Vincent was not sick. However, he did spend the entirety of the next day feeling like he might be. As he was in class, head in hands and squinting at the words that blurred on his pages, Thomas returned to the factory. More prepared this time, he brought with him food, water, blankets, and a few fresh skirts he obtained from a very confused dressmaker. The women, with the exception of Lupe, still watched him with apprehension, but they accepted his gifts easily enough.
He sat with the younger girl whilst the others doled out the food, leaning against the stone wall until the cold had well and truly leached through his coat. As he watched them work, talk, and occasionally throw him a sceptical look, he realised he didn't understand. They had been taken from their homes and were clearly scared of the men who held them. They did not speak English, were clearly mistreated... they were all but slaves! Why did they stay? Why not run away or ask someone for help?
Why not ask him?
"Lupe?" She turned towards him with a waiting smile, her large brown eyes blinking calmly. She was very pretty, Thomas could admit, and perhaps that was why Vincent had asked if he had designs. But though she could grow up to be beautiful, she still had to grow up. Thomas was not a saint, but he was no cradle-robber! And even if he were... those weren't the feelings she stoked in him. He felt protective, like he supposed an older brother might feel. "Why do you all stay here? Why don't you leave?"
Lupe's pretty smile turned confused. "¿Cómo? How?"
He frowned back at her. "Run away, ask someone for help, show them how you're being treated – I'll help you, Vincent will help you!"
"No, no." She shook her head firmly, grip tightening on the pocket watch she hadn't put down overnight. "Bad. No safe. Insegura."
After a few minutes where Thomas suggested all manner of ways to get them help and out of there situation, only to be met with Lupe's staunch rejection, he leant back with a sigh and watched her move off to get food. It was clear she was scared, and he wanted to blame her refusal on that; fear that if they ran, the men who took them would come after them. And maybe that's all he would have seen before he knew Vincent. Now, though, he could see behind the argument; they had no income, no family or connections here to support them, they didn't know the language... what would they do if they were suddenly free? Probably starve on the streets. Sudden, impulsive action would do them no good.
Thomas sighed again; his life had gotten endlessly complicated since knowing Vincent Humphrey.
Which brought him to another complication he was trying to avoid; Vincent himself. There was something about the man that drew Thomas in. He coughed, trying to clear the thought from his mind. The Humphreys had been more than good to Thomas. Despite his unorthodox entry into their lives, they had welcomed him with open – if somewhat surprised – arms, and it was beginning to feel like... well, family. He could not entertain risking that just for... for what? For nothing!
He managed to avoid Vincent for another day, not that the other man noticed over the pounding in his head. In truth, Vincent was quite embarrassed, not only that he'd consumed so much liquor but that his reaction was so poor. He was from the same stock as Matthew – surely he should be able to imbibe without consequence!
Neither man was prepared when they all but collided in the corridor of the Speckled Hen in the early evening. Vincent was returning from class, his satchel looped over his shoulder and threatening to spill papers in his wake, and he was clearly tired. His hair was a ruffled mess – he'd still not had time to find a barber – and the bags beneath his eyes were darkened on one side by a streak of ink across his skin.
Having ignored barbs from his classmates, Vincent was all too aware of how he looked, and was grateful none of them had cause to see him in comparison to Thomas. He was in a deep blue, not-quite-navy coat that echoed the rich tones of his skin, and although his hair was damp, perhaps having just bathed, it was already beginning to curl across his forehead. His chin was down as he rounded the corner, but he jerked up with an apology of his lips as the tips of Vincent's boots entered his periphery.
Whatever he'd been about to say died on his tongue, and he stumbled slightly, drawing them into close proximity. Almost instantly he stepped bodily away, putting as much space between them as he was able in the narrow corridor, as he said a little too sharply, "Vincent!"
Unsure what to say in response, Vincent simply dipped his head in greeting. In truth he'd needed to speak with Thomas, and as he raked his hair out of his eyes, casting it in further disarray, he formed his words.
"The.. Since... I shall return home tomorrow."
If Thomas was startled by the topic, he did not show it. "Your classes are complete?"
Vincent nodded stiffly, instantly regretting the motion as it jarred his headache back to life.
"Ah." The word was drawn out, followed by the click of Thomas' tongue against the back of his teeth. His hands drifted to his sides, finding their way into his pocket, and he rocked back on his heels, gaze fixed on the floor between them.
Vincent watched him with something akin to concern. The man seemed... awkward... which was completely out of character. With one sudden thump of his heart, Vincent felt a wave of nausea hit him; his recall of the night in his room was intact, if blurry, but perhaps in his inebriated state he'd done something wrong... said something wrong. He could have made a fool of himself, or embarrassed or offended Thomas, perhaps ruined their budding friendship and Thomas' relationships with the rest of his family –
"I'm sorry," he spat out, feeling the flush in his face and his pulse racing in his ears, "for whatever it is I did or said. If I've caused you any offence, I sincerely regret it." The words came more and more quickly, and he was almost grateful when the other man interrupted.
"Woah!" Thomas' hands were raised as if he were soothing a startled beast. "What gives you the impression you've offended me?"
He assessed the man from head to toe, noting the stiffness from the straight set of his brow to the way his stood with his weight tilted backwards. "Your general... demeanour?"
Thomas' eyebrow quirked. "My 'demeanour'?"
Vincent had the distinct impression that Thomas was teasing him now, but he pressed on nonetheless. "Yes, you're..." he shrugged, "...sedate."
As if the very mention of the word broke whatever spell he'd been under, Thomas threw back his head, face cracking in a wide smile as he let out a laugh. The tension in his shoulders faded, and he relaxed into a lean against the wall.
"Forgive me, I do not mean to be 'sedate'. I've just been thinking. Terrible habit I've developed – if you really want to take the blame for something, let it be my newfound intellectuality." He winked, but Vincent had already known that was a joke and was rolling his eyes. "Besides," he threw out one hand, giving Vincent a gentle shove on the shoulder as he frowned at him. "Even if I were acting 'sedate', why would be your fault?"
Vincent's frown returned. It seemed too obvious to explain. "If... the... I say the wrong thing, and it can upset peo-"
Thomas was already shaking his head. "No, you don't!" His finger was raised, and though he fought to keep the smile on his face, there was tension in his eyes. "You think you might, which is why you hum and har before you speak, but I doubt that anything you've actually said has offended anyone." His hand dropped suddenly from the air, thumping against his thigh. "You're just crippled by the thought that it might."
Not for the first time, Vincent felt as if Thomas' words had knocked the wind from his chest. Later, when his mind wasn't blank, he'd reflect that it hurt because it was true. It was not a physical or mental impediment that restrained his words, it was fear. Fear of insult, fear of failure, fear of driving people away.
But having his faults pointed out to him in that tone and in that hallway was beyond irritating.
"Now I, on the other hand, excel at offending people." Though it was said with light inflection, neither man thought the comment a joke.
Vincent scoffed.
This was clearly taken as a challenge.
Thomas' eyes were narrow when he continued. "I goad and I needle and I begin arguments just to have something to engage me. Which is all garnish, really, as the very core of my being will always be insulting to those around me." This last was said with so much venom that perhaps it should have garnered sympathy or a comforting hand...
"Damn nonsense!"
Thomas was so startled by the outburst that he could only blink.
"You are not the man you describe," Vincent continued, stepping closer so that he could press a finger somewhat forcefully into the middle of Thomas' chest. "You feel things deeply and are a protector of people. Anyone insulted by you is only aggravated as you reflect them back at themselves."
Thomas huffed. "The women at the factory-"
"Have every right to be afraid given what they've been through. But that reflects their circumstance, not yours."
And there they stood, chest to chest and breathing heavily in the corridor. Neither man broke eye contact, refusing to yield any ground in this debate. In the far corners of his mind, Vincent wondered how long this argument had been brewing, only to find himself immersed in the memory of their first meeting at the front door of the Humphrey home. The challenge in Thomas' eyes, daring him to respond to his goading, met by Vincent's embarrassment as he struggled to voice his thoughts. Or perhaps long before that to the days of their childhoods when their characters were still forming.
The impasse was at last broken by a cough behind Vincent.
Both men stepped aside hurriedly, allowing another man to pass by them towards his rooms. He tossed them a nod, the dip of his chin failing to hide his frown, and the eventual thump of his door shutting was perhaps a bit too loud. The jarring sound did serve one purpose at least; it startled both men out of their glares.
With a reluctant chuckle, Thomas ran a hand across his face, before pinning Vincent with a sardonic smile. He clapped him gently on the shoulder, half expecting the gesture to be shaken off as his hand came to rest on Vincent's arm, but the other man seemed too contemplative – and perhaps alarmed – to speak.
"What an odd pair we make," Thomas offered in a low tone. "Society at large is determined to appear faultless, and yet here you and I are fighting for the blame."
There was something in the hand on his shoulder, the way Thomas smiled at him, that had heat welling in Vincent's chest. Despite the argument, the tension, there was trust here. His heart rate was steady, his chest free from anxiety or panic. It was a camaraderie he had never experienced, never knew he'd been missing, and as the hand receded he felt its absence as an ache.
An odd pair indeed.
.
As it happened, Thomas decided to return to the Humphrey estate with Vincent. He was wracked by guilt at the thought of leaving town and Lupe and the other women behind, but there was little he could do there. He had already arranged surreptitious food and clothing deliveries, and without knowing more about their situation it was hard to know how to act further. They were unwilling to share that information with him. Gabriela might be different.
In the bright light of the next morning, both men stood in their heaviest coats, fighting off an unseasonably chilly morning. Despite the weather and their heated disagreement the night before, there was no frost between them. If anything, the harsh words had alleviated some of the residual tension between them, and both men were feeling better for it.
As the driver loaded their trunks onto the rear of the coach, Vincent turned in a slow assessment of the square. His mind whirled, and as Thomas moved in his periphery, he reached out an arm to still him.
"We... The... There's one question we haven't answered." Though he still stuttered, the words came quickly, and he stepped closer to Thomas to ensure he heard. "How did Gabriela make it to the estate? It's a long way by foot."
With one sweeping gesture, he indicated the multitude of carriages, coaches, and wagons that milled around them, loading produce, wares, or passengers before they began their journeys.
Thomas' eyes widen, and he clapped Vincent on both shoulders. "You truly are a genius!" He turned quickly to the coachman, calling for the man as he balanced on the back of the coach. "My good man, who else do you know that travels in our direction?"
The coachman stiffened, his hand moving to lay possessively on their cases.
"The... If..." As soon as Vincent began, Thomas stepped to the side, ensuring he could be fully seen by the coachman. "We still mean to travel with you. We are looking for a wagon, not passenger-bearing, with a driver who's perhaps known to be less than attentive or scrupulous?"
Assured of their fares, the man coughed up a name easily enough: Slim Brown, who loaded up on the far east side of the square. They negotiated a delayed departure and set off in search of Slim.
"Do you really think this might be the man? I doubt Gabriela had the language to ask who was the least 'scrupulous' driver."
Vincent nodded – Thomas' point was well taken. After a moments thought, he replied, "You are right. My hope is that this man looks as unsavoury as his reputation. Along with the direction we know she travelled, I hope it might be enough."
Slim Brown was an easy enough man to find. But 'slim' was a distinct misnomer.
Slim Brown was fat, filthy, and gnawing on a stale chunk of bread as they approached. The moment he saw them – and their undeniable wealth – he straightened, tossing the loaf to the skerrick of a dog that whined at his feet.
"Wot can I do fa two fine gen'lemen such as yorselves?" He said, gaze raking over them.
Thomas had the distinct impression the resale value of his wardrobe was being evaluated to the penny.
"Did you take a passenger west recently? A Spanish woman?"
"I don't take passengers," he said instantly. Then his head dipped slightly, staring up at them from beneath a slyly crooked eyebrow. "Woss it ter yer if I did?"
Thomas and Vincent exchanged a look. Thomas' head was tilted in silent question. Vincent couldn't be entirely sure what the question was; should they keep talking to Slim? Did Vincent want to speak? Nevertheless, he nodded slightly.
"We are looking for someone," Thomas said as he turned back to Slim Brown, folding his arms easily across his chest. "If you've seen her – and can prove it's the right woman, mind – we might be able to offer you recompense."
Slim had been following until the last word. "'ey?"
"We can pay you."
The slimy man's eyes lit up, practically reflecting the coins he could imagine being handed, and almost unintentionally he rubbed the palms of his hands together.
"Yers 'ave got yorselves a deal!" he grinned, revealing more than one missing teeth.
The general distastefulness of Slim Brown was not their primary concern; what mattered was whether or not he had transported the woman they were looking for. There was one glaringly obvious thing he could tell them to confirm it had been Gabriela, Vincent thought, though she might have hidden...
"Yer want me ter tell yer she 'ad a babe wiv 'er, do yer?"
That was it.
Thomas barely held in the urge to clap his hands. Although they'd probably revealed too much already, Slim Brown was sure to take advantage of any eagerness or perceived weakness. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pound coin, holding it safely in his grasp but well within Slim's greedy view.
"Where did you take her?"
The man didn't take his eyes of the coin. "West. She wanted t' get as close to Abbottshire as she were able."
Vincent blinked slowly. Twice. It was surprising that Gabriela had a destination in mind, even more so that it happened to be the village neighbouring the Humphrey estate. Thomas, for his part, did not outwardly react to the news.
"And you took her, what? Out of the goodness of your heart?" His scepticism was plain, but Slim Brown was more amused than offended.
"O' course, m'lords." His fat tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. "She did prove 'erself good company though. Gave up a kiss or two top help us pass the time on the long journey."
His audience was disgusted. But only by him. Gabriela had no doubt done what was necessary to secure passage for herself and her daughter.
Vincent let out a small sigh, running the back of his hand across his forehead as Thomas tossed the coin to Slim. Every new piece of information they discovered seemed to place them farther from the truth. Where had Gabriela been going? Why had she been going there? His next sigh was heavier.
He glanced up to find Thomas' gaze on him. The man tilted his head, shrugged slightly, and glanced in the direction of Slim's wagon. When he looked back at Vincent, understanding had lit his friend's eyes.
Vincent's third and final sigh was the heaviest and issued as he took a small step towards Slim's wagon, brushing years' worth of dirt aside with his fingers.
Thomas pulled out a small bag, a distinctive jingle revealing it to be a coin purse, and he watched Slim's eyes narrow in on the bag. "You'll take us where you took her."
It was not a question, but Slim nodded anyway.
Within ten minutes they had explained the change of plans to the coachman, paying him handsomely to escort their bags the distance, and clambered into the back of Slim's cart alongside the panting mutt he explained was called 'Mutt'. Eager to earn his promised wage, Slim had them rumbling out of the square before they had time to settle comfortably.
And with that came the realisation that by this mode of transport, there was no such thing as 'comfortable'.
When he was sure the rattle and creak of the wheels on the cobblestones would drown them out, Thomas leant over the cabbages between him and Vincent to offer a hushed theory.
"Gabriela is tenacious," he said softly, "and it seems she will do whatever is required of her to protect her child."
Vincent agreed.
"A woman like that... I can't help but think she would have tried to protect the other women when she was with them."
The other man considered that as they bounced along, frowning softly. "But how?"
Thomas hoped he was wrong, but if he wasn't... the idea brought a strange combination of a bad taste to his mouth and an odd sense of admiration. "With the only tools she had."
Vincent's frown deepened, but as Thomas tossed his head back at the man driving the wagon and whistling a tuneless song, understanding lit his eyes. "You think... but that..." This was not his usual stutter, but rather a waterfall of thoughts as he understood what Thomas implied. The same mixture of revulsion and respect entered his eyes.
"It would explain why Abrienda and the others were so hesitant to share details."
Vincent nodded solely, turning wide eyes to the other man. "You think Isabela's father is the man in charge."
~~
Hello Lovely Readers!
Apologies for the long delay - I have been on struggle street writing the next few chapters. I love when characters start to properly take shape in your mind and you start to make them 3D and understand them... but then the problems start too! Suddenly A can't do this 'cause that doesn't fit their motivation, and B wouldn't say that 'cause that's not their personality... I truly love it, but it makes the writing so much more difficult!
Speaking of our lovely leads though, what do you think? Do you like Vincent? Do you like Thomas? Do you see yourself in either of them? Leave a comment and let me know how you think they're developing!
I hope to update soon, but (as ever) we'll see what happens!
xx
Flo