William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

their mother discarded them. They are disfigured, and deaf. Their father’s sister is a friend of mine. She’s been looking for them for years.” It was a slight bending of the truth—in fact, but not in essence.
    “Left it a bit late, ’aven’t yer?” The bargee looked sympathetic, almost believing.
    “They’re shipping them out because they know I’m after them,” Monk explained. “It’s my fault!” he added bitterly.
    The bargee regarded the comment critically. “Yer’d be better on something a bit faster’n me,” he said with feeling.
    “I know that!” Monk retorted. “But you’re all I’ve got.”
    The bargee grinned and turned to look upstream. He stayed balanced for several moments while they drifted gradually past the bridge and towards the looming mass of the Tower of London, gray turreted against the sky.
    Monk was so tense with the passion of frustration he could have screamed, punched something with all his strength as they seemed to move even more and more slowly.
    A small, light fishing boat was corning up behind them, skimming rapidly almost over the surface of the water.
    The bargee put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle.
    A figure on the fishing boat cocked his head.
    The bargee whistled again, waving his arms in what seemed to be some signal language.
    The fishing boat changed course to come closer, then closer again.
    “Go on!” the bargee shouted at Monk. “Tell ’em wot yer tol’ me—an’ good luck to yer!”
    “Thank you!” Monk said with profound sincerity, and took a flying leap for the fishing boat.
    It was farther than he thought, and again he barely made it, being caught by strong hands and amid a good deal of ribald laughter. He told the men on the small boat his need, and they were willing enough to help, even eager. They put up more sail and tacked and veered dangerously through the current and across the bows of other ships, and were at the Surrey Docks half an hour before slack water and the turn of the tide.
    They even helped him look for the
Summer Rose.
    It turned out to be a filthy two-masted schooner, low in the water but seaworthy enough to cross the Channel—as long as the weather was easy. He would not have backed her across the Bay of Biscay.
    Two of the fishermen came with him, armed with boat hooks and spikes.
    Monk led them, facing the captain squarely as they were challenged on deck. He stood arms akimbo, a boat hook held crossways in front of him like a staff.
    “You’ve got two girls on board. I want them. They’re taken illegally. Ten guineas reward for you if you give them up … a spike in your gut if you don’t.”
    The captain resented the force, but he looked at Monk’s eyes, and the size and weight of the men behind him, and decided ten guineas was sufficient to save his honor.
    “I’ll bring ’em up, no need to be nasty about it. Ten guineas, yer said?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Before I sail? I’m goin’ on the tide.”
    “After. You’ll be back.”
    “How do I know you’ll be back, eh?”
    “I’ll pledge it to the harbormaster. I’ll leave it with him.” Monk lifted the staff a little, and behind him one of the fishermen fingered his spike.
    The captain shrugged. He would not have got much for the girls anyway; they were as ugly as sin, and stupider than cows.
    He came back less than four minutes later half struggling with two girls of about twenty years of age or a little more. They were matted with filth, clothed in little more than rags,and obviously terrified. They both had mouths with twisted lips drawn back from their teeth in something close to a snarl or a sneer, but their eyes were wide and, even through the filth, clear and lovely. Above the twisted mouths their bones were delicate, with winged brows and soft, exquisite hairlines.
    Monk stared at them in shattering, overwhelming disbelief. He was almost choked by it, his heart beating in his throat. He was looking at faces which were caricatures of Delphine Lambert’s. Robbed of speech, almost of coherent thought, he simply held out his hands and let the staff fall.
    “Come …” he croaked. “I’ve come to take you home … Leda … Phemie!”

12
    M
ONK THANKED THE FISHERMEN
, unnecessarily for them. In their eyes the act had been its own reward. One of them had a sister who was blind. His imagination told him all too clearly how such a fate could have happened to her. They even helped Monk find a hansom and get