Miss Wychwood nodded. “And you must call me Julia.”
“Now that we’ve dispensed with the niceties,” Anne said, “perhaps we can focus on the week ahead? My mother’s ball is next Friday, after which our seasons will have officially begun. That leaves us eight whole days of freedom—not a single one of which can be wasted in bed.”
A notch formed between Julia’s brows. “But, Anne—”
“I propose we ride tomorrow. We can meet at dawn, if you like, to avoid the crush.” Anne gave Julia a pointed look. “There’s to be no more retreating to your bed. It will only make things worse when you finally have to emerge.”
Stella took Julia’s hand. “You’ll feel better afterward. A good gallop always sets everything to rights.”
“I agree,” Evelyn said. “I’m never so clearheaded as after a ride. It puts the entirety of life in perspective.”
Julia sat up straighter in her bed. “I suppose I might come. If we ride early enough. And if we’re all together.”
Anne slipped her arm around Julia’s shoulders. “Of course we will be.”
Fifteen
Disembarking from the crowded omnibus, Ahmad crossed Commercial Road, ducking through traffic, to enter the East End slums he’d once called home. There hadn’t been much cause to return since leaving Mrs. Pritchard’s employ. No reason to tread the familiar streets or to revisit the shops he’d patronized as a boy.
Until now.
An image of Evelyn Maltravers sprang into his mind. The elegant turn of her countenance, enlivened by the stubborn tilt of her chin and the determined twinkle in her velvet-soft eyes.
“The thing is,” she’d said, “I like you.”
His blood warmed to recall it.
She was rarely out of his thoughts of late.
Understandable, he supposed. She was his muse, after all. The motivating force for his coming here today.
He wondered what she’d make of this place—the neighborhood where he’d spent thirteen years of his life. Would she be repulsed? Disgusted? She might be a sensible country girl, but she was still a lady. An Englishwoman, gently born and bred, and sheltered from the worst of society.
He couldn’t imagine her ever setting foot here.
As he strode up one narrow lane and down another, a waft of fetid air rolled in from the East India Docks. With it came a flood of memories.
Nothing had changed.
Even the people looked the same.
Which wasn’t surprising. There was precious little opportunity for anyone to leave. Rare chance to advance in society—either in their own sphere or in the greater world around them. Those who hadn’t expired from drink or despair were still pushing the same carts and peddling the same wares; still lingering outside the same public houses, and propping themselves up in the same doorways. Dirty-faced ruffians and gin-soaked women vied for space with raggedly dressed children, faded prostitutes, and broken-down seamen.
Among them, Ahmad saw the occasional Indian face. Lascars—Bengali and Yemeni sailors—on leave from British ships. Either that or discharged completely. Left to fend for themselves in a strange land, far away from home.
It wasn’t uncommon.
During Ahmad’s early years at Mrs. Pritchard’s, he’d been aware of a small community of Muslim Indians living nearby. They were known to gather regularly for worship. He might have joined them if he’d been willing to accept their faith. He’d certainly been tempted.
But no.
His aunt had raised him and Mira with only the semblance of religion—a faint imitation of the Christianity practiced by the colonials. It was yet another affectation of Englishness. A product of their being half-white—this constant desire to behave as the British did. To be British. As if denying the Indian part of them would somehow make them more palatable to the sahibs and memsahibs who ruled their country.
It never had. Not in Ahmad’s experience.
No amount of posturing could make him and Mira fit into a world where they didn’t belong. It was why he’d been intrigued by the presence of other Indians in the East End. Why he’d briefly considered joining them, despite his lack of faith. As a lad, it had meant something to see others like him, even if they had nothing else in common. Even if they were strangers.
That was one thing that could be said for the docklands: they may not have been particularly desirable to live in, but they boasted a diversity sorely lacking in Mayfair.
Pulling his hat down over his brow, Ahmad continued walking until he came to the corner of Lost Hope Yard. It was marked by a crooked wooden building, teetering precariously on its foundation. Two large, grease-streaked windows faced the front, giving the sinister structure the appearance of a sightless man staring blindly out at the deserted square.
A rag-and-bone shop occupied the downstairs premises. The same one that had been there in Ahmad’s youth. On the floor above were two small apartments: one for the shop’s proprietor, Mrs. McCordle, and another—no bigger than a closet—for Becky Rawlins. It was the closest thing to respectable lodgings she’d been able to find after leaving Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment.
The brass bell above the door jangled as Ahmad entered. He was met by the stench of mildewed linens and rotting wood.
Mrs. McCordle was seated at the bottom of the stairs, sorting through a bin of old clothes. She peered up at him. “Who’s there?”
Ahmad saw no need to identify himself. “Is Miss Rawlins in?”
“Aye, she’s up there. But I’ll have no messing about. This ain’t that kind of establishment.”
“I’ll wait here if you’ll fetch her,” Ahmad said.
Mrs. McCordle scowled. “You expect me to go up them stairs? And me with my rheumatism playing up?” She resumed sorting through her rags. “Fetch her down yourself. And be double-quick about it, or I’ll know what you’re up to.”
Ahmad climbed the rickety steps. They creaked and groaned under his weight. An ominous sound. The short hallway above was no less unstable, with sagging floorboards and a ceiling with a dark water stain seeping out to its edges. It smelled fetid and damp. Rotten to the core.
He rapped on one of the two doors.
“Give me a minute!” a high-pitched voice called out. Several seconds passed before the door was cracked open to the length of its chain latch, revealing Becky’s careworn face.
She was young. Younger than Mira, though one wouldn’t know it to look at her. Fine lines etched the corners of her eyes, and her back was bent from too many hours of needlework. She was free and independent now, which was no small thing, but her life hadn’t been easy since leaving Mrs. Pritchard’s.