Soul

‘My secretary will take care of it.’

Hamish pressed the carved ivory head of his walking cane against the Colonel’s knee; it was the head of a horse, a gift. It was a tiny movement, barely visible to those around them, but to the two men it was momentous.

‘I cannot erase my affection for you, as dangerous as it might be to pursue it. But I would rather not continue working by your side. It is too great a torture,’ Campbell murmured, audible to the Colonel alone.

Just then, the audience, following the heated debate on stage—which now had the Reverend Rorison holding the Bible high in his right hand and Darwin’s On the Origin of Species in his left, demanding they should decide between Man or God—rose to its feet in outrage. The two men were left seated, an island in a sea of legs.

‘Do you think it easy for me? I am trying to protect both our welfares.’ The Colonel, taking advantage of the distraction, turned to face Campbell, the distance between them now physically painful.

‘James, I don’t want protection, I want to live. Do you understand?’ Hamish fought the desire to caress the older man with every inch of his body. ‘I need an answer. I cannot feign indifference for much longer.’

56

THE TWO COACHMEN SAT ON hay bales, their game of All-Fours barely illuminated by the tallow candle burning in its tin pan. Samuel, his jacket loosened around the neck, his teeth stained brown from chewing tobacco, slapped his hand down triumphantly.

‘That is a high trump for the Yankee!’

‘Bejesus, I’m glad it’s only glass marbles we’re playing for.’

As Samuel swept up the cards, his sleeve rose above his wrist and Aloysius noticed a small circle with a cross within, branded into his dark skin. He grabbed the wrist and held it to the light.

‘The mark of a slave, my friend, so my master knows whose property I am.’

‘You can be owned by no one, Samuel, not you, not your soul.’

‘But I am, and no matter how many liberties my master might afford me, in the end this speaks.’

He rolled his sleeve down. In the distance church bells rang eleven o’clock.

‘Boss’ll only be reaching his port and cheese,’ Samuel said, looking out toward the yard. ‘Lucky for you I’ve only got an hour before I have to be back on that coach.’ He swept the three marbles into the leather pouch he had pinned between his knees. ‘So how is it, my friend? Has she got you reading and writing yet?’

‘No, but I have sent two letters back to Seamus, with her assistance.’

‘She sweet on you?’

Aloysius cuffed his friend about the head. ‘You keep your wicked thoughts to yourself, Samuel, and pray you won’t go to Hell.’

‘She’s a woman, ain’t she? With all them same sweet parts any woman has.’

‘She is Mrs Huntington and my mistress. I’ll not think of her in any other way.’

Samuel whistled disbelievingly.

‘All I knows is that a stallion and mare don’t concern themselves with who’s master and who’s mistress.’

‘If men were horses, we’d both be rich.’

As if in reply, one of the geldings whinnied. Both men looked up as footsteps sounded outside. Indicating that Samuel should keep silent, Aloysius crept to the barn door.

Peering into the night, he could just see a slight hooded figure making its way across the cobble-stoned courtyard to the back gate. Recognising Lavinia’s profile, Aloysius watched as she lifted the latch of the gate and disappeared into the mews lane beyond, leaving him wondering where and whom she was visiting so late in the evening.

The hansom cab driver glanced over his shoulder at his passenger, perplexed by the address she had given him. She appeared respectable enough: the dress coat she wore was velvet, and he had seen her step out of one of those expensive mansions. A governess perhaps, fallen on hard times? Burton Street was not a place where the cab driver cared to transport anyone, lined as it was with the less salubrious brothels.

He peered closer at her face; she was young and appeared refined, authoritative, in her manner. Could she be one of those notorious women who ‘collected’ maidens? He had heard about such women offering to mind young girls at railway stations for their parents, then disappearing with the girls never to be seen again. A gentleman could pay as little as three pounds for the pleasure of deflowering an eleven-year-old virgin, and there were many who were happy to sell their children. His wastrel brother had been one, and the driver had a secret horror of accidentally encountering his niece, her face painted, skirts tucked up, whoring under the gaslights of Burton Street.

As the hansom cab approached the East End, the streets narrowed and became more squalid. Open sewers ran alongside the gutters, and the stench of the river rose with the night fog. Some streets lacked gaslights and the driver was forced to navigate solely by the cab lantern and the candles barely illuminating the grimy windows of the passing terraces.

Lavinia hadn’t seen such hovels since the time she’d visited the shanty towns with her father during the Great Famine. She could see children sleeping beneath parked carts, atop piles of horse manure, under bridges, curled against each other in small groups, the filthy soles of their naked feet turned against the world.