Remember remember, p.28
Remember, Remember, page 28
‘I… No. I suppose I wouldn’t have.’
‘And now?’
‘And now,’ Charity begins, ‘I think… ’ She looks Delphine in the eye. ‘You won’t like what I’ve got to say, but I came to say it anyway. Vincent got them to change the law, and did it without violence. What you’re doing is wrong.’
Delphine braces herself for an argument. ‘But he—’
‘What they did to him was terrible, D,’ Charity says. ‘The worst pain anyone can know. And I’m sorry it happened, and for what went on at the vigil. But that don’t mean you’re doing the right thing. I know you’ve had struggles with your mood, but you can’t burn half the world and not get licked yourself.’
Delphine has not been struggling with her mood; the melancholy has come quite effortlessly. Though admittedly, panic is threatening to overwhelm her right now. ‘Why’d you come here, Charity? To take me to Bow Street?’
‘I wouldn’t snitch, and you know it,’ Charity says. Delphine desperately wants to believe her. Charity narrows her eyes and beats a fist over her heart. ‘I just wanted to say my piece. I know you well enough to know I can’t change your mind. I’d practised a million times before leaving the Temple and couldn’t think of anything that’d work. But I wanted to come anyway, to make sure you’re all right. To make sure you’re keeping as safe as possible. Ain’t that what you do for us?’ She takes a breath before continuing. ‘So, are you all right?’
‘All right?’ Delphine parrots, disarmed. It’s been a long time since she’s considered that question.
‘Yes,’ Charity says, creased lines appearing on her forehead. ‘Delphine, you lost your brother, your home. You’re plotting to get yourself killed. Of course, I am asking if you’re all right.’ She places her hand on Delphine’s, and in that moment, when it’s clear that her friend has not come here to hurt or betray her, Delphine feels exhausted. All she wants is to curl up in Charity’s hand. She wants to say that sometimes she misses Vincent so much she can hardly breathe and that even though the smugglers are on her side, even though her plot might be on track, she still senses something is off, like when the air thickens before a storm.
She wants to tell her about Pearl, to share that part of herself with her friend and seek her advice about what she should do, but she doubts Charity could ever understand. So, no, nothing is wrong, but neither is anything right. Delphine decides: she doesn’t feel right.
But because she cannot say any of that to Charity without admitting it to herself, all that Delphine responds with is, ‘I’m getting by. How’re you?’
‘I’m…’ Charity’s jaw tenses, her mouth opening and shutting a few times before she speaks again. ‘Someone needs you to bring down the flower.’
Delphine rubs her temples, then her cheeks. ‘How?’ Every time this happens, she feels sad for whichever poor girl is in trouble. But before she left the Temple, she made enough carrot seed tea to last a few months. She’d even used some of Vincent’s money to buy more alum water, just in case. Mistakes rarely happen – Delphine knows her craft, and the women are careful. There’s no place for babies at the Exoticies.
She almost asks who it’s for, but it doesn’t matter. She always starts with the safest option, prescribing something that wouldn’t interact with any other health complaint. It complicates things because she can’t be there to help administer the dose. There’s no such thing as a perfect solution, but she’ll do what she can. Whoever it is.
Cradling her arms over her chest, Delphine considers her options. Savin’s the safest herb, but that’s out of season. She avoids gin and metal and other more dangerous methods. Rue and calamint then: harsher than savin but as light on the body as it can be while still doing the job. ‘I’ll get it as soon as I can.’
At times like this, Delphine thinks of her mother. There were few pregnancies on the plantation, but given the choice between a birth aided by a white doctor or Delphine’s mother, they’d choose her every time. She wonders if her mother would be proud or ashamed of how Delphine uses the knowledge she gave her.
‘Thank you,’ Charity says, tipping her head back, relieved. Then she stiffens a little. She’s not done saying her piece. ‘Your plot,’ she starts again. ‘You say you’re doing it to free slaves, but what I want to know is… why wouldn’t you do it for us?’ Charity glances around the room, at Delphine’s trunk, then back down at her hands. ‘Why Vincent’s cause, but not ours? You say they sell Negroes in newspapers, but Harris’s list puts girls from Soho to St Pauls at risk every year. Why not us?’
Delphine’s heart sinks. Charity is right. Harris’s list is a public review of harlots, which shames and endangers every girl it features. Each year, women are attacked, arrested, and even killed after being exposed in its pages. Harloting might be the world’s oldest profession, but it’s still vilified. There are no laws to protect prostitutes; pimps don’t need to pay them, and bawds keep them in dresses to keep them in debt. It’s slavery of another kind and one the law won’t even recognise.
And Delphine has failed to recognise this, too.
She’s not sure she has an answer. This time, her rage turns inward. She’s been blind, focused on freeing one set of people without considering who else is left in chains. What she’s been doing is not good enough – asking Jules to encourage other communities to protest their discontent in the streets. It’s not enough to blow up a building, to end the lives of so many in it. Not if it won’t help free everyone else.
‘I’m sorry,’ Delphine says. Though sorry doesn’t cut deep enough.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Charity says. ‘Help me do something.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Charity says, squeezing Delphine’s hand. ‘But for it to work, I need to learn to write. Here’s what I want to do…’
As Charity tells Delphine of her rebellious plans, Delphine eyes the locked drawer beside her bed. Pearl’s necklace has been coiled inside it, untouched, since Pearl gave it back to her. Selling it might not be such a bad idea, after all. And what’s more, Delphine knows exactly where Charity should go first to put the proceeds to good use.
Chapter Thirty-One
At this moment, no honest man should remain silent or inactive. The time has come when the body of the English people must assert their strength, and not surrender their birthright to ministers, parliament, or kings.
—PUBLIC ADVERTISER
Over the next week and a half, London descends deeper into unrest. The protests are gaining momentum, so much so that Delphine considers that Jules can’t be responsible for all of them. He and Pearl may have been spreading rumours around the dockyards and coaching inns to stir disruption, but having learned from her conversation with Charity, Delphine asked that they try and solve problems too. Listening to the workers’ troubles and connecting them with other trades to see if anyone can help. So far, the brushmakers have helped the scriveners secure a pay increase of 2s a week. But the wins have been few and far between, so there are still men from almost every guild present at the protests. A united front of disgruntled labourers.
When Delphine arrives at Westminster in the mornings and when she leaves in the evenings, she can hardly move for the sheer number of angry people outside Parliament. She weaves around blacksmiths protesting ironwork decline, holds her breath as she passes the skinners calling for hygiene protections at work, and squeezes past coopers crying out for fairer pay because their wages have been lowered for the second time this year.
And these are just the regulars. Some days, Old Palace Yard also draws in more unlikely rebels: beggars, shoppers, and even the occasional band of white-gloved ladies.
Meanwhile, the papers are reporting frequent stories of matchstick girls smashing factory windows, of lascars defacing the white bricks of East India House, of a landlord chased out of his own home for overcharging Black tenants in Mile End.
One thing’s certain in Delphine’s mind: the people of London are unhappy with the status quo, and they want their voices heard.
Delphine has been busy, too. With what little spare time she’s had between working for Nick and preparing for the attack on Parliament, she’s been helping Charity to pull off her small revolution. Charity wants to publish her own Harris’s list – only hers will review culls, not harlots.
Inspired by the smugglers’ code that Bela developed, Delphine has helped Charity create her own system of hand-drawn symbols, so she can safely send messages to other brothels without fear of them being intercepted. It’s a slow process, but it’s working. Her friend and several other girls from the Temple are gradually compiling stories on the cruellest culls in the capital, including the notorious Mister Harris himself.
The sale of Pearl’s necklace is helping too. The smugglers sold it for more than enough to enable the pamphlet’s printing and distribution. Delphine is acting as scribe, and Mister Walvin, the bookseller at Hatchards, has agreed to help Charity secure a printer and sell a copy or two. Charity’s cause is certainly on the path to achieving her aims: providing safe housing and care for workers who have experienced abuse.
Then, late into the night, Delphine meets with Jules and Pearl in the den to conspire over the future they hope to build. They talk of the law of inheritance being scrapped, of women inheriting seats and gaining the right to vote. Jules has been speaking with his contacts in the guilds, gathering information on as many MPs, noblemen and clergymen as possible ahead of the State Opening. Any man who is a proven ally to those less fortunate than himself – who has a track record of working towards a fairer, freer society – goes on Delphine’s list of men to try and save from the explosion. Despite their best efforts, the list so far is woefully short.
Only when Delphine is alone, tossing and turning in her bed, does she allow her fear to catch up with her. For every success in her plan, for every second she isn’t caught, she feels closer to the unspeakable possibility of failure. Her nightmares are haunted by Fawkes and Catesby, mutilated and screaming in the throes of torture. When she wakes, she still sees their faces in her mind’s eye. She sees a burning building, a blackened crown, ruins and riots.
And all of it rests on today if Delphine can complete her next challenge.
It is two o’clock, and Delphine is sitting with Nick in his new office. Last week, Pearl traded a stolen painting with one of Westminster’s wardens to move Nick to this room because situated on its south wall is the escape panel closest to the Thames-side secret exit. Nick does not like the room one bit: it’s windowless, tiny, and a clear demotion compared to his old office near the King’s Bench. He believes the relocation is because the Prime Minister dislikes him. As a result, he’s been in a bad mood all day. Luckily, Nick will shortly be heading out for his Foreign Trade Committee interview. Which will grant Delphine both a reprieve from his grumbling and a perfect opportunity to tackle her next all-important task. She needs to check that the tunnel to the exit is still clear since Colin and Jules’ stake out and measure the length she needs for the fuse. She is wearing the skirt that Pearl and Bela made for her, with thirty-six feet of fuse coiled safely inside.
‘Ugh,’ Nick scoffs, striking through the notes he’s been working on all morning. He scrunches the parchment into a ball in his hand. ‘I’d almost forgotten. That Lang boy will be at the committee today. He is the one they are comparing me to at the interview. A pimple-nosed child!’ He almost spits the words. ‘Not even twenty-one with a seat of his own and does nothing for it. You cannot be elected and handed everything in exchange for nothing!’
If Nick beats the pimple-nosed child onto this committee, he’ll be able to influence colonial law, extending from the London docks to India, the Americas and the Falklands. That would be an undeniable victory for both his and Delphine’s causes. But his last sentence gnaws away at Delphine’s conscience – would he still want his seat on the committee if he knew what Pearl did? Would he still want to be in politics at all?
‘It is utterly ridiculous,’ Nick says, tossing the ball to the floor in time with the protestors’ drumbeat. ‘If the criteria for a committee role is only needless want, we may as well let every housewife and domestic in when they need a new broom.’ He laughs now in that self-assured way men do when they believe they have made a most humorous and insightful joke.
Delphine bends to retrieve the parchment and hands it back to him, once again relieved to have kept her mouth shut. She wishes he would just leave for his meeting so she can get on with the job she’s really here to do. Nick scrunches the notes into an even tighter ball, then rises. ‘Of course, I don’t mean you. Just…’ He searches for the words, which he seems to think are hidden somewhere in the wrinkled parchment ball. ‘For most women, their sphere is in the home, and… That joke works better in less fair company.’ He fixes his gaze on the wall.
‘Less fair, or fouler?’ Delphine retorts. ‘Isn’t it time you were on your way?’
He discards the parchment on the desk and then pulls out a gold timepiece from his waistcoat. ‘My word, yes!’ He springs into action, smoothing back his hair. ‘I’ll be engaged for quite a while. If I’ve not returned by six, please retire for the evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
That is almost four hours from now.
Surely, she can get the job done in that time? ‘Best of luck. You’ll do brilliantly,’ she smiles.
Nick smiles, too, and then rushes away down the corridor.
The instant the door shuts, Delphine heaves her desk away from the wall of the small office, revealing the secret panel.
She tentatively pushes down on it and prays.
The door groans. Delphine does, too.
Then it clicks and juts out barely an inch from the wall.
Not wanting to waste a moment, she finds a candle nub, a matchbox and a striker.
With the door open, she can finally rid herself of her sulphur-lined skirt and test the length of the fuse.
She hoists her skirts to her waist and uses her teeth to rip open the hem of the bottom petticoat. The sensation of fabric tearing makes her skin crawl, but thankfully, the little patch they’d sewn on gives easily, revealing the end of the fuse.
She now has another burning decision. How does she hold the candle without setting the thread aflame? All it would take is an ember to waft down onto the thread, and her entire skirt, and likely the rest of her, would be up in smoke.
Delphine shudders and guesses the safest way is to prod the candle with something so it remains at arm’s length ahead of her. If she keeps the skirt and cotton above her knees, there’s very little chance of a spark. And it’ll keep her dress clean so Nick isn’t suspicious when he returns.
It is a crudely drawn plan, but it will have to do.
Grabbing a measuring rod from beneath the desk, she crouches down, takes one last look around the room and hopes it’s not the last one she sees. Then, Delphine crawls into the blackness of the passage. She doesn’t know why, but she holds her breath.
According to the map, she must walk left down the passageway a short distance before descending a staircase and taking two turns before she reaches the exit. With the ruler, she manages to keep the candle at a safe distance as she shuffles, one cautious knee then another. This tunnel is narrower than the last one she was in. She can’t imagine a king crawling through a space like this. Though she supposes people may crawl through most things to save their lives. The further she goes, the more she attempts to focus on two things only: the light of the flame and the thread in her hand. To let her mind wander into the shadows, to think of what creatures may be creeping in the darkness, would send her running back out into Nick’s office, plan be damned.
The floor gives way beneath her and, in fright, she almost drops the candle. Then, her foot lands a few inches below.
The stairs.
In the half light, she drops down onto her haunches and feels with her hand for the next step down. A splinter pierces her finger, and she winces, but the sound of the protestors yelling outside bolsters her.
She crawls down two steps before realising there’s more space above her. With one hand still on her skirt, the other pressed to the wall, she rises, and treads cautiously.
At the bottom, it’s another ten or so paces until she reaches the first corner, a few more steps until the next, and then, at last, the door. Or, not quite a door, for in the small ring of light thrown out by the candle, the secret exit appears to be disguised as a coal chute – small but large enough to crawl through.
Delphine pulls down the sizeable rusty handle with all her strength, opens it a crack, and then peeks outside.
The river is right there. Perfect for making her escape after lighting the fuse.
Delighted, she shuts the door again. Unsure how many feet she’s travelled, she begins to unfurl the fuse as she backs towards the stairs. There’s still plenty of thread as she places a foot on the first, but then she hears movement above her. Surely Nick can’t be back so soon?
‘You’ll never believe this. A fight has broken out among the protestors, and they’re not letting us cross the Yard! Here I was, thinking they were fighting the government, not each other. Really, I can’t…’ Nick’s voice trails off. ‘Delphine?’
Her heart stops. Her mind searches for a reasonable explanation, but there is none. She freezes until she hears again, ‘Delphine, are you in there?’
The candle is gone. There is no need for her to move slowly. She wiggles her way up the steps and out of the darkness. She wishes it would consume her instead – anything other than explaining this to Nick.
Her voice shakes as she approaches the secret panel. ‘I thought I heard a cat.’
‘A cat, you say?’ Nick’s voice is louder now.
‘Yes, a cat in the walls.’ The lie forms on her tongue as she speaks it. ‘I heard something yowling and scratching. You didn’t realise there was a door behind the panel?’
She edges back out of the passageway.
‘And now?’
‘And now,’ Charity begins, ‘I think… ’ She looks Delphine in the eye. ‘You won’t like what I’ve got to say, but I came to say it anyway. Vincent got them to change the law, and did it without violence. What you’re doing is wrong.’
Delphine braces herself for an argument. ‘But he—’
‘What they did to him was terrible, D,’ Charity says. ‘The worst pain anyone can know. And I’m sorry it happened, and for what went on at the vigil. But that don’t mean you’re doing the right thing. I know you’ve had struggles with your mood, but you can’t burn half the world and not get licked yourself.’
Delphine has not been struggling with her mood; the melancholy has come quite effortlessly. Though admittedly, panic is threatening to overwhelm her right now. ‘Why’d you come here, Charity? To take me to Bow Street?’
‘I wouldn’t snitch, and you know it,’ Charity says. Delphine desperately wants to believe her. Charity narrows her eyes and beats a fist over her heart. ‘I just wanted to say my piece. I know you well enough to know I can’t change your mind. I’d practised a million times before leaving the Temple and couldn’t think of anything that’d work. But I wanted to come anyway, to make sure you’re all right. To make sure you’re keeping as safe as possible. Ain’t that what you do for us?’ She takes a breath before continuing. ‘So, are you all right?’
‘All right?’ Delphine parrots, disarmed. It’s been a long time since she’s considered that question.
‘Yes,’ Charity says, creased lines appearing on her forehead. ‘Delphine, you lost your brother, your home. You’re plotting to get yourself killed. Of course, I am asking if you’re all right.’ She places her hand on Delphine’s, and in that moment, when it’s clear that her friend has not come here to hurt or betray her, Delphine feels exhausted. All she wants is to curl up in Charity’s hand. She wants to say that sometimes she misses Vincent so much she can hardly breathe and that even though the smugglers are on her side, even though her plot might be on track, she still senses something is off, like when the air thickens before a storm.
She wants to tell her about Pearl, to share that part of herself with her friend and seek her advice about what she should do, but she doubts Charity could ever understand. So, no, nothing is wrong, but neither is anything right. Delphine decides: she doesn’t feel right.
But because she cannot say any of that to Charity without admitting it to herself, all that Delphine responds with is, ‘I’m getting by. How’re you?’
‘I’m…’ Charity’s jaw tenses, her mouth opening and shutting a few times before she speaks again. ‘Someone needs you to bring down the flower.’
Delphine rubs her temples, then her cheeks. ‘How?’ Every time this happens, she feels sad for whichever poor girl is in trouble. But before she left the Temple, she made enough carrot seed tea to last a few months. She’d even used some of Vincent’s money to buy more alum water, just in case. Mistakes rarely happen – Delphine knows her craft, and the women are careful. There’s no place for babies at the Exoticies.
She almost asks who it’s for, but it doesn’t matter. She always starts with the safest option, prescribing something that wouldn’t interact with any other health complaint. It complicates things because she can’t be there to help administer the dose. There’s no such thing as a perfect solution, but she’ll do what she can. Whoever it is.
Cradling her arms over her chest, Delphine considers her options. Savin’s the safest herb, but that’s out of season. She avoids gin and metal and other more dangerous methods. Rue and calamint then: harsher than savin but as light on the body as it can be while still doing the job. ‘I’ll get it as soon as I can.’
At times like this, Delphine thinks of her mother. There were few pregnancies on the plantation, but given the choice between a birth aided by a white doctor or Delphine’s mother, they’d choose her every time. She wonders if her mother would be proud or ashamed of how Delphine uses the knowledge she gave her.
‘Thank you,’ Charity says, tipping her head back, relieved. Then she stiffens a little. She’s not done saying her piece. ‘Your plot,’ she starts again. ‘You say you’re doing it to free slaves, but what I want to know is… why wouldn’t you do it for us?’ Charity glances around the room, at Delphine’s trunk, then back down at her hands. ‘Why Vincent’s cause, but not ours? You say they sell Negroes in newspapers, but Harris’s list puts girls from Soho to St Pauls at risk every year. Why not us?’
Delphine’s heart sinks. Charity is right. Harris’s list is a public review of harlots, which shames and endangers every girl it features. Each year, women are attacked, arrested, and even killed after being exposed in its pages. Harloting might be the world’s oldest profession, but it’s still vilified. There are no laws to protect prostitutes; pimps don’t need to pay them, and bawds keep them in dresses to keep them in debt. It’s slavery of another kind and one the law won’t even recognise.
And Delphine has failed to recognise this, too.
She’s not sure she has an answer. This time, her rage turns inward. She’s been blind, focused on freeing one set of people without considering who else is left in chains. What she’s been doing is not good enough – asking Jules to encourage other communities to protest their discontent in the streets. It’s not enough to blow up a building, to end the lives of so many in it. Not if it won’t help free everyone else.
‘I’m sorry,’ Delphine says. Though sorry doesn’t cut deep enough.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Charity says. ‘Help me do something.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Charity says, squeezing Delphine’s hand. ‘But for it to work, I need to learn to write. Here’s what I want to do…’
As Charity tells Delphine of her rebellious plans, Delphine eyes the locked drawer beside her bed. Pearl’s necklace has been coiled inside it, untouched, since Pearl gave it back to her. Selling it might not be such a bad idea, after all. And what’s more, Delphine knows exactly where Charity should go first to put the proceeds to good use.
Chapter Thirty-One
At this moment, no honest man should remain silent or inactive. The time has come when the body of the English people must assert their strength, and not surrender their birthright to ministers, parliament, or kings.
—PUBLIC ADVERTISER
Over the next week and a half, London descends deeper into unrest. The protests are gaining momentum, so much so that Delphine considers that Jules can’t be responsible for all of them. He and Pearl may have been spreading rumours around the dockyards and coaching inns to stir disruption, but having learned from her conversation with Charity, Delphine asked that they try and solve problems too. Listening to the workers’ troubles and connecting them with other trades to see if anyone can help. So far, the brushmakers have helped the scriveners secure a pay increase of 2s a week. But the wins have been few and far between, so there are still men from almost every guild present at the protests. A united front of disgruntled labourers.
When Delphine arrives at Westminster in the mornings and when she leaves in the evenings, she can hardly move for the sheer number of angry people outside Parliament. She weaves around blacksmiths protesting ironwork decline, holds her breath as she passes the skinners calling for hygiene protections at work, and squeezes past coopers crying out for fairer pay because their wages have been lowered for the second time this year.
And these are just the regulars. Some days, Old Palace Yard also draws in more unlikely rebels: beggars, shoppers, and even the occasional band of white-gloved ladies.
Meanwhile, the papers are reporting frequent stories of matchstick girls smashing factory windows, of lascars defacing the white bricks of East India House, of a landlord chased out of his own home for overcharging Black tenants in Mile End.
One thing’s certain in Delphine’s mind: the people of London are unhappy with the status quo, and they want their voices heard.
Delphine has been busy, too. With what little spare time she’s had between working for Nick and preparing for the attack on Parliament, she’s been helping Charity to pull off her small revolution. Charity wants to publish her own Harris’s list – only hers will review culls, not harlots.
Inspired by the smugglers’ code that Bela developed, Delphine has helped Charity create her own system of hand-drawn symbols, so she can safely send messages to other brothels without fear of them being intercepted. It’s a slow process, but it’s working. Her friend and several other girls from the Temple are gradually compiling stories on the cruellest culls in the capital, including the notorious Mister Harris himself.
The sale of Pearl’s necklace is helping too. The smugglers sold it for more than enough to enable the pamphlet’s printing and distribution. Delphine is acting as scribe, and Mister Walvin, the bookseller at Hatchards, has agreed to help Charity secure a printer and sell a copy or two. Charity’s cause is certainly on the path to achieving her aims: providing safe housing and care for workers who have experienced abuse.
Then, late into the night, Delphine meets with Jules and Pearl in the den to conspire over the future they hope to build. They talk of the law of inheritance being scrapped, of women inheriting seats and gaining the right to vote. Jules has been speaking with his contacts in the guilds, gathering information on as many MPs, noblemen and clergymen as possible ahead of the State Opening. Any man who is a proven ally to those less fortunate than himself – who has a track record of working towards a fairer, freer society – goes on Delphine’s list of men to try and save from the explosion. Despite their best efforts, the list so far is woefully short.
Only when Delphine is alone, tossing and turning in her bed, does she allow her fear to catch up with her. For every success in her plan, for every second she isn’t caught, she feels closer to the unspeakable possibility of failure. Her nightmares are haunted by Fawkes and Catesby, mutilated and screaming in the throes of torture. When she wakes, she still sees their faces in her mind’s eye. She sees a burning building, a blackened crown, ruins and riots.
And all of it rests on today if Delphine can complete her next challenge.
It is two o’clock, and Delphine is sitting with Nick in his new office. Last week, Pearl traded a stolen painting with one of Westminster’s wardens to move Nick to this room because situated on its south wall is the escape panel closest to the Thames-side secret exit. Nick does not like the room one bit: it’s windowless, tiny, and a clear demotion compared to his old office near the King’s Bench. He believes the relocation is because the Prime Minister dislikes him. As a result, he’s been in a bad mood all day. Luckily, Nick will shortly be heading out for his Foreign Trade Committee interview. Which will grant Delphine both a reprieve from his grumbling and a perfect opportunity to tackle her next all-important task. She needs to check that the tunnel to the exit is still clear since Colin and Jules’ stake out and measure the length she needs for the fuse. She is wearing the skirt that Pearl and Bela made for her, with thirty-six feet of fuse coiled safely inside.
‘Ugh,’ Nick scoffs, striking through the notes he’s been working on all morning. He scrunches the parchment into a ball in his hand. ‘I’d almost forgotten. That Lang boy will be at the committee today. He is the one they are comparing me to at the interview. A pimple-nosed child!’ He almost spits the words. ‘Not even twenty-one with a seat of his own and does nothing for it. You cannot be elected and handed everything in exchange for nothing!’
If Nick beats the pimple-nosed child onto this committee, he’ll be able to influence colonial law, extending from the London docks to India, the Americas and the Falklands. That would be an undeniable victory for both his and Delphine’s causes. But his last sentence gnaws away at Delphine’s conscience – would he still want his seat on the committee if he knew what Pearl did? Would he still want to be in politics at all?
‘It is utterly ridiculous,’ Nick says, tossing the ball to the floor in time with the protestors’ drumbeat. ‘If the criteria for a committee role is only needless want, we may as well let every housewife and domestic in when they need a new broom.’ He laughs now in that self-assured way men do when they believe they have made a most humorous and insightful joke.
Delphine bends to retrieve the parchment and hands it back to him, once again relieved to have kept her mouth shut. She wishes he would just leave for his meeting so she can get on with the job she’s really here to do. Nick scrunches the notes into an even tighter ball, then rises. ‘Of course, I don’t mean you. Just…’ He searches for the words, which he seems to think are hidden somewhere in the wrinkled parchment ball. ‘For most women, their sphere is in the home, and… That joke works better in less fair company.’ He fixes his gaze on the wall.
‘Less fair, or fouler?’ Delphine retorts. ‘Isn’t it time you were on your way?’
He discards the parchment on the desk and then pulls out a gold timepiece from his waistcoat. ‘My word, yes!’ He springs into action, smoothing back his hair. ‘I’ll be engaged for quite a while. If I’ve not returned by six, please retire for the evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
That is almost four hours from now.
Surely, she can get the job done in that time? ‘Best of luck. You’ll do brilliantly,’ she smiles.
Nick smiles, too, and then rushes away down the corridor.
The instant the door shuts, Delphine heaves her desk away from the wall of the small office, revealing the secret panel.
She tentatively pushes down on it and prays.
The door groans. Delphine does, too.
Then it clicks and juts out barely an inch from the wall.
Not wanting to waste a moment, she finds a candle nub, a matchbox and a striker.
With the door open, she can finally rid herself of her sulphur-lined skirt and test the length of the fuse.
She hoists her skirts to her waist and uses her teeth to rip open the hem of the bottom petticoat. The sensation of fabric tearing makes her skin crawl, but thankfully, the little patch they’d sewn on gives easily, revealing the end of the fuse.
She now has another burning decision. How does she hold the candle without setting the thread aflame? All it would take is an ember to waft down onto the thread, and her entire skirt, and likely the rest of her, would be up in smoke.
Delphine shudders and guesses the safest way is to prod the candle with something so it remains at arm’s length ahead of her. If she keeps the skirt and cotton above her knees, there’s very little chance of a spark. And it’ll keep her dress clean so Nick isn’t suspicious when he returns.
It is a crudely drawn plan, but it will have to do.
Grabbing a measuring rod from beneath the desk, she crouches down, takes one last look around the room and hopes it’s not the last one she sees. Then, Delphine crawls into the blackness of the passage. She doesn’t know why, but she holds her breath.
According to the map, she must walk left down the passageway a short distance before descending a staircase and taking two turns before she reaches the exit. With the ruler, she manages to keep the candle at a safe distance as she shuffles, one cautious knee then another. This tunnel is narrower than the last one she was in. She can’t imagine a king crawling through a space like this. Though she supposes people may crawl through most things to save their lives. The further she goes, the more she attempts to focus on two things only: the light of the flame and the thread in her hand. To let her mind wander into the shadows, to think of what creatures may be creeping in the darkness, would send her running back out into Nick’s office, plan be damned.
The floor gives way beneath her and, in fright, she almost drops the candle. Then, her foot lands a few inches below.
The stairs.
In the half light, she drops down onto her haunches and feels with her hand for the next step down. A splinter pierces her finger, and she winces, but the sound of the protestors yelling outside bolsters her.
She crawls down two steps before realising there’s more space above her. With one hand still on her skirt, the other pressed to the wall, she rises, and treads cautiously.
At the bottom, it’s another ten or so paces until she reaches the first corner, a few more steps until the next, and then, at last, the door. Or, not quite a door, for in the small ring of light thrown out by the candle, the secret exit appears to be disguised as a coal chute – small but large enough to crawl through.
Delphine pulls down the sizeable rusty handle with all her strength, opens it a crack, and then peeks outside.
The river is right there. Perfect for making her escape after lighting the fuse.
Delighted, she shuts the door again. Unsure how many feet she’s travelled, she begins to unfurl the fuse as she backs towards the stairs. There’s still plenty of thread as she places a foot on the first, but then she hears movement above her. Surely Nick can’t be back so soon?
‘You’ll never believe this. A fight has broken out among the protestors, and they’re not letting us cross the Yard! Here I was, thinking they were fighting the government, not each other. Really, I can’t…’ Nick’s voice trails off. ‘Delphine?’
Her heart stops. Her mind searches for a reasonable explanation, but there is none. She freezes until she hears again, ‘Delphine, are you in there?’
The candle is gone. There is no need for her to move slowly. She wiggles her way up the steps and out of the darkness. She wishes it would consume her instead – anything other than explaining this to Nick.
Her voice shakes as she approaches the secret panel. ‘I thought I heard a cat.’
‘A cat, you say?’ Nick’s voice is louder now.
‘Yes, a cat in the walls.’ The lie forms on her tongue as she speaks it. ‘I heard something yowling and scratching. You didn’t realise there was a door behind the panel?’
She edges back out of the passageway.
