{𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟓, 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧}
The hustle of busy market stalls had died to a whisper and the sun's sense of warmth and security had seemed like a distant dream. Darkness was descending. Estelle searched for cover. Her cheeks rouged now only from the chill of the night as the clouds cried out her anguish and the rain fell upon them. No blanket for comfort, nor a pillow to rest her head, she'd gathered the thrown out newspapers into something pitifully resembling a shelter. All the while keeping the most precious thing to her close and warm under her rags.
By now the infant was used to the darkness, yet still it cried. She held on tightly; to comfort, or muffle the sound, she was never quite sure. She reached for her flask, two for her, one for the baby, to keep it calm, settle it, how else could she? She had not enough nutrition in her to keep it plump as it should be, not enough strength to withstand the cries - the wretched tiredness that morphed every hour into the day and the day into the week, the weak to surrender... and so she held the bundle close and swigged, trying to blank out the knowledge of what she'd done to get her hands on it just hours before. Her eyelids clamped shut, as if the harder she squeezed them, the faster the memory would disappear.
...𝐻𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑤 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑦𝑎𝑟𝑑... "𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠?" ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑝𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠. 𝐻𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑑, "𝑂ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔... 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢". 𝐻𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑜𝑓𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑡...
She felt the sting now.
"𝐴𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑠?" ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑛-𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐸𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒'𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑘. 𝐻𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑥𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑘𝑒-𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ...
Three for her, two for the baby.
"Don't look at me like that," The baby she couldn't bear to name, but wished she could, stared back at her, cried harder. "Just stop it ... I don't know what you want!" She took another gulp. And another, and she looked away. And still the baby cried.
... 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝 𝑖𝑛 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑚 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡...
She breathed deeply. Squeezing the bottle neck tighter as she choked on the tears. The infant cried louder than ever until a carriage rattled past with its lanterns blowing in the wind and its wheels spraying rainwater upon her further, forcing her to look down. And just then, in that very moment, she saw her salvation staring back at her in print:
"𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒑𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆; 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆; 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒖𝒎, - 𝑴𝒓𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒚, 𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒏, 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏."
YOU ARE READING
In Darkest London
RomanceIn a retro-futuristic Victorian London there is a clear divide between the rich and the poor, the east and the west. Chastity, an upper-class socialite has a chance encounter with Stella, a lower-class, street pimpstress. Both with something to run...
