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Chapter Three: In Shadows We Do Wait

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Concealed under a large oak tree in the Cartwright Gardens, a woman waited patiently and watched across Hastings Street, specifically at the distinguished Gregorian styled black terraced house at Fifty-Five Hastings Street. Her chestnut brown hair was wild and wavy, a slight tinge of red revealing itself in the sunlight, and her complexion was pale white, enhanced by the snowy coloured face powder fashionable at the time. In truth she had a pink tinge of the Scottish Highlands in her skin, and a light scattering of freckles across her face. She wore a black lace skirt cinched ever so slightly to reveal a heavy red linen skirt beneath, and a black corset covered her torso modestly with a delicate deep blue lace shrug covering her arms and collarbone. The woman held a wise, wistful and elegant look, of one that had experienced more in her thirty-four years of life than should have come to pass. Yes, that look of romantic tragedy came through in her large almond shaped green eyes, and yet while one could have found that to be a charming feature for a female, the reasons behind it were anything but.

 

Having been given the wearisome task of watching the lord’s house for many a week, she finally discovered Lord Craven De'Montmoray had started making the habit of leaving his manor as twilight drifted into night. His appearance was haggard, thin and gaunt; a man quite different from the one she was familiar with. The warmth in her very blood chilled like ice when she saw him in such a fragile state. However this was how it all had to begin, and she had to keep reminding herself of this fact. This was where Lord De'Montmoray had arrived at this point in his life. Lost in his misery. More to the point, this was where she was going to save him…hopefully.

 

On the third night that the lord ventured out, she knew it was time to make her move. Keeping her distance, she carefully followed the lord through the streets, across Guilford Street, down Gray's Inn Road and finally after a three quarter of an hour hike across town they ended up at The Afternoonafied Affair.

 

Standing at a distance from the entrance about a quarter of an hour after the lord had descended into the den, she decided it was time to approach. The door-keep, the usual man donning the fine top hat and cordial smile, stood before her as his brown beaded narrow eyes looked her up and down with a changed disposition. No longer a voice oozing with charm and elegance, the accent of his true working class descent came through loud and clear.

 

‘Off with ya wench!’ growled the man ‘I will not have yer taintin’ this fine establishment like some nanty narking whore house. Go ply yer trade elsewhere.’

 

The woman scoffed at the observation as she twirled in agitation one brown loose curl around her finger, one that had fell down from her messy up done tresses. She was indeed a beautiful single woman of the night, but most definitely not a prostitute.

 

‘The very notion! I shall ignore that initial incorrect observation,’ she replied nonchalantly ‘I assure you sir I am no harlot. However, I can see you are suspicious, and perhaps you have reason as I am alone at night and with no escort. My business is my own, but I assure you there is no disrepute in it. I merely wish to meet a friend here. To put your mind at rest let us say, two shillings to let me pass?’

 

‘Hah! Lovey you can have me for that!’ he chortled, eyeing her with amusement ‘I'm sure yer word is as good as the King of England's but orders are ‘em orders. No whores in the den.’

 

With a scowl, she adjusted her fine black and red lace bustle in annoyance. ‘What? Do I not fit into your no doubt apt opinion as to how a lady looks?’ she replied sarcastically, her own accent growing thicker by the moment ‘Do you think a whore could afford this outfit?’

 

The man spat to his side, a growing look of aggression emerging on his face. ‘I don’t give a fuck where you got yer dress from, I know upper class and 'tis no lady anywhere with an accent like that. Scottish eh? Some northern barbarian whore trying to get a pretty penny from the rich English citizens that our fine establishment entertains. Piss off or I will beat that pretty face of yours black and blue.’

 

‘Charming!' scoffed the woman 'And a fine establishment indeed, How is a brothel any worse than an opium den? Also, once again let me be abundantly clear on the matter, I am no whore.’

 

The man held a brutal stare, his arms clenching a fist and his body rigid.

 

‘Fine,’ she hissed ‘ten shillings.’

 

‘A pound,’ replied the man gruffly ‘and 'tis me final word.’

 

The woman laughed, shaking her head in disgust. ‘Aye,‘ she muttered, adding under her breath ‘and you accuse the Scots of being thieves.'

 

Raising his brows in surprise, the man held his hand out, even more shocked when he received the generous clink of twenty shillings in his hand from the frowning woman.

 

‘Welcome to The Afternoonafied Affair,’ he smirked ‘and don’t think this’ll happen again highlander. 'Tis a one off for you whore, now get yer pretty penny tonight and piss off. I never want to see yer face again. Know yer place when yer in there, or you’ll be out on yer hide.’

 

‘Tapadh leat.’ she replied, thanking the man in her native tongue with a mocking tone, descending the stairs hastily as the man continued to scowl after her.

 

There was not much time, and plenty that needed to be done. She had one chance and by whatever hand of fate that was leading her this night, she needed it aid in her plight.

 

Casting her frantic green eyes around the room, she was greeted by a smoky dark den, the heavy smell of sweet syrupy musky opium filling her senses, an ever so slight undernote of whisky and sex lingering amidst the shadows. There were many gilded tables and opulent velvet lined day beds, Parisian in style, scattered about the room. The patrons were dressed in excellent woven fabrics of cotton, silk and lace, and other expensive fineries of frills and trappings that only adorned the wealthiest of people. The most noble and richest of society, a gathering of the finest, all falling into the debauchery of an opium dream as they splayed out across the room. With eyes barely able to open, some were already in another world, while others chatted softly amongst each other in between generous sips of wine and brandy no doubt laced with the popular white powder.

 

Catching her breath at the sight before her, her sharp eyes scoured eagerly until she spotted him, sitting on a purple velvet chaise by himself, his dark black hair spilling forth, slumped over the armrest as he waited for his vice. Waiting for that first hit of freedom, as many before him had done, hoping to find comfort in the loving embrace of a chemical relationship when the mortal kind was lacking. Never was there a sweeter or crueller lover.

 

Rushing to the counter, she smiled with an almost wild desperation at the man serving drinks from a variety of green, blue and dark black bottles. He looked up in surprise, perhaps astounded there was anyone in the room capable of moving at a pace faster than a snail.

 

‘My dear,’ the bar tender oozed with a fake smile ‘that corset is…exquisite. What pleasure do you fancy?’

 

‘A bottle of your finest wine.’ she replied with a hasty nod, casting her eyes over to Craven.

 

Raising his brow, the bar tender dubiously looked her up and down ‘Our finest is one pound and fifteen shillings, Rouge Filtre D'Ámour, a fine red from the Médoc region in France.’

 

'Getting along with France again, are we?' muttered Helena cynically.

 

The bar tender shrugged 'Oh my dear, I never mix politics with pleasure if I can avoid it. However dear Louise Philippe I, I hear, is a French king with great sympathies for the British. Or perhaps great sympathies for the trade between our fine countries. Including the export of wine, which has been extremely obtainable at far less of a hassle to my merchants since Charles X abdicated the throne.'. The man chuckled, rolling his eyes 'When the cat's away the mice can play! I hear dear old Charlie now goes by the title Count of Ponthieu, scurried off like a little mouse, to Edinburgh of all places!'

 

'Dùn Èideann?' she remarked, adding cynically 'I wonder if there are any of countrymen still living in Scotland these days.'

 

'Scottish are we?' remarked the bar tender curiously 'Well yes, many things have happened recently in France. Ironically the worst place these days for a French ruler to be is in France! Ah but those revolutionary idealists do keep us entertained, do they not?'

 

"I dare say a lot has happened for quite a while now.' she added darkly. If only he knew where she had come from. If only he knew how the French regarded the English in 1760. Looking up she smiled 'I shall be interested in trying this Rouge…?'

 

'Rouge Filtre D'Ámour?' replied the man with a smile.

 

‘The red love potion?’ she remarked in slight amusement, hastily reaching into her pocket and handing over the coins. It would need to be magical to jusitfy the cost. Never in a thousand years would she ever have thought to pay one pound fifteen for any item, let alone some fermented grape juice claiming to be from France.

 

Instantly the man’s suspicious glare turned back into one like that of a Cheshire cat. Presenting a large blue bottle to the ledge, he pulled down two fine crystal glasses off a nearby shelf before uncorking the expensive wine.

 

‘One more thing,’ she added, a nervous smile on her lips ‘If that man over there orders opium tonight, in any form, I want you to give him this instead.’

 

Plunging her hand into her pocket once more, she held out a circular pale yellowish-white chunk of chalky substance, along with another forty shillings.

 

The man raised his brows in complete shock at the bribe before him, holding a perplexed smirk as he eyed the excessive amount of coin before him with interest.

 

‘Although I do not…appreciate the generosity of your offer,’ he begun hesitantly ‘poisoning a guest of The Afternoonafied Affair is a little, how you say, unbecoming?’

 

‘Nay, 'tis merely rosin, smell it.’ she pointed out indifferently, inhaling the sweet piny odour herself before presenting it towards the man.

 

The bar tender hesitantly lifted the white substance to his nose and sniffed with the air of an indignant as he recognised the scent. Casting a look of bafflement to the wealthy patron before him, he decided to sate his curiosity.

 

‘Madam, may I ask why you want your dear friend over there to indulge in the rosin of violin bows?’ he inquired, throwing a glance over to the miserable figure on the chaise.

 

‘The musician needs to stay in the land of the living and not descend into the depths of a nightmare.’ she replied dryly, adding even more so ‘No offence to your fine establishment.’

 

‘None taken, I assure you.’ replied the man with a nod. Raising an eyebrow, he added ‘Dare I ask what effects come from smoking a pipe of rosin? Will my serving boy be scrubbing regurgitation out of that particularly gorgeous velvet chaise he is sitting on?’

 

Waving her hand dismissively, she shook her head. ‘Best cast scenario he will feel a little nauseous and never want to touch the stuff again. Worst case scenario, he will feel nothing at all. Either way, I need him to wake from the dream.’

 

Taking the bribe and rosin with a chuckle, the bar tender sighed ‘Ah my darling, we are all dreamers…dreamers that inevitably end up in a nightmare. Regardless of your actions you will be there soon enough, mark my words.’

 

‘I am already there.’ she muttered under her breath.

 

Sweeping back her brown curls, the woman grabbed the bottle and glasses with a small nod. Green eyes hard back upon Craven, she drew towards the man, an endearing smile plastered across her face.

 

She needed this to work. It had to work.

 

‘How do you do!’ she announced spritely, a large smile revealing her white teeth ‘Would you mind if I shared this seat with you?’

 

After several still moments of unresponsiveness Craven eventually looked up, running his dark and tired eyes disinterestedly over the woman who stood before him.

 

‘Forgive me Madam, I am not interested in company.’ he muttered dryly.

 

‘Nor am I interested in providing it, if you take my meaning?’ she replied assuredly ‘I seem to be in a bit of a pickle, I confess. My friend that I was to meet here has cancelled at the last moment. I utterly detest sitting alone, and I dare say there may be some hope of redeeming the night if you could spare the conversation.’. Sweeping her unruly brown hair away from the creamy white skin of her face, she took a step closer to the chair ‘Some say two is company, but even if we say not one word to each other I would willingly take it above sitting on a cushion over there by myself with only two wine glasses to entertain me.'

 

Craven nodded, directing his hand to the chaise. ‘Even in comparison, I would say you are in worse company here.’ he replied unenthused, the black of his eyes flickering up ‘I warn you I am in solemn spirits.’

 

‘Misery loves company?’ she shrugged with a half-smile 'After all, is that not why we all come to dark dens at night?'

 

Craven nodded his head with a bitter bite of his lip. He looked pained, but even in his terrible state there was that element of gentlemanly manner that he could not forgo completely.

 

‘Í am Lord Craven De’Montmoray.’ he introduced himself plainly but nevertheless politely, turning a little to face his companion.

 

Taking a seat, she placed the bottle down on the table and proceeded to pour the wine in the two glasses, as if the pair were old friends and settling in for a happy night to reminisce of better days.  

 

‘Helena Rose,’ she replied with a delighted smile ‘pleased to meet you, your lordship.’

 

Of course, she knew already who he was. She even knew how much he hated being called his lordship, and when doing so she held the smallest of a curl on her lip. Ever the teaser, Helena took great pleasure doing so with him. She knew more about this man than he perhaps even he knew of himself, but time was needed to explain it all. Time. And naturally, as a dear friend of hers had once told her, time was fleeting in each moment that it inevitably passed.

 

Helena cast her eyes across the den, one lady with fine white hair decorated with brilliant gold butterfly ribbons was draped elegantly across a daybed with one hand outstretched above her head, eyes lulled back as she limply held a pipe with the other. Another man dressed in a fine brown waistcoat, buttons carelessly undone, cradled himself beside her, a slight shake in his body as his eyes remained shut. As Helena continued to peruse the room, she saw more and more of the same scenario unfold; finely dressed people lost to the world. Perfection presenting its ultimate imperfection. Hideous beauty.

 

A sad sight to be sure.

 

Yet in this opulent room, where the finest furniture lay and the richest patrons attended, Helena felt more despair and hopelessness than any cold London workhouse she had encountered. There were happier dispositions in the orphaned children playing knucklebones in the filthy laneways, more cheer in the grease covered dock worker playing his flute during his lunch break. The ones that were destined for struggle in life seemed more spirited than those privileged ones around her now. The people in this room were the height of society, a class exempt of poverty. An exclusive club envied in its unobtainability amongst the middle and lower class. Yet here, the crème de la crème of society was trying to drown out their reality in plumes of opium and drug laced tinctures of alcohol. They were doing the same thing that the other classes were doing, only they partook their ruin in finer surroundings. This place was a living hell, for these affluent creatures were bound and shackled. Few escaped the madness they craved, and those that did were driven madder along the journey to their ultimate freedom. Death.

 

Walking through the cold London streets at night she had seen the hundreds of women, all from different walks of life. English, Irish, Scottish. All from abusive lives, many thrown out of their former homes and now left to their own survival. These women had ended up, one way or another, into homelessness and into the affectionate arms of alcohol and opium, drowning their sorrows and paying for it with the false affections they bestowed upon the willing patron. It was the cold and harsh truth that this is what the world had become, and even Helena could not get accustomed to the concept. She had left a humble village life as a chamber maid in a seaside village in Scotland, only to arrive in the cold harsh streets of London, where she had resided for over a year now. Yet even after all that time she felt more than ever an outsider looking into a world that had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

 

Back in Scotland there was bloodshed and the clans were fighting amongst each other and against the redcoats. Yet they fought and died for a cause, and while it struck a devastating pain in her heart, she knew there was something noble in that warrior spirit. In London however, there was another form of bloodshed, and it came in the form of opium.  People were willingly administering their own demise in tinctures, pipes and pills. Indeed, there was nothing noble about that.

 

Addiction did not discriminate class. In fact, it brought the poor and the rich in unity when nothing else did, for each and every one of these people craved the same thing. Perhaps that was a liberating notion unto itself, a unity of the despondency of a society that wanted to escape from its shackles and be free. Perhaps that was also a sad reality of society in general, that the world made one want to escape from it. The sadness of that calamity was that this notion of freedom, in the form of opium, was only another disguised prison. A pretty gilded cage that grew darker and fouler as time went on.

 

‘Well met Helena, but please call me Craven.’ he replied ‘I tire of titles, please just call me Craven.’

 

‘Well Craven,’ nodded Helena briskly, a small smile on her lips ‘what brings you here on this night?’

 

His black eyes, deep pools of misery, looked up into hers.

 

‘Have you ever found yourself lost in a maze?’ he asked softly, but ever so seriously ‘A maze that you know you can never escape from? Every day you wander this terrible thorny thicket, the box hedge twisted and dry, the sun beating hot against your parched cracked lips…. you are slowly dying as you stumble aimlessly around each corner, scratching your skin on the sharp jutting sticks. You bleed and you never heal, wounded and dragging your body through this damnable maze, desperately trying to find the centre.’

 

Growing silent, he reached out for the glass on the table and took a sip of wine as he pondered his own words.

 

‘Yes I believe I have felt something like that before.’ Helena murmured sadly, her face growing cold as her thoughts lingered to a moment in her past. A few moments of silenced passed before she turned back to her companion ‘Of course there is always a way out of a maze. You do not wish to see it now, but there is a way. Through luck, sheer will, knife or flame, that hedge will move aside.’

 

Craven chuckled. Taking a sip of crimson liquid to his lips, he looked back to Helena with less respect than a few moments before.

 

‘Another disillusioned optimist speaking to a realist, how unremarkable.' he scorned 'You miss the point, I am lost in a maze of death and I desire to finally reach the middle. I long for the end of all things. This world, oh God help me this beautiful world, was like a fine gilded mirror once upon a time…and then the next moment it cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces. The world is no longer beautiful Helena. It is a dark and terribly macabre place. You could never feel the dismal place I am in, but if you could I dare say you would have been driven into insanity already if you lingered there but a moment.’

 

Motioning to a serving staff walking past, the lord indicated for a pipe to be presented. The waitress threw a shifty look to the wide eyed Helena before turning back to the lord.

 

‘One moment sir,’ the attendant replied with a smile ‘I will bring you a fresh pipe immediately.’

 

Craven eased back into the chair, awaiting the bliss he was expecting to unfold as Helena rested her arm on the back of the chair, impatiently strumming her fingers on the fabric as she took a sip of the wine.

 

‘An opium dream will not gratify your morbid desire,’ she pointed out calmly ‘not in the short run anyhow. Aye the love of the pipe will kill you eventually, but surely there are less sadistic ways of ending oneself if that is what you truly desired?’

 

‘You question my morbid desires, as if I merely spout them for fanciful attention?’ remarked Craven angrily ‘My wife and daughter died a month back. I have spent every waking moment of the day since their last breath thinking of how to end my life. Yet even at the end of every day, I am a coward for I have not done what should have been done already! What should have been done by the hand of fate.’. Craven chuckled, shaking his head ‘If there was a God, why would he let me live and let my darlings die the way they did? Do you not see? We are alone and there is no almighty looking over us. We are living a lie Helena. You, me, and all these wretched fools in this room. I am weary of this foul world. I am tired of how life has robbed me. There is no way to be bound to this hideous creature and have my revenge.’

 

Spotting the waitress return, she handed him the pipe and he hastily drew from it deeply.

 

‘If death will not take me,’ he wheezed as he inhaled ‘I will make it do so in the end.’

 

Blowing a large plume of air into the smoky den, the lord frowned and looked to the pipe.

 

‘More wine?’ suggested Helena hastily, quickly topping up both of their glasses.

 

Craven turned to her with a raised bow ‘So now you have my miserable confession. Hopelessly miserable…but I am no fool. What is it that you want, Madam?’

 

With a small smile on her lips, she nodded. This was the Craven she knew well. The one that went straight to the point with an unforgiving tactfulness in observation. He was a man that did not suffer fools. The one that held a small smirk on his lip as he pointed out the truth of the situation as if he had witnessed it a thousand times before.

 

‘I have an associate that is very eager to meet with you.’ she replied, placing her glass firmly on the table with a small clink.

 

Craven chuckled, shaking his head in reproach. ‘I had wondered how long it would take for the vultures to swoop. Let me be clear, I am not interested in your insidious opportunistic ploys of partnership.’ he dismissed, taking another long sip followed by another puff of his pipe ‘I have money enough and my name is clean. I intend for it to stay that way.’

 

‘If you knew my associate you would know he has a clear name of his own, of that I have no doubt.' she replied confidently 'His reputation is impeccable. His name is Mr. Edgar Evans and he owns a shop, Le Cabinet des Curiosities. It is a rather…unusual enterprise, a place full of strange items and an assortment of unexplained wonders. A collection of unique trinkets and furnishings, many antiques, most holding some charm that cannot be explained at all by any normal standards.'

 

'So he is a French antique dealer then?' remarked Craven bluntly.

 

Helena laughed, knowing Evans would not appreciate being called such a thing. 'No, he is an English entrepreneur that up until recently was a member on the board of the East India Trading Company. His accomplishments are many however, for he studied medicine before leaving to trade in foreign countries, collecting many items along the way. He has even worked as an archaeologist for a time. Now he remains in London, with his collection, at his shop. Of course that is the simple part of the man, for Mr. Evans is a person surrounded by the unexplained, the incomprehensible mystery of metaphysics and the celestial unknown.’

 

‘I am not interested in being entertained with a circus of the paranormal, with fortune tellings and nonsense.’ scoffed Craven 'He sounds like he has spent too much time entertaining his own fanciful whims.'. With a sudden pause, he turned to her more intently ‘Does this Mr. Evans commune with the dead? Now be honest my dear woman, I would rather pay you here and now for a scam than waste my time going to this place, however if he truly can commune with the dead I would be interested.’

 

Helena could see the desperate nature in the lord’s eyes. He was correct in his previous observations; the vultures would always try and take advantage of the vulnerable when they presented so desperately before a stranger. She could see this in Craven, and were she a character of disrepute it would have been the start of a remarkably profitable endeavour. Bringing her attention back to his question, her heart sunk, recalling her own experience. Helena nodded as she took a large sip of wine.

 

‘Yes.’ she murmured, a hint of bitterness resonating from her voice. She knew all too well that Evans had that supernatural power to commune with spirits, yet whether one would venture down that shadowy path was another question in its entirety. ‘Communing with the dead is a mere drop in the pond that Mr. Evans procures.’

 

‘Then tell me, why does this Mr. Evans seek me out in particular?’ asked Craven ‘Money? It seems everyone is after it, especially the ones that prey on a man’s vulnerability of grief.’

 

Helena was the one to chuckle now. ‘No, as I said he was a member of the United Company of Merchants of England Trading to the East Indies. A partner on the board in fact.‘ she replied in amusement ‘Money he has aplenty. I dare say Evans is richer than King William the IV of England.’

 

Craven revealed a curl on his lip at the joke, knowing as most did that it was no secret that the finances of the monarchy were morose at best.

 

‘I dare say every person on the street outside is richer than His Majesty.’ he replied dryly.

 

Helena grinned ‘Perhaps so, but I assure you Mr. Evans is not interested in your money. Not in the slightest. However, he comes to you now, and that is a rare event. He is an extremely intelligent yet recluse man; you will find him perhaps a little eccentric.'

 

'Then he is mad.' scoffed Craven, waving his hand in dismissal.

 

'Eccentric,' reaffirmed Helena sternly 'and I find those that are inclined that way tend to consist of the material of true geniuses. That is what you will find of the man. There are things that cannot be explained on this night, but Craven they need to be explained. They need to be explored, and it involves you.’

 

‘Why is that?’ asked Craven with a raised brow ‘What exactly involves me?’

 

‘Mr. Evans told me he, and he alone, would explain it to you in person.’ replied Helena adamantly ‘Please, if he has sought you out you must know you are of great import.’. Helena looked disdainfully around the room ‘I know I am no one to you, that my word means nothing but I implore you! Craven there is nothing to lose, but perhaps something to gain.’. She nudged her head to the pipe ‘Sweet at first, but the longer you befriend it the less sweeter it starts treating you.’

 

‘You speak as if you are a user yourself.’ scoffed Craven, unconvinced as he inhaled deeply once more before catching a rough cough in his chest.

 

‘No not me. Ever been down the docks after evening?’ asked Helena bitterly ‘Judging by your character I suspect you have never been there by day, let alone night. I knew a girl once; her name was Gilly. Pretty thing, bright ginger locks, shapely figure. Sold cotton and lace scraps in her basket through the streets of Camden, and aye it may not have been the finest job around but it was respectable. Then she got a taste for opium. Every trader on the corner sells the bloody stuff in pills or powder, cheaper than grog for more than a few shillings less. She got a taste for the stuff and then it got a taste for her. Couldn't get enough of it. The money she made selling lace barely put food on the table let alone match the money needed for her cravings. Her pa threw her out of home, told her she was useless. So the dark alleyways became her home and she decided to use her charms, sell her body for a little more coin.’

 

Helena shook her head, as if the thought of it even now horrified her.

 

‘What happened?’ asked Craven, a frown on his face as he lowered his pipe ever so slightly.

 

‘Peaches and cream, that was Gilly’s complexion.’ continued Helena ‘A few months into her new profession she had transformed into something else. I passed her once in the street and she was flying into bouts of fury at a pill merchant. She had sores all over her sunken face, thin and angry as a rabid dog, and her eyes…. phew, they were the eyes of someone possessed. Ge milis am fìon, tha e searbh ri dhìol.'

 

Throwing her a perplexed look, Craven shook his head 'What does that mean?'

 

'The wine is sweet, the paying bitter.' replied Helena woefully. 'Gilly was no longer Gilly. The opium had changed her and she was someone who could not live without that.’. Helena looked sternly at the lord as she pointed to Craven’s pipe. ‘Gilly was eventually found dead in an ally, few months pregnant and beaten bloody to death. The damn Bobbies turned a blind eye to the whole thing, happens to a lot of women of the night, and what's one less whore on the street eh? The evil creature who murdred her got away. Seventeen years old, a mere child herself that became a lover of the powder. The saddest thing, Craven, was that she was not the only victim. That there child of hers was the true victim of this rubbish than runs vile through the streets of London. That child never got to see the world.  That was the fate of Gilly, her memory gone and her child’s never there to begin with, no longer remembered by anyone. No one these days, 'cept for me.’

 

Helena placed the glass down, distracted by the story and falling into that own sadness that wrenched at her heart every day. The dark place in her mind it inevitably wandered to it. Evans had often told her that everything that she felt was normal, that sadness existed in the world and to feel it was to feel human. He told her that when sad deeds fell on indifferent hearts, that was the moment for true concern. Of course he also told her it was a false idealisation of the human mind to think that life was meant to be fair. That was not the way of the world and had never been so. It was what one chose to do with experience, good and bad, and how one chose to transform it. If there was a bit of kindness to stem from the terror of life, then that is what she needed to pursue. Evans smiled at her and told her to hold on, and for the millions of times he had advised so she could only repay him with doubt and questions. Even now she knew in her heart that the world was a cold and terrible place. Perhaps Evans refused to see it as such, but that was something Helena could relate to in Craven’s miserable confessions.

 

‘I am sorry for your friend,’ mumbled Craven, taking another sip of wine ‘but at the end of the day we make our own choices.’

 

‘No that there takes away your ability to choose, luv.’ replied Helena sadly ‘Put down the poison and re-join the living, if only for a chance, if only to have that what Gilly never got.  You are a good man; you have more to do in this world than to succumb to ruin.’

 

'You do not know me.' hissed Craven, clenching the chair angrily.

 

Helena bit her lip, holding back the words she wanted to say. 'I have a good sense of these things.' she replied.

 

Craven took another long puff of smoke, another frown forming on his face as the intended effects did not take hold. ‘You are from the Church then? Some sort of missionary of goodwill?’ he scowled ‘Do you think I am a new venture that God can fix? Or are you sent by God himself?’. Laughing bitterly, he looked away into the shadowy recesses of the corner of the room ‘Even your charity is selfish for you only perform it to validate your own insecurities in life. Be gone. I crave death and by the devil I shall make him take me.’

 

‘If ye die, who wins? God? Death? The Devil?’ she quipped angrily, her hair falling down a little messier as she grew more heated and her Scottish accent grew stronger ‘You either get up, even if it means that dragging your damn bloody corpse through that wretched maze of broken thicket…or ye give up. Those are your two choices, ye ken? Now which will it be?’

 

A flicker of intrigue, Craven’s eyes softened, just for a mere moment. This woman before him spoke to him as one that would speak to someone dear to them. Passionate and wild, sentimental and affectionate. Yet they had only met and her concern was unwarranted, although perhaps secretly a little appreciated. Nevertheless, it was out of place and confused the man entirely.

 

‘Your ruin gains you nothing, and neither will your death.’ continued Helena ‘I am no charity worker Craven, I am the only person who is showing you any concern at this moment.’

 

‘Concern,’ scoffed Craven, waving his hand away at her ‘what is the going price of concern from a stranger these days?’

 

‘My concern,’ replied Helena coldly ‘was always a free boon of my friendship. Pity the kind fool Craven, for you are looking at her now. Today I am a concerned acquaintance, in later days hopefully you will look upon me as a concerned friend. Either way, your treatment renders my concern the same.’

 

Taking another sip of the wine, Craven nodded ‘That is then indeed foolish. You mean nothing to me, and I to you.’

 

Helena laughed with a shake of her head ‘I have heard that before.’

 

Standing up, she withdrew a black card with white elegant cursive script from a pocket of her skirt. Holding the card between her fore-finger and middle, she looking sternly at the lord, her eyes shifting to the long pipe in his hands.

 

‘That there will be your downfall,’ she remarked sharply before waving the card between her fingers ‘this here your salvation.’

 

The woman placed the card firmly onto the table in front of the lord.

 

‘No commitments, all Mr. Evans desires is a meeting. You can find the shop here in Ludgate Hill on Pageantmaster Court, it is the laneway closest to the Ludgate. His shop is open seven days a week, open from mid-morning to late afternoon.’ she advised ‘Please, do not wait too long. I am sworn to silence on the matter but even some matters can urge the bindings across our mouths to emit muffled screams. Make haste, Lord De'Montmoray, make haste.’

 

With a small stiff curtsy, of itself something that Lord Craven did not recognise, for no lady he knew presented one in such a way, and no working class woman either for that matter. Helena nodded a firm, stout nod, her green eyes piercing like that of a hawk before she turned to leave the lord.

 

Taking a sip of the crimson wine, Craven held a curious expression as he watched Helena ascend the stairs of The Afternoonafied Affair. They had never met before, and yet there was something about the woman that he knew more than he could rationally explain. Perhaps it was the opium playing tricks on his mind, but even that seemed to be having little effect on him on this evening. Rather this unexpected conversation had made his mind clearer than it had been for quite a while, and with a little intrigue Craven pocketed the black card lying on the table, a small pat on his pocket as he took another sip of wine and pondered the rather strange encounter.