Bentley Drummle
I did not ask to be sat here.
If it wasn't for the fact that I had been invited in courtesy of my wife, I'd be at the pub, swigging a pint or two.
But the situation persists.
I slouch on a church pew, my wife seated primly beside me, aloof.
The seat is firm – a dull wood. I scratch the face and take a brief glance at the clock. It helps to pass time.
Taken by my pursuit, I sneak a quick look at her. Her face is blank, her stare fixed to a faraway spot on the wall ahead.
'Estella?'
Her lips tremble.
The walk back is quiet.
The trim of Estella's black attire skirts near the hem of her left slipper as she flies past in lead from stone to stone.
I keep my look short to ponder my own feet. It's not proper to inspect the ankles of a lady but I'm uncertain when before I've felt the need to be distraught for propriety's intent.
I hail a Hansom cab.
'West End.' She nods.
'West End it is, Ma'am." He pointedly overlooks my company.
I swipe a wad of bank notes into the driver's open palm.
'Keep the spare.' I say, with a frown.
He smiles.
Scoundrel.
With my hand on the nape of Estella's back, I board the vehicle.
I clutch her hand for the rest of the ride home. I can't help but notice that her hold is limper than usual.
I hear her crying.
It's loud.
It hurts to know that I'm not the person she's crying for. Her tears for nothing but jumble of black, blocky letters in the margin of some manky, old book.
'Phillip Pirrip, 27. Cause of death: Unknown'