Steadfast (30 page)

It wouldn’t be that much of an untruth. She certainly was shaking with terror, chilled
despite the heat.

She waited until she heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked followed by noisy
swallowing, and looked cautiously down again, just easing her head over the edge of
the loft in tiny increments so that he wouldn’t be alerted by movement.

As she had thought, he had uncorked the bottle of gin and was guzzling it. She pulled
her head back again, just as slowly, before he got a chance to see her watching him.
“Spying on him,” he would certainly call it, if he caught her now. And despite having
worked his anger out on the whore, there would be some sort of punishment for her.

Then he turned out the light and she heard the bed creaking under his weight.

She lay there, staring up at the darkness, her body aching—half from her own beating,
and half in sympathy for the one she had watched. She knew exactly what every one
of those blows felt like, and although the whore had been caught stealing, surely
the theft hadn’t merited being pummeled half to death. Katie thought for certain she
would never be able to get to sleep after all that.

But exhaustion was too much for her. It had been a long day, full of anxiety, punctuated
by dread. She fell into a restless, half-aware “sleep” in which she was conscious
of every sound from the room beneath her. The only difference between last night and
this was that Dick’s heavy body was not beside her, taking up most of the bed, and
making her aware every second that she was his slave as surely as if he had bound
her with chains.

The sounds of the milkman arriving woke her, and she frantically tried to remember
if she had left the money out. Because if Dick didn’t have his eggs and butter—

But the sound of clinking bottles as the milkman left new ones told her that she had,
and with a surge of relief that made her feel dizzy, she slowly made her way down
out of the loft, step by careful step on the ladder, determined not to allow it to
creak. She had heard Lionel at the door when he had come to find out where she was.
She had heard every word, and if there was a single thing that she was grateful for,
it was that Lionel had put on a show, had made up a story of a rehearsal, and had
fabricated the persona of the kind of “boss” that Dick would grovel around. Thanks
to Lionel, she knew she was expected at the hall at nine, and to get there she would
have to leave at eight. Above all, Dick must have his breakfast before she left, and
a stack of ham and cheese sandwiches already made in case he wanted them for luncheon.
She would have to get very busy.

She opened the back door—the milkman went through the alley, not the main street.
This was not the sort of neighborhood where those here wished to be reminded of the
existence of tradesmen.

The sun was up in a cloudless blue sky, and it was already as warm as a decent summer
day
should
have been, which meant the heat was going to be punishing again. She got the container
of eggs nestled in enough hay that they wouldn’t get cracked, with a pat of butter
wrapped in white paper atop them, then picked up the glass bottle of milk and the
smaller one of cream. Until she had come here, she had never seen milk and cream separated
before, nor in glass bottles. When she’d gotten milk, you just got a jar or a little
pail and went to the farmer, and if you wanted cream, you skimmed it off the top.
Well, you did if you knew of a farmer who was friendly to Travelers—and if you didn’t,
you did without.

Living in the city and buying things from shops had been a revelation. She was glad
Mrs. Buckthorn had walked her through it all—passing her off as a new kitchen maid
getting training.

The little bit of backyard had a very low wall around it and no gate. It was scarcely
more than a bit of lawn surrounded by a knee-high stone fence. In that, it was identical
except for size to the other bits of back garden up and down the block. People in
offices didn’t want to have to tend to gardens too.

There was no sign of the woman that had been tossed into the little yard last night,
not even so much as a few threads or a lost ribbon. So at least she hadn’t died out
there of her injuries, and she’d been sound enough to get away somewhere.

She wondered how badly Dick had hurt the whore. She wasn’t going to be the type to
go to the law over being beaten, of course; she was a prostitute, and they’d just
as likely arrest
her.
They certainly wouldn’t take her complaint seriously, and in the unlikely event that
someone did come around to make inquiries, Dick would just say he caught her stealing,
and that would be the end of it for her—she’d be taken up as a thief. Katie felt both
obscurely sorry for her, and grateful. Dick had needed someone to take his rage out
on last night, and for once, it hadn’t been
her.
In the past, the women he’d bedded had been women he didn’t dare beat; wayward wives
or daughters, servant girls in love with his oiled hair and muscles. He could take
them to bed, but he didn’t dare lay a hand on them—they could call it rape, show the
bruises and be believed. So all his rage had been worked out on Katie.

But then she felt guilty for feeling glad that it had been someone else, not her,
that had suffered.

Then she was shamefully grateful all over again, for she was only half as sore as
yesterday, and the bruised places were starting to heal. And the thought came to her
unbidden, a wish, almost a prayer—if only Dick would bring home more loose women,
every night, and beat
them
instead of her! It would be worth every penny he paid for them, if only—

Then she was appalled at her own thoughts. How could she wish that on
anybody?
What was wrong with her? She was a horrible person!

But if only—

All the time she was thinking these confused thoughts, she was working, working; she
didn’t dare stop for a minute, not even though her own stomach was growling at the
rich smell of the bacon she was frying. Her hands worked without her even thinking
about it, frying the bacon, cutting ham for the sandwiches, working frantically to
get the meal ready so she would have time to get herself ready. She knew that the
smell of the bacon would wake him, and it did; she felt his eyes on her as she set
aside the bacon on his plate, then fried, first the eggs, then the bread in the grease.
She turned with two brimming plates, identical to the ones she had served him yesterday,
to see him watching her, face expressionless.

He was sitting up in bed, waiting for his food, his hair in oily curls, with a bit
of the bedspread over his lap, not for modesty, but to keep his bits from getting
burned by the hot plate.

She brought him the plates and then turned to get his tea, when he seized her by the
wrist. “I s’pose yer thinkin’ Oi’m a wrong ’un fer bringin’ them hoors ’ere,” he growled,
eyes narrowed. The sweat-and-musk smell coming from him was overpowering. It made
her feel sick. She fought it back. She dared not show it.

“You can do anything you like,” she whispered. “This is your house. It doesn’t matter
what I think.”

The scowl turned to a smirk. “Demned rioght!” he agreed. “Oi say wut goes, yeah! Oi
wanta hoor, I gotta roight t’hev one!”

“Yes, Dick,” she replied. “You say what goes, and you do what you like. Let me get
your tea before it gets cold.”

He let go of her wrist, then, and she hurried over to the stove and the teakettle.
Strong enough to take the silver off the spoon, and three sugars, that was what he
liked first thing in the morning. She brought him the tea mug. He was already finished
with the first plate of food, and she took away the empty to the sink, starting the
washing-up. “I made you sandwiches for luncheon,” she said, looking fearfully over
her shoulder and pointing at the pile on a plate on the sideboard, covered by a glass
bowl as she had seen at the pub, so they wouldn’t get stale. He began to scowl.

She knew what he was thinking. He had expected her to be here to make him his lunch
and his tea. He hadn’t thought it through—well, he never thought anything through
that he didn’t have to. He was accustomed to getting his way in everything.

Except . . . except when a boss was telling him what to do. So that was how she would
phrase it.

Before he could say anything, she added “It takes me an hour to go to the hall by
’bus, and I’m only allowed an hour at noon.” Then she added, thinking quickly, “The
doorman is right there, with his watch in his hand, writing down when we go in and
come back for the boss. If I take too long, they take shillings out of my pay.”

As she had hoped, it was the mention of having her pay cut that convinced him. He
was still scowling, but it was sullen, not angry. “Mis’rable bastards,” he grumbled.
“Bosses! All alike.”

“Yes, Dick,” she agreed, and came for his second plate, bringing him a couple of the
cheap cakes she had bought that made his eyes light up. He was as greedy as a child
for sweets. “The last show ends at nine. I have to make sure all the things are properly
put up, and then I have to take the ’bus home. If I hurry and run for the bus, I can
catch the one that leaves at ten. I can’t possibly be home before eleven. Do you want
to wait that long for your supper? There are fish and chips stalls. . . .”

If he had a confederate at the hall, he already knew this; this was something of a
test—

“Oi’ll get me own supper,” he growled. “Jest git here quick. I got plans.”

Part of her was dismayed by this—it meant that tonight would probably replicate last
night, with the shame that made her stomach churn and the twisted . . . yes, admit
it . . . twisted arousal of it. Part of her was glad—it meant that someone else would
be enduring him. She resolved to bring home some cotton wool and wax from the hall
to make earplugs with, and soak a handkerchief in the lavender cologne that Suzie
had given her. Maybe if she couldn’t hear and smell what was going on . . .

She had left the cheese, butter, milk and cream up here rather than taking them down
to the cellar. They might spoil, but she didn’t want to take them down there. He didn’t
know there was a cellar, and for some reason she didn’t want him to know. Of course,
she couldn’t possibly
hide
down there; he’d tear the place apart looking for her, and he’d find the cellar right
away. . . .

Or he’d go straight after Lionel as he had threatened.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a ghost of a thought. Not even as
much as an idea, just a thought, that if he didn’t know about it, she could use it
somehow.

He wouldn’t think to look for it, maybe; he’d never lived in a house before.
She
wouldn’t have known it was there if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Buckthorn and her explanation
of what it was for. So as long as she did nothing, he would have no idea that the
rug covered a secret.

And there was another reason to make sure he didn’t know about the cellar. He’d take
one look at the place and
know
that he could take her down here, drop the hatch, and no one could hear her scream.
She had the bone-shuddering feeling that there were things he hadn’t done to her yet
purely because she
would
scream, she wouldn’t be able to help herself, and he knew that screams brought unwelcome
attention. He’d have to explain himself. Someone might try to interfere, law or no
law.

And what if he saw the cellar and decided it would be a good place to keep a woman
captive? Not her, of course, he couldn’t do that and still enjoy the money she made.
But a whore, or more than one? Whores could go missing and no one would care. He could
keep women down there, tied up, made captive—and that
was
against the law. She’d be part of that. He would
make
her part of that. He’d probably make her feed and care for them.

No . . . she didn’t want him to know there was a cellar.

“I have to go,” she said. “The ’bus is a penny.” And she scrupulously took two pennies,
no more, making sure he saw that. She took nothing to buy luncheon with, but she had
already put a sandwich wrapped in newspaper in her bag. Making an effort not to wince
when movement jarred a bruised spot, she hurried out.

It might have felt like freedom to anyone who had never lived with Dick. Katie knew
better. This wasn’t freedom. It was only a slightly bigger cage, and a long chain
around her neck.

At the hall, she went straight past Jack without saying a word other than a murmured
“good morning” and a glance that she hoped he interpreted as a warning. Dick had said
he had a confederate here, as he’d had at the circus, and she knew she would have
to behave as if she was being watched every single moment. She changed into her rehearsal
clothing, and went immediately out onto the stage to warm up.

She had gone through her three dances twice when Lionel appeared, signaling the start
of the magic act rehearsal. She didn’t say a thing to him besides “good morning,”
“yes sir,” and “no sir.” But there would be one safe time to talk to him. . . .

When she was in the sword basket she hissed wordlessly to alert him, and she was rewarded
by a whisper through one of the sword-slits.

“Katie—” Lionel began.

She cut him off. “It’s not safe to talk. It’s not safe to be too much together. Dick
says he has someone here watching me and I believe him. He says if I do anything he
doesn’t like, he’ll know about it. He says if I run from him, he’ll start breaking
necks, beginning with yours.”

There was silence. Lionel slid a sword into place. “Well. That’s unsettling.”

“He’ll do it, too,” she warned. “In the circus they said he’d done it before, men
that crossed him. They said, circus roustabouts, people Andy Ball had no trouble replacing,
and who weren’t missed. Some said he’d done in village men who’d vexed him, too, but
I don’t know about that. He won’t do it open, he’ll find a time and a place to sneak
up on you in the dark and break your spine.”