The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [5]

His face reddened. ‘There was no thief. Alice was mistaken. Foolish slut doesn’t know when she’s awake or dreaming.’

That made little sense to me. I’d heard the screams well enough – Alice had sounded perfectly awake and quite terrified.

‘Mr Burden. Did you strike your daughter?’ Kitty asked. Her voice was steady, but she was holding the pan in such a fierce grip that her knuckles had turned white.

Burden curled his lip. ‘Hawkins, tell your whore to mind her tongue or I’ll rip it from her throat.’

‘Coward,’ Kitty hissed.

Burden spun around, aiming his fist at her. She swung the pan like a racquet, and Burden’s knuckles cracked against the solid iron with a loud clang. He yelped in pain, cradling his hand. Kitty raised the pan above her head, preparing for another blow. I snatched her by the waist and led her out on to the street before she broke his skull.

‘Arsehole!’ she yelled, as he slammed the door on us. ‘Come out here and threaten me again – just you try it! I’ll kick your fucking teeth out.’

A cheer rose up from the brothel across the road. Joseph Burden was not a popular man down this end of Russell Street. Kitty glanced up at the whores leaning out of their windows, and bobbed a curtsey to them. Her temper was as fast and hot as lightning and died just as quick – thank God, or there would be no living with her.

She grinned at me and pulled me close, tugging on my coat with both hands until our bodies twined together. ‘Where have you been tonight, Tom Hawkins?’

I kissed her, running my hands down her gown, finding the soft curves beneath.

‘You stink of smoke,’ she sighed. ‘And liquor.’ She slid her cheek against mine, her skin smooth against my stubble. Brought her lips to my ear. ‘Kiss me again.’

I did as I was asked. The world melted away, as it always did. And I forgot all about Joseph Burden, and his daughter’s strange behaviour, and the thief who was never there.

That was my first mistake.

Chapter Two

I woke at the respectable hour of one o’clock. Kitty was long up, but her scent lingered on the sheets. I traced my hand down the mattress where she’d lain, smiling at the memory of last night’s tumble. She was still a maid – well, clinging on with her fingernails. Kitty said she had spent far too much time tending squalling babies and did not want me planting one in her belly – at least for a year or so. I suspected there were other, secret reasons. I thought she might be afraid I would abandon her.

Whatever the truth might be, I had vowed to myself she would remain a maid until we were wed. I had a foolish notion of our wedding night – clean sheets, a fire roaring in the grate, good wine – every comfort attended to. It surprised me, the strength of this honourable little dream. Terrified me too, to tell the truth. A man starts dreaming of such pretty things, and what’s next? An honest occupation. A home in a respectable part of town. A quiet, sober life. I might as well go home to Suffolk and turn into my father.

I did not confess any of this to Kitty for fear she would mock me, or – worse – find it charming. And so I continued to ask for her hand and she continued to refuse me, lightly, as if it were all a great joke. I could never quite find the way to say halt this now, Kitty: I am quite serious. Better to be rejected in jest than in earnest.

Well, there were other pleasures to be explored for now – and I had introduced her to most of them. There was something tantalising about her strange blend of knowledge and innocence. I suspect she knew that too, and guessed at its power: to leave me wanting more at the end of each night. My own Scheherazade. But we had shared a bed now for more than three months, and I feared that there would come a night when her resolve and my restraint would buckle at the same time and all would be over. Last night, as she lay naked beneath me, I had almost surrendered to it. My God, how had I stopped myself? I stared at my reflection in the mirror, at the tiny bruises running down my arms where she had clutched me tight. My control had been nothing short of miraculous. Saint Thomas the Perpetually Frustrated.

I yawned and stretched, rubbing my hands across my scalp. My head ached from the night’s debauch – too much punch and not enough supper. They will chisel that upon my gravestone, no doubt. I called down to Jenny, our maid, to fetch a pot of coffee and a bowl of hot water. Once I had washed and put on a fresh shirt and cravat, I was ready to face the day – or what was left of it. I drew back the shutters. Iron skies, the threat of rain, damp air that sank into the bones.It had been a cold, wretched winter and I was damned sick of it. My fingers hovered over an old, drab waistcoat. No, no, it would not do. I pulled out my new silver-buttoned waistcoat that Kitty had ordered for me as a gift. Much better. A gentleman must have standards, even on a grey, empty day in January.

I poured the last of the coffee and stood by the window, cupping the bowl for warmth as I watched the street below. The brothel was quiet, but there was a steady stream of folk passing by. Day folk. Ned Weaver plodded down the road, returning from a job with his bag of tools slung across one shoulder. He stared at the cobbles, his thoughts far away. Mrs Jenkins, the baker’s wife, called out to him from her doorway. She was a determined gossip and could knead and pummel a secret out of a man through sheer persistence. Ned was an amiable fellow with a handsome face and a slow, bashful smile. What better way to spend the morning? She called again, but Ned pretended not to hear her, thumping hard on Burden’s door. Mrs Jenkins stepped out from the cosy warmth of the bakery, pulling her shawl around her chest and hobbling across the street. By the time she reached Burden’s door it was closed and Ned was safely inside. She blew out her cheeks, offended.