Wicked Intentions 1 (37 page)

S
ILENCE STOOD IN
front of the foundling home the next morning and smiled. No, that wasn’t quite right. She looked at her feet and tried again, feeling the muscles move in her cheeks. How odd. Something that had been as natural as, well,
smiling
just days ago was now so foreign that she wasn’t sure she was doing it properly.

“Have you got a toothache, ma’am?”

Silence looked up into the rather grubby face of one of the orphans. Joseph Smith? Or perhaps Joseph Jones? Goodness! Why had her brother and sister chosen to name all the boys Joseph Something and all the girls Mary Whatever? Had they been quite mad?

But the boy was still staring at her, one dirty finger stuck in his mouth.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply, startling them both. She’d never reprimanded one of the children, sharply or otherwise.

The child immediately removed his finger, watching her rather warily now.

Silence sighed. “What is your name?”

“Joseph Tinbox.”

Silence wrinkled her nose. “Whyever were you named that?”

“Because,” the boy said, “when I comed here, I had a tin box tied to my wrist.”

“Of course,” Silence muttered, giving up on the smile altogether. “Well, Joseph Tinbox, I’m here to see Mrs. Dews. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Yes’m,” Joseph replied.

He turned and opened the door to the home—apparently unlocked this afternoon—and led her into the house. There was a great commotion coming from the kitchen, and when Silence stepped in, she saw Temperance, her hair coming down about her ears, managing sheer chaos. A group of boys stood in the corner, alternately singing in high, angelic voices and poking each other when Temperance or Nell turned their back. Nell was supervising the weekly wash, while three small girls tended a large pot of something steaming on the hearth.

Temperance turned just as Silence entered and shoved back a lock of curling hair. “Silence! Oh, thank goodness. I could use your help today.”

“Oh.” Silence stared about the kitchen rather dazedly. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Temperance said firmly. “Winter is still ill. Could you take this tray up to him?”

“Winter is ill?” Silence picked up the tray automatically.

“Yes.” Temperance frowned at the singing boys. “From the beginning again, please. And Joseph Smith, do stop shoving Joseph Little. Yes,” she said again, turning back to Silence. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? Oh, so much has happened in the last day. Just take him his food, and under no circumstances should you let him rise from his bed.”

Temperance’s look was quite stern, and Silence was tempted to salute, though she wisely refrained from the gesture. She hurried from the kitchen instead and made her way to Winter’s room up under the eaves. Perhaps Temperance had had some sort of foresight, for as Silence pushed open the door, she caught Winter putting on his breeches.

Or trying to in any case.

Her youngest brother was pale and sweating and fell against the bed as she shut the door behind her.

“Can’t a man have some privacy?” Winter said in uncharacteristic ill humor.

“Not if you’re attempting to escape.” Silence set the tray on a small table by the bed, balanced precariously atop a pile of books. “Sorry.”

“She told you, didn’t she?” Winter asked darkly.

“That you’re ill? Yes.”

Silence wrinkled her nose in sympathy. Temperance could be rather bossy sometimes, although in this case Silence was in full agreement with her sister. Winter looked quite terrible. He’d taken off his nightshirt to get dressed, and she could count the ribs on his bare torso. He bent to retrieve his nightshirt from the floor, and she sucked in her breath.

He straightened hastily, but she’d already seen the long cut on his back. “Dear God! Where did you get that?”

He pulled his nightshirt on over his head. When he reappeared, he grimaced. “It’s nothing, really. Please don’t tell Temperance; she’ll only worry more.”

Silence frowned. “But where did you get it? It looks like a knife cut.”

“Nothing of the sort. I fell.” He looked sheepish. “In the street the other day. I’m afraid I came down on a wagon wheel and the iron cut right through my coat.”

“How strange. It looks exactly as if someone had cut you with a knife—or a sword, I suppose.” Silence tried to look over his shoulder, but he sat back against the pillow with a slight wince. “Have you cleaned it?”

“It’s fine. Truly.” He smiled, crooked and endearing. “I admit that I may’ve let the wound go when I first got it and that may have led to my fainting spell, but it’s healing properly now.”

“But—”

“Really, Silence,” he said. “Now. Tell me how things are with you.”

“Oh.” She carefully transferred the tray to his lap, making sure it was settled enough that it wouldn’t spill. “Well, William has sailed again.”

Winter glanced up from a spoonful of soup. “So soon?”

She looked away, busying herself with straightening the bed linens. “There was a ship whose captain fell suddenly ill. William assured me that he would be paid well for going back to sea early.”

“Ah,” Winter said noncommittally.

“And I went to Concord’s house for dinner the other
night, and he was quite cold. Asa was supposed to be there as well, but he didn’t come. Didn’t even send his regrets.” Silence picked up a pillow to plump. “You won’t credit it, I’m sure, but Concord implied that I’d been seduced by Mr. O’Connor, even after I told him that that simply wasn’t the case. I don’t think he believes me, Winter. I don’t think Temperance believes me either.”

She must’ve hit the pillow overhard because a small cloud of feathers puffed from a corner.

“I see,” Winter said slowly, eyeing his damaged pillow.

“I’m sorry.” Silence placed the pillow back on the bed and gave it a gentle pat. “But you believe me, don’t you? You know that Mr. O’Connor never touched me, that he only asked me to spend the night. And I did. I did spend the night in his room, but nothing—nothing at all!—happened. Do you believe me, Winter?”

She stood, arms crossed protectively over her breasts, and stared at him anxiously.

“I believe,” Winter said slowly, “that you are my sister and that no matter what happened, I will continue to love you and stand by you.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and stupid tears started in her eyes. For it was the sweetest thing Winter could possibly say—and also the most horrible. He obviously didn’t believe her either.

“Silence…”

“Well, then,” she said without looking at him; she couldn’t or she just might either burst into tears or hit him, neither of which would be very good. “I’ll just go down and see if Temperance needs my help in the kitchen.”

“Silence,” he called as she made the door.

She didn’t turn, staring down at her hand on the knob as she said gruffly, “What?”

“Have you ever thought about helping us here on a more permanent basis?”

The question was so startling that Silence turned to look at Winter.

He was regarding her gravely. “We could use your help, you know.”

“Why?” she whispered.

He blinked and looked down at his plate of soup. “I think it might be of benefit both to you and to us.”

He thought she was ruined. The realization was sudden and so entirely unwelcome that Silence was struck dumb.

Winter raised his eyes to hers, and they were filled with regret and sorrow. “Please at least think about it.”

She nodded jerkily and left quickly without replying. She couldn’t.

No one believed she’d walked out of Mickey O’Connor’s bedroom untouched. Not her neighbors, who whispered as she walked by. Not the shopkeepers, who turned their backs and pretended to be busy when she came into their stores. Not William, who had been mute as she’d watched him pack and leave. Not Asa or Concord or Verity or even Temperance or Winter. Even her own family thought she lied to cover some horrible sin.

No one believed her in all the world.

Chapter Eighteen

King Lockedheart looked bemused. “But if I open the cage door, the bird shall fly.”

“If you want to learn what love is, you must open the door,” Meg said.

So the king opened the little blue bird’s cage door. Immediately the bird took flight and darted out an open window of the room.

The king looked at Meg with his eyebrow cocked. “I think that all I have learned is how to lose a bird.”

“Is it?” she asked. “What do you feel?”

The king frowned. “Loss. Emptiness.”…

—from
King Lockedheart

“Then you think we can do it?” Mrs. Dews leaned forward, her face bright, her extraordinary brown eyes eager.

St. John nodded, amazed by her vitality. How could he not be? She was in such extreme contrast to Clara’s still form upstairs.

He shoved the awful thought aside and focused on answering her instead. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve already
had my secretary send out the invitations to view the foundling home.”

Mrs. Dews bit her lip. “How many did you invite?”

“A little over a hundred people.”

“Oh!” She sat very still, her eyes wide, but her hand crept out to seize the wrist of her maidservant, a woman named Nell.

St. John had been taken aback by the presence of the maid on this, Mrs. Dews’s second visit to his house. On the first, she’d arrived alone and nearly vibrating with the excitement of her idea: to open the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children for viewing in the hopes of catching the interest of a prospective patron for the home. It was a daring scheme, but one that was shrewd as well. Viewing the unfortunate, whether at prisons, hospitals, or houses for the hopelessly mad, was fashionable in London at the moment. Most came merely to stare and titter at the antics of those poor souls, but many would also pledge monies to the charities they viewed.

“That’s quite a lot of people,” Mrs. Dews said, letting go of her maid.

“Yes, but they are all of the best families—ones to whom charity is now in fashion.” St. John arched a significant eyebrow.

“Quite. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Dews smoothed her black skirts with one hand. It trembled slightly, and St. John had a wild urge to cross the room and comfort her.

“Do you think you’ll be ready in time?” he inquired, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I believe so,” she said, looking a bit relieved at the change of subject. “We’ve already scrubbed the walls and floors, Winter has been listening to the children recite
various poems by heart, and Nell has been busy mending the children’s clothes.”

“Good, good. I’ll have my cook make a quantity of punch and some gingerbread the day before to be delivered quite early on the set morning.”

“Oh, but you’ve done so much already,” Mrs. Dews exclaimed. “I don’t wish you to go to the expense on my account.”

“It’s for the children,” St. John reminded her gently. “I’d feel quite the lackwit if I didn’t contribute to our little plan. Please, don’t mention it.”

“In that case…” She smiled shyly at him, her eyes so alive.

How Caire could’ve let this woman slip through his hands was beyond him. He turned quickly, pretending to study the china clock on his mantelpiece. “If that is all today?”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” she said from behind him, sounding a little hurt. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Mr. St. John. You have been of such great help to me and our home.”

He clenched his jaw to prevent himself from stuttering apologies. Instead he bowed a bit stiffly. “Good day, Mrs. Dews.”

She left then, after a graceful curtsy, and only the maid shot him a curious look over her shoulder. He waited until the door to his library shut before walking to the window that overlooked the street below. He watched as she crossed the street, her stride light and graceful, one hand on her bonnet, for it was a windy day. The maid walked by her side instead of behind, and they seemed to be conversing. Her black-clad figure grew small, and in another moment she’d disappeared into the London crowd.

St. John let the curtain fall from his fingers.

He looked about his library, but despite the books and news sheets and clutter, it seemed barren and lonely after her visit. He left the room and mounted the stairs, climbing two floors up. He didn’t visit Clara often at this hour; she usually slept in after what was invariably a restless night. But today he found himself unable to keep away. In the back of his mind, he knew that there would come a day—perhaps soon—when he would no longer be able to climb the stairs and see her.

St. John tapped at her door and then cracked it open. The old maid who was Clara’s constant companion looked up from her chair by the bed, then rose and crossed to tend the fire.

He approached the bed and looked down. Clara must’ve just had her hair washed, for it was spread, a bright banner, over her white pillow. The locks were a deep brown with bits of red in them, now streaked with strands of gray. He found himself stroking her hair. She’d once told him it was her best feature, and he’d been amazed that ladies categorized their person thusly. Amazed and fondly amused.