Absurdly, she looked up ahead to the man she had been following, but he had disappeared. She felt a rush of anger that he had led her into this danger and then abandoned her.
“Let me by,” she ordered. She did not say please. She acted like Alinesse, as if she had every right to be there.
They just laughed. “Pretty girl like you, all alone – are you sure you don’t need someone to protect you?” The first man reached out and lifted up a tendril of hair that had fallen out of her braid in her flight. She yanked away and raised a hand in a threat.
“Do not touch me.” She kept her voice low to keep it under control. He flung back his hand in exaggerated fear.
“Oooh, kitty scratches. Best watch out.”
It turned her stomach. Just go, she told herself. Just turn around, and go straight back to the market. She turned on her heel, the back of her neck prickling, bracing herself for a hand to pull her back. She walked off, head high, the men laughing and mocking her as they kept pace. She took a breath to keep from trembling, knowing if she stopped she would never leave the street without harm.
Their words rolled over her, their epithets and scorn coming faster and louder, now cursing at her and her refusal to stop.
She could smell them, could hear them on her heels. Yvienne tensed, then burst into a run. She made it two steps before one of them yanked her backwards by her braid, and wrapped a strong arm around her neck. She could scarcely breathe, her nose assailed by the smell of filth and whiskey.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he grunted in her ear.
She lifted her weathered little boot and slammed it down once, twice on his instep. He only laughed, his thick boots protecting his feet. She took a breath and let it out in a scream, the sound rippling down the street. It startled the man, and he loosened his hold. Immediately she jabbed her elbow into his ribs. This time he grunted in pain and stepped back. Yvienne wriggled free. He grabbed her again, but she tore away with a determined yank. Yvienne picked up her skirts and ran for her life.
Her breath came hard and she couldn’t hear over the sound of her gasps and her footsteps whether they followed her. She ran, accelerating despite her skirts and her genteel ladies’ walking boots and risked a look back only once–
Whereupon she ran straight into someone, knocking herself off her feet and onto her bottom.
When she could see straight she saw it was Mathilde. She had knocked her down too, and they stared at each other from the pavement at the mouth of the street, on the outskirts of the market, a few people turning to look curiously at them and then a crowd gathering. Voices rose in concern, but Yvienne was so dazed she scarcely heard herself assuring people she was quite all right, it was nothing.
A man helped her to her feet and she thanked him, still in a daze, the lifelong manners instilled in her coming to her aid. Mathilde, too, had been helped up.
“All right, girls?” the man said, and she nodded. Mathilde nodded, too, and they were left alone, the busy people of Port Saint Frey all going back about their business. Yvienne’s head throbbed and so did her backside. Her neck hurt where the man had grabbed her and she could still smell his tobacco and sweat-laden scent.
Mathilde spoke first. “I know a tea shop.”
Chapter Twelve
A sturdy mug of tea steaming between her hands, Yvienne kept swallowing back tears, wincing each time, her throat sore where the man had squeezed her windpipe. Mathilde gave her time to compose herself. They had taken a table farthest from the door, near the kitchen. The tea shop bustled with afternoon shoppers and excursioners. These were good, solid folk, not like the well-off patrons of Miss Canterby’s on the Mile. No one was fashionable, and the tea was strong, served in heavy crockery, the sandwiches filling, on thick pumpernickel.
“What happened?” Mathilde said, sipping her tea. She had paid for the tea and sandwiches and Yvienne tried to keep her embarrassment to herself, that her housemaid had more money than she did. She spoke as dispassionately as she could.
“Do you remember when we first met and you said you thought someone was following me? I didn’t see him then, but I did this time. He was watching me and trying not to be seen.”
Mathilde set her tea down. “I didn’t want to pry then, but I think now it’s fair to ask – why would someone be following you?”
There were too many answers to that question and they all jumbled together. Her natural caution made her wary of saying too much. “It’s complicated,” she said at last, throwing up her hands with a sigh.
Mathilde’s expression was disinterested, as if Yvienne’s actions and her secretiveness were hardly anything to be in a lather about. “I won’t pry, then. It’s always better to give these jobbers what for instead of fainting. But the streets down here are dangerous, though most fellows are good ’uns, and now you know.” She did not say, better not run off by yourself again, you innocent, silly girl. Just, now you know.
And I do know. The next time I come down here, I’ll be armed. Yvienne sipped her tea, swallowing carefully. She would not be able to eat anything, more’s the pity, because she was hungry now, and breakfast was a long time ago.
Now it was her turn to think quietly, and once more Mathilde let her be. If she saw the
