At the supper table that evening, he waited an hour and a half for the reverend doctor to join him. His guardian’s habits were irregular, and it was by no means certain that he would return home at all, but he appeared in the end a little after nine o’clock, at which hour the housekeeper was on the point of retiring and would serve them no more than plates of cold pork and cheese. After she had withdrawn, Neuilly occupied himself for a time with an item of correspondence, seeming so thoroughly absorbed that Gideon began to wonder if his presence had been overlooked.
“Well, nephew.” Neuilly looked up at last. “You have found your lodgings satisfactory, I trust? You want for nothing?”
Gideon hesitated. “Nothing, sir. I am very grateful indeed for your hospitality.”
“Indeed.” Neuilly looked away as if distracted, removing his spectacles to rid them of a smear. “And you have found London tolerably diverting? You have been to see St. Paul’s, I gather. Wren had a hand in this church, you know, or put his name to the plans in any event. It is a handsome enough place, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes,” Gideon agreed, thumbing the edge of his plate. If he was to broach the subject of his return to Cambridge, he must do so soon. His uncle was apt to rise abruptly from the table after taking his meals. “Notably so, sir. It struck me at once.”
The reverend doctor contemplated him for a moment, then pushed his chair back and took up his letter again. “We have received a visitor of sorts,” he said. “You will welcome the news, no doubt. I’m afraid I am poor company for a boy your age.”
Gideon looked up. “A visitor, uncle?”
Neuilly toyed absently with his letter, smoothing out the corner of the topmost page. “After a fashion,” he said. “In my ministry, as you may recall, I tend to the needs of the poor. To young women, in particular, who are so much preyed upon when circumstances turn against them.”
“Yes, sir,” Gideon said, though in fact he knew nothing at all of his uncle’s work beyond what little he had observed. “You have spoken of it in general terms.”
“There is one young girl in particular,” Neuilly said, “over whom I have taken particular care. An orphan, alas, whose prospects would be poor indeed if she were left without aid. I had found her lodgings and a position—she is a flower maker, this girl—but a difficulty has arisen with her present engagement. She arrived last evening, and will stay with us for two days—three, perhaps, if my plans are hindered. Her name is Tatton, Miss Angela Tatton.”
“Ah,” said Gideon, reminded of something. “Angie.”
Neuilly blinked slowly.
“Forgive me, uncle. It came to me just now that I have seen a young woman below stairs whom your housekeeper addresses by that name. It occurred to me that she must be the visitor you refer to.”
“I see,” said Neuilly. “How observant you are. Yes, that is the girl I mean. Mrs. Downey will find some occupation for her during the day and otherwise keep company with her, since we must ensure that there is no appearance of …”
He made a fastidious gesture, at which Gideon discreetly lowered his head.
“But in the evenings, perhaps, you might think of passing the time with her in some improving manner. Some little education will do her no harm, and I prefer to keep her from wandering abroad when she is at leisure. You might read to her from some suitable works, or instruct her in her letters. You would not find it tedious, I hope?”
Gideon was momentarily absorbed. The morning had been bright, and he had seen her first as he came in from the river, halting by the scullery door when a rift of sunlight caught the stillness of her face. She was intent on her work, forming a lattice of pastry with quick and delicate movements, but was troubled by a fly that settled at intervals on her skin. She looked up at last, as she brushed it away, and he hurried onwards. But he could see, even now, the place where she had touched her cheek, leaving a dusty figure of flour.
“Nephew,” Neuilly said, mildly vexed. “You will not find it tedious?”
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, realising that he had fallen silent. “No, indeed not. On the contrary, I should be delighted.”
“Miss Tatton?” He crouched over her, whispering her name in wonderment at first, but growing anxious when he could not rouse her. “Won’t you wake up, Miss Tatton? Do please wake up.”
She stirred at last and opened her eyes, but gave no sign that she had seen him. Indeed, he could not be sure that she recognised her surroundings at all.
“Miss Tatton, it is Gideon Bliss. What has happened to you? How did you come to be in this place?”
She turned towards him slowly, her gaze oddly vacant. She would not know him, he was sure. He feared for a moment that she could not see him. But she smiled faintly, as if at some small puzzle that she had solved. “I knew you’d come,” she said. Her voice was thin, faded somehow. “You had to go back to your books, you said, but your heart wasn’t in it. I knew.”
“Angie.” Unthinkingly, he moved to grasp her arm, checking himself only at the last moment. “Miss Tatton. You do know me, after all. How glad I am to see you. I did not want to go back, you are quite right about that. My uncle wished me to, but I—well, I had other hopes.”
“Other things,” Angie said. “You were put here for other things.”
Gideon dropped his gaze. She had spoken those words on another occasion, and perhaps she had not meant them unkindly. Something had not quite been offered, and not quite refused. It was the gentlest reproach that might still be felt. He encircled her wrist, and with the faintest pressure allowed his thumb to graze her skin.
“Heaven help us,” he said, recalled to himself by how cold she was. He worked his coat from his shoulders and settled it about her. “How long have you been lying in this place, Miss Tatton? You are half-petrified. And what possessed you to come here on such a night? Could you not have gone to my uncle, if you had nowhere else?”
Angie closed her eyes, perhaps to gather her strength. Her breathing was shallow and frayed. “My name,” she said after a time. “The name you had for me. Do you remember?”
Gideon thought for a moment. “Angie Tatton,” he said. “Angie Tatton in ribbons of satin.”
She shook her head weakly. “Not that. Everyone called me that. The other name.”
He looked away in discomfort. His name for her. He had whispered it to himself many times, late at night, but until now he had only once spoken it aloud. It was a moment before he could bring himself to say the words.
“Look at you,” she said, smiling again. “Always too shy by half. That was it. Maybe that’s what I’ll be now, young master. Maybe that’s how you’ll remember me.”
“Angie?” Her eyes had fallen closed again. “Speak to me, Miss Tatton, please. Tell me what you mean. Tell me what the matter is.”
“I can feel it, young master,” she said. “They gave me something, and I can feel it happening.”
“Angie!” He shook her again. “Stay with me, Angie. You must tell me what happened so that I know what is to be done. Who gave you something? What did they give you?”
Her head lolled, and Gideon feared that she had slipped entirely from her senses, but with a struggle she fixed her gaze on him again. “He kept me safe as long as he could. Found new places, when they got too close. But it weren’t just me they were looking for. They took him first, young master, and brought him here. Gone now. He’s gone.”