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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 disrespectfully,” 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.”
