Page 55 of The Gentlewoman Companion

He took his seat awkwardly. How did one begin this conversation? Lovely to meet you, sister. Have you eaten today?

“I am sure you know of my—our—father’s passing,” he said. “I am now responsible for your well-being. Your brother—our bother—might attend school. Become a clerk or a barrister. And you, Margaret⁠—”

“I am not interested in your charity.”

“We are family.”

“In that case, we will move in with you, make it honest.” She didn’t look up from her sewing.

He had expected her defiance, but this dismissiveness irritated him. He was not culpable for his father’s sins, only trying to do his duty as her brother.

A deep-chested cough sounded from the other side of an interior door.

“Is that the boy?” he asked.

“Samuel. He is sleeping.”

“He doesn’t sound well. How old is he?”

“Seven.”

“Did you know our father?”

“When I was young, he brought gifts—a dress, a doll, or a trinket. We lived in a grander place, but after tiring of my mother, he was a sporadic presence. When he did visit, it was with pockets full of presents and a mouth of promises. Eventually, we couldn’t afford our lodgings, so we moved here. That was years ago, years before Mother died.”

His mind whirred at this description of his father, a man who had touted accountability and restraint. His stomach, already weighed down, sickened.

“And Samuel?” he asked.

“I don’t know that he ever met Lord Halverton. His mother didn’t live long enough to tell us her story. Sam has a weak constitution, like his mum, but he’s a sweet child.” Her voice softened.

“How old are you, if I may ask?”

She hesitated. “Seventeen, but I say that I’m twenty.”

She was the same age as Louisa, and he doubted anyone took her for a day older. Her diminutive frame made her appear scarcely fifteen. “And you’ve had charge of Samuel since…”

“My mother died a little over a year ago, shortly after Sam came to us.”

“I will move you to better accommodations. Somewhere with clean air.”

She looked up, practically glaring. “I know better than to depend on others for my needs.”

He didn’t doubt her independence, but she wore a brown dress of rough, patched linen that hung loosely around her.

From outside a booming voice sang, “Come, let us drink while we have breath, for there’s no drinking after death. Down, down…”

Margaret’s gaze shot to the door. “You must go.”

“Please reconsider and accept my assistance.” He reached for the guinea he had brought and found an empty pocket. A sneakthief. He’d thought himself so careful, leaving his pocketbook and watch at home. He would deem it a donation and return with more.

“It is not my duty to ease your conscience.” She reached for the door, but it opened, the song filling the room in a booming baritone.

“Down among the dead men let him lie!” A short, ruddy man stood singing.

“Hush, Roger,” Margaret slapped his chest. “Sam is sleeping. Stay there.” She left him in the doorway and went to a chest from which she pulled a bottle of gin.

The drunk man looked James up and down, sneering. “He’s a dandy, now, ain’t he?”