by Rose Lerner
Phoebe thought the Dissenters were likely to be next, and as they were far more numerous than Catholics and predominantly Whiggish to boot, she could see why the Tories opposed it. She repressed the cynical comment with an effort. “My father always said we worshiped the same God.”
His smile widened into a snicker. “Mrs. Sparks, have you ever even spoken with a Jew?”
“Yes, I have.” She flushed at his look of disbelief. “Jewish peddlers come through town all the time.”
There were snickers all round the table at that. “And there you have it,” Mr. Fairclough said. “You must—”
“I’ve never spoken with anyone from Manchester either,” she said, goaded. “Should they be denied the franchise on that account?”
“It might be best!” someone called out, and suddenly everyone was telling stories about brainless Northerners and showing off their impressions of an incomprehensible Northern accent. Mr. Fairclough’s was actually rather good, which only irritated Phoebe further, especially when he set the heaping plate of sweets down in front of her with, “Owt else you fancy, ma’am?”
“I don’t much like sweets.” Her self-deprecating little laugh depleted most of her remaining self-control.
He blinked. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Phoebe was reaching for the cider jug when Helen appeared at her elbow. “You’ve got to get Jack out of here, he’s drunk as a wheelbarrow.”
Phoebe threw Mr. Fairclough a nervous glance. “I can’t take care of Jack tonight.”
“A wheelbarrow with no wheel.”
“Ships, a wheelbarrow with no wheel is just standing still.” But she looked around for Jack. His chair was empty. Then she spotted him weaving his way towards Miss Jessop, who was glancing anxiously between him and her father. Phoebe thought the young woman would have fled, but her chair was quite hemmed in.
She looked at Mr. Fairclough. “He’s my family.”
“Not strictly speaking,” Mr. Fairclough muttered, but he stood to pull back her chair.
“My sister will keep you company until I return.”
Helen frowned. “Are you sure you can manage Jack by yourself? He’s rather heavy.”
She wasn’t at all sure, especially since she herself had had more than one pint of cider. But she couldn’t simply abandon Mr. Fairclough. “I’ll be fine,” she said confidently.
Luckily Jack’s drunken progress was slow. She reached him just as he set one broad palm on the table by Miss Jessop’s glass of syllabub.
“We were just leaving,” she said brightly, buttoning her pelisse to illustrate the point. “It was lovely to see you both.” She tugged none-too-gently on Jack’s arm. “Come along, Jack. If you make a scene, you’ll be sorry in the morning.”
“But I love her,” Jack said in a stage whisper. “Caro,” he said louder, “I love you.” Miss Jessop’s cheeks bloomed a bright red. So did her father’s; he rose from his seat in a clear threat.
“Father, he’s drunk,” Miss Jessop said sharply. “Please don’t.”
Mr. Jessop looked from Jack to his daughter. His mouth twisted in disgust and he sat abruptly. “Get him out of here,” he said loudly to Phoebe.
Her cheeks burned with fury and embarrassment; the MP had just publicly branded them as beneath him. But if Jack had been a gentleman—or if Mr. Jessop had chosen to treat him as one—his behavior might have warranted a challenge. It might still, if she couldn’t make Jack leave. Her heart hammered in her chest. “Yes, sir, I will,” she murmured, bobbing a curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”
“I won’t be swept under the rug like—” Jack began.
“Jack, please.” She let her voice crack, hating that she was reduced to pleading. “I need you to come with me. Please.”
He turned his head, his eyes struggling to focus. “But Phoebe—”
“Please, Jack. I need your help.”
“Of course,” he said at once.
Phoebe’s heart swelled. That ploy would have succeeded with very few people in the world; even Will had never been one of them. “Come outside with me. Please.”
“But—” His head twisted almost halfway round to watch Miss Jessop as Phoebe dragged him across the room and out the door. She grabbed up his coat as they passed his chair. “Phoebe, what’s going on? What were you even doing there?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she said gently, helping him into the overcoat on the front steps. “You’re too bosky to keep a secret right now. Let’s get you home before you fall over.”
His brow furrowed. “Thought you needed help. Did you lie to me?”
Phoebe’s head ached. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
He drew himself up as best he could. “I don’t need to hide behind anyone’s skirts—” His eyes widened in panic. Before Phoebe could move out of the way, he doubled over and cast up his accounts on the flagstones—and on the newly embroidered hem of her blue dress.
For a moment she simply stood there, unable to believe it had happened. A lump rose in her throat—but she swallowed it. Jack was on his knees, heaving. She knelt down beside him and fished his handkerchief out of his coat pocket, wiping his mouth with it.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She smoothed his fine, fair hair back from his forehead. “What are sisters for? Come along.” She wiped the sick from her hem as best she could with the handkerchief and left it there next to the pool of vomit. It was an unkind thing to do to the Drunk St. Leonard’s staff, but she couldn’t go back in there with her soiled dress to tell them what had happened. Not when Mr. Jessop would see.
She helped Jack to his feet and began their slow progress down the street, hoping he wasn’t drooling onto her shoulder. Luckily it wasn’t far to the printing office.
“I miss you,” he said.
She almost dropped him. “What?”
“I miss you. And Will.”
For what seemed like the hundredth time that week, Phoebe blinked back tears. “I miss him too.”
“I used to love press day. When it was the three of us.”
“So did I.” The post would come in and the three of them would go through the latest London papers, racing to fill the last column or two and typeset it. Then, when it was run off and in the hands of the newsmen, Phoebe would make supper and they’d take the evening off. It had felt like a celebration, every week. Even after she and Will had begun to quarrel, on that day she still felt that they were one flesh.
“Now it’s just a relief when it’s over,” he said. “Only I know I’ve got it all to do again the next week.”
Phoebe stumbled. “No. You love the paper.”
“I did when it was the three of us. Now it’s still the same work, and only me and my apprentice to do it. I like Owen, but he isn’t you and Will.”
She felt a horrid creeping guilt. She should have stayed with the paper, with Jack, instead of trying to earn her livelihood as a writer. Jack had asked her to. She’d thought he was only being kind. “I didn’t mean to abandon you.”
“I hate the rooms upstairs now. I’m all alone there.”
She felt another stab of guilt. She’d thought he must like having the place to himself, instead of taking a narrow pallet in the front room while she and Will slept—or more often, that last year, fought—in the bedroom.
She’d imagined he felt precisely what would allow her to do as she wished. How had she been so selfish? “I’m sorry,” she said inadequately. “But soon Miss Jessop will be there with you.”
He shook his head heavily. “Her father will never let us marry. Never.”
“He will. We’ll find a way to convince him. I promise. What exactly did Mr. Jessop say, when you saw him?”
There was no reply. She twisted her head to look at Jack just as the arm around her shoulder went limp and his head lolled forward. Their temples cracked together, and it was all she could do to break his fall as he tumbled over, utterly insensible.
They were under a streetlight. She thought of
the picture they must make, a pool of light in a dark street illuminating a sleeping drunk and a young woman, both in their Sunday best, the woman’s fine skirts stained with vomit.
Jack began to snore gently.
The spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us, Phoebe thought. At a certain point you had to laugh, and that’s what Phoebe did. She pressed her forehead against the cold pole of the streetlight and giggled uncontrollably.
Footsteps came down the street. They’d see her. They’d think her quite mad. That only made it funnier, though.
Then she heard something else—a faint tapping, a slight unevenness in the step. Her heart leapt with instinctive happiness. She caught her breath, sputtering a little bit. Then she remembered their kiss and how she had planned to appear dignified and aloof at their next meeting, and that set her off again.
It probably isn’t him, she told herself. It’s probably old Mr. Bickerstaff out for his evening constitutional. But when she raised her head, she could see at once that it was Mr. Dymond, carrying a wrapped bundle under his free arm. He passed into the light of the next streetlight over, and his quizzical expression sent her into whoops again.
She had almost got control of herself when he reached her. He looked from her to Jack, then back at her, then at Jack again, and visibly gave up. “Mrs. Sparks,” he said with a slight bow, just as if everything were perfectly ordinary. “How serendipitous. I was on my way to see you.”
Her heart leapt again. “You were?”
He hefted his bundle, giving her that schoolboy head-duck and regarding her through his lashes with a practiced repentance she was sure had served him very, very well when he was a schoolboy. It was serving him well now. “I know it’s late, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for my conduct this morning. I ought never to have treated you in that fashion, and I can only hope you’ll believe that I still feel the utmost respect for you.”
It was a practiced apology—but he had taken the trouble to practice, for her. And when he’d come across her in this ridiculous situation, he was so set on apologizing that he’d delivered it just the same.
He looked lovely in the glow of the streetlight, his fine features splashed with shadow like an ink drawing.
“Oh, don’t mind it,” she said, and then felt like a fool.
But his face brightened. “I brought you a ham.”
“A ham?”
“Well, I know you don’t like sweets…”
That set her off again, making mortifying high-pitched squeaks as she struggled to catch her breath.
“Let me guess, you don’t like ham either.”
She shook her head frantically. “I love ham!” With a superhuman effort, she put on a straight face. “I promise I wasn’t laughing at you, only—it’s been an evening.”
His mouth curved with amusement. “I can see that. May I have the pleasure of an introduction?”
She looked down at Jack, still snoring faintly, his cheek on her boot. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. “Mr. Dymond, may I present my brother-in-law, Jack Sparks.” She held her aching sides. “I can’t possibly get him home unless I drag him by the arms.”
The shadows deepened on Mr. Dymond’s face, and she realized that he was regretting his inability to carry Jack home himself.
“I’ll manage somehow,” she said hastily. “Actually—if you could wait here with him while I go and look for the night watchman. He should be…well, around somewhere. If the corporation would stop living in the past and support a Police Act—especially in winter, when it’s dark so early—” She cut herself off. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, especially when you’ve already purchased me a ham. Would you mind very much bringing it by tomorrow? I’d love to have it. I haven’t been able to buy a whole ham since last Christmas.”
He chewed at his lip. “I think we can manage him together. Just wait here while I put the ham back in my room.”
Chapter Twelve
When he returned, Mrs. Sparks was waiting where he had left her, her elusive brother-in-law propped up against her legs and the lamppost. Her earlier amusement had passed, leaving her looking tired and a little worn, but her face brightened when she saw him. “Thank you again, I—”
He smiled, knowing his leg would hurt in the morning because he’d helped her. Maybe all day, and maybe the next day too. Before, he’d never had to think twice about something like this. It was a small enough burden, but he resented it sharply. “It’s nothing.”
Together they heaved Mr. Sparks upright and got his arms about their shoulders. Mrs. Sparks gave the unconscious man a light slap. “Wake up, Jack, we’ve got to get you home. Come on, wake up.”
He stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, and put one foot in front of the other with just enough strength not to be entirely dead weight. Nick concentrated on his steps, on not tripping over the gaps in the flagstones, on holding tightly to Mr. Sparks. It kept his mind off Mrs. Sparks’s arm pressing against his and the way her generous hips jolted Mr. Sparks’s side into his with each step they took. He was doing this because Tony wanted their votes. Not because of how wonderful she looked in a fit of laughter, like a warm fire and roasted Spanish chestnuts on a rainy day.
They turned left at the Market Cross and there, about fifty yards down on the left side, was a crisp black-and-white sign painted to look like a printed sheet of paper.
SPARKS PRINTING
Home Of The Lively St. Lemeston Intelligencer
“Labour to keep alive in thy breast, that little Spark of Celestial fire called Conscience.”
He recognized the quote. It was printed on each newspaper, below the title and next to the price and date. “There seems to be a fashion for name puns in this part of the world. My valet is quite distressed.”
Mrs. Sparks fished the key out of her brother-in-law’s pocket and let them in. “Why?”
“His name is Toogood.”
“Oh dear. That is too good to pass up.”
It was dark inside and nearly as cold as the street, but Nick could make out shelves filled with goods, a counter, and a few racks of books, pamphlets and prints. Behind the counter were hulking objects Nick could not make out in the dark. The room was full of strong smells: linseed oil, turpentine and lye, wet paper and something burnt.
“Can you hold him on your own while I fetch a candle?”
Nick nodded.
“Wait here, then.” She made her way surely through the dark and crowded room, and Nick remembered that this had been her home. Mr. Sparks’s arm dragged at his neck. He shifted. Pain lanced through his leg, but he gritted his teeth and held on, running through some verses from Childe Harold about the sweetness of labor and risk.
Mr. Sparks moved, letting out a loud snore, and Nick squeezed his eyes shut and prayed not to drop him.
Mrs. Sparks’s footsteps returned; she appeared in the doorway, carrying a candle. It lit her lovely, heart-shaped face with a flickering glow.
Nick gave her a casual smile, wiping the strain from his expression.
She smiled back, the corners of her eyes crinkling. They looked black and mysterious and beautiful in the half-light, and he really forgot the pain in his leg, forgot everything but wanting to stand there and look at her, and make her smile again.
“I’m sorry, I had trouble finding the tinderbox.” She turned back to set the candle down before hastening to them. “I don’t want to risk him on the stairs. I’ve brought some bedding. He can sleep on the hearth.”
The back door led to the kitchen. Even at night, enough moonlight came through the windows and mixed with the candlelight to give it a crisp, cheery air. Mrs. Sparks scuffed a toe over the swept floor and sighed. “It was never this clean when Will and I lived here.”
They deposited Mr. Sparks in a chair for the moment, and she spread a sheet and a folded quilt a safe distance from the hearth.
In the candlelight, he saw the quilt was patchwork, hundreds of small hexagons forming a complex and delicate pattern. The
central ordered design gave way to a muted shift of colors, like a formal rose garden shading into parkland. “What a remarkable quilt,” he said as they heaved Sparks onto it.
“It is, isn’t it?” She stayed on her knees for a moment, her fingers tracing a slender line of green cotton. “Helen made it for Will and me when we married.”
“Perhaps you’d better fetch something else. He might be sick again.”
Her nose wrinkled. She glanced from her brother-in-law to the quilt and back, then shrugged. “It’s his quilt now,” she said, a little sadly. “No worry of mine. Serve him right if something of his gets ruined as well.” But she rearranged the soiled hem of her skirts so they didn’t touch the quilt. Since last he’d seen the dress, the white lace had put forth innumerable embroidery shoots that twined up the sides as if to swallow Mrs. Sparks whole. It was engaging, meticulous work; at a guess, he would say it was her sister’s too.
“I’ve never yet made a stain Toogood couldn’t get out,” he offered. “I wager he could have your dress looking as good as new in a couple of days.”
Her look was almost worshipful. “Oh, would you?”
He swallowed. “It’s nothing.”
She glanced down. “It isn’t. It’s more than I know how to repay.”
Nick saw his opportunity. “Do you know why Mr. Sparks has been avoiding my brother and his agents? Here, let me.” She was lifting her brother-in-law up to get his coat off. He knelt and hoisted Sparks up with an arm under his neck.
“Thanks.” Mrs. Sparks pulled the left sleeve off and then came round for the right one. There was a pause as they both realized that unless they changed tack, she would have to press right up against Nick to get to Sparks. It suddenly felt quite a bit warmer in the cold room.
He’d promised himself he’d behave. “Here,” he said reluctantly, “you lift him up from the other side and I’ll get the coat off.”
“Oh, of course!” She retreated, but her hand skimmed up his arm as she cradled Sparks’s head, and even that was enough to make his cravat feel entirely too tight. He pulled away, Sparks’s jacket in his hand. Then she knelt to pull off his boots.