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“Or even brushes, perhaps, with long handles,” she said hurriedly. “Anything to make his way easier, until he’s old enough to find other means of employment and afford such things for himself.”
“D’ye know jus’ how many men’s missin’ an arm?” Humor had stolen from the gatekeeper’s face, and rather than looking like an antagonist, he now looked lined and weary. “You ain’t gonna talk ’em into givin’ that boy special treatment, I don’t care as to how pretty you are.”
She chose to ignore that, but before she could rouse her next argument, Mr. Malloy spoke. “Miss, you ought to know it’s … unlikely that Barnard will ever be an Out-Pensioner like myself.”
“But why? I’ve heard of men managing it all the time.” She knew from Edmund that injured seamen found work as cooks and boatswains, if not changing course entirely, as Mr. Malloy had.
“Pensions are based on a seamen’s length of service,” he said gently. She didn’t like his tone; it put dread in her veins. “Given the boy’s age …”
If he wanted her to infer, he wasn’t going to have his way. She needed to hear this, regardless of how little she wanted to. “Go on.”
“He won’t ever make enough to support his independence. I’ve seen it happen before. But the hospital, it isn’t such a bad place to live. He’ll find himself taken care of.”
Sophie must have quit breathing, for her lungs were demanding air and her palms stinging where her nails burrowed into her flesh. He’ll find himself taken care of. That was certainly the intention. But tonight had proven it a fiction rather than a reality.
She thought of Barnard’s pale eyes on their first meeting. Those eyes had seen atrocities, had no doubt clouded with pain, homesickness, righteous outrage at Why me?—and yet they had not been robbed of sweetness, strength, or even innocence.
“Is there no other option? Truly?” Her voice was a wisp.
Mr. Malloy lowered his foot to the ground. “Without parents, I’m afraid not.”
fourteen
What a joyful looking assemblage. Rafe had only his own footsteps for sound as he approached the carriage. It was beginning to rain again, and a chill chased the droplet that made it down his shirtfront. None of them seemed to mind. Miss St. Quinton scarcely seemed to know where she was, her eyes wide yet vacant, her arms tucked at her sides. She was the last to look up.
“Well,” Rafe said, “the physician’s seen him. He’s assigned a nurse to check on him through the night, but he feels confident.”
One would never guess she was staunch and sarcastic when she looked like this. Her mind seemed to have returned to the present, for she was now watching him with rapt attention—but she looked hollow. Fear didn’t much suit Miss St. Quinton. “Confident? You mean to say there’s to be no lasting harm?”
“Dr. Meyers didn’t seem to think so, no.” Rafe rubbed his open palm over the back of his neck. “Now, as to how to prevent the incident from happening again, I’m afraid he didn’t have much to offer.”
Her gaze retreated. Evidently, that concern had already been at the forefront of her mind.
Chenoweth made a move toward the box—subtle, but clear—and caught Rafe’s eye. Rafe looked away and stepped toward her. “If you wish to stay on a bit longer, the nurse is to check in on him again in a half hour.”
“Would you?” Her eyes searched his face in small, anxious flicks.
He offered his arm. “Happy to.”
“I’ll mill about awhile longer, too,” Alfie said quietly, giving Rafe’s shoulder a passing shake.
Chenoweth dutifully retreated, and the gatekeeper stuffed his pipe without another word. God in heaven, what had gone on while he was away?
“Are you taking me to see him?” Miss St. Quinton asked as they began walking.
“Ah, no. I’m afraid not.”
She nodded.
The rain was coming harder now, and he wanted to reach out and place the hood of her cloak over her black, errant curls, but he resisted. “I would, if it were permitted—take you to see him, I mean. I did ask.”
“Thank you.”
They reached the main courtyard and mounted the portico steps to escape the damp. Before he could draw breath, she disentangled herself from his arm and retreated, scanning the long expanse of covered porch. They were alone. Together, yet alone.
He was a fool to think she’d overlook that earlier business. He knew he couldn’t. He would be carrying the memory with him like a scar, a distinguishable impression raised among the monotony, insisting on being noticed, accepted. The whispering brush of her lips, and the pattern of her breath. Her skin against his palms, her scent coloring his taste … Almond, sugar, bergamot, Sophie.
Some part of him had been convinced the moment hadn’t meant the same to her. That perhaps she had acted on impulse and would pretend, once her pride mended, that it had never happened. But she stood steps away from him, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her arms drawn inward and her back rigid.
