Viscount Vagabond (9 page)

The Viscount Rand was too restless a man to be much given to introspection. All the same he was not stupid, as his Eton master or Oxford tutors would have, though some of them grudgingly, admitted. He was therefore vaguely aware that his invectives upon Miss Pelliston were a tad irrational.

Although she’d had no reason to trust him with her true identity—just as Edgar said—Lord Rand felt she’d betrayed him somehow, which was very odd. His chosen course of life had resulted in what he called “a tough hide.” Even Jenny’s defection had not penetrated his cynical armor—he was too used to having careers and friends bought off by his interfering father. He’d had a wonderful row with the Old Man about it, of course, but inwardly he’d felt nothing more than a twinge of disappointment in his American friend.

Though he told himself he had far less reason to be disturbed about Miss Pelliston, the viscount was disturbed all the same. He was worried about her—she was far too naive—and he hated being worried, so he was furious with her.

Unfortunately for his temper, Molly was worse than useless. When asked about her conversations with the young houseguest, the loquacious abigail became mute. She was not about to admit having discussed Lord Rand’s private life in vivid detail, and was so conscious of her indiscretion in doing so that she could remember nothing else she’d said.

“She gave no hint of her intentions?” the earl asked patiently. “Did she seem distraught or frightened?”

“Oh, no,” said Molly. “She didn’t say much of anything. Shy-like, My Lord. Even when I admired her hair she acted like she didn’t believe me, poor thing,” the abigail added as tears welled up in her eyes. “It weren’t no flattery, either. Curly and soft it was, like a baby’s, and as easy to brush as if it was silk.”

“You needn’t carry on as if she was dead,” Max snapped, agitated anew by the tears streaming down the maid’s round, rosy cheeks.

The earl quickly intervened. “Very well, Molly. Thank you,” he said, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Now do go wash your face and compose yourself. You will not wish to distress her ladyship, I am sure.”

Molly dutifully wiped her eyes with her apron and, without daring another peek at her idol, curtsied and hurried from the study.

“That,” said Lord Rand, “was a complete waste of time. I’m going to the coaching inns.”

“She can’t board a coach, without money, Max.”

“I know that and you know that, but she’s just ignorant enough to throw herself on the mercy of the coachmen. The little idiot trusts everyone.”

With that, he stomped out.

The little idiot was at the moment trying to understand how she’d lost her way twenty times in one morning. A milliner had given her clear directions to Monsieur Francois’s establishment. At least they’d seemed clear at the time. The trouble was, there were so many turns, so many lanes and ways and roads and streets bearing similar names, and so many other people contradicting each previous set of instructions that by now she had no idea whether she was any closer to her destination than when she’d started.

Catherine was tired, hungry, and miserable, and wished she could sit down—but a lady could not plunk herself down upon a cobbler’s doorstep. She had been able to reduce her luggage to one bandbox, thanks to the stolen peach muslin and a few other missing items. Now she transferred the box to her other hand and tried to straighten her stiff shoulders.

“Got a penny, Miss?” a childish voice enquired from behind her.

She looked around. A very untidy boy was studying her gravely.

“No,” she said. “Not a farthing.”

The boy shrugged and turned to a nearby lamppost, which he gave a savage kick.

“I don’t suppose,” Catherine said, “you know where Monsieur Francois’s shop is?”

“I don’t know nuffink.” He scowled and kicked the lamppost again.

“Don’t know anything,” Catherine corrected automatically, half to herself. “Is there anyone in this wretched city who can speak without murdering the King’s English?” Dispirited, she stared about her. Where on earth was the horrid hairdresser’s shop?

The urchin followed her gaze. “You ain’t batty, ‘er you?”

Catherine met his scrutiny and sighed. “Not yet, though it is likely I will soon descend to that state. No one,” she went on wearily, “knows anything. Or if they do, they will only vouchsafe the information in the most esoteric formula possible. Or else they may as well be speaking Turkish for all one can comprehend of their dialects and cant.”

The urchin nodded wisely, though Catherine was certain that her words had been Turkish to him. “I thought you wuz batty on account of you wuz talkin’ to yourself. SHE talks to herself. Only SHE says it’s on account of Aggeration.”

“I hope that is not your mother to whom you refer so dis
respectfully,” she said.

“Me mum’s dead.”

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry.”

“I ain’t sorry,” was the shocking response. “Beat me sumfin’ fierce she did—when she could catch me.”

“Good heavens!”

“Well, she don’t any more, as ‘at Blue Ruin killed her.”

“Oh, my! And have you no papa?”

“No. Only HER.”

This odd conversation was bringing her no nearer her destination. There was nothing for it but to continue walking, Catherine turned the corner. To her surprise, the boy followed. Evidently, having begun to talk, he had no inclination to leave off, but chattered amiably as he accompanied her down the street.

SHE, it turned out, was Missus, who kept a shop where she made clothes for the gentry. This morning, according to the boy, Missus was in a state of Aggeration on account of someone named Annie.

Since Missus was not a hairdresser, she was certainly not going to be any help. Catherine’s throat began to ache. She would very much like to sit down on the curb and cry her heart out. It must be past noon by now. If she didn’t make her transaction soon, she’d miss the coach that could take her home before dark.

“Are you sure you don’t know where Monsieur Francois’s shop is?” she asked in desperation. “A hairdresser? I was told he would buy my hair—and I do need the money.”

The boy frowned as he studied her drab bonnet. “Oh, you mean ‘at wig man. Won’t do you no good. Gone to do a wedding. I got”—he bent to stick one grimy finger into a shoe a full size too large for his foot—“tuppence. What SHE give me to go away and not Aggerate her. We could get a meat pie.”

Catherine needed a moment to understand that the scruffy child was offering to share his worldly wealth with her. When she did grasp his import, she was touched almost to tears. “Oh, dear, how very generous of you, but one pie will
scarcely feed a strong, growing boy like yourself.”

“Oh, SHE’ll give me suffink arter she’s done Aggeratin’ herself. I knows a place,” he added with a conspiratorial wink that required the cooperation of all the muscles of his face and made him look like a goblin. “Pies as big as my head.”

“Come along,” the urchin said impatiently, as his invited guest hesitated. “Ain’t you hungry?”

Catherine was very hungry and she could not remember when she had ever felt so desolate. She gazed down at the round face and smiled ruefully.

“Yes,” she said. “I am very hungry.”

The boy nodded, satisfied, then took her by the hand to lead her to the establishment where one might find a meat pie as big as his head.

While they ate he grew more confiding. He introduced himself as Jemmy, and explained that Missus had taken him in after his mother’s death—the
modiste
being, Catherine guessed, a charitable soul who had some employment for the child which might keep him from the rookeries and flash houses with which he appeared to be appallingly familiar.

Jemmy ran his mistress’s errands and swept the floors, but was primarily left to educate and amuse himself, which he did by wandering about the city streets.

Even as she wondered at this unchild-like existence, Catherine found herself confiding her own tale, reduced to the essentials of stolen reticule and absent friend.

At this the lad shook his head and looked as wise as it is possible for a boy of eight or nine years to do. He told her that she must be a “green ‘un” not to keep better watch on her belongings.

“Yes,” Catherine ruefully agreed. “I fear I am very green indeed.”

“Why, ‘em knucklers and buzmen ken fence a handkercher easier wot you ken wipe yer nose. Wonder is you still got yer box ‘n’ all.”

Catherine glanced at the bandbox beside her and considered. If a handkerchief was of such value to these persons Jemmy spoke of, surely she must have something she could pawn for her coach fare. While she meditated, she could not help but note the longing with which her young host eyed a large fruit pastry being served to a fat gentleman at the next table.

She opened the bandbox and rummaged in it. “I wonder, Jemmy,’’ she said finally, holding up a peach-coloured ribbon, “whether this would buy us one of those pastries.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’d say, Miss—” Then he subdued himself. “But you hadn’t orter.”

“Oh, yes I ought. You take this ribbon to your cook friend and ask if she will accept it in trade.”

The boy dashed off with his treasure to the shop’s owner, whereupon a discussion ensued, nothing of which Catherine could hear over the loud voices and clatter about her. When she saw the cook look questioningly at her, Miss Pelliston responded with a smile and a nod. The cook shrugged, turned away briefly, then presented Jemmy with a plate upon which reposed two plump, mouth-watering fruit tarts.

“She says,” Jemmy explained as he deposited the feast upon the rough table, “as she’ll only hold it some ‘til you can pay her.”

Jemmy’s companion tasted only a bit of her dessert before declaring she was too full to enjoy it. She insisted that he not let it go to waste. As he disposed of her portion, Jemmy’s round face grew thoughtful.

Catherine waited until he was done before asking if he would direct her to the nearest pawnshop.

“What for?” he demanded.

“I need money,” she bluntly explained. “That seems to be the only way left to get some.”

Unfortunately, Jemmy didn’t know nuffink about pawnshops, except perhaps those around Petticoat Lane, an area he was quick to explain was no place for green females. He volunteered instead to take his new acquaintance to Missus, who could answer her questions better than he could.

Missus’s Aggerations must have dissipated somewhat, because when Jemmy returned to the shop he was clasped in a welcoming hug, then grasped by the shoulders and shaken affectionately as the plump
modiste
demanded to know what mischief he’d been up to, worrying her sick all this time. Only after she had done scolding the boy and telling him what a naughty little wretch he was did she take notice of the young woman in the dowdy grey frock who stood by the door.

As Catherine stepped forward to introduce herself and make her enquiry regarding pawnshops, she was startled to hear Jemmy announce, “I told her as how Annie took a fever and you wanted a girl and she wants a job, and so I brung her.”

Missus, it turned out, was Madame Germaine, a woman of strong sentiments and changeable mood. Though her temperament might be considered Gallic, her only claim to the nationality was her late husband’s name. Madame was no more French than Miss Pelliston—less, in fact, for the former’s ancestors had not entered England with the Conqueror.

The
modiste
wanted but a moment to study Catherine’s pale, thin face before her susceptible heart softened. This was hardly surprising in a woman who had taken in a budding delinquent the instant she’d learned of his plight from a beadle’s wife.

Still, Madame would never have achieved her current prosperity if she had not been an astute businesswoman. She discerned at once that the despised grey frock was extremely well cut, neatly sewn, and altogether modestly becoming in a respectable working woman. That she wanted desperately to see a respectable working woman may have urged the dressmaker to her speedy resolution. Whatever the cause, she led Catherine to her office, plied the young woman with tea and biscuits, and immediately embarked upon an interview to which Miss Pelliston, oddly enough, responded just as though she had been seeking a position.

She too had made a speedy decision. There was nothing but misery for her at home. Aunt Deborah would never let her forget how she’d disgraced them all, and Papa would make certain his daughter lived to regret her rebellious act—
if, that is, he didn’t drive her from the house with a horsewhip.

On the other hand, here was an opportunity to begin a new life under a new identity. When her conscience insisted she deserved the punishment awaiting her at home, she answered that working was more productive penance than passive submission to endless reproaches and abuse. Providence, after all, “judgeth according to every man’s work,” she told herself as she accepted Madame’s offer.

Catherine Pelliston—now Pennyman—would earn her own way in the world, enduring the hardships of her lot as other less privileged women did. She was thankful that she had done the rather dreary duties of the lady of the manor, taking supplies to ailing villagers and sewing endlessly for the needy. All those hours of sewing would provide her means of survival from now on.