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But isn't London such a large city? she thought to herself as she feverishly pulled the buttons of her shoes through their respective holes with the button hook. I've always read that it was large. She finished with her shoes and rearranged her skirts as she stood. She reached for the door but froze before touching it.
"Is someone there?" she called softly, not stopping to think of how foolish it was to call out. There was no answer and before long her little lap dog came running into view. "Ah, Louis, shh." The little dog tilted his head to the side and stared at her with his big black eyes. "We don't want Mrs. Doyle hearing us." The dog sat. "Good boy."
Jane adjusted the angle of her very stylish Parisian hat before reaching for the door and (with another "Shh!" at the dog) leaving the house for the first time since her accident.
Immediately, Jane was almost pulled away by the wind. She'd forgotten about wind. She huddled against the door until she realized that the biting cold would not go away and the wind would not stop. She glanced at how the young ladies walked in the wind while trying to not get their dresses or hair mussed up. She observed their technique for a while, simply standing on the front step like a simpleton until she thought she understood.
She stepped down amongst the crowd and instantly became pushed and bustled about by more than the wind. It didn't look this busy from my window!
When she finally managed to get out of the press of people, she was completely lost. She didn't dwell on this, though. She'd just spied a couple walking arm in arm, a chaperone only a few steps behind. The young lady was dressed in the latest fashion, not much different from what Jane, herself, was wearing. The young man was obviously a fop. There was something about the way the two walked together that had Jane mesmerized.
It's just like in all of my books. She couldn't hear what they were saying but it had to be something brilliantly charming because that was what couples talked about. She imagined herself walking arm in arm with some gentleman. Someone like Miss Austen's Mr. Bingley. (She always, always preferred Mr. Bingley to Mr. Darcy. She didn't like that Darcy started out so proud.)
Reluctantly, Jane turned to leave the sight of the sweet looking couple. She had many more things she had to see before she was obligated to return home. She flexed the fingers of her right hand in anticipation as she was often wont to do, and started off.
Where to first? She rather wanted to see the Thames. She'd never seen a river before. Well, perhaps she had, but she didn't remember. She spent a longer amount of time trying to find the river than she'd ever imagine having passed. Minutes became hours upon hours. What Jane did know was that she was beginning to feel hungry by the time she reached the bridge. She wasn't about to go looking for a place that sold food when she'd only just found the bridge, however.
Jane was astounded again by the number of people around. This time the class of people surrounding her wasn't strictly her own and she gazed in wonderment at the people dressed in threadbare clothing she wouldn't have even begun to imagine owning herself. She hadn't realized how well off she was before and she still didn't really comprehend the poverty of some and she just kept thinking, They must be cold. She was cold, herself, in the limbs that were no made of metal.
"I wish..." Jane's words were lost in the low rumble of the city around her. She wished for a perfect world as the first bits of stark reality came marching through the fantasy in which she lived.
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As well as such domestic arrangements, everyone (or at least, everyone who was able) had helped to set up the main tent. It was a deep royal blue with silver stripes and flags fluttering from its summit. Banners strung about its frame boasted of the Imaginarium's members, of Esmerelda (real name Lettice Haversham) the human torso, or Boris Virchow who had 'the strength of ten men in half the stature of one' or of Grafik, the most tattooed man in the world. A curious crowd had gathered around the edges of the park, hoping to get a glimpse for free. But Atticus had ordered the high painted fencing be erected around the tent and the surrounding sideshows and the rag-tag gathering had gradually wandered away disappointed.
The opening night wasn't until Friday and until then, everyone had London to take in and enjoy. Some of them had never been before and their excitement overcame some of the apprehension a few felt on venturing into public. A few, like Atticus, had been with The Four Corners since its inception and had been to the capital several times before. The bustle and noise of central London held no great attraction for them and they stayed at their caravans, soaking in the last of the autumn sunshine.
Atticus, however, was in no mood to be cooped up in the confines of the little compound they had created and he decided to take a walk down towards the South Bank. From Weavers Fields to Blackfriars Bridge was no more than a few miles but his leg had a tendency to protest if he walked any further than a hundred yards. Therefore, it took him a while to finally reach the banks of the Thames. Of course, hailing a hansom carriage was unthinkable. He'd rather fight through pain a hundred times worse than the penetrating ache in his lower leg before he'd stoop to that. The streets were busy this time of day and although the tattoos on his hands attracted a few hostile, curious or nervous glances, the royal blue (to match the main tent) cotton scarf around his neck hid those that were most obvious above his collar.
Finally, he reached the other side of Blackfriars Bridge and he sat down on a bench with the exhausted furious triumph of a marathon runner. His leg hurt terribly and he suddenly wished he had some of the laudanum Aida hoarded in her collection of tonics and potions. But as soon as the impulse had crept up upon him, he angril banished it away again. No, that was only for when he couldn't sleep. The stuff was poison, it ate away at your body after a while and, despite the obvious flaws in his own, Atticus was religiously strict about the condition of his body. It was a habit that had been drummed into him during his days training to be an acrobat. Old habits it seemed did indeed die hard.
Attempting to allow himself to relax, he sat back and watched the passers-by walk along the promenade by the bank. Unlike some of the others, he liked London. He liked the anonymity of it. Here, on this bench, he felt truly anonymous. If he wanted, he could watch pretty rich girls like the one wandering aimlessly along the pavement a few yards in front of him and no one would care or even look twice.
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"Cor. W'ot tha bloo'y 'ell are we supposed ter do now?" Chimbley piped monotonely, looking to his friends.
"You could always practice your act, Chim." Mini called over the musical wheezes and tones of his acordion, which danced playfully in his hands. His hat sat in front of him, serving as a coincatch.
"Or perhaps do something more productive." Sprocket added, raising his eyebrow as he looked them over. "You could always....hell...get a job as a street vendor, or something."
Chimbley turned and gave the older twin his painfully blunt look of sarcasm. "Oi, I'm sure tha' pe'ple woul' love a filthy street boy passin' 'em food. You fink I rememb'r las' time I 'ad a bahf? No, be'er question: When wos the las' time you 'ad a bahf?" Chimbley asked, himself raising an eyebrow to match Sprocket's.
"Twenty-seven days ago." The twin replied dryly.
"Lawks. Not liek yer countin', roight?" Chimbley said, puffing air through his nose, and coughing lightly.
Wrench popped forth from the alleyway. "Now now, you two," He said brightly. "Don't fight! Or at least not without someone here to watch it! Fights seem to the climax of dramas these days!" He offered a short chuckle at the two, whom looked at each other, then Wrench.
"Die in a fire." Both chimed at the same time, almost in chorus. Wrench shrank lightly, still laughing to himself.
Mini finally stopped playing his instrument and gave a bow, the small audience he had gathered by himself clapped lightly, and offered a few pennies from what they could spare unto his hat. He thanked them, and picked his beret, counting their obtained funding. He turned on his heels, his acordion dangling from his neck from it's strap. "That's twenty, boys and girl." He said, emptying his hat's contents into his jacket's pocket. The crowd looked up from their conversations towards their esteemed father figure whom patted the coin filled pouch on his jacket. "That means it's lunchtime." The party shared a mild 'woo' of enthusiasm.
They all started to move, at their shambling walk, down the crowded streets of the lower district, pushing through the crowds. They offered waves and pats on the back to those whom they passed and knew. Again, chitter rose amongst the group.
"So! What's everyone going to get this time?!" asked the estatic Wrench, whom turned to talk to the rest of the group.
"Plain bread is how you get your money's worth." His twin replied. "It's clearly the best answer.
"Sweetrolls!" Bonnie exclaimed, her arms shooting out in the air. "Sugar makes everything better!"
"Meh..." Chimbley dawdled. "I'll see whens we get there."
Mini stayed silent, letting the others talk around him. He was just glad that they were getting another meal. The bread vendor wasn't the best choice, but by all means, it kept them alive. Their chatter grew, causing distraction amonst them. Wrench, the young twin was no longer watching where he was going, which was a large distress for people walking in his direction. But finally, it was interrupted, this ignorant stride, as the blonde haired repairman smacked dead into something, and toppled over, the group stopping, and gawking.
"Sheesh, Wrench." Bonnie whined. "For a mechanic, you're as clumsy as your brother is boring."
"Shush!" Mini said urgently, before looking harshly to the others. They all refocused (except for poor Wrench, whom was still dazed from the trip) on what had happened. The twin had toppled over .... what looked to be... some sort of baroness! Or royalty! Or....something....of that nature.
Chimbley groaned, bringing his hand to his face. "Bollocks, Wrench. You don't own th' entire bloo'y road. Ya jus' rolled straight ofer a girl! A rich one, too, by the looks o' it. Better appologize; She migh' turn ya in ter tha law!"
Mini walked over to the woman, looking at her through his messy, curly hair. She was quite palid, and frail looking, with dark chestnut hair, that shimmered with radiance. The clothing that was now probably dirty from the ground, was an elegant parisian dress, probably custom sewn just for her. He offered her a gloved hand, bending lightly at the knees so she could reach him. "I'm VERY sorry, Miss. So terribly sorry..." He started, his mouth just about the only facial feature you could recognize, which was covered in a worried frown.
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She listened to them squabble with faint amusement at their accents. She'd never realized people actually spoke like that. She didn't listen to what they were saying, however, and was deeply touched when one of them came to apologize and help her up. Without thinking, she reached up with her mechanical hand to take his, but stopped suddenly. What would happen to his poor hand if she clutched it too tightly with hers? It could be disastrous. Clearly disturbed, she pulled her hand back to her side.
"I..." she said, unsure of what to do. It would be awkward to take his hand with her left, but what choice did she have if she didn't want to crush it? Sagging her shoulders only as much as was allowable for a young lady, she gave in and reached for his hand with her left and stood in as dainty a manner as was possible. "Thank you."
She was about to go on her way when she happened to glance down. "My dress!" She collapsed back to the ground and began to cry. Now Mrs. Doyle would surely know that she'd been out. Thinking of how disappointed her father would be in her when he learned of her escapade only made her weep with more intensity. He would be so worried that she'd never have a chance to escape again. "What am I going to do?" She buried her face in her hands, knowing that it was unladylike to cry so hard in public but unable to stop herself.
Chink! She heard the sound, though it may have been in her head. She looked down to her see her right hand laying useless in her lap. She stared at it curiously, for a moment forgetting her tears. Experimentally, she lifted it and saw that it was completely limp. She could not move it. Something had come out of place. It wasn't a terribly thing to happen, but it was not completely rare either. She sighed and began to remove her glove before looking in panic at the group that had run into her.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said in a rush. "Excuse me." With that, she forgot all the lessons Mrs. Doyle had tried so hard to teach her about being a lady. She pulled herself off the ground, gathered up her skirts, and ran to the nearest secluded place.
There were people there, of course, but they weren't the sort she would notice and so she didn't pay them any mind as she took off her glove and proceeded to fix her hand as her father had taught her years ago.
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Rolling his eyes at his own absurdity, Atticus forced himself to his feet using his cane as leverage and turned to leave. But just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman jump hastily to her feet and run towards the buildings that backed onto the river holding her hand awkwardly.
Swiftly (or at least, as swiftly as his leg and a wish to appear inconspicuous would allow) he followed her as she slipped down a narrow alleyway. He had reached its mouth when he saw her carefully remove her glove to reveal the glint of metal.
Half a mile away, Freddie stepped off the HMS Highgate and breathed in the London air. It felt entirely different to the fresh, salt-tinged air at sea; it was thicker and bitter. But it held the promise of the city and Freddie was determined to enjoy it whilst his ship was in for repairs. His pay packet was burning a hole in his pocket and he'd already decided the first thing he was going to do when he set foot on English soil once again. Eat. And not salted pork or oat biscuits either. He was going to eat a sumptuous meal of battered fish and greasy chips sprinkled with salt and dashed with vinegar. He could almost feel the newspaper beneath his fingertips and taste the fried potato in his mouth when he set off along the Thames.
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"Lawks.... Wot da 'ell wuz 'at all 'bout? She got knocked on 'er arse. She ain't hurt. So wut iffin' she got dir'y. Look a' us!" Chimbley said, rolling his eyes.
"She's a noble, CLEARLY, dummy. That dress was probalby worth more than you earned your entire life." Sprocket said, clearly aggitated.
" Come on, now, you all.... No need to-" Mini tried to start.
"Hey, Sprok'." Wrench said, scratching his chin. "You see her bloody hand?"
"Yeah. But I didn't get a good enough look at it. We need to ask her." He said in retaliation.
"Don'cha fink she left fer a reason? I fink we should bugger off 'fore she goes off an' calls tha law." Chimbley said with a groan.
"We should at least check to see if she's okay, Chim." Bonnie said with a bit of resolve.
"Cor." The chimney sweep muttered.
Mini nodded with a sigh. "Let's go." He said, shaking his head.
As the went to follow her, they couldn't help but notice a rather strange looking fellow at the mouth of the alley they'd watch her trail. Not only that, being children of the street, they instinctively knew the back alleyways in and out. The shuffled oddly around the fellow, not really trying to touch him...out of whatever politeness they could provide. The slowly moved over to her, their heads bowed in shame and applogy. Mini was the first to speak, as he acted as the group's voice.
"I'm very sorry about my friend's clumsiness... I hope that he didn't perminantly ruin your dress." he said sollomly.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Sprocket said harshly. "I hate to be rude, Mi'Lady. But I need to see your hand again."
"Dolt!" Bonnie, exclaimed, punching the older twin in the thigh, whom let out a sharp yip. "That's not how you adress a lady!"
"That's how we address you, though. Does that mean you're a boy?" The man, now rubbing his thigh, responded. Bonnie then began to chase the older brother, shouting rather intimidating threats.
"Please Miss. I'm not sure if you'd call it... 'important'." Wrench said. "But it would mean a lot to us if you'd just let us see that hand of yours!" He said, direly.
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These boys wish to see my hand? she thought darkly. Why should I not show them it? I shall never again see the light of day now that I am surely caught so why should I bother keeping my secret? The dire warnings of her father, which had so frightened her in childhood, floated back to her mind and she batted them away. What would these urchins do? It seemed there was little they could do.
"I would gladly show you my hand," she said softly, "but I cannot do so here. For all I know that you mightn't hurt me, there other who can and will because of my hand. At least, that is how it sounds from the mouth of my esteemed father. If you wish to see my hand, then you shall have to find somewhere safe that I might be able to remove my glove once more without fear. Do you understand me?"
Jane stared thoughtfully at each of their faces, unaware that someone less harmless than she perceived this group to be had already seen her hand. When she felt certain that they understood and could be trusted she broke into a timid smile.
"Also, if you would be so kind, I am a touch lost..." She blushed to admit it, though she should have known from the start that she would end up lost. Not only had she never been out of her own home, she was directionally challenged enough to sometimes get lost in the only surroundings she'd known for the past decade. "I live on..." All the studying she'd done to keep herself occupied while she had nothing better to do had improved her memory so that it wasn't difficult for her to remember which street she lived on regardless of the fact that she'd never paid attention to her address before. "...Curzon Street... I passed a large park on the way to the river... I don't live far from that park. You see, I don't know how to return to that park and..." She swallowed, trying to remain delicate as her blush deepened, "I do not know how to return to Curzon Street from that park... I am not even sure which part of London this is, or which part I need to be in." She buried her face in her hands but did not begin to cry again. This time she laughed at her own ridiculousness. She knew enough about social class in theory to know that she shouldn't even be talking to this group and yet she couldn't bring herself to speak with those dressed as finely as herself.
When she had finished laughing she looked at the group and shook her head. "Oh, what would Mrs. Doyle think of me now. She'd have a fit. Very well, then. Lead on."
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"Alroigh'." Chimbley said, brushing his dirty hair from his face. "Ye 'ave yerself a deal." He said crossing his arms. The dirty boy turned around, clearly not pleased with having to work for something after a while...not even for something he wanted.
"We'll take you there, Mi'lady!" Mini said with another nod. "It is the very least we could do for you. After all..." He said, trodging dirt around with his boot. "We did kind of...ruin your outfit." He said solemly.
As soon as the group calmed, and regained themselves, the woman insisted that they lead her to her house.... On Curzon Street. Most of the group memebers jaws dropped at this. They were all from the slum streets. Curzon was like a.... a paradise isle that was so close, yet so far away. No matter how far they reached, it seemed it was always out of their grasp. They started to lead the woman down the back allyways of the London streets, taking twists and turns down a seemed maze of backroads, finally before coming out onto another main street, which seldom had a few people walking the roads.
"Oi, Mini. Th' 'ell we doin' 'ere? Dis ain't th' way to Curzon. 'Ats a few blocks up 'ere." He said, pointing down the road, before seeing exactly what the group's eldest member had done. "O', 'ell damn no. We ain't..." He started, looking over the building they were in front of, which just happened to be a cleaning parlor.
"It's only fair, Chim, and you know it. Wrench's pay alone just isn't enough."
"Please: Tell me we're not doing what I think we're doing, Mini..." muttered Sprocket irriatedly.
"Yes; now shut up, tall angry and short fused. It's the right thing to do!" Bonnie fussed at the group.
"Th' bloo'y roigh' fing ter do is ta ea' an' survive! She don' bloo'y need 'at dress ter survive!" Chim said, now joining the side of agitation...untill the only female of the group shot him an angry look.
"Listen, it's only right you guys. We can go a while longer without eating. She's probably in trouble enough for being out here!"
"Mini is right, Sproket." Wrench said pitifully. "You remember when we were up on Curzon?"
"Blast everything to hell and back." the older twin said, crossing his hand furiously.
Mini walked over to the clothing cleaner's store, which looked well established, yet low kind of businesship. He opened the door, and motioned for the group to move inside.
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