The man rubbed his whiskered jaw as he pondered her question. Eventually, his eyes lit. “I will bind her hands and stuff a handkerchief in her mouth. That oughta keep her quiet.”
Helena wrinkled her nose at him. Fergus was teasing, of course. He might be a near giant, but he wouldn’t hurt a soul. Well, not a woman anyway. He was a Scot, and like most of his clansmen, he enjoyed a good brawl on occasion when he was deep in his cups.
“I told you time and again, lass, I will invite her to come speak with her sister.”
Helena rolled her eyes. She hadn’t known about the letter her husband had written to her family until he was gone, but her family thought she was dead.
“I am sure that will be well-received.” She did her best imitation of a Scottish brogue and made her voice deep. “Your ghost of a sister willna go away until you speak with her, lass.”
He chuckled. “I do no’ sound anything like that.”
“Aye, you do.”
When he crossed his arms over his barrel chest and jutted his chin, she laughed too.
“I admit I never picked up the accent, but it’s not from a lack of trying.” She patted her thigh where she had strapped the dagger he had given her. “I am coming with you, and I will be fine.”
His scowl deepened. “You may not have the brogue mastered, but you possess the Paterson women’s stubbornness.”
Since she admired his kinswomen very much, she considered this a high compliment. She just wished it hadn’t taken so long for her stubborn streak to develop. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have allowed Prestwick to run roughshod over her during their marriage.
Of course, she hadn’t been privy to his lies during their marriage. And even if she had learned the truth, she’d had no power to change things. But she could have been less accommodating.
Robert stopped the carriage on the edge of Whitechapel. She and Fergus would walk the rest of the way.
“Please stay with Robert, lass.”
“No, thank you.”
Fergus huffed in exasperation and mumbled something about stubborn women being God’s curse on men.
As they moved deep into the belly of the rookery, foul odors took on a life of their own. The smell of urine and soured scent of rotted food seared her nostrils and throat. She covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief and pressed on.
At the entrance to a winding alley, a small fire burned. A man was slumped over before the fire, his mouth hanging slack. Orange flickers revealed deep valleys in his gaunt face. A child was curled into a ball at his side. Heaviness settled in her heart as their misery carried across the street in waves. Were her sisters hungry too? Did they sleep cuddled together on the street? The thought nearly overwhelmed her, and she stopped to catch her breath.
“You canna wait in the alley this time,” Fergus said as he turned toward her. “No playing the angel tonight, lass. You’ve a good heart, but it is just as likely to be cut from your chest in this place. Leave the man and child be.”
Even though she knew it was unwise to reveal herself to the poor and forgotten people of London, she couldn’t help wanting to take care of them. Every time she gave to someone else, she prayed someone was doing the same for her sisters. She nodded reluctantly.
The light from the fire licked over the uneven cobblestones, and Helena’s and Fergus’s shadows stretched grotesquely on the brick walls of the tenements. No candles burned in the windows, but she knew the buildings were occupied. Angry voices rose in argument and a baby’s wail pierced the darkness.
The sounds filled her with deep sorrow and shameful relief. She was but a visitor passing through the squalor. Tonight she would lay her head on a clean pillow and fall asleep secure in the knowledge she was safe. She might risk her life every time she ventured into the East End, but she wasn’t always in danger. Her sisters had no way of escaping this life without her assistance, so it was a risk she must take.
“Just a bit farther,” Fergus said softly. “Then we’ll find a hiding place.”
They fell into step together and headed in the direction of a dimly lit establishment. Delicate notes from a pianoforte drifted from the brothel. She was struck by the irony of the beautiful sound originating in such an ugly place.