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“Whatever’s on his mind. Which could be anything. Always a thousand things on Mr. DeWitt’s mind.”
His expression was rueful, but he spoke with admiration also.
“He employs those children?”
“More like practical training, although they get some wages too. There’s some orphanages that work with him, where he pays for the children to learn things, reading and writing and arithmetic. Most children like that, if they get a job, it’s in the factories or in service, but Mr. DeWitt says if they have the aptitude to do something different, then they ought to get to use it. Says aptitude matters more than birth. So some train here, and when they’re ready, we help them find a job.”
“Who is the woman?”
“That’s Miss Sampson. The training was her idea, so now she’s the Secretary In Charge Of Organizing The Training And Education. She’s a good sort, Miss Sampson.” His battered face broke into a smile and Cassandra couldn’t help but smile too; perhaps Mr. Cosway thought Miss Sampson was more than just a good sort. “She taught me to speak prettily. Lots of people think that if you don’t speak English the way they speak English, then you’re not as bright as them. I don’t mean Mr. DeWitt, though,” he hastened to add. “Most people, they wouldn’t give me a job, because some greedy pirate made off with my hand, but I said to Mr. DeWitt, ‘I know shipping, and I don’t need my left arm to think,’ and he agreed.”
Down on the dock, a clerk came to speak to Joshua. He looked up and their eyes met through the thick glass. He shook his head, then he nodded at the clerk, and gave her another look. She backed away.
Not so courageous now, was she?
She hardly noticed Mr. Cosway leaving, as she placed her bonnet on the table, folded her hands, and composed herself. She would not mention last night. She would not mention children.
She would not mention the dream that had blossomed overnight, delicate and pale, like a tiny wildflower poking up amid the ferns on the forest floor. She had thought she had buried the dream two years ago, given it up for lost along with so much else, but it had bloomed anew.
Children would bring pain, of course: She had lived long enough to know that whomever one loved would cause hurt, sooner or later. But they would also bring joy. Any pain could be borne if one had joy and love and laughter.
And her body was ready. That’s why it turned so silly around him. It was the only explanation, given that he was so dreadful and infuriating and not at all what she wanted in a husband.
Except that he didn’t want children, and he didn’t want her.
Which is why she would not mention it.
“What the blazes are you doing here?” he said as he hurtled in, shrinking the room to half its size. “Docks are dangerous places.”
“It’s interesting to see where you work.”
Their eyes met, and something shot through her, like a bolt of that lightning that bounced around inside him, like that jolt of pleasure when their mouths met last night.
She could have sworn he felt it too, that something leaped between them, a shared memory, a shared emotion, a shared desire, but he immediately bounded over to the window to check something outside. She remembered the moment when she thought they might be friends; even that seemed impossible in the light of day.
“Work being the operative word,” he said. “Not chatting with my wife.”
“You were chatting with those children.”
“Which was work.”
“You seemed fond of them.”
“They’re potential employees. So stop getting ideas.”
“Ideas?” Her heart thudded. He knew. He knew what she wanted. “Whatever do you mean?”
He picked up a dossier, flicked through it, tossed it back on the desk. Papers slid wildly and he lunged to stop them falling to the floor. “I am busy, Cassandra. I don’t have time for this.”
“It will take less time for you to talk to me than it would for you to remove me. I am feeling particularly tenacious today. Barnacle, remember?”
He folded his arms. She lifted her chin. He narrowed his eyes. She raised her eyebrows. He scowled at her. She beamed at him.
He groaned and ran his hands through his hair, which she knew now was absurdly soft. “I liked you better when you were nice. So what is it? What? What?”
Cassandra dragged her eyes off his hair, pasted on her cheerful, sensible expression, and focused on the matter at hand.
“This issue of Lord and Lady Bolderwood,” she said. “We must discuss what happens next.”
