Read Online From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Susanna Calkins
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touched.
The woman dutifully took a sip, breathing in the fragrant liquid. Lucy took the moment to study her. Looking to be in her late twenties, the woman had dark circles under her eyes that added to her years. Her mouth was pinched and drawn, her dark brown hair pulled in a practiced way under her soft blue cap. Again, Lucy was struck by her pallor. She scrambled for something to say. “I’m Lucy Campion.”
The woman looked up from the woodcut. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “I’m Rhonda.”
“Do I know you, Miss—?” Lucy asked, noticing the woman had not provided her last name. Clearly she did not want to be too familiar, and yet even servants did not introduce themselves with just their first name. Truth be told, only ladybirds and doxies kept their last names to themselves, and that was only to keep from further shaming their fathers and brothers. Or so Lucy had been told. She did not have any prostitutes among her own acquaintance.
The woman seemed to realize this at the same time. “Rivers. Miss Rivers.” The way she hesitated made Lucy suspect that was not her real last name. “No, we’ve never met.” “Miss Rivers” took another sip of the hot liquid. The sustenance seemed to calm her, as it had Lucy a half hour before when she first sat down in the tavern.
“How did you know I was,” Lucy paused, “a bookseller?” For a moment, she forgot the woman’s obvious turmoil, savoring the ease with which she had proclaimed her new identity. Bookseller! Then her natural curiosity resurfaced. “Did you see me selling the miscellany outside? I did not see you, though.” She searched the woman’s face. Something about the woman’s sad eyes prompted her memory. “You heard Master Aubrey tell the story, back at his shop!” she said, snapping her fingers. “I remember you now.”
“Yes, I was there. I’d been to the market with my father, hoping to bring some provisions to some of my father’s acquaintances who’d been put out by the Fire,” Miss Rivers admitted. “I heard the printer say you would be selling them at the Golden Lion on the Strand. I needed to read the pamphlet myself. So I followed you.”
“Then why didn’t you buy the pamphlet there? Save yourself the trouble?” Lucy asked. Miss Rivers looked to be a woman of means; it was unlikely she had not possessed sufficient coin. Truly, the woman’s actions made no sense.
“I can see you are wondering at me.” Miss Rivers’s chin trembled. “I didn’t want to believe it. Then I found I could not bear not knowing.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, clasping her hands at the table. “I don’t know what came over me. I know I do not always heed my tongue as I ought. You do not owe me any explanations. Truth be told, you seemed so distraught.”
Miss Rivers looked down at her tankard, which was still about half full.
Lucy continued her stilted amends. “The Fire, you must have lost—” That didn’t sound right, so she tried again. “The body, I mean, the man who was murdered—” Seeing Miss Rivers’s face blanch, she stopped again. After a moment, Lucy settled on the most tactful question she could muster. “Did you lose someone in the Great Fire?”
Miss Rivers spoke, her tone flat and colorless. “Yes, I’m most certain I did. My great love. He came for me. Now he’s dead!”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. How can you know he was the one who died? I mean, no one knows who the body could have been,” she stumbled again. “I mean, who the man was, not even the constable.”
“I know,” Miss Rivers declared, with the same chilling certainty. She pointed to the poem that Sid had found in the wooden barrel. “He wrote that poem. For me.” Despair rising in her voice, she repeated again, “He’s dead! I know it!”
“How could you possibly know that?” Lucy asked, hoping to stave off the woman’s growing agitation. “It just says ‘Dear Hart.’ Surely, that could be
The woman dutifully took a sip, breathing in the fragrant liquid. Lucy took the moment to study her. Looking to be in her late twenties, the woman had dark circles under her eyes that added to her years. Her mouth was pinched and drawn, her dark brown hair pulled in a practiced way under her soft blue cap. Again, Lucy was struck by her pallor. She scrambled for something to say. “I’m Lucy Campion.”
The woman looked up from the woodcut. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “I’m Rhonda.”
“Do I know you, Miss—?” Lucy asked, noticing the woman had not provided her last name. Clearly she did not want to be too familiar, and yet even servants did not introduce themselves with just their first name. Truth be told, only ladybirds and doxies kept their last names to themselves, and that was only to keep from further shaming their fathers and brothers. Or so Lucy had been told. She did not have any prostitutes among her own acquaintance.
The woman seemed to realize this at the same time. “Rivers. Miss Rivers.” The way she hesitated made Lucy suspect that was not her real last name. “No, we’ve never met.” “Miss Rivers” took another sip of the hot liquid. The sustenance seemed to calm her, as it had Lucy a half hour before when she first sat down in the tavern.
“How did you know I was,” Lucy paused, “a bookseller?” For a moment, she forgot the woman’s obvious turmoil, savoring the ease with which she had proclaimed her new identity. Bookseller! Then her natural curiosity resurfaced. “Did you see me selling the miscellany outside? I did not see you, though.” She searched the woman’s face. Something about the woman’s sad eyes prompted her memory. “You heard Master Aubrey tell the story, back at his shop!” she said, snapping her fingers. “I remember you now.”
“Yes, I was there. I’d been to the market with my father, hoping to bring some provisions to some of my father’s acquaintances who’d been put out by the Fire,” Miss Rivers admitted. “I heard the printer say you would be selling them at the Golden Lion on the Strand. I needed to read the pamphlet myself. So I followed you.”
“Then why didn’t you buy the pamphlet there? Save yourself the trouble?” Lucy asked. Miss Rivers looked to be a woman of means; it was unlikely she had not possessed sufficient coin. Truly, the woman’s actions made no sense.
“I can see you are wondering at me.” Miss Rivers’s chin trembled. “I didn’t want to believe it. Then I found I could not bear not knowing.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, clasping her hands at the table. “I don’t know what came over me. I know I do not always heed my tongue as I ought. You do not owe me any explanations. Truth be told, you seemed so distraught.”
Miss Rivers looked down at her tankard, which was still about half full.
Lucy continued her stilted amends. “The Fire, you must have lost—” That didn’t sound right, so she tried again. “The body, I mean, the man who was murdered—” Seeing Miss Rivers’s face blanch, she stopped again. After a moment, Lucy settled on the most tactful question she could muster. “Did you lose someone in the Great Fire?”
Miss Rivers spoke, her tone flat and colorless. “Yes, I’m most certain I did. My great love. He came for me. Now he’s dead!”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. How can you know he was the one who died? I mean, no one knows who the body could have been,” she stumbled again. “I mean, who the man was, not even the constable.”
“I know,” Miss Rivers declared, with the same chilling certainty. She pointed to the poem that Sid had found in the wooden barrel. “He wrote that poem. For me.” Despair rising in her voice, she repeated again, “He’s dead! I know it!”
“How could you possibly know that?” Lucy asked, hoping to stave off the woman’s growing agitation. “It just says ‘Dear Hart.’ Surely, that could be
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