She had just set her hands back into the bucket of soapy water and was wringing out a cleaning rag when the front door opened. A pale-faced Jonathan closed the door quietly behind him.
“Good morning,” said Poppy.
He winced. “Could you not yell? My head is ready to split wide open.”
“I wasn’t speaking loudly,” she replied, lowering her voice.
Jonathan waved her words away with the barest movement of his hand. “A whisper would be good.”
Oh dear, that bad?
“I was wondering when you would make an appearance. Some of the crew arrived back at the ship earlier this morning. What’s left of them is dotted about the deck,” she said.
She had press-ganged a couple of the less inebriated crew members into helping her hang the holland covers over the ropes, then let them go back to sleep. There wouldn’t be a great deal of work getting done on board the Empress Catherine this morning.
Jonathan’s gaze settled on the freshly cleaned and polished table, but he said nothing. “We gave it a good nudge. Your extra coins lasted a couple of hours, after which we pooled the rest of our money into a kitty. I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I woke somewhere out near the burying grounds in Bluegate Fields.”
He couldn’t have picked a stranger place in London to end his night of celebrations. From the taverns of the waterside to waking up beside the dead. Then again, by the state of him, Poppy decided she should be pleased that Jonathan had at least made it back to the dock in one piece.
He doesn’t smell like he visited one of the brothels. No aroma of cheap perfume. His miasma was a fog of whisky, ale, and something damp.
For a moment, Poppy was tempted to ask Jonathan what he had planned for the day but recalling their disagreement of the previous morning and his hungover state, she left it unsaid. The last thing she wanted was to start another fight.
“You look like you have been busy,” he said, and there was a familiar defensive edge to his tone. One which challenged her to say something about his lack of help. Of her near constant disappointment with his efforts.
Don’t give him an excuse to play the victim. He will latch onto it as soon as he can.
If she did give him the opportunity, there was every chance that Jonathan would be out the door and headed back to the ship. There, he would find himself a sympathetic ear which he could bend with his tale of self-pitying woe. Of how Poppy was forever expecting him to be at her beck and call.
After that, he would be back, demanding more coins from her so he could retire once more to the nearest tavern and resume drinking.
No. We are not playing that game.
An awkward silence descended, during which Poppy was sure she could hear Jonathan taunting her under his breath. Whispering, “Go on. Say it.”
But when it became clear that she wasn’t going to take the bait, he let out a tired sigh. “I am going to go back on board the ship and get some sleep. I shall see you later.”
His gaze drifted and settled on the far wall. His brows knitted as his eyes focused on it. Poppy turned, interested to see what had caught Jonathan’s hungover attention.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to move that,” he said.
He was pointing at the large black partition, which had been erected against the brickwork. Poppy had noticed it when they first arrived, but she had been so preoccupied with cleaning that she hadn’t given it a second thought.
“Why? What’s so important about it?” she replied.
She caught sight of the rare smile on his lips as Jonathan stepped past her and headed over to the wall. An intrigued Poppy followed.
“It’s not often that you surprise me, Poppy. I would have thought this was the first thing you would want.”
As her gaze drifted up, past the partition and toward the ceiling, Poppy let out a gasp. “It’s a chimney, which means . . .”
“Exactly. There must be a fireplace behind that wood panel. And if they have just put a screen in front of it, I would bet five shillings it’s still in working order.”
A fireplace. Tears pricked at Poppy’s eyes. She had longed for a home, but her secret desire had really been for a place where she could bake. A proper cooking area instead of the tiny oven she’d had on board the boat.
Hearth and home.
“Oh, Jonathan,” she whispered.
