Dear Future Husband

34. I Cannot Accept

10 May 1892

Springtime sunshine broke through the usual dreary grey clouds of the London skies. Maximilian tucked his leather gloves into the pockets of his overcoat before shucking off the garment and folding it over one arm, though he kept his hat on to shade his eyes from the sun. A lady carrying a wide-brimmed parasol pulled her child closer to her side as he passed them. Although dressed relatively well–in a wealthy merchant's three-piece suit, with a bit of a flamboyant waistcoat–he supposed the pistol he carried did not lend itself to an aura of security and the image of a well-bred gentleman.

"Mr. Walker," came a breathless voice from behind him, as a small, lace-gloved hand tapped on his shoulder. It was Dahlia, his neighbour, the gloves hiding the many pinpricks on her hands from her profession. She was a seamstress by day who worked for Edgar Wakefield's criminal enterprise by night. "I was hoping to catch you here."

He gave her an appreciative smile. Dahlia Byrnes was eighteen–a year older than he was–but sometimes, she seemed taken with him. He wouldn't truly have minded if she was; she was pretty, and kind, and generous to a fault. Dahlia had only been caught up in working for Edgar's gang because her brother had fallen prey to them first, and she wished to help him leave. However, Dahlia's brother, Patrick Byrnes, was a good deal more prone to gambling and drinking than his family would like, and thus would likely be stuck in the gang for far longer than anyone would wish.

"You know, you could simply see me when we are both home, rather than running after me in the street," he teased, offering her his arm. They were of a height, allowing him to turn his head and admire the way the sunlight slanted down over her high cheekbones, green eyes and dark curls neatly tucked under a crisp, white handkerchief. There was no denying her beauty, but yet his heart could not bring itself to view her as anything more than a friend, or a sister.

Dahlia feigned a gasp of scandalized shock as she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. She was, as always, attired in the latest fashions, not due to any great scads of money she had lying around, but simply because of her own natural talent for creating pieces at a far cheaper cost than the markets. They often visited her when in need of livery to pose as a servant in some great manor, or when they required a police uniform to pose as a bobby. "Do you mean for me to visit a gentleman's house unchaperoned? Please, my family would simply shrivel up and die from the social faux pas."

They were both without family and he knew it, so her statement was simply a rather dark joke. He didn't bring up that both her parents and a few of her siblings other than Patrick, had already shrivelled up and died due to scarlet fever a few years ago. Dahlia had been lucky enough to escape the ailment, or perhaps unfortunate depending on how one looked at it.

"Yes, I could never imagine scandalizing the Byrnes so," he said. "Was there something you wished to discuss with me?"

"You've been awfully secretive lately," she said in a coy tone, and he did his best not to tense up, knowing she would recognize the change in his posture. "Any particular reason?"

"You caught up with me in the street to confront me, Dahlia? And here I was planning on buying you a hot roll," he said as they passed a bakery.

Inside, he could see a man in a white, flour-dusted apron who was kneading dough. Next to him was a boy hurriedly calling out for customers to come and buy their hot cross buns. Something about the boy's appearance seemed familiar beneath his too-large newsboy cap, which kept slipping beneath his brow. He paused in the street to look, causing people to make noises of annoyance and walk around him.

"Maximilian? What is it?" Dahlia asked, still clinging to his arm.

He gestured toward the bakery. "I would like to buy two hot cross buns, please," he said, producing a handful of coins from his pocket.