by Betina Krahn
Along one whole side of the hall was a grand display illustrating what the signs called “high-powered steam engines.” Touted as the latest thing in sea-going propulsion, they were the very engines carrying the British Navy to supremacy on the world’s seven seas. Only recently had the company producing them begun fitting them into commercial ships.
Rafe engaged two men who identified themselves as the engineers responsible for the manufacture of the metal monstrosities. Soon he was climbing all over the platform with them to investigate the engine’s construction.
Lauren stood outside the rope railing, feeling conspicuous as the only woman in the hall and annoyed that Rafe had abandoned her on an outing meant to repair his reputation. When a young man in a suit approached her to see if she needed help, she asked what about the engines made them so special. He helped her under the rope and began to show her the separate components and explain the innovations that made them the most powerful engines afloat.
She was surprised to understand the concept behind them as he explained it . . . steam pressure turning a paddle wheel was old stuff . . . inboard engines driving propellers were the current thing. It made sense. The young man answered her questions and smiled back when she smiled. After a time she looked up to find Rafe was standing with his arms crossed, wearing a scowl that looked downright painful on his injured face.
“I hope you’ve seen enough,” he declared. “I certainly have.” He held out a hand that insisted she place hers in it.
She was on the verge of a retort when she spotted a bowler hat above a pair of squinty eyes staring at them from behind a nearby display. Their voices weren’t raised. No one else was watching. Instinctively, she gave him her hand and smiled as if their lives depended on it. She stepped off the platform and ducked under the rope he held up for her.
She paused in the walkway between exhibits to brush her jacket and skirt. “I seem to have escaped the oil. Fascinating things, engines. Who would have guessed it?” She glanced at the bowler man’s location and found him gone. With a deep breath, she took Rafe’s arm and smiled up at him in a way she hoped was convincing.
“Now where is this delightful place you’ve chosen for luncheon?”
* * *
Delightful, she recalled too late, was in the eye of the beholder.
They disembarked from the cab in front of a respectable but hardly stylish restaurant minutes later. He helped her down the cab’s steps as she looked the place over. The Seven Sisters was announced by a hanging sign bearing seven white stars in a circle. The place had a black-painted front with numerous windows hung with half curtains. A sign in the window nearest the door advertised “The Best Pork Pie in London.”
As her shoes touched the pavement, a scuffle a few yards away drew her attention. A man in a shopkeeper’s apron had a young boy by the shirt, shaking him and calling him a “filthy little thief.” She stopped to stare at them, jolted by the terror in the boy’s face.
“Give it back or I’ll have th’ law on you!” the shopkeeper snarled.
“Warn’t me, sarr,” the boy cried, struggling wildly to free himself. “I swear, I didn’ take nothin’!”
“Bound for Newgate, you are!” the man shouted in the boy’s face, and then struck him.
Lauren gasped. A backhand blow followed quickly on and she was in motion before Rafe could prevent it.
“Stop!” She rushed to them. The shopkeeper was startled into pausing but didn’t loosen his grip on the boy. “What’s happened here?”
“None o’ your concern.” The shopkeeper turned and, seeing her fine clothes, amended his tone. “Stole a watch chain right off my counter. Him an’ his pack of gutter rats scrambled into my shop.” He nodded to the small storefront next to the pub. “When I threw ’em out he grabbed a watch chain—an Albert.”
“Did you see him do it?” she asked.
“It was one o’ the bunch. One’s the same as all.” She stooped to look into the boy’s face. His chin quivered.
“I didn’ take it, miz—on Jesus’s bones, it warn’t me.”
Lauren examined the scrawny boy. Big eyes. Dirty face. A shirt two sizes too big and breeches tied up with string. His shoes were full of holes and too big for his feet.
“Turn out your pockets.” She held the boy’s gaze, searching it.
He tried to swallow a lump in his throat and finally managed to confess, “Ain’t got no pock-ets.”
* * *
Rafe had followed her, uncertain whether or not to try hauling her away from meddling in the workings of justice. She was stubborn enough to resist and cause a scene, and—he looked around at the people stopping to watch—he couldn’t afford another ghastly report in the papers.
“Miss Alcott, we really must be going,” he managed as she stooped and felt the boy’s clothes for evidence. Whatever she found, it wasn’t a watch chain. She rose and faced the shopkeeper with determination.
“Did you actually see him steal the chain?” she demanded.
The fellow insisted it had to be either him or another of his band of guttersnipes. “They roam the streets in gangs, lookin’ for open doors, and push in to make confusion an’ take whatever they can.”
“Well, there is no evidence that this boy took anything,” she said.
“Miss Alcott, this is no concern of ours.” Rafe hoped he didn’t sound as if he was pleading.
Ignoring him, she asked, “What was the value of the watch chain?”
“Miss Alcott?” The shopkeeper’s eyes widened. “Miss Alcott—th’ Angel of the River?”
Surprised, she glanced up into Rafe’s pained expression. “The same.” At least she had the decency to look dismayed.
The shopkeeper took a half step back and smoothed his apron.
“I know yer a merciful woman, miss, but I got a fam’ly to feed.”
After a transfer of two sovereigns the shopkeeper thanked her profusely for restoring his loss and nodded repeatedly. “It were an honor to meet the angel what saved them poor women.”
With her face aflame, she nodded and then took the boy’s hand to pull him away.
Rafe groaned as she headed for the Seven Sisters with the guttersnipe in tow. It wasn’t over yet.
Seven
“What are you going to do with him?” he demanded in a loud whisper when they reached the door of the Seven Sisters.
His supposed betrothed looked down at the boy.
“I’m going to—we’re going to feed him.”
Oh no. Not in his favorite Dockland eatery. Before he could protest she had the door open and was dragging the urchin inside.
An indignant owner rushed to meet them.
“No, no, miss.” Then he recognized Rafe and lowered his voice. “Mr. Townsend, sir, we cannot have that dirty creature in here.”
“He won’t be dirty for long,” she said. “Where is your washroom?”
“I . . . but . . . the other patrons . . .”
One of the waiters had heard her and motioned to a hall at the back. She sailed off with child in hand, leaving Rafe to deal with the owner.
“Mr. Townsend, I simply cannot accommodate—”
“Just put us at a table in the back,” he growled. “He won’t be any trouble, I promise. And I’ll be grateful.”
He felt every eye in the place on him as the unhappy owner led him to a table that was wedged into a corner beside the farthest window. As soon as Rafe seated himself, he heard muffled voices and looked around. There were people outside the nearby window with noses pressed against the glass, peering at him. He made irritable motions to scatter them and then turned to glare at the door through which she had disappeared.
Incorrigible female. He’d have a thing or two to say to her when they were out of the public eye. She had a pure talent for causing scenes. He felt a nasty throb returning to his eye and gently explored the ache with his fingers. Thank God he wasn’t shackled to her ’til death did them part.
She reappeared sometime la
ter with a much-improved urchin whose face was red from washing, hands were mostly clean, and hair was wetted back. He rose as she seated the child and plopped the book he had abandoned again on the plate in front of him.
“Mr. Townsend, meet Jims Gardiner. He lives with his mother and sisters in a place called Three Pig. His father died, his mother has to work a lot, and he has two sisters who work, too.” She turned to the boy. “Jims, meet Mr. Townsend. He is in the import-export business and is my—” she glanced around to see if anyone was listening—“intended.”
“Yer a tall feller,” Jims said, clearly awed. “An’ dress real fancy.”
“Whereas you are short, impertinent, and in drastic need of a good scrubbing.” Rafe quirked his nose as if smelling something distasteful.
Lauren gasped, but Jims responded rather matter-of-factly.
“Ma says no need wastin’ water—I’d just git dirty a’gin.” He looked up at Lauren with hopeful eyes. “You really gonna give me some food?”
They were and they did. She asked Rafe to order and he soon had a full glass of milk sitting in front of the boy with a number of dishes on the way. Jims looked hungrily at the milk, but when he was urged to drink it, he said it tasted . . . sweetlike. He soon got used to it and gulped until Lauren suggested he slow down and save room for some food.
“No worry, miz. I kin eat a whale. Ma says so.” He looked thoughtful. “But I never had a whale.”
Lauren bit her lip and glanced at Rafe, who shook his head in disbelief. The boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when they brought out soft rolls and butter, handsome pork pies, potatoes baked with cheese, and fresh green peas. He stuffed a bit of everything in his mouth, as if afraid it would be whisked away any moment. She leaned close to his ear.
“If you’re going to eat with a gentleman, you must learn to eat like a gentleman. Use the fork, not your fingers. And take a breath now and then. This food isn’t going anywhere without you.”
The boy’s bony shoulders relaxed and he looked up at her, grinning and chewing enthusiastically. He held the fork awkwardly and had trouble with the knife. She showed him how and watched patiently as he struggled to master the cutlery. Moments later he looked up with chagrin.
“All we gots is spoons.”
Rafe pulled his gaze from the boy’s big, brown eyes, determined to enjoy the hearty food set before him. He covertly studied the concern on Lauren’s face as she picked at her food. He saw her features soften. There was genuine tenderness in her touch as she pushed the boy’s damp hair back from his face. It struck him forcefully that this was more than an exhibition of charity. She honestly cared about the boy. When Jims looked up at her with a greasy grin, the smile she returned was so full of warmth that his own pie got stuck in his throat.
After a while she leaned back in her chair and focused on him.
“You forgot your book again. One might think you weren’t keen to read it.”
“I believe I have expressed my opinion of novels.”
“Wot’s a nozzle?” Jims asked, staring at the volume on the table.
“Novel,” she corrected. “It’s a book that tells a story that isn’t real, but is still enjoyable. Do you know any stories told just for fun?”
The boy thought a moment and then brightened. “Free Li’l Pigs.”
Rafe made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort, then reached for his cup. She frowned at him, then turned back to Jims.
“That’s a good story. The one in Mr. Townsend’s book is longer and much more detailed. It takes hours to read, but it’s a really good story.”
“Wot’s it about?” Jims paused with food dangling from his fork.
“It’s about a knight.” When he looked puzzled, she explained, “The men who wore armor and rode huge horses into battle to fight for the king. They were brave and noble and did great deeds.”
The boy still seemed puzzled. Did he not even know about knights?
She picked up the book and opened it to the color plate in the front.
“Like this fellow.” She showed him the picture, and his eyes widened.
“’E wearin’ metal duds?”
“Strictly speaking, his clothing is under the metal suit. The metal armor keeps his enemies from hurting him in a battle.” She looked to Rafe. “Doesn’t it, Mr. Townsend?”
“That is generally the idea.”
Jims canted his head, staring at him. “You one o’ them knights?”
Rafe nearly choked on the coffee in his mouth. It annoyed him that his gaze went straight to Lauren.
“Why would you think that?” Rafe cleared his throat a second time.
“You been fightin’.” The boy tapped his own eye, referring to Rafe’s blinker. “Ye copped a mouse.” He brightened. “Was the king there?”
Lauren’s eyes were as big as the boy’s when she looked at him, and he could have sworn there was a twinkle of amusement in them.
“I am not a knight,” he said succinctly. “Knights in shining armor don’t exist anymore. And we have a queen, not a king.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Jims said, clearly disappointed, before stuffing his mouth with a roll. The bread didn’t stop his words from coming through. “Bet if you’da had them metal duds, you wouldn’ta got yer mug beat up.”
Lauren was trying to hide a smile behind her napkin. Annoying female. Damned annoying. He scowled at the book, and an idea struck.
“Have you ever had a book before?” he asked the boy.
Jims shook his head, looking between Rafe and the mesmerizing image in the bookplate.
“So you probably can’t read.”
The boy shook his head again.
“Do you know your letters?”
“Some,” the boy said. “P an’ T an’ J—that’s fer my name. An’ A. That’s for my ma’s name. Alice.”
“Tell you what,” Rafe said, taking the book from her and handing it to the boy. “That is your book now. And when you learn to read some of it, come and find me and I’ll give you a position in my company.”
Jims glowed with excitement, looking between him and Lauren.
“Wot’s a ‘po-sit-shun’?”
* * *
Lauren found herself watching Rafe’s eyes, wondering what he was thinking. No doubt she’d get a piece of his mind when they were alone again. But then, she had a word or two to say to a man who gave away a gift in front of the giver.
There was a commotion at the door and the owner rushed to intervene. It seemed some folk were insisting on being seated at a table near the “Angel of the River.” She was taken aback by the way they stared. She had worried that their itinerary in the Docklands would go unnoticed, but now she worried that they were being noticed too openly.
How could those people know about her? Had the shopkeeper told people the name of the person who had made good his loss? Or did everyone in the East End read penny papers? Surely they had better ways to spend their hard-earned money.
When Jims said he wished his sisters could have been there to eat, too, she had the waiter make up a box of food to send home with him. Then a thought struck her, and she invited him to bring his sisters to the same pub the next day, midafternoon, so she and Rafe could meet them.
The boy was thrilled. The owner was less so when she asked him to reserve a table for their guests the next day. But because they planned to arrive after the midday rush, the pragmatic man considered the extra coin it would bring and agreed.
Their cab dropped off the boy at a row of dreary, odiferous tenements separated by an alley so narrow it should rightly be called a footpath. He cradled the book and box of food with a grin and ran down the worn path toward his home.
“Where to next?” she asked, feeling a surge of warmth at the hope Jims had radiated.
When she turned to Rafe he was staring at her, but giving no indication of what he was thinking. Then he drew a hard breath and grimaced at the smell emanating from the wretched houses.
“I believe we
’ve been public enough for one day,” he declared.
“I’d like to make a stop on the way home, if you don’t mind.”
* * *
Piccadilly was the destination she gave to the cabbie. Soon Rafe helped her down in front of a shop called Hatchards, but, knowing the nature of the shop’s trade, declined to accompany her inside. She put her arm through his and dragged him along with her through the door. He trailed her through tables of books and stood to the side with a long-suffering expression as she greeted a clerk who called her by name.
“Alcott?” Another woman’s voice was heard and a stout, well-dressed woman in a wide, feathery hat appeared from behind a bookcase to look for her. “As I live and breathe, Miss Alcott!” She bustled over, clutching a pair of books to her bosom.
“Mrs. Buffington.” Lauren greeted her with less enthusiasm.
“Imagine seeing you here. But then, you are a devotee of the printed word. One should expect to see you in a bookstore. How are you, dear, I’ve been reading”—she spotted Rafe and paused a heartbeat—“the books you’ve recommended for the parish school.” She nodded to indicate those in her arms. “Excellent choices. Good, moral lessons and adventures to hold the children’s attention.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Lauren said with determined pleasantry.
“And who is this?” Mrs. Buffington turned her attention to Rafe, examining him thoroughly as he moved up behind Lauren.
“Rafe Townsend. Rafe, may I introduce Mrs. Archer Buffington. She is on the board of the parish school with me.”
The woman pinked as she extended her hand, and Rafe clasped it. He said something about being either enchanted or embalmed . . . Lauren was too busy scrambling for mental footing to tell which. From the way she was staring at the pair of them, Mrs. B. knew of her engagement and made no secret of assessing Lauren’s marital “catch.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. Buffington said, her cheeks pinking. “Such a tall and handsome fiancé. I see now why you’ve been too busy of late for reading hour at the school.” She developed a twinkle in her eye. “And when is the wedding, dear?”