Emberlight

Chapter Eight

I

Morning mist floated along the canal in the blue light of dawn.

Eleanor pulled her cloak tighter to prevent the cold October chill from seeping into her bones. The dingy alleyway she'd been standing in for the past half-hour was deserted, but there were faint signs of life on the port across the water; men in ragtag clothes, flat-peak caps and neckerchiefs, squabbling amongst themselves and organising piles of crates and ropes. The pungent, decaying scent of river water hung in the air, pervading her nose even when she covered it with a gloved hand.

Much to her bemusement, it had also begun to rain; fat droplets that wetted her face and made her sniffle. She was sure to catch a cold. 

For the umpteenth time she looked over her shoulder, terrified of being seen and approached by pick-pockets, lairy criminals, or ravenous dogs. She was a stranger to this impoverished, woeful world, and was constantly wary of the knocks and bumps within the soot-covered walls that surrounded her.

Turning back to the water, she at last spotted a barge gliding majestically through the grey fog of the canal. The rowdy men upon it were hauling ropes and dashing around like mice moving boxes of stock. A little boy, no older than five, she thought, sat upon a tall pile of crates singing happily to himself and the raggedy doll in his hand. Eleanor's breath quickened when she recognised the dark logo stamped hastily onto the side of the crates; Godfrey's Tobacco Ltd. The image of the shiny silver box, the one that she'd grown to hate, flashed into her mind. She could barely fathom the idea that those stacked wooden boxes in front of her could contain anything other than tobacco and cigars.

The barge came to a stop at the port on the opposite bank and the men on water and land instantly began a game of throw and catch between them; the boatsmen chucked the crates into the air as if they were as light as feathers, only to be caught with ease by the men upon the canal bank.

Eleanor watched the scene with mesmerised wonder until another, more irksome sight came into her vision; upon the wooden decking of the port, a towering, rugged figure watched over the proceedings with the authoritative stance of a prince. Wrapped up in a dark overcoat, with a neckerchief tied over his nose and mouth so as to obscure his identity, Rafe Sterling was only recognisable to her by his brown waves of hair which curled down into those searching, perilous eyes.

She retreated further into the shadows, nervous of being spotted by him. Obviously she'd heard the endless rumours in Bath, Marianne's snarky comments, and now written proof from her own business documents about the Sterling's involvement in treacherous affairs, but seeing the change with her own eyes was enough to make her lips quiver in fear. Gone was the brooding, smart man who'd been uptight with her at the Society dinner, who'd murmured the songs of the Opera as if he knew them by heart, who'd accompanied her home when his brother had scared her senseless. The elusive figure of darkness she observed across the canal looked like he'd been plucked straight from the Ancient Greek underworld.

As she watched him, Rafe turned to his side and shook hands with a couple of waistcoated tradesmen. He pointed them in the direction of the large wagon that was nearly full to the brim with her company's tobacco crates. It was clear they were planning on moving the stock to the warehouse as soon as possible. Eleanor retrieved the crumpled schedule from her sleeve and looked at the location scrawled in messy cursive next to the shipment time.

No. 42, Godfrey's Tobacco Ltd Warehouse, Highgate Street, Camden 

Eleanor held onto her cloak's hood to block out the icy drizzle and slinked back down the dingy London streets.