“You’re as mad as your father!” he cried. He spit a thin stream of saliva that landed on my cheek. “I’ll see you run out of town just like him.”
My hand tightened around the mortar scraper. Anger snapped in my nerves, shooting electric rage though the synapses.
To hell with it.
I thrust the blade into his pale skin until I felt the edge of the flexor tendon attached to his right index finger. A flick of my wrist was all it took—no more pressure than cleaning blood from the mortar. And my God, as wicked and wrong as it was, I enjoyed it.
He howled and crumpled to the floor, clutching his hand. I dropped the mortar scraper, realizing what I had done with a growing horror. I wouldn’t need the scraper anymore. My employment was over.
I found the doorknob behind me, turned it, and ran into the cold November night.
SIX
THE NEXT MORNING I sat in Victoria Gardens with a tattered carpetbag and seven shillings, my entire savings. The carpetbag, a parting gift from Mrs. Bell at my dismissal, was probably worth more than the contents—a few threadbare dresses, Father’s Longman’s Anatomical Reference, my Bible, and the embossed wooden box containing the syringe and a small supply of medication. Only the diamond ring Mother had left me was valuable. I took off my glove to watch it sparkle. I’d have to sell it. Even that would give me lodgings for only a few weeks. And staying in London was no longer an option.
“Oh, Juliet, I’m so sorry.” Lucy jogged across the lawn and collapsed on the bench, throwing her arms around me. She pulled back and touched a gloved hand to my face. “Is it true, what they’re saying?”
I nodded.
She shook her head. “I’m sure he deserved even worse,” she said, her voice brimming with anger. “He’s lucky you didn’t sever his other appendage.”
I gave a weak smile. But not even Lucy’s friendship could get me out of this mess, and we both knew it. Dr. Hastings had gone straight to the police, wanting to have me arrested. Mrs. Bell had shown up at my lodging house an hour before dawn, banging on the door so hard that even Annie woke. She thrust the carpetbag into my hand along with the week’s wages and told me to leave town before the police came inquiring.
A man reeking of whiskey passed by our bench, and I hugged the carpetbag closer. My chest felt hollow. How would I even leave? I hadn’t money for a train, and surely my reputation would follow me. I’d never find employment as a maid again.
“What will you do?” Lucy asked.
I fiddled with the carpetbag’s leather handle. “It’s either the workhouse, or …” I didn’t need to finish. My mind drifted to the girl outside the Blue Boar Inn, with the hollow eyes and stained silk dress.
Lucy pushed a few coins into my hand. “I took these from my father’s desk. It’ll get you as far as Bedford. There must be something you can do. A shopgirl, maybe.”
I counted the coins. Enough for the train, but not room or board. I’d have to spend the night in the station, and from there it was a short—and usually forced—leap to the gutter. Had my mother faced a similar dilemma? She’d done what she did out of desperation, and at least it kept us clothed and fed. My father had left with no note, no parting words, nothing. Was he really the kind of man to simply walk away from his family? Was he really the monster they said he was?
The truth was, I knew next to nothing about him. He was little more than a hazy memory and a slew of scandalous rumors. But he was alive. Out there, across oceans. Living. Breathing. For the first time in my life, I could simply ask him if the rumors I’d heard about him were true.
Lucy glanced across the park. Her mother had caught sight of us and was striding straight through the grass. My stomach tightened. If Mrs. Radcliffe didn’t approve of me before, she must positively detest me now.
Lucy jumped up, her face suddenly white. She pressed her cheek against mine, hard. “Write to me, won’t you?” She was breathless. “Let me know where you’ve gone? I’ll try to send money. I’ll try to visit, wherever you are.”
Mrs. Radcliffe was so close I could see the clench of her jaw, and I pushed Lucy away. “Go. Now. I’ll write. I promise.”
Lucy dashed across the lawn to stop her mother. I grabbed the carpetbag and hurried the other way, dragging its weight along the length of the Thames. Lucy’s mother said something biting, but I swallowed hard and didn’t look back.
I kept walking, past the bridge and Temple Bar, where the archway used to stand. I crossed Cable Street to the main thoroughfare, to an inn with a swinging sign above the door. I pushed my way in, past the crowded dining room, and climbed to the second floor. I knocked. Then I pounded. The mirror beside the door reflected my wild desperation.
I should have told Lucy she couldn’t visit. Where I was going, she couldn’t come. It was a bit farther than Bedford.
Montgomery opened the door, clearly surprised. “Miss Moreau. What are you doing here?”
The carpetbag fell at his feet. My heart was racing.