One of the brawny blackguards bumped him, swearing loud and long.
Fletcher eyed him with disdain.
“Ye’re in m’ way.”
Fletcher raised a brow and dipped his head in annoyance before stepping the tiniest bit away, not quite enough for the man to move easily around him. It’d delay him a bit more.
A flower girl, nosegays in her little hands, came around the corner where Milligan had disappeared. She passed Fletcher without acknowledgment, moving to where Irving stood. “Bouquet, mister? A penny each.”
“Have you sold many?” Irving asked.
More code, more unstated questions and inquiries.
“Five just now, sir.”
Five—Milligan, his two assistants, and the two sisters. Five pennies.
“Sounds like I ought to buy some as well, seeing as they’re so popular.” Irving purchased a couple of bouquets. He flipped a penny before handing it to her. She flipped it in precisely the same way.
They were done. The girls were safe and away, though it had been a near thing. Miss Black had almost undone it all, had nearly set herself unknowingly in danger.
As he casually sauntered down the street, he couldn’t entirely clear his mind of Miss Black’s expression as he’d dismissed her so coldly. She wasn’t going to be happy with him. He regretted that. They’d had something of a friendship beginning between them. That was likely gone now.
Keeping secrets saved lives, but it also complicated things.
Fletcher Walker was an aggravation of the most frustrating sort. He’d conversed amicably with her at the salon. She wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d been flirtatious, but he’d certainly been friendly. Yet he’d acted just now as if she’d overstepped herself with her simple greeting when they’d crossed paths on the street.
There was nothing to be done but write him into the next installment of The Lady and the Highwayman and make certain something miserable happened to him. One did not treat an author poorly without consequences.
Furthermore, one did not pull the wool over an author’s eyes easily. Did Mr. Walker truly think she would take no note of the bootblack following her through the teeming crowd or that she wouldn’t realize it was the same little boy who had been shining his shoes when she’d spoken with him? He hadn’t acted as though he thought her dim-witted.
A thought entered her mind that slowed her steps. He had teased her about being in this area of Town in order to supply her publisher with a manuscript, knowing this was the area where the penny dreadfuls were produced. Had he been teasing? She had her suspicions about his participation in the mysterious Dread Penny Society. Did he suspect her secret as well?
Surely not. She’d not given any hints. She’d been careful to assume a neutral position, neither praising nor criticizing the penny dreadfuls. And she had purposely pretended to have “discovered” vague information about Mr. King to turn suspicion away from her. Had it not been enough? Had she given away more than she realized?
The street was not nearly so chaotic as it had been earlier when an argument had broken out between a group that had met the posting coach. In the cacophony, she hadn’t been able to make out precisely the topic of disagreement, but it had been heated and the crowd diverse: fishmongers, gentlemen, primly dressed women, flower sellers. She’d even recognized one of the onlookers: Irving Abbey, who’d begun his career writing for the Times and had, in his later years, turned to penny serials. He’d watched the proceedings with the curiosity a journalist never outgrows.
Elizabeth had also noted with delight just how many in the crowd had copies of the much-decried “low literature” serials tucked in pockets and baskets and coats. She even spotted a familiar purple cover. That never stopped being exciting to stumble across unexpectedly.
The young bootblack hung back now, not following so closely. Indeed, the more distance she put between herself and the ruckus, the farther away he kept. He did not, however, stop his pursuit. She didn’t feel threatened, but it was imperative that she accomplish her business without being seen.
How did one shake a young boy following close on one’s heels? With a sigh of both amusement and annoyance, she stepped into the one nearby shop she felt certain he’d not enter: a seller of unmentionables. She would remain long enough for her shadow to move on. Her chemise and corset and stockings had always been quite serviceable, a matter of necessity when she was young and her father gambled away all the family’s resources. She’d never given much thought to changing that, but perhaps she should. A touch of lace and a completely unnecessary ruffle would be such a joyful extravagance.
Elizabeth tucked her stack of papers against her chest. This story was doing particularly well. She had every expectation of the next installment being likewise as successful, perhaps even more so. Her school had patrons and students enough to be financially stable. Provided her questionable writing endeavors didn’t become known and undermine everything, she’d have enough extra funds for a few frills.
She peeked through the shop window and out onto the street. No sign of the bootblack. As a precaution, she slipped in and out of a few more shops, careful to give the impression of casual interest and being utterly certain she didn’t leave her manuscript papers anywhere.
At last, more than thirty minutes behind schedule and no longer being followed, she headed toward her original destination. Her identity was too vital a secret to trust even to her publisher, and so she had enlisted the help of the brother of a former pupil, a young man who worked as a clerk in a business near the building where her penny dreadful publisher had its offices. He had a friend who worked in that building who had a friend who kept books for the publisher. It was a rather ridiculously complicated means of doing something as simple as turning in stories, but it had protected her secret.
“I liked your most recent,” Timothy said upon receiving her stack of papers.
“Thank you.”
He carefully tucked her pages under his arm. “I’ll hand these over.”
“I do appreciate that you arranged this for me and that you’ve never given me a moment’s worry over your trustworthiness.”
He smiled, his crooked teeth making the expression all the more endearing. “You looked after my sister after our parents died. I’d keep every secret you have if it would pay you back for that.”
“How is Mary?”
“Happy as a lark.”
Elizabeth was glad to hear it. “Please offer her my love next time you see her.”
Timothy nodded and slipped inside his building. He could be counted on. She didn’t spend a moment worrying over the delivery. She had allowed herself time to undertake errands but, in reality, had little else that had to be seen to. The afternoon was hers.
Upon reaching the shop of her favorite bookseller, she came across a man she knew vaguely but hadn’t seen in some time: Quintin Hogg. He ran a ragged school for London’s most destitute children.
“Ah, Miss Black,” he said upon her greeting him. “How are your efforts at Thurloe?”
“Challenging.”
He nodded knowingly. “The education of children is never simple, is it?”
“Though our challenges are not identical,” she said, “I would welcome any wisdom you have to offer.”
He tucked the book he was holding under his arm. “Come call on me at my school one day when you have a bit of time. I will happily share any insights I have.”
“Thank you very much.”
Mr. Walker’s dismissive treatment had cast a pall over her day, but Mr. Hogg’s offer of help brightened everything.
Janey Smith had the look of one who’d seen far too much of a cruel world despite not yet having reached the age of fourteen. The wariness in her eyes belied the hardness of her expression.
“What kind of woman is this Miss Black?” She clearly expected the worst. “Doc Milli
gan said I weren’t to go to a bawdy house or work in the street.” She showed not the slightest embarrassment at referencing those places and professions.
“She’s a headmistress of a girls’ school,” Fletcher said.
Janey tossed him a look of disbelief heavily tinged with cynicism. “I ain’t one for learnin’. Haven’t any use for it anyhow.”
There was a lot to argue in that, but he felt it best to fight this battle on one front at a time. “I ain’t bringin’ you to enroll you, sweetie. I’m hopeful Miss Black is in need of a chambermaid.”
The bit of hope that entered her eyes broke his heart. Too many poor children lost the ability to believe in better things to come. That Janey had managed to keep any part of that belief spoke to her strength and determination. If only Miss Black had a place for her, even for only a time.
He couldn’t bear the thought of the streets claiming yet another child, especially one barely clinging to the tiniest shred of hope. If Miss Black didn’t have room for Janey, he’d keep looking until he found something. Too many people had given up on him when he was a tiny urchin. He wouldn’t do the same.
“You don’t talk as fine as Mr. Darby.” Janey made the observation with a tone of insult, but Fletcher knew better. She was curious and nervous, and, he would wager, alone for the first time. Her older sister had been taken that day to an acquaintance of Irving’s who they hoped could employ the girl for a time. They wanted to find the girls a situation where they could be together, but that would take time.
“I ain’t as fine and fancy as he is,” he said. “I’ve learned to be more proper, and I have a roof over my head now, but my origins are still there in my words and views and such. That don’t ever go away, not entirely.”
“The lady at Dr. Milligan’s surgery said the country’ll always be in my voice. She said it like it were a bad thing.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Don’t you pay no heed to that. Sounding country ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. People’ll notice, just as you noticed my street talk, but show ’em you’re worth listening to and they’ll heed you.”
“Will Miss Black?”
He offered a slight shrug as they turned up the walk to the front door of Thurloe Collegiate School. “She’s not said anything about my speaking.”
Janey nodded, assuming a determined expression. Poor thing tried hard to look and seem as independent as possible. She’d been a little flirtatious when he’d first met her at Milligan’s, something he’d seen far too many young girls employ when interacting with men. It was a way of defending themselves, he felt certain. If they acted older, they might not be taken advantage of as much, and flattering a man’s ego made him less likely to lash out at her. It condemned the men of the world that girls learned such things, yet too many men didn’t see it or didn’t care or thought it their right to make this world dangerous for the girls and women in it.
His firm knock was answered by the housekeeper, a no-nonsense woman he’d been quite impressed with during his previous visit. She didn’t have the look of defeat too many servants wore, neither did she give the impression of being a tyrant. If Janey were employed under this woman’s watch, she’d be treated well and would learn all she needed to find honorable employment.
“Mr. Walker for Miss Black,” he said.
They waited in the entryway while the housekeeper left to see if her mistress was available.
“She didn’t look at me like I were a slug or something.” Janey sounded genuinely surprised.
Fletcher chuckled. “They’re good people here. Behave as you ought, and they’ll treat you right.”
“I know how to behave.”
“I don’t doubt you do.”
Miss Newport descended the stairs from the upper landing. Her gaze fell on them, and she smiled warmly. “Why, Mr. Walker. What brings you here?”
“Would you believe I came to see you?”
“No.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “I do believe you would say that, though, if it meant getting a bit of flirting done while you wait for the person you actually came to see.”
“He ain’t one for flirting,” Janey declared. “Says it ain’t ’propriate.”
Fletcher eyed her pointedly. “In our circumstances, sweetie, it ain’t.”
Some of her bluster died, and color touched her cheeks.
“Janey, this here’s Miss Newport, a fine lady what teaches music here at the school. A curtsey’d be your best greeting.”
“I know.” Janey spoke defiantly but also humbly.
“Miss Newport, this is Janey, a young woman recently arrived from the country.”
“Essex,” Janey said.
Miss Newport, good soul that she was, smiled kindly at the girl’s brashness. “I have never been to Essex,” she said, “but I’m certain it is lovely.”
Janey twitched her head and shoulders, not quite a shrug but something like it. “It ain’t awful. Quieter than London.”
“Everywhere’s quieter than London,” Fletcher said, earning him a smile from them both.
The door to Miss Black’s office opened, and the housekeeper stepped out. She met Fletcher’s eye and, with a dip of her head said, “Miss Black’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Thank you.”
She slipped away. In the next instant, Alistair Headley stepped from the office. That man was like an itchy rash, arriving unannounced and unwanted, and proving a source of annoyance. Fletcher adjusted his position, keeping himself between Headley and Janey. He didn’t think the man was any kind of threat or would ill-use the girl. She’d simply endured enough in her life without adding another misery.
“Walker.” Headley spoke his name as if identifying an insect crawling on his sleeve.
“Headman,” Fletcher returned.
“Headley.”
Fletcher pulled in his brows, tipping his head forward. “What was that?”
“Headley. My name is Headley, not Headman.”
“Are you sure?”
Headley’s eyes narrowed. His mouth pulled tight. The man, it seemed, had only just realized Fletcher was poking at him. The game might’ve gone on longer, but Miss Black stepped to the threshold of her office, pulling Fletcher’s attention there.
“Mr. Walker.” She motioned him inside.
Fletcher turned back to Janey, indicating she should step in ahead of him. Miss Black eyed the girl as she passed, but didn’t object.
“Would you be terribly put out if I closed the door?” Fletcher asked. “I’ve a personal matter to discuss and would appreciate a bit of privacy.”
Miss Black looked from him to Janey and then back again before nodding.
He pushed the door until it latched.
“How can I help you, Mr. Walking?” Miss Black asked.
“It’s Walker.”
She tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”
Oh, that bit of wit deserved a grin, and he gave it one without hesitation. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”
“Have you?”
“Told you this weren’t gonna work.” Janey assumed a petulant posture in the spindle-armed chair she occupied.
Fletcher sat on the edge of Miss Black’s desk, facing his frowning charge. “What’d I tell you this morning when we was leaving Doc Milligan’s?”
“Quit sayin’ ‘bung your eye,’” she muttered.
Behind him, Miss Black did a poor job of covering a laugh with a cough.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “I did have to tell her that.”
“Let us hope she heeds your excellent counsel.”
He arched a brow, letting his doubt show. He turned back to the girl. “I know you ain’t been given many reasons to hope in this life, Janey, but I need you to try. Just for a bit.”
“What if she won’t listen to you?” She mot
ioned to Miss Black.
“I don’t particularly wish to listen to Mr. Walker,” Miss Black said. “And he doesn’t always wish to listen to me, especially when he’s having his shoes polished.”
That was too pointed a remark to misunderstand. He couldn’t explain his reasons to her, but leaving her in the dark meant risking her cooperation now when they needed it so badly.
“I will, however,” she continued, “listen to you, Janey.”
“To me?” All the girl’s bravado disappeared. “I ain’t a fine speaker.”
“Neither is Mr. Walker.”
Fletcher laughed and crossed to the chair where Janey sat, standing behind it. “Tell her why we’ve come, sweetie.”
Miss Black moved a chair from the side of her desk and placed it beside Janey’s, then sat looking at her with kindness and patience in her eyes.
Janey took a shaky breath. “We was bought by Mrs. George,” she said.
Miss Black looked at him with both shock and doubt, but Janey wasn’t fibbing. He gave a subtle but firm nod.
“When we got to London,” Janey continued, “Doc Milligan took us away and made Mrs. George’s bullyboys leave us be. He might’ve paid her after it all, I don’t know.”
They hadn’t given that horrid woman so much as a ha’penny. She’d threatened Milligan, who’d kept her occupied until the authorities arrived. She’d been none too happy. He’d not heeded her in the least.
“Fanny went with one of Doc’s friends, and I’s come here with Mr. Walker on account of he says you’re a good ’un.”
Miss Black’s expression softened the more she listened to Janey. She might have been put out with him, but she didn’t hold that against this girl who was in so much need.
“Fanny’s her sister,” Fletcher explained. “Mrs. George makes her living running a handful o’ bawdy houses and selling girls to macks on the street.”
Anger touched the sadness in Miss Black’s eyes.
The Lady and the Highwayman Page 9