by Arnette Lamb
The injustice stirred Sarah’s ire, and she pledged to call on every tailor from Grassmarket to Farley Close to secure a proper suit of clothes for each of the orphans. For now, shoes would have to do.
She gazed fondly at Notch. “Are all of your friends here?”
He kicked at a pebble. The sole of his shoe flapped loudly. “All but Left Odd. For twelve shillings, we apprenticed him out to the flesher in Niddry’s Wynd. ’Twas his idea to go.”
More often than not, apprenticeship was a polite term for slave labor. Based on the theory that Left Odd would earn a marketable trade, the orphans had scraped together the money to buy the lad a position. They had pooled their savings before in similar ventures, often with disastrous results.
But Sarah had met the poultry flesher. Mr. Geddes quoted the scriptures and hired a carriage for his small family every Sunday afternoon. Just to reassure herself about Left Odd’s welfare, Sarah vowed to make the acquaintance of the flesher’s wife. “I hope your friend fares well there.”
Notch thrust his hands into the patch pockets on his bulky coat. “Left Odd ain’t one for highjinks, you know. He’ll come away from that fleshery with a journeyman’s token.” In a quiet, vulnerable voice, he added, “He promised to bring home a dressed-out pheasant for each of us.”
Even the promise of a delicacy failed to stir excitement in Notch over the apprenticeship of his friend. She knew that he’d seen too much human misery, experienced too many failures in the effort to rise above poverty and starvation.
“Where did you eat last night?” she asked.
“Cholly got us work picking linings at the trunkmaker. The cook at Moffat’s Lodging House had extra drippings. She sold ’em to us for tuppence.”
Selling kitchen scraps was a common practice and one of the perquisites fortunate servants enjoyed. That employment was far above squatting in old trunks and ripping out the worn cloth linings. “Surely the food was cold by the time you arrived home”—wherever home was.
“Nay, she had good cinders, too. We built a toasty fire in the mews. Pic acquired a bucket o’ milk.”
He spoke of the meal as a triumph. For a group of children under twelve, it surely was. At their age, Sarah’s greatest dilemma had been deciding which book to read next.
Sarah added the grocers to her list of folks to visit on the orphans’ behalf. “You could have come to me for help.”
He shrugged, but fierce pride lay beneath the surface of his nonchalance. “We was out of want’s reach.”
“Still—”
“Leave it be, Lady Sarah. If we lodged up with you, the toffs and that foosty ol’ countess’ll start up their wicked rumors quicker than you can recite the kings of Scotland.”
At his gallantry, tears stung her eyes. The self-proclaimed betters in Edinburgh could learn a lesson in humanity from this decent lad. “Things will be better soon.”
He gave her a rare smile. “Aye, we’ll be happily circumstanced in Reekit Close.”
“Yes, you will.”
His mood further brightened, giving her a peek at the playful lad beneath his tough surface. “Is it true that you hired a nag and brought it to the general to ride?”
“The general’s coming!” shouted Sally.
Michael rode the fine crimson bay, the horse she’d admired on his arrival in Edinburgh. Garbed in city clothing, he bore little resemblance to the first officer of the Complement, until she looked into his eyes. There she recognized the determination and arrogance of a man born to lead and bound to exact revenge.
Sarah stiffened her resolve.
Beside him trotted a stable lad dressed in the sedate blue livery of the Dragoon Inn. A workman pushing a scavenger’s barrow moved into the lane. The bay sidestepped, then started to rear up, but Michael easily contained the animal.
Notch donned his cap, murmured, “By your leave, my lady.” Then he raced toward Michael.
After exchanging greetings with the stable lad, Notch called out, “Welcome, general.”
Without sparing Sarah a glance, Michael dismounted and tossed the reins to the liveried lad. Then he conversed at length with Notch, who pointed to the still-milling children.
“But first, General,” Notch said, “ ’bout that fight you ’n’ Cholly had. Did he truly call you a coward after you said he was a decrepit old scunner?”
Michael rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him toward Sarah. “We’ll discuss it later. How nice to see you again, Lady Sarah.”
Good manners dictated that she ignore his sarcasm. “Very nice indeed, sir.”
“You had a pleasant morning?”
Good intentions fled. “It was rather boring.”
“How can that be, my lady?” asked Notch. “Cholly said you traipsed all over Grassmarket lookin’ for the poorest mount to be had.”
“We must commend her on the search, Notch,” said Michael. “But I believe the MacKenzies are renown for their prowess at selecting any number of things.”
The thinly veiled insult spurred Sarah to say, “One of the many outstanding attributes of my clan.”
The determination in his eyes turned to lusty promise. “I anticipate discovering them all.”
Notch craned his neck to glance up at Michael. “You miffed at her over that jest with the mare?”
“Not miffed.”
Knowing Michael meant worse, Sarah looked him boldly in the eyes and smiled.
Misunderstanding, Notch blew out his breath in relief. “Good. Squire MacCrumb says he’d take ’er, even if she didn’t have all her teeth.”
“A man of discerning tastes, this Squire Mac-Crumb.”
“Not that. We cannot abide the thought of him comin’ ’round her ladyship. But he’s a generous one with his contributions.”
Having heard enough, Sarah folded her hands. “Speaking of generous, will you help me? There isn’t a mounting block in this lane.”
“I will.” Notch dashed forward and fell down on all fours beside her mount. “For a penny.”
“Notch is earnin’ a penny,” Pic exclaimed.
The news chirped through the throng of children, and they stared expectantly at Sarah.
Michael stood over the boy. “I’ll help her, lad.”
Knowing a penny would feed all of the children tonight and understanding that Notch wanted to earn the sum, Sarah sent Michael a pointed look. “I’m certain Notch can do the job. Could you just steady me?”
An instant later, enlightenment gleamed in Michael’s eye, and he held out his arm. The muscles felt like steel beneath her fingertips. She gave him all of her weight, which he bore without effort. As she stepped down, she barely tapped Notch’s back with her foot.
Michael’s expression turned pensive as he watched Notch spring to his feet and dust off his hands.
“Thank you.” Sarah gave him a penny.
He tucked it away. “We’re ready for the fittin’ of those shoes, general.”
Still watching Sarah, Michael nodded. “Gather the troops, lad.”
Notch dashed across the street, whistling as he went. “Citizens at large! All those here for gettin’ brogue-shod, let yourselves be heard.”
Squeals and hoots and a deluge of scurrying children were his reply. They surrounded him until Michael marched to his side and drew him away from the others.
He towered over Notch and spoke sharply, but Sarah couldn’t make out the words. The lad listened intently, his gaze darting from his friends to the still-closed doors of the hall. Inside, a trio of cobblers awaited. Above the shops was the large meeting room where the Cordiner’s Guild gathered to manage their trade.
With a final word of what could only be encouragement, Michael gripped Notch’s shoulder. The lad gave a brisk nod, pivoted on his heel, and approached his young friends. Holding up his arms, he whistled loudly. “Quite your squawking and make a line here, starting with Pic and Peg.” He pointed to the empty space before him.
Michael went inside the building and re
turned a moment later with an elderly cobbler. The older girl, Peg, was escorted inside first.
Feeling left out, Sarah asked the stable lad to watch her horse. Gathering the cumbersome train of her riding skirt, she joined Michael inside the establishment.
The heavy smells of oil and leather hung in the close air. In the rear of the shop, apprentices with tacks pressed between their lips wielded hammers and mallets as they plied the trade. Huddled near a lamp, a snaggle-tooth boy threaded a needle to stitch bows onto a pair of silk slippers.
“Peg wants the sturdy boots,” Michael said by way of explanation. “But I think the buttoned ones suit her better.”
He hadn’t considered what Peg’s life was like on the street. To him, Peg was a quiet 12-year-old in cast-off clothing. His generosity couldn’t be faulted.
“Tell him, Lady Sarah,” the girl pleaded. “Them shoes ain’t for gatherin’ thatch from Bruntsfield.”
Sarah picked up one of each of the shoes and compared them. “I agree the buttons are stylish.” She handed that one to the cobbler. “But Peg has a need for boots.” Catching Michael’s gaze, she lifted her brows. “Perhaps we’ll choose the button-ups next time for Peg.”
He understood. “Then boots it is for Peg.”
Sarah took up the post of observer, commenting only when Michael solicited her opinion. He looked at home in his philanthropy, and she wanted to ask him to share his feelings on the day. But how could she and still keep him at a distance? Eventually, the quandary drove her outside.
When Right Odd’s time came, he lifted Sally from his shoulders. Just as he set her feet on the paving stones, she wailed and tried to scramble up his arms. Her tiny fingers clutched him in a death grip, and her cherubic features were pinched with displeasure. The pink shawl Sarah had knitted for the girl only two months ago was already tattered and soiled. The special bond she shared with the burly Odd brothers was born of something stronger than blood. Sarah had asked Notch about it, but he brushed off her query. Loyalty kept him mum on the subject, and she understood. Until Sarah had learned the truth of her birthright, kept secrets had been a rarity among her and her half sisters.
The cobbler’s wife emerged from the shop, a stick of candy in her hand. She held it before the fretful girl.
As if burned, Sally jerked and turned her head away.
Right Odd groaned. “She don’t take to strangers offerin’ up sweets to her. Gently, Sally.” He jostled her on his hip. “None’s to lay a hand on you.”
Sarah cringed inside at the possible reasons for such behavior in the adorable child.
“Give ’er to me,” Notch said, holding out his arms. “C’mon Sally, it’s just ol’ Notch to look after you. Will you bide a wee with me so Odd can get shod with his fine new brogues?”
Her cries turned to hiccups, and she peered cautiously at him.
He further cajoled her with, “We’ll be frolickin’ in the greensward with our new shoes, won’t we now?”
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving a trail of clean, pink skin.
Waving the riding crop, he said, “The general give me this special tool to keep all the mates in line. But look there.” His face contorted in a comic grin, and he waved the crop toward the waiting children. “It’s a bunch of scattered Turks they’re acting! I’ll need someone stout of heart to help me with the lot of’em. Will you lend a hand, Sally girl?”
She giggled and grabbed for him.
He scooped her up, and with a grunt, perched her on his shoulders. “I knew you be after rescuin’ ol’ Notch.”
She snatched the crop, and squealing with laughter, whacked him on the head.
“Oh-ho, brigands! She’s a fearsome taskmaster, our Sally is.” With a firm grip on her thighs, he skipped the length of the line, whinnying like a kicked horse all the way. Right Odd hurried inside the hall.
The other children waved at Sally; one eager lad of about nine tried to take the crop. Sally clutched it to her skinny chest and shook her head violently.
Her movement tipped Notch’s balance. “Hey, leave off, Patrick,” he yelled, bracing his legs. “Let Sally have ’er fun.”
Looking like the princess of the ragamuffins, Sally urged Notch on. As they moved down the line of orphans, she dubbed each of them with her magic wand.
Michael came outside and called Notch’s name. Taking giant steps and hefting Sally with each one, the lad moved to the door.
“You’re next,” Michael said. “Then we’ll start with the little ones.”
“But what about Sally? It’s just me and the Odds she’ll let handle her. I’ll wait.”
“You’ll go now. We’re at the cobbler’s disposal.” Michael plucked the girl from Notch, but winced at her near-deafening cries. “Look!” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “It’s a pink horse.”
Legs dangling, she stopped in midscream and jerked around. “Where?”
“There.” He shifted her to his hip and pointed to a dappled gray.
“ ’S white,” she said, as peevish as could be.
“You know, I think you have me there, Sally. What color is my horse?”
“Red.”
They discussed the color and size of every horse passing in the lane, of two dogs tussling over a bone, and even a somberly dressed porter whom Sally dubbed a black beetle.
Right Odd came out wearing black shoes with sturdy wooden buckles. Michael yielded the girl, then approached Sarah in what closely resembled a manly swagger.
“Not altogether a poor effort,” he said, “even for a conniving, deceitful Elliot.”
He fancied himself good with children, and she had to admit that he was. “I’m sorry for calling you names, but I haven’t seen you tripping over your boots to acknowledge me for putting aside our quarrel.”
He walked in a circle around her, searching. “Where have you put it?”
He could lend patience to Job. “Do stop, Michael.”
“I will, when gulls bay at the moon.” Halting before her, he grew serious. “You address me as Michael, but I cannot address you as Sarah.”
“Have you a title other than general?”
“Yes. Viscount Saint Andrews.”
Sarah reconsidered her opinion of him and added modesty to his growing list of good character traits. “Truly?”
He looked bewildered. “Nay, I’m actually a room-setter in Cowgate North.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Why keep it to yourself until now?”
“You did not ask.”
Feeling as if she’d received a well-deserved set-down, Sarah gave him her best curtsy. “A thousand pardons, Lord Michael.”
“Actually, it’s recently bestowed.”
She remembered that he’d shared luncheon today with Lady Emily and knew the source of his newly bestowed position in society. The conclusion troubled her. Had he thrown in his lot with his mother? Sarah hoped not, for the countess of Glenforth tainted everyone she touched.
As always, Sarah was concerned about his feelings on the matter. “Are you pleased?”
He shrugged, but she thought he rather liked the idea. “Will you take a seat in Parliament?” His brother hadn’t bothered with public service.
“My preference would be to stand for one in the Commons.”
He’d chosen the difficult path, facing election among the voting citizens. He also comforted frightened little girls and robbed unsuspecting women of their good judgment. “Will you enjoy the long stay in London during the sessions?”
He looked at her askance. “I haven’t won yet.”
But he would. She’d stake both of her dowries on that. “Were I given a ballot, I’d cast my vote for you.”
“My lady!” The aproned cobbler leaned out the door. “We need your help with the wee ones.”
Reluctantly, Sarah left Michael on the walkway. Effortlessly, he always drew her into conversation, and whether the topic proved congenial or controversial, she delighted in the exchanges.
L
ater, when the youngest lad had been fitted in his new shoes, she was still anticipating the next lively exchange she’d share with Michael.
On that encouraging thought, she walked outside and saw the mare, alone in the street, a sidesaddle strapped onto the animal’s concaved back. Sarah’s gelding and Michael and all of the other orphans were gone.
Between gales of laughter, the tanner gave her a message from Michael: if she wanted her horse back, she was to follow the crowd to the customs house.
* * *
“You infuriating wretch.”
Michael ducked just in time. Her gloves whizzed over his head. “Not a boor?” He held up his hands to ward her off. “I thought all Elliots were boors.”
“They are, especially when they behave like common thieves.”
Standing on the stoop of the partially renovated customs house, Michael coughed to hide a smile. “Will you excuse us, Notch?”
Neither the lad nor his cohorts moved.
Sarah tapped the quirt against her thigh. “Yes, please. I intend to show the high king of the pranksters what harvest his tricks have reaped.”
“If you strike me with that crop, I’ll turn you over my knee.”
“You’ll have to crawl out of your Elliot cave first and drop your club.”
Eyes agog, Notch looked from one to the other. “You ain’t for beatin’ Lady Sarah, are you, general?”
In the absence of the duke of Ross, someone had to take this woman in hand. Michael relished the job. “A lamentable event, Notch, I’m forced to admit.”
Grasping Sarah’s arm, Michael led her into what would become the library. “Close your mind to her screams, lad, and cover the ears of the younger ones.”
The moment the door closed, Sarah’s senses sharpened. The musty smell of damp plaster and mildewed wood grew pungent, and the hammering noises from the floors above echoed on the ceiling. Dust sifted to the cluttered floor. Anticipation thrummed through her.
Stepping over rags and broken glass, Michael moved toward her. “I’m surprised that you cry foul when all I did was give you a taste of your own bitters.”