. She left her bowl on the side and hurried over to the door, wrenching it open on its rusty hinges. Mrs. Bowland stood outside on the landing, her gnarled face twisted up in an irritated grimace. “Is something the matter?”
Mrs. Bowland snorted. “Aye, you need to get yourself another father, that’s what.”
“What has he done?” Rose’s stomach clenched. There were moments when her feelings toward her father verged on hatred, but he was still her father. She still loved him, and she did not know what she would do if anything bad were to happen to him.
“He’s sent word for you at the gamblin’ hall. Renfrew’s, or whatever it’s called. I ‘spect you know the one.” Mrs. Bowland leaned against the doorjamb. “He wants you there as soon as you can. Urgent, apparently. I ‘spect it’s money he’s after, eh?”
Rose sighed. “I imagine so.”
“Terrible shame, havin’ a daughter that looks like you and keepin’ you in a place like this.” Mrs. Bowland tutted. “You want to get yourself out before you end up dead, carryin’ his money ‘round places you’ve no business bein’ so late at night.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rose insisted, trying not to show fear. She did not think of herself as particularly beautiful, but there were many men who had no qualms about telling her of her assets whenever she passed by on her way to and from home, and between home and the gambling halls.
“Aye, well, give me a knock when you get back, so I know you ain’t dead yet.” Mrs. Bowland gave her a wave as she wandered back to her own lodging and closed the door with a shuddering slam.
Rose retreated back into her room and darted over to a splintered floorboard in the corner. She checked the open door to make sure no-one was watching and pried it up. It gave easily, used to the action, to reveal a broken flowerpot where she kept her worldly wealth. Reaching in, she took out the packet that Mr. Jennings had given her that day and took out the extra tuppence. She slid it into the bottom of her shoe and pocketed the rest, so she would havesomethingto buy food with in the days to come.
What if I ran? What if I bought passage on a ship, or a stagecoach, this very night and disappeared from London altogether?
