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“J,” the boy repeated, gazing soberly at the mark he’d must made.
“Isn’t that grand? I’ll warrant none of the other boys you know can do that.”
“No,” he agreed. “To ing’rant.”
Catherine stifled a smile. “You, on the other hand, are very clever. In just a few days you’ve made all the letters in the alphabet as far as ‘J.’ Do you realise that’s nearly halfway?”
Jemmy groaned. “More still? Ain’t ‘ere never no end to ‘em fings?”
“Those things—and ‘ain’t is not a proper word. Sixteen more to go. Then,” she quickly added, noting the expression of profound discouragement upon his round features, “you will have enough letters to make every word you ever heard of—even your own name. By this time next week you’ll be writing your whole name all by yourself.”
“Show me wot it looks like,” Jemmy ordered, offering her the pencil.
Miss Pennyman agreed on condition he help her. Once more she placed the pencil between his fingers and guided them.
“Miss Pelliston, I presume?”
The “y” of “Jemmy” trailed off into a long crazy scrawl as Catherine dropped the child’s hand.
At the sound of the familiar voice all the muscles in her neck stiffened. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the same stiffly painful way, she became aware of gleaming boots, light-coloured trousers, a darker coat, and the blinding contrast of white linen as her gaze travelled up from the floor to his face, to be pinioned by the deep piercing blue of his eyes.
Blue ... and angry. He had never seemed so tall and overpowering as he did now, his long, rugged form filling the narrow doorway.
Chapter Eight
Jemmy stared as well. As he took in his teacher’s shocked white face, he waxed indignant. “Here now,” he sharply informed the stranger, “you can’t bust in here.”
The stranger ignored him. “Miss Catherine Pelliston of Wilberstone, perhaps?”
Jemmy leapt from his chair to confront the aggravating visitor. “Din’t I jest tell you you wuzn’t allowed here? ‘At ain’t her name, neither, so you just be on yer way, sir, as you’s had too much to drink nor what’s good fer you.” Apparently unaware that he was addressing the stranger’s waistband, Jemmy endeavoured to turn the man around and push him on his way.
Lord Rand caught the child by the collar. “Settle down, boy,” he said. “I’ve business with this young lady.”
Jemmy did not settle down. He immediately began pounding the man with his fists and shouting threats, along with loud advice to Missus to call the Watch.
Lord Rand, whose short store of patience was quickly deserting him, gave the boy a light cuff on the shoulder and bade him be still. This adjuration proving ineffective, he picked the child up and slung him across his hip, in which position Jemmy, undaunted, flailed and kicked, mainly at empty air.
“Oh, do stop!” Catherine cried, rising from her chair. “Jemmy, you leave off that noise this instant and stop striking his lordship. And you, My Lord—how dare you bully that child!”
“The little beast is bullying me, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Nonetheless, Lord Rand released the boy, who ran back to shield his teacher. The urchin stood in front of her, scowling fearlessly at the giant. The teacher’s great hazel eyes flashed fire.
“Is this your latest protector, ma’am? If so, I’d advise you not to stand too close. I daresay the wretch has lice.”
In response, Miss Pelliston put her arm about the boy’s shoulder and drew him closer to her. “I suppose, My Lord, you are provoked with me,” she said stiffly. “I will not deny you may have reason. That is no excuse for picking on a helpless child.”
“He’s about as helpless as a rabid cur. Little beast hit me,” Lord Rand grumbled.
“He’ll do it agin if you don’t go away,” Jemmy retorted.
“Very well,” his lordship replied. “I do mean to go away— but not without your lady friend.”
At this Jemmy set up a screeching that brought Madame to the workroom door. “Heavens, what is the child howling about?” she cried. “Jemmy, you stop that racket this minute, do you hear? Whatever will his lordship think? And poor Miss Pennyman—Miss Pelliston, I mean—you dreadful boy. Isn’t she ill enough without your giving her the headache besides?”
Lord Rand moved aside to let the modiste enter the room.
“My dear,” said Madame, taking Catherine’s hand, “I had no notion. Such a shock it must be for you—but my poor brother had the same trouble. Knocked over by a farmer’s cart and when he came to he didn’t know who he was. Thought he was a farmer himself. It was two days before he came to his senses.”
“I beg your pardon, but I am in full possession of my wits,” said a baffled Catherine.
“Yes, dear, so he thought too. It’s the amnesia, you know. If I hadn’t been by to help him, he might have wandered off just as you did and none of us would ever have known what became of him.”
“Amnesia?” Catherine faintly repeated.
“Yes,” said the viscount as his face quickly assumed a mask of concern. “Apparently you tripped on the stairs the other morning and hit your head. Of course you don’t remember, Miss Pelliston,” he added, as she opened her mouth to contradict. “But I described to Madame the bandbox you’d packed with old clothes for the parish needy and she tells me you arrived carrying the very one.”
The dressmaker nodded her agreement.
“E
vidently you got muddled in your brain, ma’am, and thought it was your own luggage. Naturally, one understands how your confused mind perceived it.”
Miss Pelliston’s enormous eyes opened wider at this arrant falsehood. “My mind was—is—not in the least confused—”
“There, there,” Madame comforted. “Just as my brother kept insisting. But his lordship is here to take you home now, and in a day or so you’ll be right as a trivet. I shall miss you terribly, though. I never did see such fine, neat stitches as you make, dear, and never wasting a scrap of fabric.”
Jemmy, who understood nothing but that his teacher was to be carried off by this evil giant, began objecting loudly. Catherine hastened to comfort him. She bent to embrace him and murmur soothing remarks, most to the effect that she would never desert him.
Jemmy was a child wise in the ways of the world. He knew that tall, fancy-dressed gentlemen always got exactly their way in that world, and most especially when they were addressed as “My Lord.” He refused to be consoled.
Catherine gazed up pleadingly at her erstwhile rescuer. “My Lord, I am sure there is some misunderstanding. You’ve confused me with someone else—”
“It’s you who’s confused. I’m only getting a headache is what. Drat it—can’t you stifle the little b—lad?”
“He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, please go away. Don’t you see?” she begged. “He needs me. Madame needs me as well, as she just said. Oh, do go away, please.”
The viscount, who’d expected to be greeted with every possible expression of gratitude, was confounded. An hour earlier, Blackwood had found a pastry cook who had not only seen the young lady the valet described, but was in possession of a length of ribbon belonging to her. The cook having volunteered directions to Jemmy’s place of employment, Blackwood had hastened across the street to inform his master, who was questioning a chemist.
