“You. I know I’ve no right to ask anything more, but please—you come.”
His heart quivered within his chest. “I’ll try.”
“You got that window open yet?” So distracted had James been by what he saw in Catherine’s eyes, he hadn’t even heard Roselyn puffing her way up the stairs. She appeared now with a set of kitchen shears in her hand and looked round the place. “Worse than I remembered, it is. We’ll get it cleaned out, lass, and clean sheets for the cot, as well.”
“Lad,” Catherine reminded. “And this room will be fine.”
“Sit down there, then, and let’s get you shorn.”
James turned away to the window as Catherine perched on the edge of a wooden packing box. The window in question looked down over the tiny yard, with a glimpse of the next street to the left. Swollen shut by heat, it resisted his efforts, and he wrestled with it even as he listened to what happened behind him.
“No need to worry now, Albert—I cut all the lads’ hair. Scads of experience.”
Snip, snip.
“I’m not worried at all.”
“Mind, now, you’re going to have to try and think like a male. Won’t be easy, like, to turn off half your brain, but necessary for the duration. Right, James, lad?”
“Ha, ha,” James said, and felt the window move slightly beneath his hands.
“Of course”—snip, snip, snip—“you’ll only be able to do one thing at a time—men are notorious for that.”
James longed to glance behind at the bright tresses that must now litter the floor, see if Catherine still looked beautiful. He fought a brief battle with himself and then stole a look. One side of her head had been successfully cropped; the other still sprouted a bright fall of hair.
Like him. No, not like him, because she was still beautiful, so very beautiful.
She smiled at him, and his poor heart spasmed once more.
“How bad does it look?” she asked.
And he answered, “Not bad at all.” The window lifted beneath his hands, and fresh air streamed in.
“Ah, now, that’s grand. If you squint your eyes, you should be able to catch a glimpse of the river from that window,” Roselyn told Catherine. “Canada and home, for you.”
“This is my home now.” Catherine didn’t take her eyes from James.
Snip, snip, snip. He stood and watched openly as the bright tresses fell, each one a wound. When it was done, that criminal act, she still didn’t look like a boy, not to James, but a bit less like a fine lady.
“There, now.” Roselyn ruffled her hand through the cropped hair, and James’ fingers twitched. “Albert, lad, I forgot to bring up the broom and dustpan. Your legs are much younger than mine; run down the three flights, will you, and fetch them? You’ll find them just behind the kitchen door.”
Catherine arose, flashed James a cheeky grin, and went.
Roselyn gave James a thoughtful look, bent down, and deliberately chose a lock of hair from the pile at her feet. This she passed covertly to James’ hand.
“Here, lad. You just take that, and tuck it close to your heart.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Albert, lad, fill up that bucket again—nice clean water, mind.”
Cat groaned inwardly and straightened her aching back. Three days had passed at Roselyn’s boarding house, and it had been nothing but work, work, work from sunup to sundown. Astonishing, the sheer amount of labor it took to run such a place, at least the way Roselyn Murphy wanted it run. Tasks seemed endless, and the scrubbing never quite got finished.
Moreover, Roselyn proved to be an equal-opportunity slave driver. She didn’t so much assign lads’ and lasses’ duties as share the pain around. So far Cat had polished furniture, scrubbed every floor in the place, and begun learning to cook.
Ruefully, she cast a glance at her hands, which had once been white and well-kept. Now red and almost as rough as Roselyn’s, they stung when she immersed them in water.
How many buckets had she hauled since she came here? Far too many. But she could fairly say Roselyn worked herself twice as hard as she worked anyone else.
And Cat sincerely did like the woman. She liked Dottie, too, who seemed to possess limitless energy and loved to chatter while she worked, very much like a bird. Cat had already heard all about Dottie’s past, far more horrific than Cat’s; at the age of four, Dottie had been sold by her father as a runner for a man who owned a weaving factory—shuttling bobbins from place to place on the floor. After enduring two years of that life, she’d been injured when a bolt of fabric fell on her, and tossed out on her ear. Taken in by a charity run by the wives of German immigrants on the east side, she’d gone out to work again at the age of eight, laboring for a grocer. When the man became abusive, she eventually saw a doctor, who directed her to Roselyn’s door.
Now, at only fourteen, she worked tirelessly all day and confided to Cat early on, “I’d stay here and work for Miss Murphy for free if I had to. She’s kind enough, though, to pay me a little bit of wage in addition to my keep. I was able to save up and buy these boots, see?”
She pointed a little toe from beneath the edge of her worn but clean dress. Cat thought of the many pairs of shoes and slippers she’d gone through in her life, tossed aside casually, and marveled that this girl could be excited over a pair of plain brown boots. But she nodded respectfully.
“So, Albert,” Dottie concluded sweetly, “you just keep working hard, and maybe you can earn yourself some decent clothes.”
Cat had followed that advice and continued working hard. Her arms protested hauling the heavy buckets and—because it seemed like a task for a lad—she learned to wield an axe and split kindling in the tiny kitchen yard. She carried endless bowls and platters to the table—the men who lodged with Roselyn had seemingly bottomless stomachs—and helped with mountains of dishes. At night she slept like the dead, too weary to dream.
But now, now… She paused beside the kitchen window and looked out, wishing James—or Jamie, as she called him in her own mind—would come. Not only did she crave news of Boyd’s condition—surely the villain must be dead by now if he meant to die—but she missed the big, gentle man.
As if her wishing had conjured him, she saw someone enter the kitchen yard—wide shoulders, long legs, auburn hair tumbling across one side of his face. She caught her breath in delight.
“It’s Jamie!”
Roselyn shot Dottie a quick look. “Mr. Kilter to you, lad. Didn’t he bring you here to safety?”
Roselyn had told Dottie that Kilter had rescued Albert from an abusive master, an excuse to keep her close to the boarding house.
Now Roselyn nudged Dottie. “Be an angel, lass, and run upstairs. Make sure all the beds are made tidy. Then you take a break; out with you into that sunshine.”
Happily, Dottie went, but not before Roselyn dug in her pocket and gave her a penny. “Buy some of that candy you like so well.”
“Oh, thanks, Miss Murphy!” Dottie’s smile lit her face.
Cat knew how she felt. She couldn’t keep a smile from her face as she opened the kitchen door to Kilter.
“Well, hello!”
“Hello, there.” He paused in the doorway and examined her carefully. She tried not to mind that she stood clad in boys’ shabby clothing, or that dirt smudged her hands and face. A smile quirked the good side of his mouth. “Working hard, are we?”
“You have no idea.” Cat widened her eyes at him. “Do you have news about…about—”
“Hush,” Roselyn said quickly, and hurried to shut the door behind Kilter after shooing him in. “Don’t speak any names here.”
Cat bit her lip, then went and closed the wooden door that led to the long, narrow dining room. When she turned back, she caught Roselyn and Kilter exchanging glances.
“Do you have word?” Roselyn asked.
“Yes. Tate sent me.”
“Then sit down, lad. I’ll put the kettle on. Albert, you sit too.” Roselyn moved as she spo
ke, her hands already busy with the kettle. “How dire are things?”
Kilter sat, and Cat took the place opposite, where she could look into his face. His gaze touched hers before he said, “There’s some good news and some bad. Tate wanted me to let you know he’s sent a messenger up to Toronto and your family.”
Roselyn leaned against the table. “That’s the good news, I’m thinking.”
“Yes. We haven’t had word back yet, but he’s told the man to offer your mother and sister sanctuary if they’re willing to come away with him.”
“That’s very kind,” Cat said. Tate Murphy barely knew her, yet he went to such lengths on her behalf.
“That’s my big, soft-headed brother for you,” Roselyn half joked.
“Please thank him for me.” Cat searched Kilter’s face again. “And the rest of it?”
“We’ve had word Boyd’s likely to recover. He’s in a nursing facility on Elmwood Avenue and said to be angry. Very, very angry.”
Cat flinched inwardly. “How do you know?”
“A friend of Tate’s is walking out with one of the nurses there. She says he’s vowed to find Miss Delaney no matter what it takes. He’s already authorized a squad of men to move through the city and hired a small airship to search from above.”
Roselyn grunted. “Criminal waste of brass, that is. Only imagine having such money to toss around.”
Cat fought the feelings of panic and terror rising inside. “I haven’t a chance, then. I’ll have to leave here, Miss Murphy.”
Roselyn and Kilter both looked alarmed. “Are you mad?” Roselyn asked.
“I’ll not bring trouble to your door,” Cat vowed, “not when you’ve been so good to me.” Perhaps she’d be better off just turning herself over to Boyd now, before she brought harm down on the heads of her friends.
What would Boyd do to Roselyn if he discovered she’d been sheltering Cat? To Kilter? Cat shivered at the thought of disaster befalling him because of her.
Kilter’s blue eyes, so bright in his half-ruined face, became worried. “I don’t think there’s any need for that. I’ve come only to warn you about staying close and keeping to your disguise, nothing more. As many resources as Boyd may have, Tate and I know hiding places in this city.” He made room on his knee for the little brown dog, whose name Cat had learned was Blossom, and the mutt cuddled into him trustingly.
Lucky mutt, Cat thought ruefully. How she’d like to shelter in his arms. Instead, she said, “You have no reason to place yourselves in jeopardy by helping me. Boyd could ruin Mr. Murphy’s business, all he’s worked to build. I hate to think what he could do to you.”
Kilter shrugged. “So far, he has no reason to suspect we’re helping you or that you’re hidden here. The instant he does, we’ll move you.” He gave Cat an intent look. “Neither of us is the man to abandon someone in need.”
Cat drew a deep breath that tasted of reassurance. “Thank you, that’s very good to know. Please thank Mr. Murphy also, for all the trouble he’s taking.”
Kilter nodded, and the auburn hair tumbled over the good side of his face. Cat wondered how he might have looked had he never been burned; she suspected he would have been devastatingly attractive, with those high cheekbones and long lashes.
Her heart clenched at the very thought. How terrible it must be for him. Yet right now he represented the largest part of her security, and she watched his big, scarred hand move over Blossom’s brown head with increased envy.
The kettle began to sing, and Roselyn reached down two cups and saucers. It had been so long since Cat had been waited on, she nearly leaped up. But Roselyn forestalled her by putting a plate of shortbread on the table.
“There, James, lad, your favorite.” She shot a look at Cat. “You can take the Scotsman out of Scotland, but can’t take the Scotland out of him—or the love of shortbread. First time I met him, he cleaned a plate.”
“Nobody makes shortbread like you, Roselyn,” Kilter said appreciatively.
“And here’s your tea. The two of you sit and talk; I’ve tasks elsewhere in the house.”
What tasks? Cat wondered. It seemed they’d already taken care of everything. But she craved a few minutes alone with Kilter, even if they spoke only of frightening possibilities.
Roselyn went out, quietly shutting the door to the dining room behind herself. Cat considered all the things she wanted to say and chose one.
“Too bad Boyd didn’t die and do the world a favor.”
Kilter looked startled. For an instant his fingers paused on Blossom’s fur before resuming their gentle motion. “True. Of course you’d be in worse trouble than you are.”
“Is there worse trouble? Not only has Boyd sworn vengeance against me—for that’s what he’s done—but I’ve dragged people into it with me. I mean it. I’d be better off giving myself up now.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said quickly. “We haven’t begun to exhaust our resources. Trust me.”
“I do trust you.” Completely, implicitly. “I just don’t want to bring trouble down upon you.”
He shrugged awkwardly. “Not as if I haven’t been in deep trouble before. Just look at me.” The corner of his mouth quirked again. “Or, rather, spare yourself and don’t.”
It took Cat an instant to grasp his meaning. When she did, she flushed with annoyance. “I think, James,” she used his given name deliberately, “you over exaggerate the effect your appearance has on me.”
That made his gaze leap to hers once more, startled. She could see the emotions race through his eyes: denial, embarrassment, disbelief. Ah, then, he didn’t think she could look at him and see anything but a monster. She would have to convince him.
“Oh, I know people like that awful Charlie Crowter sneer and beat you over the head with it,” she said quickly before he could speak, “and I can’t imagine going on so. But please, at least accept that it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Doesn’t matter?” he repeated, a man stunned. “How could it not matter?”
“Because that’s not what I see when I look at you.”
“By God, what do you see?”
“A kind man, a gentle man. A good man. My friend, I hope. Are we friends?”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Then,” she said with a flash of fire, “don’t you dare try and tell me how I should or should not feel about you!”
He shook his head, and his gaze momentarily fell to rest on the dog’s head. Cat could see—could feel—he still didn’t believe. But when his eyes lifted to hers again they held fervor equal to hers.
“And I will do everything I can, Catherine, to keep you safe. That I do promise.”
Impulsively, she reached across the table, her hand a silent demand for his. In response, he lifted his scarred fingers from the dog’s head and placed them in hers.
“Friends, then,” she said devoutly.
“Friends,” he agreed, and she squeezed his fingers as if she’d never let go.
Chapter Sixteen
“Tate, have you ever heard of a doctor in this city called Roesch?”
Tate paused in the act of sweeping the yard and shot James a look. The two men had spent the last hour cleaning out the kennels behind the building this warm, sunny afternoon.
“Might have,” Tate said cautiously. “Why do you ask?”
“A man mentioned him to me,” James said with false nonchalance. “One of the medics back at Boyd’s. Said he might be able to do something about this face of mine.”
“Some kind of operation, you mean, on them scars?”
“To make me look human.” James thought again of Catherine, so beautiful despite her lad’s clothing and cropped hair, sitting across the table from him at Roselyn’s. You over exaggerate the effect your appearance has on me. A nice sentiment, a sweet lie, but one he just couldn’t bring himself to believe. How could it possibly fail to matter to her, even if she had declared herself his friend?
Tate’s gaze softened, and he clamped
a hand on James’ shoulder. “You already are human, lad—far more so than half the feckers in this city.”
“I said I want to look human.” Bitterness filled James’ voice. “What do you know about this doctor?”
“Only what I’ve heard through Brendan Fagan. Roesch is the doctor, see, the police called in to study on those hybrid steamies after the warden, Maynard, got tossed out and things were cleaned up at the jail. He examined the methods those two mad geniuses used to keep skin growing over metal.”
James said nothing, and Tate asked, “What’s in that head of yours, lad?”
“I’m thinking I should go and see him.”
“What’s brought this on?”
James sat back on his heels in front of one of the cages and frowned. The dog inside pressed itself into James’ hands through the now-open door and wiggled in delight.
“After all”—Tate nodded at the animal—“those of us who love you don’t care.”
“Maybe I care. Have you thought of that? Maybe I’m fed up with looking at myself in the mirror while I shave half my face, and with seeing how I look reflected in strangers’ eyes.”
“Ah, well.” Momentarily taken aback, Tate stood staring away at nothing. “I can’t imagine the services of such a man would come cheap.”
“Then I’ll need to earn more. Give me a second job. Or if you don’t want to, I’ll look elsewhere.”
“Peace, lad.” Again Tate’s hand came down on James’ shoulder. “I didn’t say I won’t help you. You know you’re like a brother to me, more than anything.”
James refused to look at Tate again, but tears blurred his vision. It had been years since he’d cried over anything—he’d learned too well, back before his face healed, how tears stung. Stoicism, that was the only way.
He blinked fiercely. “You’re not a wealthy man, with money to toss around. You work hard as anyone.”
Tate mused, “But this wouldn’t be tossing money around, would it, lad? Tossing money around would be going on a bender or spending it on the ponies. Go see the doctor if you want to. See what’s what, and then talk to me again. If he’s after saying he can help you, we’ll find a way.”
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