After a few rounds of shushing, he was confronted with twenty-one—Alfie had indeed decided to join them—earnest upturned faces.
“How many of you know your letters? Or even a few letters?”
Alfie alone raised his hand.
“Does anyone know numbers?”
“I can count!” said a boy named Harold, grinning. He was joined by a chorus of, “Me, too!”
“Very good,” said James. “Counting is an important skill. Can anyone take those numbers and do figures? Sums?”
Silence.
“It’s quite all right. That’s why we’re here. Today we’ll start with the alphabet.”
“There’s a song, you know,” Alfie piped up. “It helps!”
James cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. Let us perhaps see how we get along without musical accompaniment first.”
He wrote a large, heavy A on a slate and held it up. “Let’s begin.”
The days flew by that first week. James spent two hours each morning and two each afternoon in his makeshift schoolroom. After their initial class, he’d decided to divide the children into two groups of ten. There were sometimes eleven in the afternoon cohort. When Alfie’s work schedule allowed him to attend, the boy was there, positively bursting with enthusiasm. James spent midday in his room in a nearby inn, preparing lessons—and thinking of Catharine.
The children proved to be quick learners. They soaked up knowledge, most of them spending precious free time after their shifts in the barracks working on their letters and numbers. They weren’t without their little rebellions—they were children after all. James actually found himself relieved when a boy named Jude had to be removed from class because he wouldn’t stop pulling the hair of a girl called Mary. It wasn’t that he was glad about the misbehavior, just that he viewed it as a sign that a life of toil hadn’t yet broken Jude’s spirit. There was still a mischievous little troublemaker in there somewhere.
The children, on the whole, seemed fond of him. A few of them could remember parents who’d died or given them up for various reasons, but for most, he was the first adult who’d ever voluntarily spent time with them. He tried to view the whole endeavor as an experiment, and experiments required an objective point of view. Excessive attachment was never advised when one undertook a scientific inquiry.
He was growing fond of the children, despite his better judgment. But one thing Catharine had taught him was that sometimes you could trust your heart. So he allowed himself to laugh when the children told him jokes, and he told them stories when they visited during breaks in their work day. He’d even accepted an impromptu hug from little Grace, some part of him swelling with pride that the small, serious girl trusted him so absolutely and regarded him so highly.
Alfie was another one who’d managed to get to him. The boy had an impish streak that hard work and the loss of his father had not extinguished. Always quick with a smile and quicker with a clever retort, it didn’t take long for Alfie to endear himself to James. And it was clear that though he’d lost his father, he was beloved by the man’s former mates. They were determined to teach the boy the trade, which was skilled and well paid. Exceedingly well paid.
James hadn’t thought much about the wages of barrel borers until a conversation with one named Davey White, who’d been Alfie’s father’s best mate. Mr. White, having taken a paternalistic interest in Alfie’s affairs, came to see James late one morning to discuss the boy’s prospects.
“We’re trying to make as much time as possible for him to study with you, Dr. Burnham, balancing it out with him getting enough time to learn the trade.”
“And I appreciate that. I’m sure Alfie does, too.”
“I think he’s a smart lad.”
“I agree,” James said, thinking about how quickly Alfie had read and returned the copy of Robinson Crusoe that James had lent him. He’d thought a book that difficult would take the boy at least a month to work his way through.
“The others and I, we were thinking that perhaps we’re not aiming high enough for Alfie. We’ve been teaching him our trade, but maybe he could make more of himself. Be a merchant. Or a teacher, like you. Maybe even a barrister—he talks so much, why not?”
James tried to hide his surprise. It was one thing for a member of the laboring class to wish for a better life, to work to better himself and his children, quite another to take up a profession like the law. “He’d have to go to school. Proper school,” said James. “He’d have to go to grammar school, not just take lessons a few hours a day. And if he wants to practice law he’ll need to study at one of the Inns of Court.”
“Right. How does a fellow go about all that?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that even if it were possible, it’s expensive, and it would take years.”
Mr. White waved dismissively. “Oh, that’s of no matter. We’re well paid here. The men and I feel bound to help him as much as we can. We owe it to him. And to his mother, left all alone when her husband was only trying to—” The man looked away abruptly as he interrupted his speech.
“Only trying to what?”
Mr. White cleared his throat. “The point is that Alfie could make something of himself if he had the right sort of gentleman to help him.”
“Of course I’ll help him however I can, Mr. White.” He meant it.
The man thanked him and, after extracting a promise to discuss the situation in more detail later, took his leave.
How odd that Mr. White and his colleagues would cook up a scheme to send Alfie to school. What about their own children? The boy was undeniably charming and quite intelligent, but school? Really? What’s more, James could not believe that half a dozen barrel borers and grinders, no matter how handsomely paid, could afford to send Alfie to school. Especially half a dozen barrel borers and grinders in the employ of Herr Georg Biedermeier, a man so miserly he neglected to pay his youngest workers.
The children, when questioned, recited a story about their wages being put into a trust for them until they were of age. What they could or should do with their windfalls when such a time came, they were less clear about.
If such trust funds existed there would be evidence of them—something on paper. He thought it unlikely that they did—he had no reason to doubt what Catharine had heard at Madame Cherie’s, and his limited interactions with Biedermeier this week confirmed that the man was a penny pincher. But he wanted to be sure. He wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with. And there were also records that would reveal how much the barrel borers and grinders were paid—his conversation with Mr. White had stayed with him.
Probably he should limit his activity at the factory to the school, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something evil was afoot.
James sighed. It seemed that becoming a teacher wasn’t enough. He’d have to play the role of spy, too.
Chapter Twelve
James’s first act of espionage was to invite Alfie to lunch at the inn. He told himself that at least he was making good on his promise to Mr. White to take an interest in the lad’s welfare.
The boy was beside himself with excitement as he tucked into a plate of mutton stew and sipped at a small cup of ale. “I say, Dr. Burnham, a tavern isn’t that bad a place.”
“Why would you think it would be?”
“My mother. She always used to curse the tavern when my father and his friends went drinking after work. Places for the devil’s work, she’d say. But this seems a pleasant place.”
“Well, it isn’t necessarily one or the other. A man’s experience in a tavern depends on his intentions.” James could not help but think of Madame Cherie’s. “A lot in life is like that, you’ll find.”
The boy nodded and smiled through a mouthful of stew.
James decided to get straight to the point. “Alfie, how did your father die?” The smile disappeared. “I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“He drowned.”
“Where?”
“In the River
Rea. Near where it meets the Tame.”
James kept his tone casual. “Do you live near there?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he make a habit of visiting the area?”
“No, sir. None of us could believe it when they said they’d found his body. My mother insisted on going to see it.”
“Why?” James asked.
“He was an excellent swimmer—he grew up in the country. And there wasn’t a strong current. So she wanted to see him for herself.”
“And?”
He shrugged and looked at his plate. “He drowned in the Rea.”
“I’m sorry.”
Another shrug.
“Alfie, I understand that you’re training to become a barrel borer.”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. White says that you might be interested in something else. A profession, perhaps.”
Suddenly absorbed in tapping his spoon against the edge of his plate, Alfie said, “Nah. Why would I do that?”
“There are many reasons. To advance yourself, to create a better life.” The boy looked unconvinced. “To make money.”
“I couldn’t make more than I would as a borer here.”
James tried to catch the boy’s eye, but he continued to fidget with his cutlery. “It’s a skilled trade, to be sure, but surely the pay isn’t as high as a barrister’s, say.”
“At the Biedermeier works it is. He pays his borers, grinders, and setters three times what other gunmakers do.”
Does he now? “Oh? Why is that?”
“I don’t know, but that’s why no one ever leaves.”
“Do people want to leave?” James paused, discomfited by the thought that arose. “Did your father want to leave?”
Alfie laid his spoon on the table and looked directly into James’s eyes. “No. Why would he want to leave when he was making so much money?”
Why indeed?
James’s second act of espionage was breaking into the office to go through the accounts.
He began by asking the gunmaker if he could store his study notebooks under lock and key inside the office.
“It’s just that I’ve been here nearly two weeks and have collected a fair amount of data. It’s important it not be lost. The inn where I’m lodged is probably fine, but…” He trailed off purposely, trying once again to make Biedermeier feel that the study was very, very important, and by implication that the man behind it would become very, very famous.
“Of course.” Biedermeier sat behind his desk. “And the works itself can be chaotic.”
“Yes,” James agreed. “I would hate for one of the children to run off with my notebooks.”
“Or worse, toss them in the furnace.”
“Your pardon?”
“One of those damnable boys once threw my hat in the fire. We’re forever catching them tossing things in there.”
James swallowed the urge to laugh at the idea of Jude—for it had to have been Jude—absconding with Biedermeier’s hat. Today, as most days, the man wore a tricorn, a style that had fallen out of fashion more than a decade ago. The hat itself made him look old-fashioned. Its silver lace trim made him look ridiculously self-important. The image of Jude hurling a similar monstrosity into the fire summoned a grin he had to cough to hide.
“He received the beating of his life for his troubles, I assure you.”
That tempered James’s mirth. “Well, I thank you. Perhaps you can show me a place I can put my notebooks where they won’t be in your way.”
Biedermeier extracted a key from his watch pocket, opened a desk drawer, and removed a small polished mahogany box. Using the key to unlock it, he reached in and produced a second, larger key. Using it in turn to open the locked cabinet behind him, he motioned James over. “Here. They shall be quite safe here.” James caught a glimpse of stacks of papers inside. Three locks: office, box, cabinet. This was going to be tricky.
After relocking the cabinet, Biedermeier offered James a cheroot. It seemed that in addition to becoming a spy, he was going to have to add “smoker” to his repertoire. “Thank you.” He smiled, accepting the dashed thing.
“I’m off to London tomorrow, Dr. Burnham. I make the trip every second week. I trust you won’t need your notebooks before I return?”
“London once a fortnight? That’s quite a distance to travel so frequently. They must be important business trips?” He could not resist probing.
“Yes, some parliamentary work. Deadly dull, but important for the industry. It’s only eighteen hours by mail coach. If I leave in the evening, I sleep through the night and don’t lose much time the next day.” He smirked. “But business aside, London has much to recommend it.”
James looked at his hands resting calmly on the arms of his chair and marveled that there was no visible hint of the searing rage that buzzed through them. He saw, in his mind’s eye, a vision of those hands wrapped around Biedermeier’s neck. Bitterness coursing through him, he choked out, “No, I shan’t need my notebooks. Safe travels, Mr. Biedermeier.”
The man’s departure left James haunted by images of Catharine at Madame Cherie’s. She had promised to stay away. And she would keep her word.
Wouldn’t she?
He thought back to her protestations that she could not abandon her post at Madame’s. She seemed to feel tied to the place somehow, was loyal in a way he didn’t understand.
Had his mother felt similarly? He had no idea if his mother had worked in a place like Madame’s, or if she bestowed her favors on one protector at a time. She could be a common streetwalker for all he knew. Though he could almost certainly dismiss the latter possibility because of the money she sent. Indeed, when he’d asked for more to fund the school, twice the amount he requested had been provided promptly and without comment. Did that mean she was still working? It was hard to imagine. Perhaps she’d found a protector with whom she shared a genuine affection and a permanent liaison.
He had never given much thought to the idea of a father. His rational mind knew that he would never learn the man’s identity, so he dismissed any speculation on the matter as a waste of time. But that was before he’d met Biedermeier. Before he’d seen the over-proud young bucks swarming Catharine at Madame’s. Or indeed before he’d laid eyes on any of the men he’d met there, most of them drunk, many of them rude. His father could have been any one of those types.
The thing that stung the most, though he usually managed to put it out of his mind, was that whoever the man was, his mother had esteemed him more than the child she’d birthed from her own body. That was, of course, assuming she even knew who his sire was. The horrible truth was that his mother had chosen her life of vice over her own child.
But Catharine was different.
Wasn’t she?
Of course she was, he admonished himself. The lady may have dallied in a brothel, but she did have a code of honor, just as she’d said. It might not accord with that of the rest of the ton, but what did that matter? He had no great love for that arrogant bunch.
He shook his head. It was time to get on with things, to prove that an easier life for the children would also mean better productivity for Biedermeier, and to get to the bottom of their wages—or lack thereof. Then he could go home to Catharine.
That evening after the afternoon class had been dismissed James found reasons to remain in the building. First he swept the schoolroom. Then he washed the children’s slates. Time passed agonizingly slowly. Finally, he resorted to spreading out his papers and books on the table he used as a makeshift desk, under the guise of lesson planning.
Very elaborate, time-consuming lesson planning.
When Tomkins, the night supervisor, finally came by, it was nearing midnight. Production at the gun works went on into the evening, operations ceasing around nine o’clock, then the children retired to their barracks in an adjacent building. He’d heard the gradual quieting of activity and breathed a sigh of relief when old Tomkins stuck his head in the door
.
“You’re here late, Dr. Burnham.”
Arranging his features into a mask of mild surprise, he said, “Yes, I decided to do some lesson planning, and I’m afraid I rather lost track of time.” He stood. “I’m terribly sorry. You’ll want to leave, I assume. I’m keeping you.”
“No, no, I spend the night here. You stay as long as you like.”
Damn. He hadn’t realized that the place was manned all night. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, though. Biedermeier was a wealthy man, and his fortune had been made inside these walls.
“Say, since you’re here, Dr. Burnham, would you mind if I nipped out for a bit?” The gruff man grinned under his beard, ginger with flecks of white. No doubt he saw the opportunity to slip away to the tavern to warm his belly before a long night in the dark gun works.
“Of course not. I could easily do with another hour, so take your time. I’ll keep an ear out for anything untoward.”
Tomkins whistled a little tune as he took his leave, an unexpected reprieve for the man, no doubt. It seemed no one was beyond the oppression of life inside the Biedermeier gun works.
“Oh, Mr. Tomkins!” he called after the old man, heart beginning to thud. “There is one thing. I am in need of my notebooks from Mr. Biedermeier’s office. Could you let me in before you go?” He held his breath. Could it be this easy?
The man dug in his pocket and then flipped the key to James, who caught it between his palms. “I’ll lend you the key. I’ll be back within the hour.”
Yes, apparently it could. He had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Wasting no time, he made for the office. He examined the mahogany box he pulled out of Biedermeier’s desk. Extracting a long, thin scrap of metal that had been honed to a sharp point, he inserted it in the small lock. After a bit of jiggling he heard the telltale click. Ha! Jude, when James had asked him for advice on how to pick a lock, hadn’t even blinked. James was proving to be rather good at this espionage business. Now he’d be able to access all Biedermeier’s records.
Viscountess of Vice Page 17