Read Online Nine Buck's Row by Jennifer Wilde - Free Book Online Page B

and rushing out to join me. “That racket! I thought I heard someone screaming. Colleen was huddled behind the wardrobe, white as a ghost, trembling, saying The Ripper was at it again—what on earth is that?”
    â€œA kitten. He’s been abandoned. I heard him crying—”
    â€œ He made all that racket?”
    I nodded, stroking the soft, silvery fur. The kitten was purring happily now, and the tiny pink tongue continued to lick my fingers.
    â€œHe’s hungry,” I said.
    â€œPoor little thing—” Maggie cooed. “Take him on up to your room. I’ll send Colleen up with a saucer of milk.”
    â€œI can keep him?”
    â€œOf course. Though I do hope he doesn’t vocalize often. Such lungs!”
    The kitten was intrigued with my bedroom, prowling here, sniffling there, making himself at home. He charged at the hem of the lavender counterpane, backing away rapidly when it billowed. He examined the brown and gold Chinese vase and waved his furry tail against the tall white wardrobe. Crouching down low, he leaped across the floor to have another go at the counterpane, screeching angrily when lavender folds enveloped him.
    â€œYou’re a scrappy little thing,” I said, smiling. “That’s what I’ll call you. Scrappy.”
    When Colleen brought the saucer of milk, he circled around it several times, tail in air, suspicious. He sniffed it, backed away, then lapped it up in noisy little slurps. Then he washed himself thoroughly, curled up on the faded Persian carpet with its lilac and rose designs and purred with contentment. He was soon asleep, obviously satisfied with his new home.
    Colleen returned to light the oil lamps. She informed me that dinner would be served at eight o’clock. I wanted to ask her if Nicholas Craig had returned, but I didn’t. I despised the man. I really didn’t want him to dine with us. I didn’t care if he never came back.… I wondered if he liked pink. Too girlish. I finally selected a dress of cream colored satin printed with delicate pink roses and tiny green leaves. It had puffed sleeves, a tight waist and a full skirt that swept the floor in creamy folds.
    Marietta had bought the dress for me. She had been very generous with my clothes allowance and had enjoyed seeing me in pretty things. Marietta had been good to me in her way. I stood before the mirror, holding the dress in front of me, thinking about my aunt. I forgot the dress, the room, the kitten still sleeping on the carpet. For several long minutes there was nothing but pain and that nightmare scene in the alley repeating itself vividly in my mind. I was trembling, and the mirror looked blurry, a shimmering blue-gray sheen waving before my eyes.
    I pressed my lips tightly together and forced a steely control. I had to forget. I knew that. I couldn’t allow myself to think about it. It was over. Marietta was gone. If I gave way, if I let myself dwell on that horror, I would be lost. I pushed the terrible thoughts out of my mind and began to dress, deliberately thinking of something else.
    I thought of Nicholas Craig.
    What a strange, enigmatic man he was. He was wealthy, with a lavish annual income and a fine estate in Surrey, and yet he was prowling around the back streets of London, gathering material for a book about living conditions in the East End. He was hardly a reformer. He lacked the puritanical stiffness and the zeal. Why was he doing it? For his own amusement? Was it merely an excuse to visit those infamous houses and sordid dens that other gentlemen frequented for fun?
    Sitting at the mirror, I brushed my hair, thinking about the man who would be legally responsible for me for the next two years. Maggie had mentioned a marriage, “disastrous,” she had called it, and a scandalous divorce. Divorce was very uncommon. I wondered what his wife had been like, what she had done to make him take her into the courts. Was she the