been to losing Tassie, and continuing alone to God knew where.
This new street was also residential, but the houses were meaner, closer together; graciousness had yielded to necessity.
They had come to the end of the street, and Tassie was still walking rapidly, as if she knew precisely where she was going. They were now in a road which was little more than an alley, close-walled and grimy, with sagging houses propped against one another, dark threatening recesses into yards, and shadows like unknown stagnant pools. There was no one else in sight but a scrawny urchin with a huge cap a few yards ahead of Tassie, walking in the same direction. Charlotte shivered, although she was warm from hurrying and the night was mild. She dared not think how afraid she was, or she would lose her nerve and turn tail, as fast as flying feet could carry her, back to the broad, clean, familiar avenue.
But Tassie seemed to be without fear; her step was quick and light and her head was high. She knew where she was going and looked forward to getting there. There was no one in sight but the urchin, Tassie, and Charlotte herself, but God knew what lurked in the doorways. Where on earth could Tassie be going in this sour maze of tenements and grimy, pinchpenny shops? She could not possibly know anyone-could she?
Charlotte’s heart missed a beat and coldness rippled through her. Had George also wakened one night or, perhaps returning from Sybilla’s room, seen Tassie, and followed her? Was Charlotte doing exactly what he had done? Had George discovered her abominable secret-and died for it?
Incredibly her feet did not stop; some other part of her brain seemed to be governing them and they kept on quite automatically, hurrying almost soundlessly along the dank street. She was aware now of figures slumped in doorways, of movement in the black alleyways amid the heaps of refuse. Rats, or people? Both. It was in alleys like this that Pitt’s men had discovered the dismemhered parts of the girl less than a month ago.
Charlotte felt sick, but the thought would not be turned away. It was the figure tiptoeing up the stairs, the blood, and the terrible serenity.
How far were they from Cardington Crescent? How many times had they turned? Tassie was still ahead of her, only ten or twelve yards; she dared not allow the distance to become greater in case Tassie turned suddenly and Charlotte lost her. She was a slight figure, almost as thin as the urchin in front of her and the other ragged shadows that swam on the edge of her vision.
It was too late to go back. Wherever Tassie went she would have to wait for her; alone she would not know how to find her way out of this slum.
One large figure took shape, detaching itself from the bulging, irregular walls. A man with broad shoulders. But far from being afraid, Tassie went towards him with a little murmur of pleasure and lifted her arms, accepting his embrace as naturally as a sweet and familiar blessing. The kiss was intimate, as easy as people who love each other with unquestioning trust, but it was swift, and the next moment Tassie disappeared into the nearest doorway, and the man after her, leaving Charlotte alone in the dark, chipped, and slimy pavement. The urchin had seemingly vanished.
Now she was really frightened. She could feel the darkness coming closer, figures moving uneasily with shuffling feet, a slithering in the alleys, a settling of beams and dripping of water leaking from hidden drains. If she were robbed and killed here, not even Pitt would ever find her.
What was this place? It looked like an ordinary, mean house. What inside it drew Tassie here alone, and at midnight? She would have to wait here till she came out, then follow her again until-
There was a hand on her shoulder and her heart jumped so violently the shriek was forced out of her in a shrill yelp that choked off in inarticulate terror.
“Wot yer be doin’ ’ere, Missy?” a voice growled in her ear. Hot, rank-smelling breath. She tried to speak, but her throat was so tight the words died. The hands over her mouth were coarse and the skin had the acrid smell of dirt. “Well, Missy meddler?” The voice was so close the breath moved her hair. “Wot yer want ’ere, then? Come spyin’, ’ave yer? Come ter tell tales, ’ave yer? Goin’ a runnin’ back for Papa ter tell ’im all abaht it, are yer? I’ll give yer summin worf tellin’, then!” And he yanked her savagely, bending her back and taking her off balance.
She was still shivering with fear, but anger was mounting as well, and she jabbed her elbow back sharply and at the same time trod back with her heel, putting all her weight into it. It caught the man on the instep and he howled with pained outrage.
It was just about to descend into something far uglier, when a woman’s voice cut across them angrily.
“Stop it! Mr. Hodgekiss, leave her alone this minute!” A lantern shone high and bright, making Charlotte wince and close her eyes. The man spluttered and let her go, growling wordlessly in the back of his throat.
“Mrs. Pitt!” It was Tassie’s voice, high with amazement. “Whatever are you doing here? Are you all right? Have you been hurt? You look terribly pale.”
There was no conceivable explanation but the truth. Tassie’s face when she lowered the light looked as innocent as a bowl of milk, eyes wide, dark with concern.
“I followed you,” Charlotte said hesitantly. It sounded foolish now, and dangerous.
But there was no anger in Tassie’s face. “Then you’d better come in.” She did not wait for a reply but turned back into the house, leaving the door open.
Charlotte stood on the pavement in an agony of indecision. Part of her wanted to escape, to run as fast as her feet would carry her away from these cramped, ill-smelling streets, the yawning house in front of her, and whatever blood and madness was inside it. Another part of her knew she could not-she had no idea where she was and might as easily be running further into the slums.
She could wait no longer. It was not a decision to go in so much as a lack of the courage to bolt. She went after Tassie through the door, along a corridor so mean she could touch either side simply by extending her elbows, and up a steep stairway that creaked under her weight. Her uncertain way was lit not by gas but a wavering pool of candlelight carried only just ahead of her. She dared not imagine where she was going.
But the bedroom was desperately ordinary; thin curtains at the windows, sacking on the floor for carpet, a bare wooden table with a pitcher and bowl, and a large marital bed made tidy for the event. In it lay a girl of barely fourteen or fifteen, her face pale and tense with fear, her hair brushed off her forehead and lying in a damp tangle over her shoulders. She was obviously well into labor and in considerable pain.
On the far side of the bed stood a girl a year or two older and bearing so marked a resemblance they must have been sisters. Beside her, sleeves rolled up, ready to assist when the time should come but for now holding her hand, was Mr. Beamish’s curate, Mungo Hare.
A blinding realization came to Charlotte. It was all so obvious there was no question left to ask. Somehow or other Tassie had become involved in helping to deliver the babies of the poor or abandoned. Presumably it was Mungo Hare who had introduced her to this area of need. The idea of the pink and pious Mr. Beamish organizing such a thing was absurd.
And that quick, wholehearted kiss explained itself, and also explained Tassie’s compliant obedience with her grandmother’s command that she should be occupied in good works. Happiness bubbled up inside Charlotte. She was so relieved she wanted to laugh aloud.
But Tassie had no time for such emotions. The girl on the bed was going into another spasm of contractions and was racked almost as much by fear as by the pain. Tassie was busy giving orders to a white-faced youth in a cloth cap, presumably the urchin who had fetched her with the stone against the window, sending him for water and as much linen as he could find that was clean, perhaps to get him out of the room. Had it not been for the girl’s fear and the close possibility of death, Mungo Hare would also have been banished. Childbirth was women’s business.
Charlotte could remember her own two confinements, especially the first. The awe and the pride of carrying had given way to a primitive, mouth-drying fear when the pain came and her body began its relentless cycle which would end only when there was birth-or death. And she had been a grown woman, who loved her husband and wanted her child, and had a mother and sister to attend her after the doctor had done his professional work. This girl was barely more than a child herself-Charlotte had been in the schoolroom at her age-and there was no one to help her but Tassie and a young Highland curate.
She stepped forward and sat on the bed, taking the girl’s other hand.
“Hold on to me,” she said with a smile. “It will only hurt worse if you fight against it. And cry out if you want to-you are entitled to, and no one will mind in the least. It will all be worth it, I promise you.” It was a rash thing to say, and as soon as the words were out her mind half regretted them. Too many children were born dead, and even if it were perfect, how was this girl going to care for it?
