Hattie was full of pleasure as she picked through the interior of the market, weaving in and out of the vendors, tempted by the riotous colors of the late autumn harvest—flower stalls overflowing with reds and oranges, magnificent gourds piled next to bushels of beetroots in myriad colors, and heaps of potatoes still dark with the rich soil in which they’d grown.
To others, the building itself was the pride of the marketplace—an architectural marvel, massive and stunning, with immense, echoing rafters and stonework and ironwork that made this, London’s largest and most expansive market, the envy of all the world.
But the building was nothing to Hattie. For Hattie, the draw of the market was the people within. And it was packed to the rafters with people. Farmers and merchants, florists and butchers, bakers and haberdashers and tinkers and tailors, all hawking their wares for a crush of customers that ranged from lowliest maid to jewel of the ton. If one could find their way into the building, it didn’t matter where they’d come from—Covent Garden market was one of the rare places in the city where a pauper’s ha’penny spent as well as a prince’s—perhaps even better, as a pauper didn’t have qualms about raising his voice when necessary . . . which it always was in the market.
Because beyond the color and scent of the place was the sound. A raucous cacophony of shouts and laughter, of dedicated buyers and eager sellers, of barking dogs and clucking chickens and pipes and fiddles and children laughing.
It was a pure, magnificent commotion. And Hattie adored it.
She had since she was a little girl, when her father would let her hang about on the company’s ships while they were unloaded—the holds taking hours to empty, even with scores of men doing the backbreaking work. And when it was over, Mr. Sedley (he hadn’t been an earl then) would fetch his eldest child and promise her a trip to the Covent Garden market for a treat of her choosing.
She thought back on those days as she lingered in the marketplace, the sun setting in the west, its rainbow of light making London—even the forgotten bits of it—magical. She thought of them, and the way she’d revered her father, the way she’d fallen in love with the ships and the business and the docks. And the way she’d loved this market, loud and raucous and covered in sawdust to soak up the stench and the filth that never seemed as off-putting as it should.
And just as she had as a child, Hattie took her time this afternoon. Recalling how she’d once dawdled at every stall, smiling at the merchants and chatting up the farmers in search of the perfect prize, she returned to the same strategy. Searching for a different kind of prize.
Beast.
She went about it methodically, finding the friendliest merchants. The apple farmer, the woman with a basket of kittens on her hip, the evenhanded seamstress embroidering a tiny pink rose on a square of linen somehow kept immaculate in the marketplace. She spoke to them, bought an apple, cuddled a kitten, ordered a dozen new handkerchiefs.
And then she asked about Beast.
Did they know him? Of him?
Did they have any idea where he could be found?
She had something of his, you see . . . and she wished to return it.
It was remarkable, though, how little her friendliness mattered. How little her patronage mattered. The moment she spoke the name—that silly, fantastical name—the merchants slipped through her fingers.
Sorry, lady, the farmer said, turning away to tempt another customer.
Ain’t heard of him, the lady with the kittens assured her, but do ye plan to buy?
I’m sure I would remember such a name. The seamstress’s hands hadn’t even hesitated.
It seemed all of Covent Garden was in the market to protect the Beast.
With a sigh, Hattie took a bite from her apple, the crisp, sweet flavor exploding over her tongue as she weaved her way through the wagons, no longer piled high after a hard day of sale. The sounds in the market had quieted as the sun crept lower in the sky—people headed back to their beds to awake early and repeat the day again tomorrow.
“Flowers, lady?” A girl, no older than seven or eight, with dark skin and eager eyes, met her as she exited toward the church of St. Paul. Her black hair was tucked up under a cap, a few curls unmoored by the long day, and she wore a dress