Angel in the Fog, page 3
Clutching her box, she rushed to the door. She had no shoes, but that didn’t matter—yet one more thing that Mr. Barbusca had taken from her to maintain control. She would leave barefoot, if it meant the end of this place. As she closed the door, she thought better of it. Bounding back into the room, she stooped near her shackles and removed the key from the iron clasp. It dropped into the box with a metallic sound as it hit the coins. It served as another reminder—another awful thing to add to her collection and focus her anger. She would use it.
She made her way down the stairs without a sound. The third stair creaked in the middle. The fifth and sixth stairs had to be taken in one bound to avoid their tendency to groan under weight. She had mapped it out each time Mrs. Barbusca brought her down for her bath. Any detail might have been important, so she catalogued them to memory for the time she needed them most. Today it was just a game, a means to get down the stairs without thinking about what waited for her at the bottom.
The woman stood in the foyer as Molly bounded the last bit to land roughly upon the fake Persian carpet. She landed with such speed that she nearly tipped forward and ran into the woman. Instead, she caught herself and managed to stand upright in an awkward dance, her feet bare.
The woman in front of her did not appear amused. She looked down on Molly, more in her manner than in actual height. She was a few inches taller, and perhaps ten years older—like the man from the day before. She had removed her hat. It revealed dark hair pulled into a rigid and tight bun.
“You are the girl with the chain?” she asked.
Molly nodded, looking around her. Mr. Barbusca stood behind the counter of the bar at the far end of the foyer. He counted a stack of bills, feigning no interest in this strange woman.
“You have no shoes?”
“I don’t need them,” Molly said, trying to inject the right measure of urgency in her voice. All she had to do was sprint past this woman and into the street. But after almost a year under lock and key, her legs wouldn’t hold. Not with the abuse her body had taken. It hurt to walk, let alone run.
“We will remedy that,” the woman said. “But your hair. You did nothing to it this morning.”
The woman reached out and picked up a lock of Molly’s dark auburn hair. She lifted it and then let it fall, as if somehow examining her purchase. Molly had seen this before, when she accompanied her father to the slave markets. The men would examine all manner of things upon the chattel they thought to buy. It disgusted her then—it did so again.
“You are taking me from here?” Molly asked. She lowered her voice so that Mr. Barbusca might not hear her words.
“Don’t you want to know where we would be going?”
“I don’t care.”
This woman had to be linked to the strange man from the day before. Nothing else made sense. Molly lowered her voice further. “If you mean to discover what I know, you will take me now as I am.”
Over her shoulder, Mr. Barbusca still busied himself counting the money. She fought her rising impatience. Daylight beckoned beyond the main door. It streamed through the frosted glass. Could she make it? Perhaps, but there was no way to know who this woman was, or what lay outside. She breathed deep and steadied herself.
“Very well,” the woman said. She caught Molly’s upper arm in a firm grip and guided her toward the door.
Mr. Barbusca called out, “Mrs. Barley, I am uncertain we agreed upon all the terms.”
Molly turned the name over in her mind, committing it to memory. Mrs. Barley pushed Molly toward the door in a deliberate fashion. She did not bother to turn when she spoke to Mr. Barbusca.
“We agreed to all the terms. There is nothing left to negotiate.” She kept her voice calm and confident.
“I was thinking—” Mr. Barbusca started to follow after the two women.
Mrs. Barley turned with such a start that she might have trained in the infantry. Rising a bit taller, she towered over the fat and balding man.
“There is nothing else to discuss.”
Mr. Barbusca wiped his forehead with a stale handkerchief.
“When you are done with her, feel free to send her back. I can still tame the wild out of her.”
Mrs. Barley had let go of Molly’s arm. Molly stepped around her to where she almost faced Mr. Barbusca herself. Molly breathed in and spat upon the floor at his feet.
“You insolent—”
Molly did not hear Mr. Barbusca finish his insult. Mrs. Barley grabbed Molly by the arm and dragged her to the door. She pushed Molly through the foyer, and then into the street. Molly had to shield her eyes. But more importantly, she breathed deep. The air stunk of people, and horses pulling carts. It also held crisp and cold as she pulled it into her lungs, and her bare feet stung against the ice of the ground. It was wonderful. If not for Mrs. Barley’s grip, she would have danced upon the frozen paving stones until her feet bled.
“In the carriage before you freeze.”
Mrs. Barley guided Molly to the carriage that still waited in the street. The driver held the door open and Mrs. Barley urged Molly inside. Her grip eased. With no shawl, Molly was grateful. The seats were soft and upholstered in leather.
“At least take this.”
As Mrs. Barley settled herself opposite Molly, she handed Molly her shawl. Molly accepted it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She sat upright to point her feet so only her large toes touched the ground. It would keep them warmer for a time.
“I didn’t think about the shoes. I thought you would have some.”
“They took them.”
“After you last escaped?”
Molly nodded.
The carriage started with a jolt, the wheels jostling over the uneven paving stones.
“Do you want to know where we’re going?” Mrs. Barley asked.
Molly shook her head. She didn’t. Nothing could be worse than the brothel. For now, hope filled her. At least she would be happy during the time it took them to arrive.
“I find that hard to believe,” Mrs. Barley said.
Molly stopped looking out the window and studied the older woman. She was quite lovely, though her manner came across as hardened. Molly suspected she had no husband—something about her spoke of a freedom enjoyed without a man. The women Molly had known without husbands were tough in a way that bespoke confidence. She longed for that manner of independence.
“Have you ever been someplace,” Molly asked, “that was so horrible you would do anything to leave?”
Mrs. Barley nodded.
“Then you ask a stupid question,” Molly said. “I don’t care where I go.”
“Well then, do you want to know who I am and why I came for you?”
“I know why you came for me.”
“You do?”
“Of course,” Molly said. “You are with the man from yesterday. If he is your husband, please know that we did nothing improper. He just wanted to talk.”
Mrs. Barley laughed. It was the first time her rigid demeanor had cracked. Molly sensed her soften a little.
“I do not have a husband, nor do I want one.”
Molly smiled—she had been right.
“I don’t either.”
“I can imagine. My name is Mrs. Barley, and I do work with the man who visited you yesterday. He said you were quick, and that your tongue was even sharper. He didn’t tell me quite how wild you might be.”
Molly sat upright and slid back on the bench seat—taking insult from the woman’s words.
“I am not wild,” Molly protested.
“Was it another girl who spat at her former employer?”
“But I was—”
“Shhh,” Mrs. Barley cut her off. “Always conduct yourself as a proper lady. You will get further.”
“Even when shoeless and leaving a brothel?”
“Especially when shoeless and leaving a brothel.” Mrs. Barley paused, studying Molly, perhaps sensing the hurt feelings. “We will teach you.”
“So, I will see him again?” Molly asked. She spoke about the man from the day before. Mrs. Barley understood. “You fancy him?”
“No.” The suggestion shocked her. “He was just …” She had to think of the words. “He was so odd. No one ever came to talk. I rather liked it.”
Mrs. Barley nodded. “You will see him again. But first …” Her voice trailed off as she opened her handbag and pulled out a large black satin sash. “You may not care where we go, but we care that you might discover it. I will not bind your wrists nor your ankles, but I will ask you to place this over your eyes.”
Molly accepted the sash. The material was soft and unwrinkled. It hadn’t been used on anyone else. She met Mrs. Barley’s eyes. The woman held no malice, and Molly would have use of her hands to grab at the blindfold if she had the need.
“Will you muffle my ears and plug my nose as well? One can see with more than their eyes.”
“You are a clever girl, aren’t you?” Mrs. Barley asked. “But your tongue will get you into trouble. A smarter move would have been to accept the blindfold without reminding me you would use your hearing to figure out where we went. You will learn. For now, place the blindfold on.”
Molly took one last look at Mrs. Barley, and then nodded. Slowly she tied the black sash around her head, blocking out all the light. Her ears came alive—like those awful days lying in a dark room with the sounds of Baltimore below, as men sprawled on top of her body.
Mrs. Barley pounded on the side of the carriage to get the driver’s attention.
“To Mr. Hutchinson’s office. And take the long way.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE CARRIAGE WOUND through the city. Molly lost track of time, but she followed every turn. She didn’t know the city well enough to have an exact bearing. But she had a broad idea where they were when the wheels finally stopped. During the ride, Mrs. Barley remained quiet. Molly appreciated the break in conversation. It gave her time to collect her thoughts. She would have to be guarded with these people—at least until she understood who they were.
When the carriage door opened, Molly reached for the blindfold.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Barley said. Her hand pressed Molly’s down to her lap. Another hand clasped upon Molly’s upper arm from the direction of the open door. The firm grip guided her out of the carriage.
“Two steps, and you will be down.”
Her stomach tightened at the sound of his voice. She reached for the blindfold to see him again, but then stopped. His accent was the same, though he seemed to try harder to disguise it. He eased her down until her feet met the shock of cold stone. She shifted between her feet, lifting onto her toes to get off the cold.
“She has no shoes,” the man said.
“I know. It will have to do for now. Bring her inside.”
The man guided her through a door where the air warmed her body and carpet lined the floor. His hand held her firm, but kind. They walked up two flights of stairs, and at the top he removed her blindfold. They waited outside a door in a short corridor. Daylight poured through a window at the far end of the hall. Molly blinked, getting used to the light.
“This is Mr. Davies,” Mrs. Barley introduced the man from the brothel. “You will meet our employer, Mr. Hutchinson. He is not to be trifled with. Be direct and tell him the truth. He will treat you fair. But be mindful of your manner, especially your tongue.”
Molly nodded. Concern filled the older woman’s tone. She cared how this meeting went, likely to impress her boss. It didn’t matter. Molly wouldn’t go back to the Barbuscas’ doorstep. She would flee before that happened. Could she jump from the window? How high was it?
As if he read her thoughts, Mr. Davies placed a hand on her shoulder. No escape—not now. He wore a different suit, though in fashion to the one he wore the previous day. He leaned close.
“We will not send you back, you have my word. Do not exaggerate what you know. Tell it to him plain so we understand. Then we will discuss what to do with you.”
Molly fought to keep any reaction from her face. He meant his words as a kindness, but there was something in how he said it. Mrs. Barley rapped on the door. A voice called from within and she pushed into the room. Mr. Davies held the door open, but then closed it behind the women. He remained outside.
The office beyond the door was simple. A wood desk filled part of the space, with windows to let in the light and sounds of the city. Mr. Hutchinson sat behind the desk. He was older than Mr. Davies, perhaps by a few years—but his manner came across as more serious. Molly shrunk under his stare.
Mr. Hutchinson examined her from across the desk. Molly hadn’t cared about her lack of shoes until now. And she had forgotten how she never tightened her dress all the way. She had meant to ask Mrs. Barley, but forgot once she placed the blindfold around her eyes. She felt out of place, cheap and tawdry. She hated how men could make her feel that way.
“Have a seat,” he said. His voice was commanding. It left no question who was in charge.
Molly settled into the chair in front of his desk while Mrs. Barley stood to the side.
“My name is Mr. Hutchinson. Since you have me at a disadvantage, I will allow you to introduce yourself.”
Should she tell him her real name? Did he know already? Likely he did.
“Molly Ferguson.”
“And where do you hail from, Molly?”
“New Orleans, originally.”
The man sat back in his chair and watched her more closely. His hair thinned on top, leaving him partially bald. His beard was full and bordering on the wild—he hadn’t trimmed it into the latest fashion. His blue eyes pierced deep as he examined her, and he wore a gray coat with black lapels. A thin black bowtie held his shirt to his neck. His voice also held an accent Molly had heard before. It sounded a bit like her father’s, but different—not of this land, north or south.
“And how do you find yourself in Baltimore?”
“I was brought here. Not on my own accord,” Molly said. From his expression, Mr. Hutchinson wasn’t satisfied. But she had no desire to relive the fire and watch her father ripped into the night at the end of a rope. “After my parents died.”
“So, you are an orphan?”
Molly nodded. Her mother had once given her the name of an old family friend in Richmond. It belonged to a woman who might take her in if ever anything happened to her parents, but they had no kin. Her father’s family, what remained of it, lay across the water in Ireland. And her mother had none left in the Virginia capitol.
“Sold to a brothel?” he asked.
“About a year ago.”
“That is unfortunate,” Mr. Hutchinson said. “I am sorry to hear of your circumstances.”
Molly looked into her hands. “Thank you.”
“Did Mrs. Barley or Mr. Davies explain why you are here?”
“I already know.”
“Good,” the man said. “That is what I want to talk about. How you know.”
Molly didn’t understand his exact meaning.
“It seems obvious. The man yesterday, he was interested in Mr. Hillard,” Molly answered.
Mr. Hutchinson raised his hand, lifting it above the desk.
“We’ll get there,” he said. “What I want to know is how you know so much about Mr. Davies. The man you met yesterday.”
Molly shook her head. “I know nothing of him. I only just met him when he came to my room.”
“I disagree. From what he told me, it seems you know a great deal about him.”
His accusation puzzled her. She searched her memory, trying to recall the strange conversation.
“I had never seen him before yesterday. He’s English, that’s all I know.”
“Let’s start there. How did you know that? Who told you?” Mr. Hutchinson asked.
“No one.” Desperation seeped into her voice. “I didn’t know his name until you said it.”
“How did you know he was English?” Mr. Hutchinson’s tone was stern.
“It’s in his voice. When he became upset at Mr. Barbusca, his accent dropped. I could hear the English in it.”
The man nodded. “That’s a hell of a guess. What else did you hear?”
Mrs. Barley nodded, urging Molly to answer the man behind the desk.
“Maybe a New York accent. It wasn’t Boston, though at times I get those mixed up.”
“The accents?” Mr. Hutchinson asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to New York and Boston?”
Molly nodded.
“And you can hear the differences?” he asked, more forceful this time.
“Yes.” She dropped her Southern inflection, the one she was born into, and mimicked her best New York accent. “I can change between them, too. My mother said I should act upon the stage, but my father would hear none of it. It wasn’t respectable.”
The man glanced at Mrs. Barley. He appeared taken aback.
“How do we know you’re not acting now?”
“I don’t understand.”
Molly hoped some manner of explanation would present itself in Mrs. Barley’s expression. There was none.
“How do we know you weren’t hired by someone to play a part? To give me false information?”
The words stung. He didn’t believe her, or he tested her.
“You think I’m here to lie to you? I’ve given you no information. You’ve asked for nothing.” Molly’s anger rose. “And you think I would be acting in a brothel, placed there in case you found me?”
Mr. Hutchinson shrugged, as if it wasn’t an absurd suggestion. Images of the awful men who had come in and out of her room filled her thoughts, forcing themselves upon her until she had no hope. She had willed herself to live, if for nothing else than to escape and find the men who had dragged her to Baltimore. And this man thought she was acting?
