“Move, boy,” the portly sweep shouted at his climbing boy.
The little one rushed to keep pace with his master’s long strides. It wasn’t enough. The sweep grabbed the boy by his coat front and yanked him off his feet.
“If I miss this job on account o’ you, I’ll tan your hide ’til you bleed, hear?”
Fletcher knew well the fear he saw in the boy’s eyes. That hadn’t been an idle threat.
The sweep dropped the child on the ground. He landed with a thud and a whimper, sprawled in a painful twisting of his thin limbs.
Fletcher kept himself still, fighting the urge to yank the boy away and bust the man’s nose for good measure. But he didn’t dare risk overplaying their hand.
Hollis moved down the walk, assuming a stride that declared him the gentry cove he truly was. Sometimes Fletcher forgot how far above his touch Hollis truly was. The man was to the manor born, no matter that he now rubbed elbows with a collection of mutts and castaways and tellers of sensationalized tales.
Right on cue, Hollis bumped into the portly sweep’s brushes, managing to make the collision appear unintentional. Before the sweep likely knew what had happened, Hollis’s voice rang out in the street, accusing loudly and angrily that the man had ruined Hollis’s clothing with the soot of his brushes. The fierce reprimand did what it was meant to: the sweep stared, shocked, bemused, upended.
Fletcher pushed away from the post and sauntered over toward the fray. “Seems ye’re in bad loaf, friend.”
The sweep glared. “I’ve done nothing to this cove. He walked directly into m’brushes, then cries and shouts that I’ve done him a harm.”
“The state of my clothing indicates you have.” Hollis could sound the puffed-chest aristocrat when he put his mind to it.
Fletcher leaned nearer to the sweep. “I’d wager you know full well how these fine gents bullyrag a fellow over every blasted thing. Best see if you can’t square up with the cove.”
“I haven’t money to toss at a man who could buy and sell me ten times over.”
Fletcher shrugged, tapping the mouthpiece of his pipe against his teeth. “Might do to brush him off a bit.”
The man grumbled something Fletcher didn’t try to make out; he could guess easily enough. The man produced a handkerchief, one nearly as blackened as his brushes and clothes.
“Not with that, chum,” Fletcher warned. “He’ll string you up.” He popped a handkerchief from his own coat, one not quite so filthy as the sweep’s.
As the sweep grudgingly swiped at Hollis’s jacket, Fletcher noted out of the corner of his eye that Martin had secured the cooperation of the sweep’s little assistant. Hollis pointed out areas where his “attacker” ought to apply greater care in undoing the damage he’d caused. Fletcher made certain to meet his pretended-friend’s eye now and then with a look of shared annoyance for the absurdity of the upper classes.
Martin and the boy slipped away, unseen and undetected. Fletcher would give them time enough to make good their escape before bringing the charade to an end.
Hollis huffed and brushed the man’s hand away, declaring he was helping not at all, and strode away. Fletcher remained behind.
“M’heart bleeds for that gent’s poor laundry maid,” Fletcher said. “He likely flies into a rage at every spot she cain’t scrub out.”
“Them cloddy coves’d beat a dog for havin’ fur.”
Fletcher bit back the observation that the sweep had tossed a child around not more than a moment earlier for nothing more than walking slower than he did. And he’d threatened to beat him if the day didn’t go well. Fletcher had no doubt he beat the child often.
He tossed a mumbled agreement—his part in this theatrical called for it—and, tucking his pipe back into the corner of his mouth, sauntered off in the opposite direction Hollis had gone.
The briefest of moments passed before the sweep shouted, “Boy! You come back, boy. I’ll skin you, I will. You’ll sleep in the next chimney if you don’t show yourself now.”
Fletcher’s chest seized, and his fists clenched. He had once been on the receiving end of such threats and the carrying out of them. That was life for the poor urchins of this city. But as of tonight, it was reality for one fewer than it had been. But he couldn’t turn around and flatten the blackguard, couldn’t draw attention.
He took the roundabout way toward York Street, making certain no one followed him or looked at him askance. Tipping his hand might help the blustering bloke find the little boy.
Fletcher doubled back a few times, keeping his strides both confident and casual. He received a few glances, but none that couldn’t be explained by his swagger. His cap sat low enough and his whiskers grown in enough that the stand-abouts seeing him later, shaven and well-togged, would never realize he was the same bloke they’d seen before.
He slipped quietly up behind the mews not far from Hogg’s ragged school. Martin was already inside, the little climbing boy with him. The stablehand, Joe, handed the urchin a bit of a sandwich. The boy devoured it in an instant.
When Fletcher stepped forward, their rescued sufferer slipped immediately behind Martin, clutching the back of his coat.
“He’s one of us, Daniel,” Martin assured him quietly. “He helped us get you away.”
“Mr. Allen’ll kill me, he will. Has been meaning to for ages.”
With a flick of his hand, Fletcher tossed his cap onto an obliging nail. “He’ll not know where you are, boy. We’ve hidden away enough now to know how to do the thing right and proper.”
“Them whips there”—the boy pointed a shaking finger at the nearby wall—“what’re them for?”
“Urging the horses along,” Joe said.
Daniel swallowed loudly. “Whips hurt.”
“Yes, they do,” Fletcher muttered. He knew from vast personal experience when he had been Daniel’s age.
“We only crack ’em over the animals’ heads. The sound tells ’em to step livelier,” Joe added.
“You don’t whip ’em?” Daniel didn’t seem to fully believe him.
“No,” Joe said.
The boy still didn’t look convinced.
“Whips ain’t for hurting or causing pain,” Fletcher said. “Not to people or animals.”
“Are too,” Daniel countered. “An’ they hurt like the devil.”
“I know it,” Fletcher said. “I had a few masters like yours when I was a boy. You’ll find none like him here. I swear it.”
“Am I bein’ hidden here?” Daniel slipped a little away from his protector, still eyeing Fletcher and Joe with uncertainty.
“For now,” Martin said. He had a comforting way with the boy, calm and confident, soft without being wishy-washy. “And you’ll have a bit of learnin’ at the ragged school.”
“Ragged schools don’t take the likes of me,” he said. “Too rough, they say. Too low.”
“This one will,” Fletcher said. “Mr. Hogg don’t object to children what are low or rough.”
Daniel looked to Martin. “Do he object to folks . . . like us?”
Martin hunched down, eyes level with the boy’s. “Plenty toss us aside, don’t they?”
The boy nodded.
“I’d not’ve let ’em bring you here if I thought anyone would treat you bad on account of your skin being like mine. They ain’t saints, but none of this lot”—he motioned to Fletcher and Joe—“will mistreat you.”
Daniel turned doubtful eyes on Fletcher. Life on the streets didn’t teach children to be hopeful or naïve. “You swear?”
“Frequently and fluently.”
That earned him a fleeting grin. It disappeared quickly, though.
“And there’ll be food?” The broken hopefulness of that simple question tore a hole clear through Fletcher. He remembered all too well what it was to be hungry. And beaten. A
nd afraid.
“We’ll make particular certain of that,” he said. He pulled a silver ten-cent piece from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to the boy. “This is for you, for getting yourself a few things you need. I’ve every confidence you’ll spend it wisely.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniel’s eyes opened wide as he took the coin, holding it like a nugget of pure gold.
“But this’n”—Fletcher held up a penny, one etched with DPS in tiny lettering—“isn’t for spending. If ever you’re needing something, or you hear of another child or mother or person in need of saving, you bring this penny to Joe, here, and he’ll fetch us.”
“Is that how you heard about me? Someone tossed ’im a penny?”
“That’s how we hear about most things,” Martin said. “The street children know everything.”
Daniel grinned, the heaviness in his eyes lifted by the change in his expression. “We hear it all, we do. And we ain’t afraid to whisper it back to those what use it for helping.”
“That’s what we do,” Fletcher said.
“C’mon, then.” Martin nudged Daniel toward the door of the mews and the ladder leading up to the stablehand’s lodgings. There was a small room they used for rescued children, a space where they were safe and, likely for the first time in their lives, granted a bit of privacy. Joe looked after ’em until the Dread Penny Society secured something else. Daniel would sleep and eat well that night. He’d have a bit of learning. And he’d pass a night without being beaten. Fletcher knew how rare that was for children like Daniel, like he himself used to be.
This was what he worked so hard for. He appreciated the comfort that his successes had brought his own life, but the children he was able to save was the real reward. If King kept chipping away at his profits, he’d not be able to do as much for the urchins. Finding the man and seeing if he’d support the cause, or at least not impede it, was crucial
Joe motioned for him to wait a minute before leaving. “We may have a spot of trouble.”
“What flavor?”
“Ash.”
He hadn’t been expecting that and didn’t quite know what to make of it.
“Been finding charred bits of torches and matches and such ’round the school grounds. Enough to catch m’notice.”
“Children playing with fire?” The school claimed a great many children with a tendency to get themselves into mischief.
“Maybe, but I’m not finding it in places they’re likely to leave it. I’m finding it under windows. Out on the walk. Even back here by the mews.” Joe shook his head. “Something ain’t right.”
“You think it worth looking into?”
Joe nodded. Firmly.
“Hollis’ll want to know,” Fletcher said. The man was tireless in his fight for the education of the poor. He was the reason Hogg’s school was supported so strongly by the Dread Penny Society. “We’ll see what we can find out. You keep those eyes peeled as well.”
The opposition to this school had been particularly fierce, but in indirect ways. Cutting off funds and support, that sort of thing. What if someone was taking more drastic measures? What if the society had rescued Daniel only to drop him into a different sort of danger?
Elizabeth sat, as was customary on Thursday evenings, in the school’s parlor, acting as chaperone while her teachers received callers. Most enjoyed friendly chats with friends of some standing, teachers from other establishments, the occasional family member. A few of the younger, prettier teachers did not pass a single Thursday without being the subject of attention from besotted men. That those younger teachers were not all that much younger than she was made her role in this weekly endeavor all the more absurd.
And Miss Beating—whose unfortunate surname had a tendency to inspire fear in newly arrived pupils upon first meeting their sewing instructor—had been a teacher twice as long as Elizabeth had been alive, yet she was not the one charged with keeping the “young people” toeing the line of propriety.
Still, the weekly calling hour provided her staff with something to look forward to and a bit of much-deserved happiness, and her presence allowed it to occur without anyone looking askance at her establishment. She did a great many things she found a bit absurd in the service of her profession and respectability.
“My dearest Miss Newport,” a particularly besotted young gentleman declared upon entering the parlor and casting eyes upon the school’s music instructor. Ana Newport was, without question, a veritable beauty of that delicate variety that never seemed to fall out of fashion.
Ana was only a few years Elizabeth’s junior, and they had become fast friends. In Ana, she had discovered a woman who kept her inner strengths hidden from the world, while Elizabeth only ever showed the world the strengths she knew others would find most acceptable. They were both happy to have positions they enjoyed and a future they could rely upon, but neither of them were wholly satisfied.
“Mr. Porter,” Ana said in a tone of gentle reproof, “you really mustn’t be so familiar.”
“My feelings are too ardent for prudence,” he insisted, his expression that of a martyr. He spoke loudly enough for Elizabeth to overhear and, likely, Miss Quinn, the arithmetic instructor. The rest of the room took no obvious note.
“Your imprudence will end with me being censured by my employer,” Ana insisted. “A teacher’s position depends upon decorum.”
Elizabeth managed to set her features in an expression of quiet reprimand, though she did not look directly at the couple. Ana had used this particular tactic before; Elizabeth was happy to oblige.
“Forgive me, Miss Newport.” Mr. Porter pressed his hand to his heart, not tearing his gaze from the golden-haired Ana. “I would not cause you distress for all the world.”
Ana had a remarkable ability to express a significant range of emotions with the tiniest lift of a brow or the smallest pull of her lips. One, however, had to know her well to see such changes in her expression let alone interpret them. Elizabeth was well able to do both.
Mr. Porter was not. He was, indeed, causing Ana distress. Not by his fervent words of delight at her company, but by his continued monopolization of her time. She was too polite and kindhearted to say as much, but he would do far more for his cause by simply leaving.
Elizabeth hid her amusement with effort. She needed to appear the staid and steady chaperone, after all. Such was her odd lot in life. Inwardly, she dreamed of daring adventure, wishing she could indulge those fantasies without losing everything she’d worked for.
Mrs. Hale, the housekeeper, showed in another caller, one that both pleased and surprised Elizabeth. Mr. Headley did not often come during the established visiting hours, yet when he did visit Thurloe Collegiate School, it was always to call upon her. This time, however, he had not come unaccompanied.
Serenity Vance was approximately the same age as Elizabeth, and like Elizabeth, had established herself as a relatively successful writer of silver-fork novels. The two of them were not rivals, but neither were they particular friends.
“Miss Vance.” She offered a quickly dipped curtsy in greeting. “Mr. Headley.” Another.
They settled into a comfortable seating arrangement, but Mr. Headley and Miss Vance did not prove to be particularly quiet conversationalists. It wasn’t a rudeness, necessarily, more an unawareness of just how much they dominated the space upon their arrival.
“Miss Black, everyone is utterly longing for your next book,” Miss Vance said. “Do tell me you will soon have something new for us to devour.”
Though her choice of words was, perhaps, a bit grander than was necessary, everything in her expression and tone spoke of sincerity. Elizabeth appreciated that more than her visitor likely realized.
“My efforts are slower than I would prefer,” she said. “I hope to soon find myself more productive.”
Ana, either anxious to defend Elizabe
th from some perceived slight or eager to escape Mr. Porter’s continued attention, spoke up. “She is forever bent over her pages, pen flying with great speed.”
“Oh, that is good news.” Miss Vance smiled at her.
Mr. Headley offered a nod of pleased approval.
What none of them realized was that her frantic efforts to complete the necessary pages were focused, not on her next tale for the refined readers of the elevated classes, but on the daring and dastardly tale of a young damsel relegated to the misery of an empty and isolated estate and who would soon find herself at the mercy of a mysterious highwayman. Silver-fork novels were an acceptable endeavor for a headmistress; penny dreadfuls were not.
“It is all too true,” she said, allowing regret to touch her words. “I have put in a great deal of effort, but must admit, I do not see an ending in sight.”
“We will be pleased with it whenever it is complete,” Miss Vance insisted.
Elizabeth asked after her writing and, soon, their conversation took them down familiar and safe paths. She even managed to rein in the volume of the conversation, allowing the other teachers to return to their discussions. Ana managed to free herself of Mr. Porter, who, undeterred, offered a heartfelt promise that he would return next week. Elizabeth smiled as Ana sat beside her with a sigh.
“I was rather shocked to see that Mr. Darby maintains such a close association with that penny dreadful author,” Mr. Headley said. “The Darbys are of good standing. And one need only listen to Walker speak to know his origins are not particularly exalted. His choice to pursue such low literature simply emphasizes it.”
She, too, had noticed the telltale turns in Mr. Walker’s speech: the Ts dropped at the end of words, vowels pulled out long and produced at the back of the throat, the slight garbling of sounds and swallowing of syllables, word choices that would not be made by those on a higher rung of society.
“But that would not matter particularly to the audience of his offerings,” Miss Vance said. “Indeed, it likely is part of the reason for his success.”
The Lady and the Highwayman Page 4