Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (23 page)

“O
h, my God, Prescott,” Catherine exclaimed as she raced into Headmaster Dunn’s chamber where Prescott rested in the bed. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Prescott sat up in the bed with pillows stuffed behind him. They had cut away the fancy sleeves of his purple coat and ivory, ruffled shirt, and rolled back the garment, exposing pale wrists leading to stark white bindings. A yellow tinge colored the bandage, which, along with the bitter, slightly noxious scent, indicated that Dr. Winner had applied his mixture of calendula flowers and olive oil. “Where were you?” Prescott cried.

She couldn’t tell him that she was out digging up information on the Caddyhorn household. Any more than she could tell him about her meeting with Joe Tipton, owner of Tipton’s Tavern. A long time ago Headmaster Dunn had told Catherine that Joe had served prison time a few years back for pawning stolen goods. The two had had a strained relationship, but a strong acquaintance nonethenm
less. Catherine had used the measure of that acquaintance to ask Joe Tipton a favor, to pawn one item of jewelry that she intended to procure tonight from the Caddyhorns. She aimed to choose something of just enough value to pay off the Winstons, something that was not easily identifiable as the Caddyhorns’.

To her immense relief, Joe Tipton had readily agreed. Then astoundingly he had offered to help her unload much more than one item if she so wished. From their conversation Catherine surmised that Joe Tipton was quite active in the “commerce of goods” as he’d called it and didn’t worry overmuch about the origins of such property. It was amazing what one learned if one asked the right people. Simply amazing.

“Well?” Prescott demanded.

Catherine blinked. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, Pres. But I’m here now.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Cat,” Prescott muttered, staring down at his lap where his bandaged hands rested. “My hands just hurt so badly it makes me feel raw, and angry and, well, to be frank…crabby as hell.”

She smiled, sympathetically. “Well, you can be as crabby as you like with me. What are friends for?”

“Thanks, Cat.”

She hated the pain she saw in his sea-green eyes.

“Mrs. Nagel told me what happened. You’re a hero, Prescott. I-I can’t imagine…” She rubbed her eyes, as anxiety roiled in her middle. “Your quick thinking saved Evie. Thank you, Prescott. Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I was there.”

“Me too, and that you and Evie are safe.”

Catherine felt haunted by what might have been if Prescott had not decided to go to the kitchen for an apple. Evie had hidden in the kitchen until everyone had gone.
Then she’d climbed up on a stool to get at Cook’s freshly baked cookies. Prescott hadn’t seen the stool tip over, but had come in right after Evie had fallen into the fire. He’d raced over and pounded out the flames as they’d eaten away at Evie’s clothing.

Catherine sent off a prayer that he’d come in time to save Evie from the worst of the damage. She sent up a second prayer of thanks that Prescott had been wearing his gloves. The damage could have been so much worse. So much worse.

But what could be done for them now, beside caring and healing? Catherine felt so helpless; she wished she could do more. The thought snaked into her mind: If she had money she could pay Dr. Winner for his care, she could buy Prescott new clothing…She couldn’t think about tonight, couldn’t consider anything past the dawn.

Hearing Dr. Winner’s familiar shuffle, Catherine turned to the entry. “How is Evie?” she asked anxiously.

The good doctor sighed, scratching the tuft of brown hair ringing his receding hairline. His kind brown eyes were worried and his loose lips had slipped into a grim line. “Burns are a nasty business. Hurt like the devil. But Prescott got to her early. Stopped the fire from doing its worst. She’s young, she should heal well enough.” He nodded to Prescott sitting on the bed. “You really did her a service.”

“Prescott is a hero,” Catherine agreed. Stepping toward him, she rubbed his shoulder. The muscles beneath her hands were wound hard into knots. She could tell that he was in pain and trying not to show it.

“I’ll be able to mine this one for many a mile,” Prescott jested. “Nothing draws a woman like a noble deed.”

“That’s my Prescott,” Catherine teased, relieved that he still had his sense of humor. “Milking it for all it’s worth.”

Prescott turned to Dr. Winner and jerked his chin at Catherine rubbing his shoulder. “See, it’s working already.”

Bending over, Catherine hugged him close. “You don’t need to catch on fire to get a hug from me, Prescott.”

Pressing his nose into her hair, he sighed, “Oh, the lengths I’ll go to for a little feel…”

On a normal day she would have punched him in the arm for such talk. Today, she simply held him tighter.

“Oh what a day, what a day,” Mrs. Nagel cried, shuffling into the room. The stout, gray-clothed matron kept wringing her hands in her white apron as if wishing to do more to help. It pained her terribly when one of her charges was hurt, as was evidenced by the usually impeccable woman’s attire. Her gray gown was wrinkled as if it had been trampled, and her snowy white cap was askew.

Mrs. Nagel’s gaze traveled the chamber, growing shiny with held back tears. “If only Headmaster Dunn were here…” No one had used the room in the short time since Dunn’s death, but it had been the natural place to bring Prescott from the kitchens. The dormitory would not do and they wanted somewhere where the poor man could lie down.

Catherine swallowed, her throat constricting. “He’s with us,” she murmured. “Always. He was watching out for us today. Things could have been so much worse. So much worse.”

“And how are you feeling, Prescott?” Dr. Winner’s eyes narrowed as he studied his patient.

Prescott shrugged. “I’m all right. Not half as bad as Evie.”

“You’re going to need to rest,” Winner advised.

Prescott leaned forward. “I thought I might go visit Evie—”

“You will do no such thing!” Mrs. Nagel declared. “It
took me almost an hour to get her to sleep. I’ll not have you interrupting her nap.”

“Lie back, Pres,” Catherine urged, pushing gently but firmly on his shoulder. “You need your rest as well. You must heal.”

Reclining against the pillows, he awkwardly adjusted his bandaged hands. “I don’t know that that’s going to be possible.”

“You do as you’re told, Prescott Devane,” Mrs. Nagel ordered. She sniffed, pulling a linen from her pocket and wiping her nose. “What a terrible day. Two children hurt…”

“I’m not a child,” Prescott muttered, but he was obviously touched.

“In my mind you’re still the snot-nosed brat who used to hide under my skirts,” she huffed. Her gaze clouded. “I just can’t understand why Cook wasn’t in the kitchen this morning.”

“It’s not her fault,” Catherine soothed. “It’s no one’s. How was Cook to know that Evie was hiding in the kitchen? Cook had no reason not to go to the garden for more herbs.”

Mrs. Nagel’s hands twisted in her apron. “Evie should have known better than to try to reach the cookies. It’s a rule. She knows better than to break the rules—”

“Well, she’s paying for that mistake,” Dr. Winner interrupted. “And she likely will be doing so for a long time to come. Burns are some of the most painful injuries I’ve ever treated.”

Catherine noticed the crease between Prescott’s sable brows and the grimace on his face. The poor man must be in agony. “I’m just so glad you were wearing your gloves,” she stated, shuddering.

“Yes. Lucky break there,” Winner concurred. “You
likely won’t even scar. The blistering will hurt like the dickens, but after a few weeks you should be fine.”

“Did you give him any laudanum?” Mrs. Nagel asked, stepping to the other side of the bed and laying her hand on Prescott’s brow. Not many women could get away with that maneuver, Catherine opined.

“Not yet,” the doctor replied. “He’s refused it thus far.”

The stout matron scowled. “Well, give him some. He must sleep. Or he will not heal.”

“I won’t,” Prescott countered. “I don’t need it.”

Mrs. Nagel pressed her hand on the edge of the mattress and Prescott tilted. Inhaling sharply, his face turned white as chalk. “Don’t need it, my boot.”

“You’re going to take it, Pres,” Catherine declared. “If I have to pour it down your throat myself.”

Prescott leaned up on his elbows. “Will you stay with me, Cat?”

Staring into those vulnerable green eyes, she wondered if she could put off the burglary set for tonight. But opportunely for her plans, it was the housekeeper’s day off and she could certainly use all the providence she could get. According to the Thief’s book, changes in household staff always provided a few additional precious moments. And Sir John Winston’s deadline was drawing near.

“I’ll stay as long as you need me,” she murmured. If he remained awake and needed her, she would view it as a sign not to do the burglary tonight. If he fell asleep easily, then…the game was on.

Catherine stepped aside while Dr. Winner reached into his black bag and pulled out a decanter. Yanking off the stopper, he held it out to Prescott, who eyed the bottle longingly, obviously in pain.

Dr. Winner held the decanter to his lips and Prescott swallowed it in one gulp. He grimaced. “Ugh.”

“You’ll be glad for it in a little bit.” Winner nodded, putting away the decanter and taking out another. He set it on the bedside table. “If you wake in the night—” Realizing Prescott’s incapacity, he continued, “Call out. I’ll be next door and will give it to you.”

“Cat’s going to stay,” he murmured.

“Well, I’ll be here just the same,” the good doctor replied.

“I will set up a pallet, Doctor,” Mrs. Nagel nodded approvingly. “Thank you for remaining.”

Winner shrugged. “I want to be near, in case Evie needs me.” The pair stepped out of the chamber, speaking in hushed tones.

Prescott’s eyes fluttered closed as he was obviously exhausted.

“Sleep, Pres.” Catherine planted a kiss on his forehead. Sighing, she pulled over the chair where they’d tossed Prescott’s breeches. Lifting the soot-covered white garment, Catherine marveled at how flimsy it seemed compared to her heavy gown.

Suddenly the thought flashed in her mind; how was she supposed to climb a trestle and crawl around a rooftop with long skirts? Lifting the breeches, she examined them. Could she dare?

“How is he?” Jared stepped beside her, resting his hand on the back of her chair.

With her heart hammering, Catherine quickly dropped the breeches to the floor.

“I’m fine,” Prescott muttered opening one eye. “Better than you. I heard you lost your shirt…”

Jared’s pale cheeks tinged pink and he bowed his sandy-colored head. “My stupidity knows no bounds.”

“You’re just a little green.” Prescott closed his eye and
sighed. “We all were once. All you need is a bit of schooling in the finer art of cheating—”

“Now wait a minute!” Catherine cried.

Prescott licked his lips. “To spot it and avoid it, Cat. Not to do it. Although with the cads he was dealing with it might not have been a bad idea.”

“We have to pay it back even though the bastard lied about how much I owed him,” Jared groused, his Coleridge gray eyes seething with indignation. “It makes me so angry, I’d like to rip Thomas Winston’s forked tongue right from his mouth.”

Catherine couldn’t imagine how furious Jared would be if he knew that Sir John Winston had only given them seven days to pay the debt.

“It’s like stealing,” her brother growled. “It’s just not fair.”

Catherine had to resist the urge to push his pale hair from his eyes. “It’s your word against his, Jared.”

“Yes, I know.” Clenching his fists, he scowled. “Impoverished orphan against well-connected aristocrat. If I came from a noble family, if I had a title, maybe he wouldn’t have been so quick to make me his mark!”

Catherine’s eyes widened; what was Jared saying?

“Yes, at the other side,” Prescott muttered, his eyes closed, his face relaxing. “The better side…the world is at your doorstep.” His mouth hung open and he unleashed a loud snore.

“The advantages of being nobility are innumerable, Jared,” Catherine whispered. “But I won’t lie to you; they still might have fleeced you just the same.”

“It’s just, well…” He shrugged his lanky fourteen-year-old shoulders. “I’m beginning to appreciate the extra latitude given to nobility.”

“Whether it’s deserved or not,” Catherine added, crossing her arms. “There are many commoners who are more honorable than ten Thomas Winstons. Some might be born to a higher class but nobility comes from deed and word.” Watching Prescott to make sure that he was asleep, Catherine added, “What I want for you, Jared, is the opportunity. That’s what the title and money can supply. It’s up to you to make the most of yourself from there.”

Jared grimaced. “You sound like Headmaster Dunn.”

Pressing her fist to her mouth, it took every ounce of self-control for Catherine not to blurt out the fact that Headmaster Dunn had died trying to protect his title. She didn’t want Jared to do anything rash, but deep down she knew it was time for Jared to know the truth. Or at least some of it.

Quietly, she stood and closed the door. Motioning for Jared to join her in the far corner, she whispered, “There’s something you need to know.”

With his eyes wary, he moved next to her, his hands clenched in the pockets of his brown wool coat. “What?”

She swallowed, realizing that she was almost as rusty at sharing secrets as she was at asking for help. Mayhap it was time she exercised both faculties. “Headmaster Dunn knew about us.”

“What?” he shrieked.

“Lower your voice.”

Closing his mouth, his brow furrowed. “How?”

“He must have heard us arguing—”

“When?”

There were so many arguments to choose from, it seemed. “That night by the chapel…”

“But why didn’t he say anything?”

“In his own way, he did. He moved me to new rooms—”

“Headmaster Dunn told me that he wanted me to go to the Hartzes’ so that I could be exposed to how fine families conducted themselves. To see the workings of a noble household. He said that he wanted me to learn how to act when I move about in Society…” his voice trailed off.