Long, agonizing moments passed. It was the worst sort of torture. She had no idea what was happening in the street. She couldn’t detect any footfalls or voices to let her know if the men were leaving or coming in pursuit. She didn’t even know what sort of men they might be. Harmless drunkards? Dangerous footpads? Julian could tell her nothing. She couldn’t even make out his facial expression, much less any words he might speak. But the frantic thumping of his heart and the labored huffs of his breath against her cheek were not very reassuring signs. They were in true peril, or so he believed.
What in the world was going on?
Finally, after an agonizing minute, Julian’s brow met hers. Butter-soft leather caressed her cheek as he cautiously slid his fingers from her mouth, then replaced them with his lips.
A kiss. I’m sorry.
Tearing his lips from hers, he pressed hard against her shoulders, pinning her to the shuttered door.
A demand. Stay here.
Keeping one gloved hand on her sleeve, he stepped back and turned, looking into the street.
“Did they see us?” she whispered. “Are they gone?”
He tapped her shoulder, warning her to stay back. Then he took two steps into the street. A distant streetlamp traced his handsome profile in gold. As she stared at him, Lily felt her breathing slow to a steady, calmer rate. She was still terrified. But she was also strangely relieved to be here, sharing the fear with him. No more sitting up alone at night, worrying about Julian’s whereabouts. His whereabouts were hers. If some grave misfortune befell him, it would befall them both.
Julian’s chest deflated with apparent relief. For the moment, fortune seemed to be on their side.
He turned to her and stretched out a hand. She took it.
He led her into the street, immediately turning her in the opposite direction of the way they had been walking. Julian set a slow, falsely casual pace, and he kept her close, tucked securely under one arm. They walked about a block before he stopped, directly under a street lamp, and turned to her.
“Are you well? Your leg … It’s not hurt?” As he spoke, he shrugged out of his coat.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Come quickly, then. And be silent.” He settled his coat about her shoulders and resumed walking.
She stopped him short, keeping him in the light. “Julian, what’s going on? Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace safe.”
That was all he would say. Together they walked swiftly for another block or two, then turned down a narrow lane … emerged into a larger street … and then made a series of twisting turns. Lily didn’t recognize any of these streets or landmarks, and due to the circuitous nature of their journey, she no longer had any idea in which direction they were walking. She tried to take comfort from the warmth and scent of his coat, for she was well and thoroughly lost.
Finally, they approached a coffeehouse. The door was open, but the windows were dark. A woman in a white-lace cap was shooing a man out the door and into the street, sweeping him along with a broom as if he were a heap of ale-soaked rushes.
“Oy!” the man protested, jumping at another prod of the broom. “I’m on my way. No call to be rough.”
With her broom handle, the woman tapped a sign on the window. Lily squinted at it. It read, “Closed.”
As she and Julian approached, the woman caught sight of them. Her brow wrinkled with displeasure, and again she tapped the broom to the sign. Closed.
Julian was undeterred. Releasing Lily, he approached the landlady. As he moved toward her, he made a gesture with both hands.
The older woman stopped, peered at him.
Julian removed his hat to aid her examination.
The landlady froze. Then she threw down the broom in the street and flew at him. Julian reeled from the collision, disappearing into a mass of doughy bosom and starched lace.
Lily gasped, suddenly alarmed. Who would have guessed Julian would escape those two brutes, only to be smothered by an aged matron in a lace cap? She darted forward. Perhaps she could grab up the broom, use it as a weapon …
But as she neared them, it became apparent that Julian was not being attacked. He was being hugged. When the landlady finally released him, Julian gestured to indicate Lily. Lily nodded her head in greeting, and the older woman returned the gesture with a tearful smile. After wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron, she opened the coffeehouse door and waved them both inside.
So curious, Lily thought to herself. Julian and the landlady clearly knew each other well. And in the course of that whole broom-and-bosom interchange—so far as Lily could tell—they’d neither of them spoken a single word.
Even inside the coffeehouse, they continued this way. Neither speaking a word. Not with lips or tongue, at any rate. No, Julian and the landlady were communicating solely with their hands. Rapid, precise, two-handed movements that Julian only belatedly—after sending Lily an apologetic glance—began pairing with speech.
“She’s my friend,” he said to the older woman, matching his words with hand signals that Lily could marvel at, but not understand. “I need you to keep her here. Keep her safe.”
The landlady made a motion, and her eyebrows lifted in query.
“Not long,” Julian answered. “A few hours, perhaps.”
“A few hours?” Lily claimed his attention. “Julian, what do you mean? You can’t leave me.”
“I must.” He drew her aside. “Those men … I have to go back and try to find them.”
“Why?”
“Because those might be the men who killed Leo.”
“What? How can you possibly believe—”
He shook his head, impatient. “They match a witness’s description. I don’t have time to explain it further than that. But I can’t let them get away. This is the closest I’ve come in months, Lily. Five. Long. Months.” He shaped each word distinctly. She’d never seen his eyes such a dark, intense shade of blue. “Stay here, no matter what occurs. Here, you’ll be protected.”
Oh, certainly. She would be protected. But what about him? Chasing strange brutes down dark alleys in the night …
“Don’t go.” She rushed to him and grabbed hold of his arm. “Don’t leave me here alone.”
“Lily, I can’t take you with me. It’s too dangerous. You’ll be safe here.”
“But … but how can you know that?”
He paused. Then said simply, “I was raised here.”
Stunned, she released his arm.
“Stay,” he commanded. His hand shot to her face, roughly cupping her cheek. His gaze bored into hers—as though with a forceful look, he could bolt her to the wall. “Stay. No matter how long it takes. I will come back for you. Do you understand?”
She nodded numbly. He left her no choice. “Wait. Your coat.” She slid the garment from her shoulders and thrust it at him. “It’s cold out there.”
A word fell from his lips. Judging by the sharp crease of his brow, she guessed it to be a vicious curse. His hand slid back into her hair, and he gripped tight. Then, with those same blasphemous lips, he kissed her full on the mouth.
The kiss was bruising, potent. Far too brief.
By the time she recalled how to breathe, he and his coat were gone.
A teapot appeared before her face.
Lily looked up, into the round face of the woman holding it. Thick, hoary eyebrows rose, disappearing under the brim of a white lace cap. More tea? the landlady’s expression silently inquired.
Gathering a borrowed blanket about her shoulders, Lily smiled politely and shook her head. She’d scarcely sipped from her first cup. At her elbow, a plate of food remained untouched. Since it had been served to her, the edge of a freshly pared bit of cheese had already gone crusty and dry.
How many hours had she been here? Morning could not be long coming. To stave off panic, Lily pressed one hand flat to the planks of the tabletop, worn glassy-smooth by decades of use. The cool, solid surface calmed her pulse.
Julian would come for her. He’d promised.
Dear God. What would she do if he didn’t?
She’d never felt more helpless in her life. She didn’t even know where she was. If she could decide where to go—out in search of Julian, back home to wait—how would she get there? Walk out on the street and hail a hackney cab? She’d never hailed a hack in her life, ever. There’d always been a servant or friend to do it for her. Perhaps she could send word to Amelia. But what would the message even say?
The older woman sat down across the table from her. Did she mean to attempt conversation? This would be a challenge, unless the landlady could read lips, too.
Lily said, “Thank you. For everything.”
The woman gestured rapidly in response, and Lily shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the hand signs. You see, I never learned.”
The woman’s amazement was obvious. As if Lily had just confessed to being illiterate, or unable to count.
She knew such a manual language existed, of course. In the first year following her illness, her tutor had shown her an alphabet formed with the fingers. But Leo didn’t take to it especially well, and after that failed experiment, Lily had declined to learn any more signs. With whom would she use them?
Except—apparently, she could have been using them with Julian all this while. How did he know this language? Why had he never told her? She was so confused.
From a nearby shelf, her hostess gathered a slate and nub of chalk, then resumed her seat and applied herself to the use of both. When she held up her work, Lily read aloud from the slate.
“Anna.” She looked up. “That’s you? You’re Anna?” At the woman’s nod, Lily extended an open hand. “May I?”
Anna passed her the slate and chalk, and Lily carefully inscribed her name on the small square of slate. Beneath it, she wrote, Thank you.
Smiling, Anna moved her hand back and forth in the universal gesture of “no thanks are necessary.” She took back the slate and worked over it for a few minutes. While she did so, Lily managed a sip of cold, too-sweet tea.
After a minute, Anna handed her the slate.
“‘Friend of Jamie welcome,’” Lily read aloud. Puzzled, she frowned at the slate. She knew Anna could not hear her. The question escaped her lips anyway. “But … but who is Jamie?”
A sudden vibration jarred her focus. Her teacup did a frantic dance on its saucer. Something heavy had fallen, or perhaps a door had slammed shut? She looked up, and there was Julian. His clothes were sodden, and he’d lost his hat. Dark hair clung to his brow in wet, matted locks. He looked like hell, and not himself at all. But he was here, and he was standing, and he was—so far as Lily could see—all of a piece. Alive.
“Me,” he said. “I’m Jamie. She means me.”
“We can talk up here.” Julian took Lily by the hand and led her up the narrow staircase. “Mind your head,” he said, adding a palm-to-pate smack for emphasis.
He knew Lily wanted some explanation. And after the night she’d just passed, he couldn’t deny her that. But they couldn’t discuss matters downstairs in the kitchen. Dawn was already breaking, and soon the milkmaid would be coming round, the day’s baking would commence … For this conversation, they needed privacy.
It was time to tell her the truth. Or at least part of it. He knew Lily understood they came from different places on the map of English society. What she didn’t comprehend was the vast dimension of the gulf between them. This morning, he would acquaint her with its insurmountable nature, in no uncertain terms.
They emerged into a cramped garret, occupied by only a narrow slice of window under the eaves and a wobbly cane chair.
“Sit here,” he told her, stripping off his wet coat. For himself, he extricated an old crate from the furthest reaches of the eaves, overturned it, and sat down—squarely within the shaft of sunlight thrown by the window, and as far away from Lily as the space would permit. Which amounted to a distance of about four feet. Less than ideal, but it would have to suffice. Whatever follies he’d contemplated last night, he could never allow them to become reality. He’d exposed her to people and places she should never have encountered in her life. Worst of all, he’d put her in true danger. Leo had paid with his life, just for calling Julian friend. He could not allow Lily to suffer for the same dubious privilege.
