Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  “Fits you well enough, I suppose.” He approached her and jerked her shirt up roughly.

  “What!”

  Cat tried to step back, but Clanton held her in place.

  “The stays are metal an’ hollow, see?” he asked, grasping the bottom of one of the ribs in her stays.

  His fingers worked at it, pressing against her belly with only a thin chemise between them and her skin. The bottom of these stays weren’t fully sewn, exposing the lower end of each rib. Clanton pulled a plug of thick sealing wax from one. Sealing wax, unlike candle wax, was very firm when cool.

  “See?” Clanton asked, holding it up. “Heat it a bit if it gets loose and reseat it.”

  He released her and Cat stepped back from him now, flushed and wary. She’d never had a man handle her so — not when she wasn’t disguised as a boy, at least, and she found that it felt different somehow. Clanton seemed oblivious to both her discomfort and wariness. He nodded to the roll of lock picks she still held.

  “Slide them picks in and they’re hid, see? Or aught else you wish.”

  Cat nodded.

  “Good, then.” He tossed his head toward a stone bench near the courtyard’s wall. The yard itself was mostly clear, with only a bench to each side. “Put the picks there for now.”

  Cat did so and when she turned back Clanton was rolling his head on his shoulders and stretching his arms.

  “Right, now I’m t’teach you to fight,” he said.

  “What do you mea —”

  Before she could finish her question, Clanton sprang forward, unbelievably fast for a man of his size, and his open palm cracked into the side of her face. The force of the blow knocked her to the side. She staggered and then fell to the courtyard’s cobbles. Her cheek stung and her ear rung.

  Clanton remained where he was, gesturing for her to rise.

  “Should’a blocked that,” he said.

  The remainder of the morning went much like that, with Clanton striking her, kicking her, sometimes grabbing her and holding her while she struggled, all the while carrying on a running commentary of what she should have done to avoid it. Most of which Cat would have been more than happy to do, if the man hadn’t been so bloody fast.

  “Duck that’un … all that space behind you? … grab the arm an’ strike back, there …”

  No amount of her protests seemed to dissuade him, and she eventually gave up speaking, concentrating on either avoiding his blows or minimizing them as best she could.

  After some time, he stopped and frowned at her.

  “You’re not very good at this.”

  Cat picked herself up from the cobbles for an uncountable time and watched him warily. He didn’t seem as though he were going to rush forward and strike her again — but then he never did. The man could go from standing still, seemingly enthralled by a passing bird, to crossing any amount of space between them and striking her in the blink of an eye.

  Which was quite fast enough, given that she seemed to have only one eye left to blink with, the other being swollen and tender to the touch.

  She crouched and backed slowly away from him, thinking that this time, as soon as Clanton moved, she’d simply throw herself to the cobbles and be done with it.

  His frown deepened and he shook his head.

  “Not good at all.” He shrugged. “Right, then, breakfast.”

  Breakfast was bread, a bit stale, cheese, a bit moldy, sausage, fatty and salty, and small beer, which Cat cared for not at all. It was a far cry from what she’d grown used to at the manor house, but still better than she remembered from her time on the streets.

  Clanton ate with his head down, forearms making fortress walls around his plate, except when he tilted back to take great gulps of the beer.

  Cat ate, but drank sparingly, and kept a wary eye on the man.

  “I’ll not strike you in here,” he said, catching her look. “Done with that for the day.”

  Cat winced. “For the day” seemed to imply that they weren’t done with it at all.

  “There’ll be more then?” she asked.

  Clanton nodded. “Mister Roffe said to teach you to fight.” He pointed to her. “In them clothes, first, then in propers.”

  “And you suppose this knocking me about will teach me something?”

  “Taught you to duck a bit. And watch a man closer.” Clanton shrugged. “How m’Da taught me an’ I’m still alive. Fancy stuff I learned with Roffe’ll come later.”

  “And this?” Cat pointed to her eye, which she still couldn’t see out of. “Mistress Hinds will certainly have questions when I return to the manor — what am I to do about that?”

  Clanton regarded her for a moment.

  “Duck better, I suppose.”

  When darkness fell, Clanton set her to running roofs.

  He showed her how the skirts of the outfit she wore could be bundled up to free her legs — or even split along those seams front and back, if she were rushed.

  The splotchy green and grey blended marvelously with the shadows, making Cat nearly impossible to see.

  Impossible except for Clanton, that was, for he set her to following him from the rooftops as he made his way through the city, and if he spotted her, which was often, he cuffed her harshly and boxed her ears when they returned to the townhouse.

  He relented, some, in the morning beatings — beginning to teach, instead of just insist she learn to avoid his blows. Though his idea of teaching was rough, as well.

  “Hips forward, chest back, arm thus,” he said, grabbing and shoving her into position until her form met his satisfaction, with no regard for what parts he grabbed and shoved along the way. “Now, move as I showed you.”

  Cat did so. To hesitate would get her sent to the courtyard’s cobbles by a heavy blow.

  “Why,” she asked, “must I do this over and over?”

  “Yer body’ll remember,” Clanton said. “Learned this with Roffe in the East — the Chinee’ll send a man to the floor with their bloody fingertip. Now again.”

  Clanton’s foot swept her legs from under her and she slammed to the cobbles, driving her breath from her.

  “Not like that, girl — balance!”

  There was work with weapons as well. Cat thought she was a fair hand with a knife, but Clanton showed her different, easily disarming her with a blow to hand or forearm, even twisting her up so that her own blade became his weapon against her.

  He brought out staves, as well, and a length of rope, knotted at both ends that he told her to tie about the waist of her green-and-gray outfits as a sort of belt.

  “It’s t’be armed and not look it,” he told her. “Y’can’t carry sword nor pistol, so learn what y’can have t’hand.”

  “If I’m to be a thief, as Mister Roffe is,” she wondered aloud, “then why so much of weapons and fighting? I’d think escaping would be better. And I assume you assist him in his endeavors? Would you not be better able to fight than I am?”

  Clanton gave her a long look, then shook his head. “It’s a hard world, girl, have y’not learned that already? Y’ve got yourself and no one else — worse than that, y’ve yourself and everyone else is out to gut you. Least that’s what my Da taught me.”

  “But —” Cat still didn’t see the point of the weapons and fighting. Perhaps if she were still on the streets — well, definitely if she were still on the streets — but at the sort of places Roffe was taking her? Robbing the Quality couldn’t carry the same risks as a market bullyboy, could it? “In the circles Roffe intends me to work, will this really be necessary? These are gentlemen, after all.”

  Clanton laughed. “Oh, aye, all gentlemen,” he said, laughing more. “And this gentleman’ll be taught proper fisticuffs, and that gentleman’ll be taught his dueling, and all the gentlemen’ll be taught not to strike a girl, sure — and some of those gentlemen behind closed doors, won’t be, will they? Bother if you’re caught at Roffe’s … thieving, as you say, girl; it’s being alone with some blok
e at those dances I’d have you ready for.”

  As time went on, though, Cat’s worries about how to explain the bruises to Mistress Hinds were allayed, either by Clanton being more careful not to strike her where it was visible or her getting better at the ducking.

  It was then that Roffe began appearing and taking a hand in training her for other things — not frequently, but often enough, he would escort her out. To garden parties, to teas, to the park or exhibition of this and that, where the protocols and manners drilled into her by Mistress Hinds were all on display.

  All on his arm, never let alone for very long, and always — at least after the first time she’d proudly opened her bag in the carriage home and shown him the bit of silver she’d nicked — with the admonition that there was nothing she could fit in her bag, nor under her skirt, for that matter, that would be a bigger score than those to come.

  Roffe’s reaction to that first bit of pilfering had chilled Cat to the core, though. He’d not yelled, not struck her, not said a word.

  He simply thumped his cane on the carriage’s roof and called to the driver, “The other destination!” then sat in silence, ignoring Cat’s queries until she eventually sat back and stared out the window as Roffe did.

  Her heart began to pound as she recognized the area they were in, none of the posh townhomes and city manors they’d passed on their way to the affair — instead it was the dirty, crowded streets of the market she’d grown up in.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in the middle of the street, ignoring the shouts of outrage from the drayman blocked behind them, and Roffe reached across her to fling the carriage door open.

  “Get out,” he said.

  Cat stared at him, wondering if this was some sort of test of his.

  “Out,” Roffe repeated, “and back to this if you like.”

  “Mister Roffe, what have I done?”

  “I’ve no time for you if you wish to be a petty thief taking up the common cutlery,” Roffe said. “Get out, or follow my rules, you understand?”

  Cat glanced from him to the growing crowd of market folk gathered around to see who might get out of the posh carriage. The drayman shouted again.

  No more urging or explanation than that was necessary for Cat — she understood. While she’d thought to please him with a little nick — only a bit of a game, really — clearly, he had larger game in his sights and she should work toward that. She sat back on the carriage bench and smoothed her skirts as Hinds taught her.

  “I understand, Uncle.”

  Roffe thumped his cane on the roof again and the driver swung the carriage door shut and put the horses into motion.

  “Oh, Catherine,” Roffe murmured. “I’ve so much more in store for you than a bit of silver traced with gold.”

  Cat came to enjoy the outings with Roffe, though he was always distant and would never speak of future plans, even in the privacy of the carriage to and from some place. She never stole again at these times, though it was a lark to stroll amongst the Quality, even enter their homes, and plan how she might rob them blind — always, after that first bit of silver, she set her sights much higher indeed.

  Not just the jewels the lady wears now, but how would she discover where the jewelry was kept? How to best get into the house in the night and take not just the diamond bracelet — which a brush of thumb and forefinger against the clasp, Clanton had taught her, would send it falling into the cuff of Cat’s dress — but the whole lot.

  Those were the things that occupied Cat’s mind as she sipped tea and chatted with other girls her age, whom she found interminably boring.

  All they ever talk about is clothes, Cat thought through a set smile of polite interest as one of them droned on.

  And, oh, the clothes.

  Cat almost broke her role to scowl and sigh at the thought.

  The outings with Roffe made necessary outings with Clanton, and not of the sort Cat would prefer. No, the one gown Roffe had given her, fine as it was, was not nearly enough.

  There must be gowns for tea and for the garden and for the theatre and for the …

  Whatever this is.

  And all of them, every one, required a different sort of gown — and more than one, for she must not be seen wearing the same one twice in a row.

  That meant trips to the dressmakers and what seemed like hours of poking and prodding while the things were fit properly.

  Then, to make it worse, none of the things were such that Cat could reasonably get them settled properly on herself alone. Roffe had still not staffed the townhouse and allowed none of the staff from the manor to travel, which meant leaving Emma behind and left Cat with Clanton to act the lady’s maid.

  That the man was both uncommonly deft with the intricacies of a lady’s garments and seemingly utterly indifferent to what lay under them did little to lessen Cat’s discomfort.

  Moreover, there was more than the one wardrobe to fill — Cat had two.

  There was the wardrobe of Catherine Roffe, niece and ward of Mister Edward Roffe, master artificer — and then there was the wardrobe of Cat, apprentice, she supposed, to Clanton, born, to all appearances with no given name as it was never spoken, and master of every sort of villainy Cat could imagine.

  Of the two, she preferred the latter, even though it did require more trips to the dressmaker.

  Or several dressmakers … and a ragshop or two.

  Clanton’s idea of a wardrobe was an outfit for all occasions, but while the occasions of Mister Roffe were teas and suppers, Clanton’s occasions were people in and of themselves. All of which meant sets of clothes acquired at very different places for very different purposes.

  There was Cat the Parson’s Niece, Cat the Flowergirl, Cat the Sea Captain’s Daughter, Cat the Merchant’s Sister, Cat the Fishmonger, and myriad others, even Cat the Lady’s Maid sent to market by her mistress — all of which required a different mode of dress and trips to a shop of some sort.

  “Do you not fear we’ll be recognized?” Cat asked as they made their way home one day. “Going about in different clothes as we do?”

  “Recognize what, my dear?” Clanton asked, his voice perfectly suited to the dark suit, round hat, and ecclesiastical collar he wore.

  Cat glanced over at him and resisted the urge to walk a bit more distant from him, certain the clear sky above could still produce a proper lightning strike for such blasphemy as this.

  “Well, we were not very far away from here just yesterday, with me as the Sea Captain’s Daughter,” Cat said. “Suppose someone from then should see us now.”

  “Nonsense — today you are the Parson’s Niece,” Clanton said. “There’s a vast difference between the two.”

  “What do you mean? For all these fine shops, the docks are but two blocks that way.” She nodded.

  “Again, nonsense,” Clanton said. “The Parson’s Niece is a proper girl. She walks with her back straight —” He glanced at her, cleared his throat, and Cat straightened her posture. “— her hands thus, yes, and with a delicate stride.”

  “Hobbled, you mean,” Cat said.

  “As may be,” Clanton said. “The Sea Captain’s Daughter, on the other hand —” He jerked his head toward the docks they’d walked the day before. “— has a rolling gait, a tarry mouth, and when she seeks to rouse her father from his drunken stupor in a wharf side pub, she resembles not at all the proper Parson’s Niece. They are two different people, all entirely.”

  Cat pondered that for a moment, then struck on something else that bothered her.

  “Why, in all these roles, must I be this one’s daughter or that one’s niece?” she asked. “May it never be for myself alone?”

  Clanton paused a moment, as though pondering it.

  “No.”

  “That’s —”

  “The way it is,” Clanton said. “Unless you have both wealth and power — and by power, I mean a title of some sort. Even then, best to be such’s widow.” He looked her over and narrowed hi
s eyes. “You’re young, but we can paint your face a bit — get you widow’s weeds tomorrow.”

  Much to Cat’s chagrin, there was also Cat the Market Beggar, in which role, she took a bit of umbrage at Clanton’s correcting her behavior. She thought she should come to that naturally, but Clanton would always have his way.

  Things changed at the manor house as well, though not to Mistress Hinds’ liking.

  Roffe decreed that Cat should have a lady’s maid, but one who could be trusted, and, at Cat’s suggestion, gave the nod to Emma for the job. Thus Hinds, in addition to the task of teaching Cat to be a lady, was placed of teaching Emma while Cat was at the townhouse.

  Emma rose to most tasks that had to do with caring for Cat, but balked at Hinds’ insistence that she work on her speech.

  Cat insisted as well, though, and Emma eventually, grudgingly, began to practice. She still spoke as she always had when alone with Cat, but took the effort, usually, to follow Hinds’ lessons when others were about.

  None of this, though — none of what she learned — gave her any more insight in to Edward Roffe and what he was about.

  That lack gnawed at her, and she determined to learn more. Curiously, there was little of Roffe at the country manor, despite Cat’s searching. She determined to search the townhouse as well, when next she was there.

  Chapter 13

  Her chance came soon enough, as Clanton arrived to take her off for another stint in town. His sudden announcement that he would spend the evening at a nearby pub instead of the townhouse that evening proved to be Cat’s chance. Roffe himself was seldom at the townhouse, coming by only to pick Cat up for those events he took her to. She wiled away her time at Clanton’s lessons in ever more complex locks until the man took his leave.

  No sooner had Clanton shut the door than Cat was in motion.

  There were things she wanted to know about this house and its master. Things she’d have no opportunity to find with Clanton in the house and aware of her every move.

  She rushed upstairs to her room to retrieve a candle and her lock picks, then went across the hall to the locked door.