Ned Hawke was dressed to impress. Dark grey trousers with matching waistcoat and jacket, pressed shirt and tight tie, dark black coat and matching top hat. He looked like a dandy and a toff, and he knew it. He instinctively knew that these clothes were the prototype of Victoria's fantasy man. Rich, well-dressed but not ostentatious, clothing cut with classic lines in staid coloring. They were hardly his best, indeed, he had had this suit for three years, but they would have the desired effect. He was not going to go all out for the entrée. That would come later, at the dessert. Besides, in an area such as Spitalfields, he would not want to stand out terribly much. He feared mugging, especially whilst there was all that furor about the prostitute killer known as Leather Apron. Although during the daylight hours, he supposed he was safe.
He had chosen this hour to visit because he knew that the man of the house would not be home. He would be out at work, wherever and whatever that was. Victoria would be alone with her sister and nephew. As long as the sister was not an absolute prude, everything would run smoothly.
He had written several letters to Victoria but had received no reply. He suspected that she was ignoring him and required a more "hands on" approach. Hence, he had arrived at her sister's house. He hoped that she was home after all and had not gotten herself another nursing job. He guessed she had high standards, and would probably be looking for a job in a private clinic, or nursing an upper-crust invalid, not working in a public hospital. If times got hard, she may have to lower her expectations; that would not have occurred yet, it was just over a month since she had lost her position.
Gathering his coat about him, Ned turned around to pay the cab driver. "Stick around," he told the man, handing over extra funds. "I'll probably be about twenty minutes, and then I'll want a ride home." Home now being his parent's house, after what had happened at the clinic.
Ned descended from the hansom cab with elegance and poise. He placed his hat upon his head, turned and crossed the street to number fifty-six. The land was girded by a peeling wrought iron fence, with a rusted gate. He leant over and unlatched this, letting it whine open. He shut it behind him, causing the entire structure to rattle unnervingly. There was a rudimentary lawn and garden, transected by a cobbled path. He followed this all of about six yards to the front doorsteps. There, he met a weathered, paneled door with a rusted iron knocker. He rapped once, loudly.
"Yeah?" the woman that answered the door had greasy, colorless hair, coiled inelegantly to the back of her head. Her clothing was black and shiny with wear in places of contact.
"I'm looking for Mrs. Morpeth and her sister," Ned told the woman.
The woman leaned against the doorframe, barring his entrance. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yes," Ned said. "Mrs. Morpeth. She lives here."
"That she does. And yer are?"
"Ned Hawke. I'm a friend of her sister, Miss Buckley," Ned explained. This best had not be the sister. He would have rather she were a prude, anything but this dirty slattern, with her lank hair and worn clothes.
"Really." Maggie regarded the toff standing in front of her. Even just the hat would be worth a few meals if she pawned it. She wondered what this Buckley girl could have done to get a follower like this one. Rich and handsome, the horrid toad. Look at the way he was watching her now, as if she were some speck of dirt that had appeared on his linen napkin. Bastard. Well, they were two of a kind, him and that Buckley girl. Both of them thought they were better than they were.
"Can I come in?"
Maggie reluctantly moved to one side. "Yeah, I suppose so. They're on the next floor, door on the right." The toff pushed past her to get to the welcoming staircase visible at the end of the hallway. She stopped him with a greasy paw on the shoulder, her dirty brown eyes gleaming in hunger. "Can I take yer coat an' 'at for yer?"
Ned shook the hand away from his clothing. "I don't think so." I might not get them back, he thought. He took his hat in hand and climbed the staircase. The door on the right was in better condition than the staircase and the front door. It appeared that somebody had recently painted it white, although why was anybody's guess. This time, when he knocked, the door was answered by a much better specimen of womanhood.
She was shorter and more full-bodied than her sister, Victoria, but attractive nevertheless. Her hair was paler, more a reddish chocolate-brown than black, and curly rather than straight. Their faces were practically the same. She had the same pale skin, high cheekbones, classic nose and cleft chin. Her eyes were a similar stormy grey-blue. Her mouth was different; it was smiling, her cheeks carved with lines of happiness. Everything about this woman's appearance read warmth, cheerfulness and satisfaction. That was what made her beautiful. "Hello?" she queried him. He saw uncertainty flicker through her eyes.
"I'm Ned Hawke. I'm here to see Victoria, if she is home," Ned said.
Charlotte Morpeth regarded the man standing in her doorway. He was tall and fairly well built. His clothing was old but well cut and maintained, made from good quality fabrics. He was handsome in his own way, with a good bone structure, square jaw and classic, chiseled features. His hair was dark, with a thick cowlick in the front and long sideburns to frame his face. The same thick, dark hair was present in the eyebrows, which arched arrogantly above pale blue eyes. "Of course," she said. "Why don't you come in?" She held the door open for him to enter, smiling ever so slightly.
"You must be Victoria's sister," he said. "I can certainly see the family resemblance."
"Yes, I am," Charlotte replied. "Charlotte Morpeth, at your service. Can I take your coat and hat for you?" Before she said this, she already had his coat from about his shoulders, and the hat from his hands. She hung them on one of a series of hooks behind the door. Ned recognized the cape he had last seen Victoria wearing hanging there amongst other items of clothing.
Now Charlotte Morpeth was pushing him through to a room he took to be the kitchen. There, seated at the table, he found a boy of about six. The child was dark-haired like his mother and aunt, but his eyes were a far more intense blue. He was leaning over a discarded newspaper, a nibbed pen clutched clumsily in his right hand. Above the newspaper was another sheet of paper, this inscribed with a cursive alphabet. The boy was transcribing each letter in large script to his newspaper five times. So far, he was down to 'Pp'. An inkbottle sat slightly above and to the right, so that the boy could not knock it over. Sitting with the boy upon her lap, guiding his actions with a gentle hand, was Victoria Buckley.
When Ned entered, both student and tutor looked up. He was shook to the core by how beautiful she looked in this context. In the few hours that he had seen her before, she had appeared strained and plain; understandable considering what she had been through. Now she seemed softer somehow. Her glossy hair was pinned less severely back from her face so that dark locks ran freely down her back and over her shoulders. Her high cheekbones were flushed with warmth, which made her eyes seem less severe. She was smiling, or she had been until she saw Ned Hawke. Now her eyes shot bolts of razor-sharp ice to sever every muscle that held the easy grin upon his face.
"Dr Hawke has come by to visit you, Victoria," Charlotte said. "Oliver, why don't you come with me? There's something I want to show you."
The child obediently complied, slipping silently to the floor and following his mother. He only turned once to regard Ned with his wide-set blue eyes before Charlotte put her arm around him and lead him into the hallway.
