Malcolm settled beside her while John loaded the luggage and lit the carriage lanterns, then they set out through the dark. As a first day down time, it had been a mixed success at best. They rattled along in utter silence for nearly half an hour. Then Malcolm said quietly, “Miss- Margo. Are you awake?”
She made some strangled sound that was meant to be a “Yes” and came out sounding more like a cat caught in a vacuum cleaner.
Malcolm hesitated in the dark, then settled an arm around her shoulders. She turned toward him and gave in, wetting his tweed coat thoroughly between hiccoughs.
”Shh…”
With the release of tension and the sure knowledge that he’d forgiven her-crushing exhaustion overtook Margo. She fell asleep to the jolt of carriage wheels on the rutted lane, the warmth of Malcolms arm around her, and the thump of his heartbeat under her ear. The last, whispery sensation to come to her in the darkness was the scent of his skin as he bent and softly kissed her hair.
Nothing in Margo’s experience prepared her for the East End.
Not an abusive father, not the crime and violence of New York, not even the barrage of televised images of starving, ragged third worlders, brandished like meat cleavers by charities desperately trying to stave off global disaster.
”My God,” Margo kept whispering. “My God.–”
They set out very early in the morning. Malcolm thrust a pistol into a holster under his jacket and pocketed a tin wrapped with waxed cord, then asked John to drive them to Lower Thames Street, near the famous London Docks.