Chelmsk.’
‘What, you’ve never been anywhere?
‘No.’
Nicholas took a step closer. ‘Isabella, do you know where a beautiful girl can go?’
‘No, where?’
‘Anywhere she damn well pleases.’
Her blue eyes widened. He watched in amusement as she fled the room, reddening with embarrassment.
‘And you are so very beautiful,’ he told her retreating form.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ASSIGNATION
L ONG AFTER I SABELLA had left the room, Nicholas could smell her scent, redolent of wild summer fields and wide blue skies. Of course, there was the novelty of country girls—London women were sharp and sly with their charms, but so made up and used up, and these days it seemed that the fresh ones were seized before their buds had even come into bloom, snapped up by old roués as if they were purchasing opening night buttonholes.
He stepped down the narrow stairs and stood in the shadows, watching her deliver drinks to the saloon tables. The men grabbed at her buttocks and breasts as she passed. Nicholas knew the importance of shielding his cards, but as Isabella returned to the bar, he found himself catching her arm.
‘Why do you let them do that to you?’
She looked surprised, as if the thought had not crossed her mind before. ‘I have no choice. A woman is nothing here.’
‘Can’t you get away?’
‘It is not possible.’ She looked back in desperation at the swaying, braying villagers.
‘Isabella, the war will tear this town apart.’
‘I know nothing of war.’
‘You will soon enough. What time do you finish?’
‘I never finish. Father never closes until the last man has gone back to his wife. Most would never leave if they had a choice.’
Nicholas looked at the locals slumped across their tables and imagined conversations that rarely rose above discussions of compost and the comparison of farming implements. ‘Then meet with me,’ he suggested.
Isabella looked back at the hard drinkers in the bar. One was stamping the caked mud from his boots and throwing it at the cat.
‘Isabella, you have nothing to lose, and the world to gain. What is the best restaurant in town?’
‘There is only one. It is called The Pig.’
‘The Pig. Meet me there.’
She turned back to the bar, her mind in turmoil. ‘I don’t know how long it will take to get away.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will wait for you.’
Nicholas walked through the deserted streets on his way to the restaurant. The sun had set abruptly, without colour, and cones of cold light now fell from the tin lamps suspended over the road. On the way he passed an incredibly wrinkled old woman carrying a reluctant squealing pig. A drunken farmer was slung out of a doorway and fell before him into the gutter, where he was violently and copiously sick. Nicholas watched in growing disgust. Isabella deserves a better life than this, he thought angrily. She belongs upon my arm in London. How fine we would look together, entering the Café Royal!
He stood before the windows of The Pig. The restaurant was empty except for a snoozing waiter with brown soup stains on his vest, slumped over the bar counter. Upon each bare wooden table was an arrangement of dried wheat, framed around a flyblown severed pig’s trotter. The thought of dining here appalled him. Drawing a deep breath, he entered.
It took a minute for the waiter to rouse himself. Surprised by the unexpected appearance of a client, he wiped the table and placed a grubby leather menu before Nicholas. There were no other patrons in the restaurant. Nicholas studied the dishes with distaste and pointed to an unpronounceable item.
‘What is this?’
‘It is pig,’ the waiter replied.
‘And this one?’
‘It is pig also.’
Sighing, Nicholas stared from the window and checked his pocket watch.
‘W HAT DID HE want?’ asked the landlord.
‘I told you, Father. He is an English gentleman.’
‘There is no such thing. I know gentlemen. They only bring
‘What, you’ve never been anywhere?
‘No.’
Nicholas took a step closer. ‘Isabella, do you know where a beautiful girl can go?’
‘No, where?’
‘Anywhere she damn well pleases.’
Her blue eyes widened. He watched in amusement as she fled the room, reddening with embarrassment.
‘And you are so very beautiful,’ he told her retreating form.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ASSIGNATION
L ONG AFTER I SABELLA had left the room, Nicholas could smell her scent, redolent of wild summer fields and wide blue skies. Of course, there was the novelty of country girls—London women were sharp and sly with their charms, but so made up and used up, and these days it seemed that the fresh ones were seized before their buds had even come into bloom, snapped up by old roués as if they were purchasing opening night buttonholes.
He stepped down the narrow stairs and stood in the shadows, watching her deliver drinks to the saloon tables. The men grabbed at her buttocks and breasts as she passed. Nicholas knew the importance of shielding his cards, but as Isabella returned to the bar, he found himself catching her arm.
‘Why do you let them do that to you?’
She looked surprised, as if the thought had not crossed her mind before. ‘I have no choice. A woman is nothing here.’
‘Can’t you get away?’
‘It is not possible.’ She looked back in desperation at the swaying, braying villagers.
‘Isabella, the war will tear this town apart.’
‘I know nothing of war.’
‘You will soon enough. What time do you finish?’
‘I never finish. Father never closes until the last man has gone back to his wife. Most would never leave if they had a choice.’
Nicholas looked at the locals slumped across their tables and imagined conversations that rarely rose above discussions of compost and the comparison of farming implements. ‘Then meet with me,’ he suggested.
Isabella looked back at the hard drinkers in the bar. One was stamping the caked mud from his boots and throwing it at the cat.
‘Isabella, you have nothing to lose, and the world to gain. What is the best restaurant in town?’
‘There is only one. It is called The Pig.’
‘The Pig. Meet me there.’
She turned back to the bar, her mind in turmoil. ‘I don’t know how long it will take to get away.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will wait for you.’
Nicholas walked through the deserted streets on his way to the restaurant. The sun had set abruptly, without colour, and cones of cold light now fell from the tin lamps suspended over the road. On the way he passed an incredibly wrinkled old woman carrying a reluctant squealing pig. A drunken farmer was slung out of a doorway and fell before him into the gutter, where he was violently and copiously sick. Nicholas watched in growing disgust. Isabella deserves a better life than this, he thought angrily. She belongs upon my arm in London. How fine we would look together, entering the Café Royal!
He stood before the windows of The Pig. The restaurant was empty except for a snoozing waiter with brown soup stains on his vest, slumped over the bar counter. Upon each bare wooden table was an arrangement of dried wheat, framed around a flyblown severed pig’s trotter. The thought of dining here appalled him. Drawing a deep breath, he entered.
It took a minute for the waiter to rouse himself. Surprised by the unexpected appearance of a client, he wiped the table and placed a grubby leather menu before Nicholas. There were no other patrons in the restaurant. Nicholas studied the dishes with distaste and pointed to an unpronounceable item.
‘What is this?’
‘It is pig,’ the waiter replied.
‘And this one?’
‘It is pig also.’
Sighing, Nicholas stared from the window and checked his pocket watch.
‘W HAT DID HE want?’ asked the landlord.
‘I told you, Father. He is an English gentleman.’
‘There is no such thing. I know gentlemen. They only bring
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