Northridge Square was, in fact, not a square at all but a small rectangle with ten houses forming the perimeter, two at each of the shorter ends of the rectangle and three on the longer sides. There was a park in the center with carefully groomed shade trees and a granite pedestal holding a bust of Lord Nelson.
Simon's residence rested in a direct line with the hero of Trafalgar's bronzed gaze. Built of red brick, it was an imposing house, both larger and grander than the one in Sussex. It had high-ceilinged rooms, massive fireplaces, and a set of twin staircases that curved up from each side of the black marble foyer.
One of the first things Noelle did after she was settled was to take out one of the coins she had been so carefully hoarding and slip away from Northridge Square. Tilting her head far enough forward so that the rim of her bonnet obscured her face, she walked rapidly eastward until the homes of the wealthy gave way to poorer dwellings. She had not gone far before she came upon an old costermonger peddling a barrow overflowing with shabby clothing. In rapid succession she bought a black, closely woven shawl, a threadbare cloak, and a pair of worn boots. A quick stop at an apothecary's, then a wigmaker's, and her purchases were complete.
When she returned home, she let herself quietly in through the back garden and stealthily climbed the stairs to her room, where she hid her purchases in the back of her armoire.
Determined to earn the generous salary Simon was paying her, Noelle swallowed her apprehension and set about her new duties as his hostess with all the confidence she could muster. She learned the routine of the household as well as the names of all the servants-from Tomkins, the forbidding butler, and Mrs. Debs, the housekeeper, to Norah, the kitchen maid.
As she explored the house she discovered behind the dining room a small parlor that Constance had rather fancifully decorated some years before in shades of peach and powder blue. There was a set of bookshelves and a sunny bay window with an upholstered window seat, originally bright peach but now faded into softer tones. The room was warm and comfortable, and Noelle immediately appropriated it as her own, adding a small pigeonholed desk.
There Constance showed her how to set up an inventory with the housekeeper, go over menus with the cook, and issue and respond to invitations, all tasks that Noelle immediately detested. To console herself, she hung a fern in the bay window and then added a comfortable pillow so she could curl up and read.
Unfortunately she had little time for literature, as Constance and Simon were both insistent that she begin to be seen socially. It was a mark of Simon's determination to have her accepted by his peers that he reluctantly left his desk several afternoons a week to accompany the women on their rounds. He felt amply rewarded for his sacrifice when he learned that wagers were being laid at several of the most exclusive clubs in London, and Simon Copeland's niece was an odds-on favorite to be the surprise hit of the social season. He was less pleased, however, to observe the collection of young dandies in his drawing room growing by the day.
For her part, Noelle was waiting impatiently for another chance to slip from the house. One chilly afternoon almost a month after her arrival, Simon and Constance were both required at the Copeland and Peale offices to sign a new contract. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Noelle pleaded a headache and informed Tomkins that she was not to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.
Locking herself in her room, she took off her crisp muslin dress and fine petticoats and carefully hung them away. From beneath a pile of chemises, she drew out her knife and tied it securely around her calf with the strips of material she had saved. Then she pulled her secret purchases from the bottom of the armoire. With the briefest hesitation, she took out her old emerald gown and slipped it on, shuddering at the terrible memories it brought back.
Her next task took considerably longer. With a pair of silver scissors, she snipped away at the section of fake hair she had purchased at the wigmakers. It was not quite the ugly shade of orange she remembered, but it was close enough. Then using a needle and thread, she sewed the ends of the tufts of hair to the edge nearest the center of the black shawl, settling the shawl around her face several times to adjust the strands. When she was finally satisfied, she tucked her own honey tresses securely out of sight and knotted the shawl under her chin so only the artificial strands of hair protruded, uneven and frizzled. As a final step she pulled on the worn pair of boots and smeared the scarlet rouge that she had purchased from the apothecary across her cheeks and rimmed her eyes in kohl.
Noelle surveyed herself in the mirror. What she saw did not completely satisfy her. She would have to rub some dirt on her face to disguise her healthy complexion; then if the light were dim enough and luck was with her, she could still pass as Highness. Her chances were made better, she knew, by the fact that the one she was going to see was almost blind.
Noelle wrapped only five coins in her handkerchief-too many questions would be asked if she appeared with more-and, throwing the threadbare old cloak over her shoulders, opened her window.
She had chosen a bedroom at the back of the house, although Constance had chided her at the time. 'It's such a little room, Noelle. The curtains are old, and it needs repainting. Why not take the pretty yellow room at the front?'
But Noelle had argued that the bedroom in the back would be quieter. After the peace of Sussex, she declared, the front of the house would be too noisy with carriages rattling by all night. Constance pointed out quite logically that Northridge Square was very quiet, and it was not likely there would be many carriages to disturb her sleep, but Noelle remained adamant.
The truth of the matter was that she had spotted a network of sturdy vines growing up around the bedroom's back window. The vines, many as thick as her arms, were shielded from casual view by a dense clump of oaks. She would be able to come and go at will with no one to see her unorthodox stairway.
Opening the window, she slung one slim leg over the sill and caught the toe of her boot in the crook of a vine. Cautiously she tested it. It held her weight. Gingerly easing out the other foot, she began a careful descent.
The vines proved to be as sturdy as they looked, and she was soon on the ground, where she rubbed some dirt on her face and hands and then let herself out the garden gate and into the network of back streets that skirted the prosperous environs of Northridge Square.
Less than two kilometers away in distance, but a universe away in reality, Noelle found herself at the entrance of a fetid alleyway in Soho. The passage was so narrow and the buildings set so closely together that only on the brightest of days did a few feeble rays of sunlight penetrate the dark, mildewed cavern.
As she stepped into the alley the odors of the past attacked her: the smells of decay, hopelessness, and human excreta. There was another odor that caused the bile to rise in her throat, one vilely familiar to the poor. It was the purification of human flesh, a corpse waiting until the pennies were borrowed or stolen so it could finally be buried. In the cesspools of Soho, Whitechapel, Seven Dials, and Drury Lane the dead were sometimes to be envied; they had escaped the hellish eternity of living.
Noelle pulled the bottom of her shawl across her nose and went on to the end of the alleyway. Peering through what at one time had been a door but was now merely a gaping hole with uneven boards and some crude sacking nailed over it, Noelle looked into the common room that had housed her for many years after Daisy's death.
Filthy straw covered with rags lay in piles along the seeping walls. In two corners of the room were ragged mattresses for the boarders who could afford the extra tuppence a week rent. The room was empty except for a misshapen lump huddled near the apathetic fire.
Noelle gingerly pulled aside the sacking and stepped down into the room. 'Bardy?'
'Oos 'at, now?' he called out threateningly.
Dread enveloped her like a shroud as she walked closer to the feeble flicker of the fire. It felt as if she had never escaped.
'It's me, Bardy.'
' 'Ighness,' the old man cackled. 'Blimey! I knowed yer'd be back. There's them that says yer got nabbed, but I tole 'em ya was too peevy a cove fer that. Where yer been?'
She shrugged evasively. 'Lots of places, Bardy. I'm up on my luck.'
'I'm 'appy fer yer, lass, but the tykes missed yer, they did. With yer gone, there weren't nobody cared 'bout 'em.'
'There was you, Bardy.'
'Lord love ya, and wot can an old man like me wot's 'alf blind do?'
'You can take this. I'm sorry it's been so long since I could bring you anything.' She pressed the coins into his hand. 'See that they get what they need. I'll bring more when I can.'
He inspected the coins before they disappeared into the ragged folds of his coat. 'Yer've got a soft 'eart,
