The storekeeper was laughing, ducking his bald head in amusement. Crash was good at making people laugh. He took nothing and nobody seriously, she reminded herself.
She wasn’t the only one whose eyes drifted toward Crash’s dim silhouette in the storefront. The other women ranged in age from sixteen-year-old Molly Jenkins, whose eyes glowed with the sort of unrequited worship that young girls needed to be warned about, to thirty-seven-year-old Martha Pratt, who really ought to have known better.
Daisy refused to join those three. They were doing their best to pretend they were just talking on the street corner. Talking, indeed. Talking out here in the cold, shifting from foot to foot and rubbing hands together, waiting, hoping that Crash would come out and warm them up.
Daisy had no such expectation. She’d already been burned.
She drifted a few yards down the pavement, letting her eyes stray to the pastries in the bakery window. Gingerbread men with iced pantaloons and colored buttons smiled vacantly onto the street. Cinnamon loaves, braided and laced with sugared nuts and sultanas, were laid in an enticing row. The air outside was laden with sweet and spice; she could almost taste that flaky crust. Buttery-looking scones flecked with bits of orange zest and currants made a mouth-watering pile.
It had been a very long time since breakfast.
Her stomach growled as the door to the general store opened behind her in a ring of bells. She wouldn’t turn. She wouldn’t look.
“Well, look who it is.” She heard Miss Pratt speak. “It’s Crash. What mischief are you up to today?”
“I’ve been looking for two items.” Behind her, Crash’s voice was low and velvety. “I procured the tinned ham. The carbolic smoke ball, however, was nowhere to be found.”
These prosaic errands were met with a moment of disappointed silence.
“Oh.” Miss Pratt let out a burst of laughter, as if nothing could be more amusing than oversalted pig meat in a metal container. “I see. Tinned ham indeed.”
Daisy wasn’t going to turn around.
Young Miss Jenkins was not to be outdone. “Is this for your supper? Why, Crash, I’ve just realized. You don’t even know who your people are. You must be very lonely. Aren’t you positively starved for proper company?”
Crash laughed. “Someone has been feeding you poppycock. Who told you that? I can trace my lineage for generations.”
“You can?” The girl was startled into momentary quiet.
It was a very short moment.
“That is to say, I had thought that…um…”
Daisy heard the rattle of metal. That was Crash taking his velocipede from the side of the building. “Don’t spare a moment of pity for me, Miss Jenkins,” he said. “I come from a long, illustrious line.”
“You do?” That was Miss Pratt again, trying not to sound dubious.
“I do.” A note of infectious laughter touched his voice. “I’m proud to say that I’m the scion of three generations of dock whores and sailors.”
He was so utterly impossible. Daisy choked into her handkerchief and couldn’t help looking behind her. Crash was standing, his hand outstretched as if he were declaiming some kind of poem. Only Crash could say he was descended from prostitutes with that flair, as if it were a thing to be delighted about. Only Crash could carry the thing off so perfectly, smiling beatifically. He acted as if everyone whose birth had been legitimized by something as prosaic as marriage was somehow less fortunate than he.
Crash looked as if he’d never had horse dung thrown at him. As if nobody had ever told him to behave in a manner comporting with his station. As if he’d never harbored doubts, as if he expected at any moment to be informed that he’d been made mayor of all London. She felt a brief tickle of jealousy that he should be so free of all the rules that bound her. Daisy turned back to the bread again.
She could scarcely pretend those fine, sugared confections held her interest.
“Oh,” Miss Jenkins managed in a strangled voice.
“Really,” Crash said, “do you think I’d want a carbolic smoke ball for myself? I’m young and in excellent health. It’s for my aunt. She’s a little older, and with winter coming on, I don’t want her to take sick.”
“Oh.” That syllable was also a little strangled. “I’m sorry to have asked.”
“Don’t be,” Crash said cheerfully. “I daresay my family is more interesting than yours. I merely wanted to inform you that there’s no need to squander your pity on me. I surely don’t need it.”
If Crash could bottle his arrogance and sell it to the masses, English society would crumble within a decade. They’d never be able to govern their empire, not with talk of ruling by right of blood. The peers of the realm would renounce everything, mount their velocipedes, and ride into the ocean en masse while he looked on and laughed.
“But… Don’t you ever wish for…for…”
“What?” Crash said. “Are you asking if I ever hope that maybe one day, a lovely young lady of good breeding and decent education might take pity on me, and I might give up all my wicked ways? Do you think that maybe I yearn for someone to transform me? Someone who will turn me from my path of sin with one speaking look?”
None of the women answered. Daisy imagined they were all silent, caught in the thralls of lust. He must know she was listening.
“Wonder no more,” Crash said. “I’m just looking for someone to share my…”
He paused, and the women sighed.
“What?” whispered Molly.
“My potted meat,” Crash said, exaggerating the word meat so there was little doubt that he was referring to something other than ham in tins. “What else?”
She couldn’t bear it any longer. Daisy turned to him. “Crash, stop tormenting those poor souls. You’re like a cat with a butterfly—you never can stop playing.”
“Allow me to defend myself, Miss Whitlaw.” Crash winked at her. “I wasn’t tormenting them. I was tormenting you. Did I do a proper job of it?”
“You don’t do proper jobs.” She sniffed. “That was always the problem.”
Crash inclined his head, as if granting her that point. “Ladies. I must be off.” He held his velocipede by the handles and walked toward her. “Come, Daisy. We’ve much to discuss.”
She shouldn’t have agreed to this. She shouldn’t have come here. As he stalked toward her, her stomach turned. Oh, she wished it was nausea.
She folded her hands. “We do,” she said. “Let’s start with this. You should have been more punctual.”
Crash folded his arms. “I’ve spent the day looking for a space for my shop. There’s little available, less in the right location. Find the right location, and the space is wrong. One place was perfect, but twice as large as I need.” He glowered in her direction, as if this were her fault. “On top of all that, I’ve been trying to obtain a carbolic smoke ball. So yes, Daisy. I do apologize. My future and my aunt’s continued health should have taken second place to your minor discomfort.”
“Thank you. I take your apology for precisely what it is worth.” Daisy knew how she ranked in his estimation. “Your shop? What are you selling?”
He didn’t look at her. “You remember. I’m not in the mood to pretend otherwise.”
So he still intended to sell his damned velocipedes. Idiot plan. Only a fool would want them.
He was probably going to make a fortune. There were always idiots out there willing to pay money to kill themselves. Crash had never had any problem obtaining his wishes.
A little steering column was attached to the front wheel of his velocipede. He took hold of this and began guiding the contraption down the street, walking next to her. Thank God he wasn’t riding. She’d have had to crane her neck to look at him, and she felt uncomfortable enough in his presence.
It had been one of those days. She had been up since four that morning, tying bouquets.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell her where they were headed or what he had planned. The wh
eels of his velocipede made a curious staccato sound as they passed over the cobblestones.
Crash’s silence had once been welcoming, for lack of a better word. He had kept silent the same way another man might stand up from a seat on an omnibus. It used to make her feel as if he were making room for her.
This quiet felt disapproving.
“Oh, shut up, Crash,” she said, even though he hadn’t said anything at all. “I’m sure you had a jolly day making wagers on my eventual public embarrassment and searching for your…balls.”
He made a little choking sound. “My carbolic smoke ball, you mean?”
“I spent my day at honest labor.” Her voice shook. “Honest labor where every man who found me alone felt it was his right to pinch my behind.”
“So why is getting your behind considered honest labor, while—” He cut himself off. “Never mind. I’m not arguing with you.” He glanced at her and shook his head. “Walk faster. We’re almost there.”
She trotted after him. They turned a corner and traversed a street. He dragged his velocipede through the mud of a park before he turned to look at her.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He gestured to an abandoned gravel footpath that followed the line of a canal. The waters were brown and stagnant, running sullenly through the gray warehouses on either side. “Here.”
“Here?” She chafed her hands together. “What are we doing here? Could we not go somewhere warmer?”
“No.” He gave her a not-quite friendly smile. “We can’t. You see, I’m going to teach you how to ride my velocipede.”