Bedford Street Brigade 02 - Love Unbidden (14 page)

Betsy Thomas tried not to look into the haunted eyes of the females who stood in open doorways advertising their availability, or who leaned against the soot-covered sides of dilapidated buildings in hopes of selling their bodies to anyone willing to part with their coin. But ignoring them was impossible. They were everywhere. And their bodies were the only assets they had to survive.

Thankfully, her brother Nick was at her side. She’d never dare to come to this part of London without him.

They turned down another street, which took them deeper into The Old Nichol rookery of London’s East End. Instead of the surroundings improving, everything deteriorated even more.

Filth filled every corner, every nook and cranny, and lined every gutter. Every breath she took reeked with the smell of human feces, rotting flesh…and death. It was as commonplace as the poverty and disease that abounded in the slums of London. To most, death was the only condition better than the life every one of these unfortunate souls lived.

“Have you seen anything?”

Nick asked the question, then pulled Betsy closer to avoid the drunken couple staggering toward them. Their unwashed bodies and gin-soaked odor greeted Betsy several steps before the couple passed.

Betsy couldn’t answer Nick with words. She’d been so sure that tonight they’d find Phoebe. But this journey to another one of London’s hell-holes was as wasted as each one before it. She shook her head as tears threatened to consume her.

A drunken skeleton of a man stumbled out of a gin house as they passed and nearly collided with them. Nick quickly pulled her away and picked up his pace to lead her to safety. Except Betsy had no idea where that might be. They were deep in the worst slum of London’s East End, an area called The Old Nichol.

For the first time since they’d begun their search several months ago, Betsy prayed she wouldn’t recognize anyone. She didn’t want to think of her sister living in this filth.

Old Nichol Street was littered with dilapidated tenant buildings that rotted around the unfortunate women and children who lived in them. She and Nick walked past several more decaying buildings, then passed an open alleyway.

“Don’t look,” Nick said sharply as he turned her toward him.

Betsy didn’t need to look to see what Nick was protecting her from. She heard the harsh breathing and the grunts and groans of a female plying her trade. She’d heard it too often when they’d visited London’s East End.

Betsy turned her head and kept pace with Nick as he pushed her faster down Half Nichol Street. “Betsy, it’s no use,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”

Betsy wanted to argue, but every instinct she possessed told her Nick was right. It was time to give up. At least for tonight.

She stayed close to her brother as they left the alleyway known as Half Nichol Street, then passed the lane somewhat grandly called Nichol Street. They were about to walk past Old Nichol Street when Nick pulled her to him and dragged her back into the shadows. That’s when she heard it.

Old Nichol Street was little more than a narrow pathway that trapped its inhabitants between hopelessness and despair, but tonight the slime-laden roadway also harbored the horrors of impending death. The grunts and groans that came from the shadows weren’t the sounds made by a man and a woman, but the sounds of a battle whose intent was to cause pain—more likely, death.

She pressed her back against the corner of a building that opened to Old Nichol Street, then leaned to her right to peek around the corner. What she saw sucked the air from her lungs.

Two men held another man between them, while two others took turns pummeling him with their fists. The man was already bloody
beyond recognition, but the four attackers didn’t cease beating their victim. Death was their obvious intent.

Betsy’s stomach knotted with a painful ache with each dull thud of fists pounding flesh, twisted mercilessly with the low agonizing grunts of pain from the victim. The sounds repeated and she clutched her fists to her stomach as if that might lessen the pain she experienced. Surely the victim couldn’t endure much more.

But the pounding continued.

At one point she made a move to go to him, but Nick’s arm slammed against her and trapped her against the side of the building. She looked up at him and saw his intense glare. It warned her that being discovered would put them in the same danger as the man being beaten.

Betsy pressed back against the brick building and prayed that the beating would stop. But it didn’t. It went on and on. Except now there weren’t any sounds coming from the man receiving the blows. Just the dull thuds of fists against flesh.

Betsy swiped the tears that ran down her cheek, then risked a glance around the corner. The man was no longer able to stand on his own feet, but sagged between the two men holding him. He was tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, but that height and strength had done him no good. Not against that many attackers.

She looked at him more intently. She was sure he didn’t belong here. It wasn’t his clothes that gave him away, but his build. His stature. Most inhabitants of the slum areas of London’s East End appeared gaunt and malnourished. This man had a healthy look about him. He looked robust and strong. As if he could have held his own in any skirmish, had the odds been even.

Then she wondered what he was doing here. Why he’d been attacked.

But in this area of London, there didn’t need to be a reason. Maybe he’d been beaten for the clothes off his back. Or simply because someone had taken a dislike to him. In The Old Nichol, men were killed for less.

Betsy felt Nick tug on her arm, then jerk his head to the side, indicating they should leave. But something compelled her to stay. She shook her head and refused to move.

“Is he dead?” one of the men asked.

“If he ain’t, he will be afore anybody finds him.”

Betsy focused on the man’s limp body hanging between two of the men. His legs buckled beneath him, his head hung low on his chest. She didn’t think he was conscious any longer. She prayed he wasn’t conscious any longer.

“Let’s leave him and get the hell out of here, then.”

“We was hired to finish him off,” a third man said, slamming his fist into the other man’s stomach one more time. “That’s what we got paid for.”

“He’s close enough to dead now. I’d rather leave before anyone sees us. You know the friends this bloke keeps. I don’t want any of ’em coming after me.”

“Me either,” one of the men holding the limp man’s outstretched arm said.

“Lefty’s right. He’s nearly dead now. Let’s leave him.”

In unspoken agreement, the two men holding the limp man’s arms released him and the beaten victim crumpled to the ground.

“Let’s get outta here then,” the assumed leader said, giving the beaten man a hard kick in the ribs as extra incentive to die quicker. Then, they made their way to the opposite end of Old Nichol Street, leaving the man they’d beaten in a crumpled heap in the filth and slime in the gutter.

Nick pulled on her arm. “They’re gone, Betsy. We need to get away from here.”

Betsy shook her head and stepped around the brick building into Old Nichol Street. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t leave the stranger without trying to help. She shook free of Nick’s grasp and ran toward the injured man.

“Betsy, no! Don’t go down there. You can’t get involved in this.”

Betsy knew Nick was right, but she couldn’t just walk away without at least trying to help. She was sure the man didn’t belong here. She was sure he had friends or family who would miss him. Who would search for him the same as she and Nick searched for Phoebe.

Betsy rushed forward until she reached the man’s still body, then dropped to her knees.

“Don’t, Betsy. Leave him be. If he isn’t already dead, he will be soon.

Nick was probably right, but she still couldn’t leave him.

She slowly turned the man over and cradled his head. That’s when she heard him.

The man sighed an agonizing moan that seemed to come from the depths of hell. He was hurt badly. He may not live, but he was alive now, and Betsy knew she had to do everything in her power to save him, if for no other reason than so this man’s friends and family were spared the heartbreaking torture of not knowing what happened to him.

“Bring the carriage round, Nick.”

“No! We’re not taking this stranger home with us. And even if I agreed to help him, I would not leave you here while I went for the carriage.”

“We have to help him, Nick. We don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, we do! I have a choice. I also have a say. And I say no. We leave him here.”

For a moment, she was unable to speak. When she did, her voice was thick with emotion. She was on the verge of tears. “I can’t leave him, Nick. He’s my Phoebe.”

For several long seconds, Nick didn’t comprehend what she meant. Betsy saw the exact moment he understood.

With a loud sigh, he slapped his fist against his thigh. “Blast you, Betsy!”

Nick followed his curse by reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the gun he carried. “Do you remember what I taught you to do if you needed to fire it?” he said, handing her the pistol.

“Yes.”

“Don’t hesitate to use it to protect yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone near you,” Nick said, then ran to their waiting carriage.

Betsy lowered her gaze again to the man whose head rested in her lap. She brushed a wisp of hair from his forehead, then reached for his hand.

His fingers were long and thick. The span of his hand was wide. Every indication was that this was a man who relied on his strength, a man who hadn’t allowed his body to grow lazy or weak.

She held his hand in hers and thought how insignificant life was in the East End of London. She was desperate to keep this man from being another one of the nameless faces that died before they should.

Betsy lifted the limp hand nestled in hers and held it tight.

She was startled when the man she was determined to save tightened his grip around her fingers. As if he was as desperate to cling to life as she was to help him. 

Betsy sat at the stranger’s bedside and watched the sun turn the sky from a dusky gray to blushes of pinks and purples and blues. She loved this time of day, but usually it was her favorite time to get up. This morning, she hadn’t been to bed yet.

The doctor had been here for several hours, doing his best to give the man a fighting chance to live. With a heavy sigh, the doctor had risen from his stooped position and rolled his shoulders. He proclaimed that he’d done as much as he could. That the man’s future was in God’s hands now.

While Nick showed the doctor to the door, Betsy said a series of prayers that God would let the man live. There were several things in the man’s favor. He was young, and he’d been strong and healthy before his attack. Betsy hoped those were enough.

“Is he breathing easier?” Nick asked when he reentered the room.

Betsy shook her head. His breathing was still labored, as if there was damage inside his body that the doctor hadn’t been able to tend.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Betsy. Doctor Raines said he’d never had anyone survive who’d been beaten so badly. He didn’t know how he was still alive as it was.”

“Maybe he’s alive because he’s supposed to live. Maybe we were supposed to find him and take care of him. Maybe…” Betsy tried, but couldn’t finish.

As if Nick understood what she meant, he placed his hand around her shoulder and pulled her up against him. The gesture was compassionate and filled with kindness. It was almost her undoing.

“You need to rest now. Mrs. Beasley will be up in an hour or two. She can stay with him then.”

Betsy shook her head. “Mrs. Beasley has enough to do without any added work. I’ll take care of him.”

“That won’t do. Maybe we can hire a nurse to—”

“We don’t have the money for a nurse, Nick. I’ll sit with him. Now
you go to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day. You have to open the shop in the morning.”

“It’s Russell’s morning to come in to make deliveries. Maybe I can convince him to come back and lock up.”

“That would be good. I’m sure he can be convinced.”

Nick turned toward the door. “Call if you need anything, Betsy. And let me know if he…” Nick didn’t finish his sentence. “Well, let me know if anything changes.”

Betsy nodded. When Nick left the room, she turned her gaze back to the stranger lying on the bed. His breathing was still shallow, and except for the slight rise and fall of his chest, she wouldn’t know if he was alive or not.

She reached for the salve Dr. Raines left and applied some to the worst of his cuts and bruises. Then, she rinsed a cloth in cool water and placed it on his face. She thought he reacted to the gesture, but wasn’t sure if the response was one of appreciation, or pain.

When she finished, she went to her room and put on a nightgown and robe. She grabbed a cover from her bed and brought it back with her. After she checked on the stranger a final time, she curled up in the oversized chair Nick had pushed close to the bed, and settled in for the night.

. . .

Betsy woke up several times during the first few hours to check on him, but he hadn’t stirred. Each time, his stillness startled her. Her initial thought was that he was dead. Thankfully, he wasn’t. She settled back into her chair and closed her eyes.

Around dawn she must have fallen asleep for a while, because she woke with a start when she heard Mrs. Beasley working below in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before she smelled bacon frying, and knew she was making breakfast for Nick.

Mrs. Beasley was their fulltime cook and all-around maid. They also had a part-time maid, Jennie, who came in three half days a week. Betsy made a mental note to ask Jennie to come in an extra day or two.

Betsy rubbed the sleep from her eyes and shifted her gaze to the bed. The stranger still slept. She rose from her chair to get a closer look at him.

The bruises on his face and torso had turned uglier shades of purples and blacks in the hours since they’d brought him home. The cut on his cheek below his left eye, and the one at the corner of his mouth looked raw, and still bled. She opened the jar of salve Dr. Raines gave them and applied a generous amount to the worst of his cuts and bruises.

She thought he’d move when she touched him, but he didn’t. When she finished applying the salve, she rinsed a cloth in the cool water, and placed it on his forehead.

A short while later, there was a knock at the door, then Mrs. Beasley entered carrying a tray.

“I brought you some tea and toast, miss. Mr. Thomas said you’d had a long night last night, so I knew you’d need something to eat.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beasley.”

“Is the young man still alive, miss?”

Betsy lifted the cloth and rinsed it again. “Yes, but he hasn’t stirred.”

“That’s understandable, given how badly Mr. Thomas said the poor man was beaten.”

Mrs. Beasley took a step closer to the bed and studied the man lying on the covers. Betsy hadn’t pulled the sheet any higher than his waist. It was useless, given the bruises over most of his body that needed tending.

“I imagine he’s used to getting second glances from the ladies, don’t you?”

Betsy turned her gaze to Mrs. Beasley. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, lass?”

“Noticed what?” Betsy asked as she looked back at the figure on the bed.

“What a fine figure of a man he is. And how handsome. Just look at those broad shoulders and the muscles on them arms.”

Betsy took note of the man’s physique and had to admit that he was fine looking—except for the cuts and bruises that marred his body. “I guess I hadn’t paid much attention.”

“Ah, lass. Someone needs to show you how much more there is in life. It’s a sad thing when you don’t encourage the attentions of a handsome fellow. But something far worse when you don’t recognize a handsome fella when you come face to face with one.”

Betsy ignored Mrs. Beasley’s comment. She didn’t have the right to expect the life Mrs. Beasley suggested. She didn’t deserve anything so wonderful.

Mrs. Beasley pressed her hand to the man’s forehead. “At least there’s no sign of a fever. That’s a good thing.” Mrs. Beasley reached for Betsy’s hand and held it. “Why don’t you go to your room and rest an hour? Jennie’s here and she’s watching things in the kitchen. I’ll sit here for a while.”

Betsy hesitated, then nodded. She’d like a few minutes of privacy, and she needed to dress for the day. “Thank you,” Betsy said, then checked the stranger once more before she left the room.

Her gaze remained on his features for a few extra seconds. On his broad forehead, his high cheekbones, and the square cut of his jaw. Mrs. Beasley was wrong when she suggested that Betsy didn’t recognize a handsome man. She had. That was one of the first things she’d noticed about the stranger they’d found on Old Nichol Street.

That was the one thing she had no right to notice. Not after what she’d done.

. . .

Betsy stayed at his bedside from morning ’til night over the next four days. The best she could report was that he was still alive. She was thankful for that miracle. Dr. Raines had warned her every day for the first three days that he more than likely wouldn’t survive. Today was the first day he didn’t make that ominous prediction. Betsy took that as a positive sign.

“Is there any change, miss?” Mrs. Beasley asked when she entered the room with fresh water and more cloths.

Betsy shook her head. “But Dr. Raines said it wasn’t all that uncommon for someone who’d gone through what he has to sleep for days. Even weeks.”

Mrs. Beasley set the pitcher of water on the bedside table, then propped her hands on her hips and looked down at him. “I wish he’d wake up at least long enough to tell us his name. I’m getting tired of the lass Jennie making up a new name for him every day she comes.”

Betsy smiled as she wrung out a cloth and placed it on the stranger’s forehead. “What name has she given him today?”

“Jamie. She’s sure his name is Jamie. Yesterday she was sure it was George.”

Betsy exchanged a broad smile with Mrs. Beasley, then opened the jar of salve and placed some of the thick cream on the man’s cuts and bruises.

“You need to get some rest, miss. You haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since you brought the stranger home. If you’re not careful, it won’t be long and we’ll have two patients to care for.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Beasley. I sleep on and off.”

“Mind that you do, miss.” Mrs. Beasley gave her shoulder a tender squeeze, then turned to leave. “Do you want me to take that tray with tea and broth down with me?”

“No, I want to try to get more broth down him. He took a few swallows the last time I tried.”

“Just keep trying, miss. The broth will do him more good than anything.”

Betsy knew Mrs. Beasley was right. She picked up the bowl of broth and sat on the edge of the bed to try to spoon some of the liquid into his mouth before it cooled too much.

Her first attempt to get him to swallow some of the broth failed. The warm liquid ran from the corner of his mouth and she quickly grabbed a cloth and wiped his chin. She did better with her second attempt. She got the tip of the spoon past his lips and she saw his throat move as he swallowed. With renewed determination, she put another spoonful to his lips and tipped the spoon upward.

Before she could react, his arm flew to the side, and the liquid in his mouth spewed forward like an active volcano. She quickly set the bowl down and grabbed the wet cloth she’d used earlier. She tried to wipe his face but gave up when his head thrashed back and forth.

Betsy tried to hold him steady, but her efforts seemed to have the opposite effect. Instead of calming him, her hold seemed to distress him. He fought against her, his agitation hard for her to control. Then, without warning, his arm swung out and he struck her with the force of a battering ram.

Betsy slipped from the bed and landed on the floor. She scrambled to her feet and clamped her hands around his arms, then put all her weight into holding him steady.

He struggled to free himself, but she fought harder. “Calm down, sir,” she said in as soothing a voice as she could. “Don’t struggle so or you’ll injure yourself.”

At that same moment, he twisted beneath her, then uttered a loud, agonizing moan. His body stiffened in pain and his chest rose violently as he took in massive gulps of air.

“Lie still, sir. You’re safe now.”

His head moved from side to side as if he wasn’t sure he could believe her. As if the memories of his beating were too vivid. As if his body ached too much to trust that he could be safe.

He gradually stilled, but his breathing didn’t calm. He was agitated and battling his way through the pain.

Betsy leaned over him and crooned soothing words in his ear. “You’re safe now, sir. You’re where no one can hurt you.”

His struggles lessened.

“I have you now. You don’t have to worry any longer.”

Betsy heard the door open behind her and Nick’s footsteps rush across the room.

“Are you all right, Betsy? Did something fall?”

Betsy smiled. “Yes. Me. Our patient is waking and isn’t convinced that I’m not one of his attackers.”

“Are you all right?”

There was worry in her brother’s voice and Betsy’s smile broadened. “I’m fine. Although I may need a soft pillow to sit on when we dine.”

There was a slight pause, but Betsy knew if she looked, Nick would have a smile on his face.

It was at that moment the man on the bed turned slightly, then moaned again when pain overwhelmed him.

“He’s waking, Nick. Go to the other side of the bed so we can hold him steady. I don’t want him to injure himself.”

Nick moved to the other side of the bed as the man they’d rescued opened his eyes. His gaze focused first on her, then shifted to Nick.

“Good evening, sir,” Betsy said with a smile on her face. “I’m glad to see you’ve decided to join us.”

A frown creased his forehead.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Betsy Thomas. And this is my brother Nick.”

The furrows on his forehead deepened.

“We found you several nights ago after you’d been beaten. We brought you to our home.”

The man’s mouth opened as if he knew he should say something. But no words came out and he closed his mouth again.

“You were injured quite severely. But you’re going to be fine now.”

His mouth opened, and this time he was able to speak. “Where am I?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Betsy said. Her smile widened. “My brother and I live on Warrick Lane, off Newgate Street. Nick owns Thomas and Son Tobacco Shop on High Holborn.”

His frown didn’t go away. “How long have I been here?”

“Four days and nights.” Betsy looked at his confused expression. “Would you like a drink of water?”

“Yes, please.”

Nick lifted the man enough for him to drink from the glass Betsy held to his lips. That small movement required a great deal of what little strength he had, and when Nick lowered him he took several deep breaths.