The Sunken (19 page)

“Better her than us.”

Brigitte nodded, remembering the scars crisscrossing the woman’s skin, and Alison’s face, the flesh barely hanging from the bones.

“So who’s gonna read yer note for you?”

“I think I know just the person.” Brigitte swung herself down from her bed and tucked the note into her pocket. “If Miss Julie asks after me, tell her I’m helping with the gardening.”

Maxwell — a stooped, wind-beaten man with a face marred with liverspots but possessed of a jolly laugh — squinted at the scrap of paper, turning it every which way and rubbing his grubby beard in concentration.

Brigitte leaned forward, her hands wringing her skirt. “What does it say?”

Maxwell turned it upside down, squinted again, and burst out laughing.

“Maxwell, this is
not
funny!”

Wiping his dirty hand across his brow, the castle gardener held out the note, his grey eyes twinkling, that laugh booming from somewhere deep in his chest. She grabbed it from his thick fingers, scowling at him as she folded it reverently, and replaced it in the secret pocket of her apron.

“He wants to meet you, Miss Brigitte, in Kensington Gardens this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” Her eyes grew wide. “But that’s … today!”

“It surely is. You’d best make it down to London quick smart.”

Brigitte ran her hands through her hair, strewn with straw from helping Maxwell in the barn. Her hands, rough from the week’s polishing, caught in the tangles. She knew her face must be smudged with dirt.

“I’m hopeless,” she moaned.

“Nonsense.” Maxwell patted her shoulder, leaving a smear of dirt across the ribbon. Brigitte sighed.

“You best show this to Miss Julie,” he said. “She’ll know what to do.”

“But she’ll forbid me from going. She’ll—”

He put his finger to his lips. “Best you not go underestimating Miss Julie. Now, go. Land yourself a gentleman.”

When Miss Julie saw the note, her eyes grew wide and she pressed her hand to her chest, as though she might pass out at any moment.

“He handed it to me as he left the King’s chamber, Miss. I swear I didn’t—”

Miss Julie yanked her arms above her head.

“Off with that dress,” she commanded.

“Wha—”

“Stop arguing, Brigitte. We have precious little time and lots of work to do. Cassandra!” she bellowed. “We need a tub of warm water and my wire brush!”

“With the salary Isambard’s giving you, you could afford something much more ostentatious than this.” Aaron puffed as he manoeuvred an old oak desk — Nicholas’ only new purchase for the austere rooms he’d rented — across the landing of the boardinghouse stairs and into the office.

“I like this place just fine,” said Nicholas, sharper than intended.

Aaron shrugged, and kept on pushing.

The truth was, Nicholas had chosen the apartment because the landlady didn’t require papers to sign the lease. He wanted to stay Nicholas Rose as long as possible, in case someone from France showed up in the city. Brunel had offered him a private room in the new wing he was planning to add to the Chimney, and Nicholas was sorely tempted by the prospect, but if Jacques ever came for him, the Engine Ward would be the first place he’d look.

After Aaron had wrestled the desk into place, Nicholas invited him to stay for tea. The cupboards in his larder were bare, save a half-eaten loaf and a small square of cheese left over from his breakfast, but he — being a proper Englishman — had already purchased a lovely tea set.

“What do you hear now?” he asked Aaron as he set the cup in front of him.

Aaron knew instantly what he meant. “I hear compies under the floor, scrabbling in the gap between the floorboards. They have a hole into number sixteen that they’re patrolling, waiting for the family to leave so they can sneak in and steal the ham. I hear worms in the dirt, their thoughts singular, based on instinct.”

“What about birds?”

“Their thoughts flicker; predatory, maternal, hunger, joy. I see London as they see it, from the air, a hodgepodge of warrens and labyrinths. They have traps — dead ends into which they funnel their prey. Thankfully, I don’t hear any dragons nearby.” Aaron set down his cup. “It is so strange to talk freely about the
sense
. I haven’t been able to do this since my grandfather was alive.”

“I was there when the dragon attacked. I couldn’t stop it.” He stared at the table, the image of the man’s skin burning against the iron floating through his mind.

“We could’ve stopped it together, if I were allowed to work outside the Ward. This whole situation is ridiculous, Nicholas, and you’ve got to tell him so. We’ve got a high-profile project upon which Isambard’s entire career hangs that must be built within four months—”

“Two months.”

“What?”

“I was at Windsor yesterday, and the King has decided it must be built in two months.”

Aaron threw up his hands. “Then what are we to do? The finest industrial workers in the country are not able to work on the Wall. Instead of figuring out a way to get the Stokers on the Wall, he’s building mechanical workers and shipping us off across the country on a wild dragon chase.”

“Aaron, if you told Isambard about the sense, he would let you go into the swamps, too.”

“I’ve already explained — it’s out of the question. And don’t you tell him, either. You’ll live to regret it.”

They lapsed into silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Nicholas knew he should be worried about Isambard’s decisions, about the new deadline for the Wall, but every thought was occupied by the image of a timid maid and her head of shimmering curls.

You fool! What were you thinking?

He would go to the gardens this afternoon, and he would wait, but she would not show up. It would be imprudent of her, especially given whatever mysterious circumstances prevailed at the castle. So he would wait, and she would not show, and he could return to his life devoid of brightness.

An hour later, Brigitte held up a bronze mirror to her face and gasped aloud. Miss Julie had worked a miracle. Brigitte’s hair stood in a firm bun, demure but attractive, with two ringlets peeking mischievously from under her bonnet and secured with a pretty brass pin, also taken from a box of the princess’ things. She’d pulled a dress from the box hidden at the back of the scullery.

“This used to belong to Princess Amelia,” said Miss Julie, measuring it against Brigitte’s trim frame. “When King George took the princesses away for safe-keeping, he left all their pretty things behind, gathering dust. He ordered Maxwell to burn most of it, but I saved a few things. Such fine tailoring — I couldn’t just throw this away.”

The dress fit Brigitte perfectly, draping across her shoulders, the blue bodice giving her a beautiful waistline, the crisp skirts swaying about her feet. She hoped no one would notice her grubby boots peeking out from under the fine silk.

“Hurry, child. You’re already running late!”

Maxwell bustled her into a carriage, and Cassandra and Miss Julie waved from the servants’ entrance as she clattered toward the gate at high speed. Her heart raced even faster than the horses. She hadn’t set foot outside the castle for two years now, and to be leaving for Kensington Gardens to meet a rakishly handsome gentleman, dressed in a frock last worn by a princess, seemed like a dream.

With Maxwell driving the countryside passed by in a blur. Brigitte could hear the coach’s axles wobbling in their stays, and she had to grip the edge of the door tightly to keep from slipping off her seat. As the carriage passed through the towns, people stopped on the street and waved to her, perhaps thinking her an eccentric courtesan out for a ride in the country. Not knowing what else to do, she waved back, her cheeks flashing red.

They hit traffic coming into London along the Strand, but Maxwell ducked and swerved with a tenacity Brigitte had never seen in the old gardener. By the time they pulled up outside Kensington Gardens, she was only a few minutes late.

She leapt from the coach, Maxwell circling her, wiping dust from her sleeves and smoothing the hem of her dress. Then she scanned the park for a sign of him.
Maybe this is some kind of joke. Maybe—

Her heart leapt into her chest as she recognised him.

He was waiting on a bench by the pond, and as she walked toward him
—
her legs shaking so much that each step was a challenge
—
he turned and saw her, and his whole face lit up.

She froze, her eyes locked with his, searching out every detail of him, as though she expected him to turn to dust at any moment. He stood a head taller than her, his back straight and posture proud. His clothes
—
the same as he had worn at the castle, she recalled
—
were of fine quality, but worn and threadbare. His hands
—
the skin smooth, the fingers long
—
fell at his sides. She knew she was being frightfully rude, but seeing him again in such extraordinary circumstances had robbed her of the power of speech.

Finally, he smiled. “Hello, again,” he said. She nodded. That was all she could manage.

He shook hands with Maxwell, who would act as her escort, and bent to kiss her hand. As his fingers touched hers, a shock ran through her hand and all the way up her arm. His eyes met hers and danced with delight, and her stomach churned.

“Would you like to stroll among the garden?” he asked, offering his hand.

She could hardly speak, he was so handsome. Maxwell nudged her forward with his boot, and she stumbled over the hem of her dress and grabbed his arm to steady herself. Nicholas caught her, placing his other hand on her hip to keep her steady, the warmth making her stomach squirm even more.

She gave a nervous laugh, and he laughed also. She took his arm and he led her along the path at the edge of the pond. Maxwell followed at a short distance, just within earshot of their conversation.

“I hope you will forgive me for the forthright nature of my note,” he said. “I do not know what came over me. I do not even know your name.”

“Brigitte,” she choked. “My name is Brigitte.”

He smiled, melting her heart a little more. “Then that is at least something. I am Nicholas Rose, and I am pleased you could meet me today, Brigitte. You’ve been foremost in my thoughts since I first saw you.”

Her stomach flipped. “I— I—”

“Please don’t be nervous. I want nothing from you other than your company. Did you read my note yourself?”

“Maxwell—” she pointed to the figure behind them. “He read it for me. I cannot read.”

“That is no matter. Many who can are not as beautiful as you. If I may be so forthright, tell me about yourself; how did you come to be a maid in the palace?”

“It’s not a very interesting story.”

“It’s interesting to me.”

She took a deep breath, found her voice, and steadied herself against his warm, strong arm. “I was born in Whitechapel. My father worked at the docks, and my mother ran the kitchen at a public house. We didn’t have much money, but we could afford rooms and food most days. That is, until my parents died. First my father caught a plague from the foreign sailors coming off the ships. At first, he complained of throbbing aches throughout his body. After a few days, he couldn’t stand. He lay in the blankets we used as a bed and coughed up blood … so much blood. It splattered over all our clothes, our cooking pots, my mother’s books. Then, one morning he didn’t cough anymore. I helped my mother carry him downstairs for the man to collect. A few weeks later, my mother went mad, shivering and babbling. She broke all the windows in the doss house in one of her rages, and a man came and took her away to a sanatorium. I was eight years old.

“When it became clear I could no longer pay the rent, the landlord dumped me at an orphanage. The puritan nuns resented my presence — another mouth to feed. They beat us most nights, locked me in a dark cupboard for days at a time, and once forced me to eat leather as a punishment. I hated them, and I realised that if I were to ever escape from their cruelty, I would have to find myself a profession. So I started cleaning. First, I cleaned the pub next door in exchange for fresh bread. Then, I cleaned the homes of the publicans. I listened to the gossip at the tables and realised many well-to-do Londoners came to Whitechapel to taste the ladies of ill-repute, so I made sure to bring them their drinks and make myself known to them.”

“My first wealthy client, Joseph Banks, was so pleased with my efforts that he recommended me to his entire social circle, and I came to the attention of the King’s staff. At £6 a year the job offered more money than I’d ever earned before, with food and board included. Without telling the nuns where I was going, I packed what little things I owned, and came to the castle.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

She paused, wondering if he was asking about the King. He nodded for her to continue. “Sometimes. I enjoy touching the fine things, making them shine. But I hate the futility of it all; rooms and rooms of exquisite artwork, precious metals, and dazzling jewels, all of it dusty and unseen. You can spend hours polishing, but really, you’re just moving the emptiness around. If I ever own beautiful things, I shall enjoy them every day.”

He turned off onto a divergent path, leading her through the rose bushes toward a covered gazebo. He said, “It’s a curse of the rich to covet such beautiful things and yet to never truly enjoy them.”

“Are you a lord?”

He laughed. “I could have been, Miss Brigitte, but instead I am an architect. I designed the exterior of Brunel’s Dragon Wall. If you look toward the river you can see the shape of the first section being erected now.”

They sat on a bench beside the gazebo, watching the pigeons pecking at scraps along the edges of the path and the gardeners repairing the flower beds damaged in the dragon attack. He asked her more questions: her favourite flower (water lily), her favourite foods (mutton and minted peas). Had she ever travelled outside London? (Once, to the country, when she was younger.) Which God did she worship? (She always liked Isis — she was the prettiest, and all the artists whose work hung in the castle worshipped her, too.) She wanted to ask him something of himself, but he avoided all questions, simply turning each inquiry back upon her.