When the Fog Hangs Over Old London Town
The door slammed opened as Louisa ran down the stairs and into the embracing arms of the foggy night. Tears streaked down her face, and her breath came in ragged gasps. Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of his boots on the cobblestones. But the thick fog of the night enfolded her deep in its oily arms, and he lost sight of her.
“Louisa! Louisa, come back!” Captain Henry Montbatten ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Blast that woman. Louisa!”
Ahead of him, he heard a soft whimpering and the gentle clacking of women’s shoes in the fogbank. He could not see a thing. But he knew he needed to follow her. To explain.
“Louisa! Please!” He pushed into the fog, so thick he felt as if he was sliding through a crowded sea of bodies.
He knew she would just be ahead, all he had to do was push on. And then he’d make her see reason. He’d make her understand what had happened. He adjusted his gloved hands and increased the pace of his stride. And in his mind, Henry Montbatten decided that he would tell her what he had done. He would tell her the truth about why they had found. And hope she could forgive him.
#
It had been an early morning, three weeks before, when Henry Montbatten had arrived at the site they had chosen to lay the first pylon. A small brickwork structure sat on the stony bank of the Thames while old London town sat like a hunched shadow with finger-like spires that loomed in the distant fog.
“Henry! Over here!” It was Edward Barrington, the architect he had partnered with on the massive venture. “My god, man. You look terrible. Had a bit of a rough night, did you?”
“Well, you know how Fleetstreet can be.” Henry had rubbed his tired eyes. “I swear my cravat is going to smell like a whorehouse for a week.”
“Ah, lad.” The old man laughed and stroked his silver mustache. “Enjoy yer youth while ye have it. If I still had my youthful vigor I’d have been right there too, celebrating our grand venture!”
“A lot of good gestures of preemptive celebration will do you both if we don’t get this initial pylon set right.” Mr Shelby had poked his hawk-nosed face around the side of the brickwork.
“Mr Shelby.” Henry had winked at Barrington. “I see you’re up early as usual.”
“Don’t patronize me, boy!” Shelby shook his head and spat, “While you were paying your dues at that house of harlotry last night, we lost another.”
“Bloody hell.” Barrington muttered behind Henry, “Who was it this time?”
“Dawson.” Shelby crossed himself as he said the name. “Poor bugger drowned last night up at the embankment.”
“But, that doesn’t make any sense.” Henry had looked at the grey lapping waters, debris coursing down the silvery length of river, “Dawson wasn’t supposed to be working last night. Wasn’t he meeting that girl of his?”
“I’m telling you, it’s the devil’s work.” Shelby muttered, “We should never have disturbed it.”
“Quiet!” Barrington had barked and looked around, making sure none of the masons or bricklayers were close enough to hear, “Mr Shelby. I thought I made it clear to you that you were not to speak of… the artifact.”
“Oh, I ‘aven’t.” Shelby crossed himself again, “And because of that three good men are dead.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have called Dawson good per se.” Barrington muttered as he lit a cigarette. “Still. We should send flowers to the family, I guess.
“I’m sorry, Mr Shelby.” Henry had placed a comforting hand on the man’s arm. “Dawson was one of the best master stonemasons we could have had. I will visit his fiancee myself.”
“Best of luck to ye, sir.” The man shook his head and pulled his arm back. “Only I went to her address this morning myself. And thing is. No one was there.”
“Curious. Anyway, let’s not let this distract us from our work.” The architect finished his cigarette and tossed the bud into the cold waters of the Thames, to be carried away with the rest of the city’s refuse.
#
The plan was simple. To reduce the amount of flooding on the Thames by constructing a massive seawall to protect the city from surges. Entire sections of the embankment would suddenly be free from the threat of floods and increase in value. That had been the way Henry had pitched it to the group at the Club.
“Yes, but how, pray tell, does this show us a return on our investment?” Lord Harrisburg has sipped from his brandy as he chuckled, “I mean, I feel I speak for all of the gentlemen assembled here when I say a good flood every now and again is just what the city needs to keep it clean.”
Henry had smiled, hoping they couldn’t see his shaking hands behind his back. He had been in South Africa. Had faced the Zulus and the Boer commandoes. Yet here he was, returned and ready to make his fortune and shaking like a schoolboy in front of a council of old, fat men. Who held all the purse strings.
“Gentlemen. What I propose is not simply the purchase of the land for the sea wall and the diversion channels.” He had motioned toward the blueprints on the table in front of him and ran his finger along the sides of the Thames. “If we purchase all the property along the banks before the wall is finished, we can sell it after the venture is complete. At five or six times the value.”
A few men leaned forward and cast pensive gazes at the blue paper. A small chuckled started, and spread around the quiet room. Lord Harrisburg stood up and walked to the massive granite fireplace and leaned against it, looking into the crackling flames before he turned.
“Well, son. It sounds to me like you might have found some financial backers.”
#
Of course, Henry had not mentioned the thing to them. There was no need to over complicate an already tricky venture. In the same way he did not mention the toll passage in the locks of the seawall he was planning for his own personal funds. As he walked down the street and looked for a coach to hail, he saw Mr Shelby walking along the other side of the road. He had a young woman in a yellow dress on his arm. That was the first time Henry had seen Louisa.
The moment seemed to last for an eternity. And right as they passed around the corner, she glanced back. And her beautiful green-grey eyes met his. And they branded themselves on his mind.
“You wan’ a ride or not, mate?” The voice of the cabby had brought Henry rudely back to the present.
“The embankment please.” Henry watched London fall away from him as the rickety coach bounced along uneven cobblestones, past soot blackened buildings, to the slate colored river that moved serpentine through the heart of the city.
“Henry. Just the man I was looking for.” Barrington walked unevenly towards Henry across the rocky beach, a blueprint under his arm and a teacup in hand. “Care for a cuppa?”
“No, thank you.” Henry followed Barrington down to the small shack they had constructed underneath the pillar of one of the bridges.
“So how was the meeting?” Barrington set his teacup and blueprint down on the rocks and pulled an old rusted key from his pocket.
“Well, I daresay we might have the final sum in time for Christmas holiday.” Henry produced a small, silver key from his own pocket.
The two men each undid their own padlock on the door and put their keys away again. Henry picked up the old lantern and lit it while Barrington went back for his tea. The small door creaked on its unused hinges and both men stepped inside. The door shut hard as a gust moving up the river hit the shack.
“I hate it when it does that.” Barrington shuddered in the yellow lantern light.
“I saw Mr Shelby on my way here.” Henry wasn’t sure why he was making small talk. Perhaps it was to remember those beautiful eyes. Or perhaps it was to forget what lay half buried in the soft river sand at their feet.
Barrington didn’t touch it. He never did. He simply raised the teacup, shaking, to his lips. Henry caught a whiff of whiskey from the old man in the small space. “Is that so? How was the old c-codger?”
“He was with a woman. Tell me, does he have a daughter?” Henry placed the lantern down and brushed away the dust accumulated on the surface of the stone.
“I have no idea. I don’t think so.” Barrington finished his cup of tea. “I don’t think the old dogger is even married.”
“Huh. So you’re sure this is Celtic?” Henry motioned to the weathered lettering.
“You ask me every time, and I keep telling you, it has to be. I even had that Professor take a look at it.” Barrington made to sip from his now empty tea cup, but stopped half way, “And before you ask again, yes that is Imperial Latin underneath it.”
“A warning. In two languages.” Henry looked at it again. “But warning us against what?”
“It’s a load of trite if you ask me.” Barrington shivered visibly. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s even worth the trouble. We can just build over it.”
“You’re sure there’s nowhere else we can set the primary pilon?” Henry’s eyes found Barrington’s.
“And still be in budget? No. This is where it has to go.”
And Henry left it at that. They emerged back into the white daylight of the overcast day, each locked his own padlock.
#
“Henry, darling, come back to bed.” Carlotta’s voice echoed from deep within the moth eaten bed hangings. But Henry did not turn to face her.
The creaking protest of the bed filled the warm, stale air. Henry sat in the rocking chair next to the closed window, and had a clear vantage point of Carlotta’s naked silhouette gilded white with moonlight.
Carlotta walked past Henry and undid the window latch, “So, what’s her name?”
“Whose name?” Henry looked up, startled out of his thoughts.
Carlotta pulled back the window and let the deliciously cool night air spill into the room. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I can see her looking at me from behind your eyes.”
Henry frowned. He didn’t always understand Carlotta. Not when she quoted Descarte and not when she wrote her little poems. She was a riddle and that was what he had liked about her. Hers had been his favorite room to visit on Fleetstreet.
“I don’t know.” He muttered, the realization that he truly had no idea who she was. “But she eats at my brains. Like a flame licking at paper.”
“Look at you.” Carlotta laughed and sat down on Henry’s lap, picking a matchbox up from the windowsill as Henry offered her one of his cigarettes. “You know. When you speak poetry like that. I could almost love you, you know. Truly honestly.”
“And what would you do if you truly loved me.”
“Well.” Carlotta’s hand was inside of Henry’s britches, “I’d have to cut this off. To make sure you weren’t falling in love with anyone else.”
“Is-- that so?” Henry gasped under her ministrations.
“Well, she must really be a tart, this dream girl of yours.” Carlotta withdrew her hand and pulled from her cigarette, “I can’t even find anything to grab hold on down there.”
“Carlotta.” Henry hummed her name as his hand traced patterns on her bare back, “I just-- I’ll probably never even see her again.”
Carlotta looked down at Henry as she drew long and hard from her cigarette. Then she puffed the smoke into Henry’s face and leaned closed, placing her forehead against his.
“Henry, my love. She’s there. Inside your eyes. I don’t think you should come see me anymore.” She kissed his damp forehead. “I can get quite dreadful when there’s competition to be had.”
“I thought you might say that.” Henry pulled a gold chain from his trouser pockets, “This is for you. For all the memories.”
“It’s lovely.” She fastened the chain around her neck, “Remember me like this, will you? Wearing nothing but this. Let it carve itself into your eyes. Maybe then your lady will see me too when she looks into your eyes.”
And Henry did not kiss her goodbye as he pulled his great coat and hat on, and stepped into the thick grimey fog that hung like a shroud draped over the spires of old London town.
#
The cool wet of fog ran like fingers through Henry’s hair as he pulled his coat closer. He couldn’t stop thinking about the thing in the shed on the beach by the embankment. Walking along, letting the misty air wash him off all traces of Carlotta, he could still hear the words of the old Professor as he had slowly translated the writing on the stone.
“Pardon, me sir. But could you spare a tuppence for an old woman. Think of your mam.” Henry steered away from the old beggar woman who spat at him, “Your mam was a whore anyways! For having a bastard the like o you who can’t spare a pence for an old woman! You’ll end up just like the lot of the rotters. Down you’ll go. And see if I jumps after you!”
The old beggar woman’s words seemed particularly ominous, prickling the hairs along Henry’s arms. From behind the curtain of fog there was a splash, in the direction of the river. Henry knew this section of the Thames well, knew there was a bridge ahead. He ran in the direction, listening for the tell tale sound of struggling splashing. But there was nothing beyond the first splash.
Henry’s rapid walk brought him through the edge of the park, the blackened gas lamps flickering in their dance against the encroaching mist that rose serpentine from the grey Thames. The wide walk was edged on either side by massive, ancient willow trees. Their green grey leaves snickered faintly against one another like knives. The white limestone bridge started between the two willows and seemed to stretch into the very nothingness of oblivion itself. A figure could be seen walking from the bridge, passing between the sentinel figures.
When she stepped into the oily light of the gaslamp, he recognized those green grey eyes instantly.
“Oh! It’s you!” And Henry quickly caught his composure, “I mean, hello.”
She had radiated beauty, the mist making her skin practically glow under the lamps. Up close, Henry was nearly overcome by the glisten of her faint pink lips, of the perfume that wafted like incense through the air around her, making their little world there in the foggy light smell like petrichor.
“Hello. I know you, I think.” She spoke with a faint bell like tinkling.
“Um… Yes, er, that is.” Henry’s tongue seemed to lose its connection with his brain, “That is, I er, work with Mr Shelby.”
“Fenton? Do you know where he is?” She looked around, “He was supposed to meet me here, at the bridge.”
Henry looked past her, but there was no sign in the thick fog of the other man. “Here, take my arm. I’ll accompany you and we can find him together.”
They walked along the bank, the soft lapping of the Thames beneath them the only sound in the heavy solitude.
They did not have to walk far before they found Mr Fenton Shelby. They were just reaching the other side of the bridge when they could see the men fishing the body that had been Mr Shelby out of the iron grey waters of the river.
“Don’t look.” He had pulled her close then, placing his body between her and the dead man below.
“No, no! Not Fenton!” She had sobbed into his lapel and Henry had been awash beneath a flood of euphoria having her so close to him, and guilt that he did not feel more sorry for the old man.
“Let me see you home. Do you live near here?” He produced a pocket handkerchief from his overcoat.
“Yes. Just down the way. I have a room with Old Misses Jarvin. She has a… a house… I’m sorry.” She covered her mouth with the kerchief.
“You’re in no state to walk home alone. Let me accompany you.” And she nodded and took hold of his arm, gripping it for dear life.
They did not speak on the walk, she merely indicated with her gloved hand the way to go. When they finally reached the dark wooden door, a servant showed them in and went to fetch the old woman. Henry stood to the side, unsure of what he ought to do next. Then she gave one long sniff and collected herself.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” She handed the handkerchief back to Henry. “Fenton was a good man. And my only real friend here in London. Without him I am truly lost.”
“Well, you may call me a friend now too, madam.” And he took her soft, gloved hand, and raised it to his lips.
“But, I don’t even know your name.” She had smiled apprehensively, wiping at her wet cheek.
Above them a door slammed and the loud cries of an old woman could be heard, order the servants to bring a brandy for her and some warm milk with rum for her charge. Henry quickly stepped back and put his hat back on, “My name is Henry. Captain Henry Montbatten.”
“A pleasure, Captain Montbatten.” She had dipped.
“Henry. Please.” And he bowed slightly to her.
“Henry.” And he loved the sound of his name on her lips.
“Oh, my poor darling child! Come here, come here!” The old woman’s cries echoed through the dark house.
“I must go.”
“Wait, I don’t know your name.”
“Louisa.”
#
Louisa. She had blazed into his life like a comet, breaking through the blue heavens and scorching the dome of Henry’s life, leaving strange flickering thoughts and emotions in corners he had long thought dead. The next day he had made an excuse to see Louisa again. And the day after. It was like ravenous fire, devouring him from within. The more he had of her-- of her time and her sighs and her tender smiles-- the more he wanted and needed to breathe the same air as Louisa.
At night, Henry would lay in his dark bedchamber and whisper her name over again to the shadows of the night. Like a heathen chant, trying to summon the memory of that perfume to his mind. And when he could not see her, he would throw all his frustration into the sea wall, using it to fuel his industry and drive. Because he would make a deal with his inner devils, that if he completed the sea wall, he would have Louisa as his own. And so with all thoughts turned to her and to the project, Henry soon forgot completely about the shed with the two padlocks.
#
The night that Henry decided to ask Louisa’s hand in marriage was the same night he had gone to see the Lord Harrisburg again. In the same old room full of old hunting trophies and old men drinking old brandy, Henry stood like a schoolboy awaiting their final decision.
And yet, he was not in the room with them. He was soaring through the cloudless night sky, burning with the same white hot light as the stars. He could feel the momentum of that meeting pushing him toward Louisa. Pushing him towards his future. His fingers absently wandered once more to the ring in his waistcoat pocket, and he thought once more of those pale stars.
“Well, I must say, your project seems to have accelerated in it’s pace.” Lord Harrisburg coughed around the stem of his pipe.
“Yes, milord.” Henry had bowed slightly, “I don’t see the point in wasting time.”
“Ah, the virility of youth.” Lord Harrisburg had chuckled softly to himself, “To have that stamina again. Well, you’ve proved that it can be done. And we’re already hearing about climbing property values. As long as this sea wall of yours actually gets built, we don’t see any foreseeable trouble in getting you approval in the house of lords.”
“Thank you, sir.” Henry had bowed again, “You don’t have to worry. I will build it. I will.”
“Of course, we have no doubt about that.” Lord Harrisburg had chuckled again, “You know, lad. While you still have your youth you ought to find yourself a good girl. One with a nice bosom and a pert buttocks. You’ll appreciate the buttocks more when you’re an old fogey like these fellows!”
Henry felt a blush creep over his ears, “Well, actually. I do have someone--”
“Excellent!” Lord Harrisburg had stood, “Capital! Nice buttocks?”
“Well, I’m, er.” Henry stammered, “That is, I’m actually going to ask for her hand tonight.”
“A toast!” Lrd Harrisburg raised his glass and all the gentlemen stood. “To young love! May you fare better with it than any of us did!”
“Thank you sir.” Henry accepted a brandy for a servant and threw it back.
“Now.” Lord Harrisburg clapped him on the shoulder, “What are you still standing here for, lad? Get going to that lady of yours!”
As they old men watched Henry’s figure dissolve into the dark antechamber, Lord Harrisburg returned to his seat and puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, “I once had a girl from Surrey. Nicest tart you’d ever know. Had tits the size of bakers loaves.”
There was a general susurrus of approval from the shadowy corners of the room, where old men held quivering glasses of brandy, their minds carried back to the days of their youth on the back of the receding figure of Henry Montbatten, on his way back to his apartment, where someone was waiting for him whom he did not expect.
#
The old grandfather clock ticked loudly, marking the seconds with the knell of an executioner's blade. Henry sat in his chair and tried to force himself to look at her. He looked at his boot, at the fire in the fireplace, at the wallpaper next to him.
"Look at me." Her voice was strained.
"Yes. Sorry." He glanced for a second and met Carlotta's eyes. "Did it hurt?"
She wanted to detect a trace of actual concern in Henry's voice. "No."
"No, I guess it wouldn't." Henry chewed absentmindedly at the corner of his lip.
"I'm leaving. I'm going to Paris."
"Yes." Henry's mind had retreated deep into the dark interior corridors of his mind, to a room of shadows where he could see the stone half buried in the sand, hear the lapping of the Thames beyond the walls of his mind.
"Henry. I said I'm leaving." It was the first time she had let the veneer crack, the first time she had let herself be vulnerable around him. It was the sound of the strain in her voice, trying to maintain her composure, that snapped Henry back. #
"Maybe... maybe it's for the better." Henry crossed his legs. Then uncrossed them again in a futile attempt to get comfortable again.
"I just. I can't look at this city anymore. Especially not once your seawall goes up." She had laughed dryly then, "Lord. Once that monstrosity of yours is built, it would be like living in your shadow for the rest of my life. And I couldn't do that."
"Where will you stay?" Henry realized, even as he said it, that he did not truly care. That he had never truly cared about Carlotta. The glint of the gold chain, still around her neck, was an anguished lance of guilt in his core.
"I'll manage." And as she stood, he did too.
"Well, thank you. I'm not sure I would have been ready to be a f--" But she silenced him with one, final kiss. And it was the guilt. The guilt, he would tell himself, that caused him to wrap his arms around her and kiss her back.
"How could you?" Louisa's voice was a broken whimper that coursed adrenaline like ice through Henry's veins.
He snapped like a whip away from Carlotta. But it was too late. She stood in the doorway, her grey shawl hanging limply from her arms, her silvery green eyes quivering with tears. "Louisa, I can explain."
"Is this what you called me here for? So I could meet your vile mistress?" Her cheeks lost all their color. "I'm leaving."
"Louisa, please." Henry had grabbed hold of her shawl.
"Don't touch me! No!" And with those words she had pulled out of her shawl and rushed to the door.
The door slammed opened as Louisa ran down the stairs and into the embracing arms of the foggy night. Tears streaked down her face, and her breath came in ragged gasps. Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of his boots on the cobblestones. But the thick fog of the night enfolded her deep in its oily arms, and he lost sight of her.
“Louisa! Louisa, come back!” Captain Henry Montbatten ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Blast. Louisa!!”
#
Henry followed the sound of Louisa's receding footfalls into the enclosing fog. He faintly registered that they were heading in the direction of the white limestone bridge, where he had first run into her that night.
"What, ho, old chap? Fancy meeting you here." Barrington was the last person he expected to appear in the fog.
"Have you seen Louisa anywhere? She must have just come by here." Henry ran his hand through his hair again.
"Sorry, can't say I have." Henry turned and started to run in the direction of the bridge again as Barrington called out, "I'll keep an eye out though. Let her know you're looking for her then, shall I?"
Henry was close to her place, when he caught a glimpse of someone walking onto the bridge in the fog. She slowed down and for a moment Henry did as well. Then he saw her walk towards the edge and his relief collapsed into a loathing weight of dread, crushing his insides.
"Louisa? Louisa! No! Don't do it!" Henry ran with all his might then. His boots pounded into the soft gravel of the park, his lungs ached, his legs burned. And still like some infernal machine he pushed on for more speed. "Dear God, no! Don't let her jump!"
Henry ran onto the cobblestones of the bridge. Louisa was standing on top of the wide railing, the thick fog pulling back. Her eyes were red rimmed. Her hair had come undone and was now flowing long and free behind her like a veil.
"How could you." She yelled, "Don't come any closer!"
"Louisa! Please, let me explain." Henry did not stop, merely slowed down, approaching cautiously. "Think about what you're doing."
"What other secrets are you keeping from me Henry!" The wind caught the edge of her wide pinafore and moved her hair like a curtain.
"I swear, that was it."
"What about that key of yours then?" She pointed at his chest, where the silver key could be seen, "I know that you never tell anyone what it is."
"It's not..." Henry thought about lying. But maybe it was the moment, clouding his judgement. He decided to tell her. "This key does come with a secret. It is the only one I have. And I'll gladly share it with you. If you'll come down."
"Tell me first." Louisa pursed her lips.
Henry swallowed dryly, "When we... when we first started the project for the seawall... I led a crew of men to survey the best places to place the pylons. It was not meant to be anything special. But we... we found something."
"What did you find?"
"A small inlet that led to a grotto." Henry held out his hand, "Come down, and I'll tell you the rest."
"Tell me!" And Louisa did not move.
Henry sighed, "It was an old, forgotten heathen shrine. The entrance was so carefully concealed we would have missed it if Barrington hadn't been there. He was the one who spotted the tell tale signs of a chisel."
"And what was in this shrine?"
"There was a statue of a woman, half naked, rising from the water of a river. Some ancient goddess they worshipped. And an inscription, in Celtic and Roman, that warned that the river would curse anyone who tried to move the statue."
Louisa looked down, "And you did, didn't you?"
"We tried." Henry inched closer, "We made it a bit further down the embankment when the ship ran aground right on the spot we need to build the pylons. We just sort of left it there for the time being, while we tried to find out if it was worth anything."
"And that's why you keep it locked. So you can make some money?" She looked down at the slate-like surface of the dark river.
"So there. I've told you my secret." Henry was almost close enough to touch her. "Now, come down."
"Goodbye, Henry."
And before he could grab her, she jumped into the river. For a heart stopping moment Henry's world stopped. Then, without thinking he saw his hand grab the edge, and then he was flying through the air, down toward the dark water below.
There was only one splash.
The moment Henry hit the water, the current pulled him along, smashing him against the rocky bottom of the river. He tried to fight it, to find a way to orient himself. And to look for Louisa. But she found him. Cold fear prickled down his neck as he heard her voice inside his head.
"How could you, Henry? How could you betray me like this? Desecrate my shrine? Try to block my way to the sea."
The twisting currents wrapped around Henry's body, whipping him in a filthy maelstrom of silt and garbage along the side of the bank. Henry tried to gain a handhold. But the current pressed him deep into the squelching mud. The mud filled his mouth and his nose and pressed in. Henry couldn't breathe. The last thing his mind saw was the flickering gas lights like dull orbs hanging above the filthy water of the Thames.
#
The cool wet of the fog ran like fingers through Edward Barrington's hair as he pulled his coat closer. He couldn’t stop thinking about the thing in the shed on the beach by the embankment. His thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the sound of a splash in the direction of the river. Edward Barrington knew this section of the Thames well, knew there was a bridge ahead. He ran in the direction, listening for the tell tale sound of struggling splashing. But there was nothing beyond the first splash.
Barrington's rapid walk brought him through the edge of the park, the blackened gas lamps flickering in their dance against the encroaching mist that rose serpentine from the grey Thames. The wide walk was edged on either side by massive, ancient willow trees. Their green grey leaves snickered faintly against one another like knives. The white limestone bridge started between the two willows and seemed to stretch into the very nothingness of oblivion itself. A figure could be seen walking from the bridge, passing between the sentinel figures.
When she stepped into the oily light of the gaslamp, he recognized those green grey eyes instantly.
“Oh! Hello Louisa.” And Barrington doffed his hat at her. "Awful night, isn't it."
She radiated beauty, the mist making her skin practically glow under the lamps. Up close, he was nearly overcome by the glisten of her faint pink lips, of the perfume that wafted like incense through the air around her, making their little world there in the foggy light smell like petrichor.
“Hello, Mr Barrington.” She spoke with a faint bell like tinkling. "Have you seen Henry tonight? He was supposed to meet me here, by the bridge."
Barrington looked past her, but there was no sign in the thick fog of the other man. “Here, take my arm. I’ll accompany you and we can find him together.”
They walked along the bank, the soft lapping of the Thames beneath them the only sound in the heavy solitude.
On the side of the street the old beggar woman glanced in their direction, but shrugged and stayed where she was, muttering darkly, "Ain't no use, trying to save these fools. They'll all end up where they belong. Is only one place for em."
Then there was only the sound of soft footfalls in the heavy fog, where the gas lights cast their oily yellow glows between the willow trees. And the soft laughing sound of the river as it moved like a dark serpent through the heart of foggy old London town.
End
