“Then I’ll meet yer ’ere at six, and we’ll go an’ look at ’im. Now leave me alone to ’ave a pint in peace.”
“I’ll wait outside for yer.” She sniffed again.
“Gawd, woman. I said I’ll come.”
“Yeah—and mebbe I believe yer, an’ mebbe I don’t.”
“Go on outside then. And stop sniffing!”
As a show of goodwill Gracie withdrew reluctantly out into the biting cold again. She waited patiently in the dark and the slow drizzle, watching carefully in case he should try to slip out past her.
But half an hour later she saw his thin form and pale face with a surge of relief as if he had been a long- standing friend. She darted forward, nearly slipping on the slick stones and finding her feet were totally numb. She was cold to the bone.
“Yer ready now, then?” she said eagerly.
He looked at her sideways with disgust, and she knew with a funny little sinking inside her that he had hoped she had given up and gone. She grunted with determination, and a full intention of showing how she did not care. This was entirely a matter of business. Who cared what he thought of her?
Wordlessly they walked side by side along the narrow footpath, freezing paving stones gleaming under the lamps as they passed from one pool of light to another. Dim halos of rain ringed each one, and beside them in the street wheels splashed and hissed on the wet road. Carriages loomed out of the darkness and disappeared into it again.
“Can’t yer keep up?” Joe demanded, then immediately gripped her hand and held it hard, keeping her close to him as they passed groups of people, some huddled around braziers of hot chestnuts or other food, others pressing into the half shelter of doorways.
“We gotter get an omnibus,” Gracie said breathlessly. “It’s up west. ’e’s a toff.”
“W’ere west?” he demanded.
“Chelsea—Markham Square.”
“Then we’ll go on the train,” he replied.
“Wot train?”
“The underground train. Ter Sloane Square. In’t yer never bin on the underground train?”
“I never ’eard of it.” Then she realized how ignorant that made her sound. “Me mistress goes by ’ansom, or in someone’s carriage,” she added. “We don’t ’ave no need o’ trains unless we’re goin’ away.”
“In’t you grand,” he said sarcastically. “Well, if yer got money fer an ’ansom I’ll be very ’appy ter ride wif yer.”
“Don’ be daft.” She dismissed the suggestion with equal scorn. “So we’ll go in the train. ’Ow much?”
“Depends ’ow far we go—but not much. Penny or so,” he replied. “Now save yer breath an’ keep up wif me.”
She trotted along beside him for what seemed like miles, carrying her new boots under her arm, but it was probably not much more than a mile and a half. Then they went down flights of steps into a cavernous railway station where the trains ran like moles through tunnels, roaring and clanking in a manner which would have terrified her if she had had time to think about it, and not been far too excited, and too determined to match Joe for wits, courage and any other quality he cared to think of.
She did not like the sensation of sitting in a carriage as it hurtled through a tunnel, and had to concentrate very hard on thinking of something else, or she might have shrieked as she was bumped from side to side, knowing how far she was from daylight and fresh air. She looked sideways at Joe once or twice, and found he was looking at her, so she turned away again quickly. But her heart was thumping with pleasure, and the fear did not matter so much.
At last they came out at Sloane Square station and set out to walk again, this time according to Gracie’s instructions, until in a fine, cold rain they came to Markham Square and stopped under the trees at the far side of Prosper Harrimore’s house.
“All right, then,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Now wot? Wot if ’e don’t come out again ternight? W’y should ’e? Only fools and them as ’as no ’omes comes out an’ stands in the rain.”
Gracie had already thought of that. “So we gotta get ’im out, ain’t we?”
“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow yer goin’ ter do that?”
“I’m goin’ ter knock on the door.”
“An’ o’ course ’e’s goin’ ter answer it ’isself—’is footmen ’ave all got the night off,” he said wearily. “Yer the daftest woman I ever met, an’ that’s say in’ a lot w’ere I come from.”
“Yeah, well I don’t come from w’ere you come from,” she said quickly, although it was probably not true. “You jus’ watch ’im.” And with that she marched across the street, boots under her arm, and up the steps of the Harrimore house and knocked on the door.
She did not really know much about the houses of the well-to-do, only the little bits she had overheard from Charlotte, and what she had gathered from her newfound art of reading. However, she had fully expected the door to be opened by a footman, so she was not taken by surprise when it was.
“Yes, miss?” he said, eyeing her with disgust. He was about to suggest she go to the servants’ entrance, thinking her a relative of one of the maids, although even they should not have received callers at this hour. When she spoke, her words came out in a rush, her heart beating so it nearly choked her.
“Please, sir, I got a message for Mr. ’Arrimore, personal like, an’ I darsen’t give it ter no one else.”
“Mr. Harrimore does not take messages from the likes of you,” the footman said stiffly. “If you give it to me, I’ll
