Cat frowned, confused. “A girl?”
She knew what kissing led men and women to — she’d seen it often enough in the alleys off the market. The older boys in the gang all claimed to have done such things, though she doubted that, as there were no girls around for them to practice on and no coin for food, let alone the whores. And there were enough oaths and insults and threats thrown about the gang that she understood some men did the same with men — or boys, for she’d seen more than one of the prettier ones go off with Brandt and come back crying, not wishing to speak of what had gone on. It was frowned on, made fun of, and at risk of gaol or a hanging at Newgate if found out, but it did happen. But both girls?
How ever would that even work?
She’d never had a real interest in that sort of thing — any thought of it had to be stamped down. To even begin to explore it would have meant revealing she was a girl to someone, and that simply wasn’t an option. Besides, from what she’d observed in the alleys it was a thing men sought and women provided — if she didn’t want to take herself to the buttock brokers herself, then why think about it?
And as for other girls, well, there were either the doxies or the older women of the market — Cat had, as near as she could figure, never spent any time in conversation with another girl for her entire life. Until now, under Roffe’s roof.
Until Emma.
The girl’s eyes were closed and her grip on Cat’s hand was so tight as to be painful.
“Please say you don’t hate me, Cat,” she whispered.
“Girls?” Cat asked again, her mind still trying to make sense of it — and her own feelings.
She was keenly aware of her hand gripping Emma’s, and both of them in the other girl’s lap. Her hand, beneath the pain of the tight grip they both had on each other, seemed to burn with the same fire as her leg, which touched Emma’s as they sat. It was also, suddenly, very hard to breathe and her head was filled with things — images of Emma in the bath, the feel of Emma brushing her hair, the touch of Emma’s fingers brushing against her skin as she helped Cat dress.
Emma opened her eyes and met Cat’s gaze.
“I know it’s wrong,” she said. Her eyes were full of unshed tears. “There were a whole sermon about hellfire the Sunday after, but —”
Cat raised her free hand to Emma’s cheek. She wasn’t sure why — wasn’t sure she was thinking at all, come to that, except to wonder, as her thumb brushed Emma’s lips, just how the girl’s skin could be so hot without them both bursting into flames where they sat.
Emma’s voice trailed off at the touch. She leaned toward Cat, barely an inch. Cat leaned toward her, no more.
Then who moved next, they’d never remember, only that their lips met somewhere in the middle.
Cat woke to find herself snuggled against Emma’s side, her head nestled against the other girl’s shoulder, with one leg over Emma and Emma’s arm around her and her hand laid lightly on Cat’s hip.
The morning sun filtered through the curtains. It lit a strand of Emma’s hair, just in front of Cat’s face, which moved with every breath Cat made.
It was, Cat thought, the most splendid morning ever.
More splendid, even, than her first morning waking in this house, when she’d been fed to fullness for the first time she could ever remember.
This morning satisfied a deeper hunger she hadn’t even known was there, one which had left her, until now, emptier than she’d known.
A sudden pounding at the bedroom door and Hinds’ shrill call of, “Miss Catherine, are you awake?” spoiled the moment, sending both Cat and Emma to bolt upright in the bed.
The bedclothes tumbled to their waists and they each flushed red — from seeing the other, from the other seeing her — which was suddenly very, very different from the times they’d seen each other in the past — and from the sudden knowledge of what Hinds would say if she barged in.
The proper progression of events would have been for Emma to wake Cat, bring her breakfast, help her dress, then Cat could go to her first lesson of the day with Hinds. A quick look at the amount of sunlight filling the room, though, made it clear they’d missed all of that.
Emma scurried from the bed and began rushing about the room, picking up and examining what was an astonishing amount of clothing tossed about with abandon.
“Where’re me clothes?” Emma whispered. “Here!”
Cat’s nightgown, which she’d never made it into the night before, struck her in the face. She shrugged it on and saw that Emma was no closer to collecting her own clothes. The girl had one leg in her drawers, holding them up with one hand, while she frantically searched the floor.
“There was the time we spent in the tub again,” Cat suggested.
Emma froze, looked to her, then her eyes widened in horror.
“Oh, Lord, that’s why me drawers’re damp!”
The door rattled.
“Miss Catherine? Why is the door locked? Are you there?”
Emma rushed to the bathing room and her exit was followed by a wail of despair.
“Miss Catherine?” Hinds called from the hallway.
Emma reappeared holding her sodden gown before her. Cat nearly giggled, only holding it back for the look of horror on Emma’s face. Yes, they had been in a bit of a hurry to get to the water and salt — the reminder that such would ease Emma’s bruising being the thinnest of excuses at that point.
Emma was near tears now, though, and Cat understood why. Despite the humor of the situation, Hinds would certainly leap to the worst, correct, conclusion, and there was no telling what might happen then. Emma’d already had to flee her home once over such a thing.
“Miss Catherine, you’re late for your lessons and I can’t find that girl anywhere! Are you in there? Are you awake?”
“Toss that back,” Cat whispered and left the bed, she opened her wardrobe and grabbed one of her poorer nightgowns, it was still better than a maid would have, but close enough. She gave that to Emma. “Put that on and come back to the bed.”
“What?”
“Miss Catherine! I have sent Mistress Singley for the key and I shall enter!”
“Now!” Cat ordered, and Emma did, tossing her dripping gown back toward the tub where it made a sodden squish and eeling into the nightgown.
Cat knelt on the bed, gesturing urgently for Emma to join her.
“Cat, I don’t understand —”
“Here,” Cat said, tossing Emma a pillow and taking one up herself. “Now hit me.”
“What?”
There was the sound of a key in the bedroom lock.
Cat drew her pillow back and struck Emma full in the face with it.
“Hit me!”
Emma stared at her wide-eyed for a moment, then tapped Cat on the shoulder with the pillow.
Cat ripped the end of her pillow and swung it hard, sending feathers in a white cascade across the room, the bed, and everywhere, covering both girls like fallen snow.
The door opened and Hinds entered with the feather flurry in full form, barely reaching the height of their arc to gently settle to every surface in the room, especially Cat and Emma.
“What is this nonsense?” Hinds yelled.
Behind her, Cat saw Singley first narrow her eyes, then chuckle.
Cat stared at Hinds, doing her very best to appear young and naughty, but not so very naughty as she’d actually been. There was an art to it, she’d learned in the markets — once caught, it’s best to own up to something, just not what you were really about.
She set the empty pillowcase to the side, watching Hinds’ eyes follow it.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mistress Hinds,” Cat said. “We were playing and the time must have got away from us.”
“Playing?”
Singley chortled, shook her head, and left the doorway.
“Yes,” Cat said. “I couldn’t sleep last night — it was very dark and I was having nightmares, you see, so I called Emma from her room to stay
with me. And then this morning —” She took up a handful of feathers and let them fall through her fingers. “— the pillows were just there.” Cat lowered her eyes. “I’m very sorry I was late for lessons.”
Hinds’ jaw clenched and she sighed heavily. “We will resume those lessons as soon as you are dressed.”
“Yes, Mistress Hinds,” Cat said, not raising her eyes.
Hinds’ eyes narrowed and she looked about to say more, but she spun on her heel and stormed out, pulling the door shut behind her with a muttered, “Children!”
No sooner had the door clicked shut, than Emma’s look of terror at being discovered gave way to hysterical giggles. She fell back on the bed, laughing, and Cat with her. The two rolled about, holding their sides, for a time. When the laughter began to subside, of course, one or the other of them, and who started it one couldn’t tell, would poke or tickle the other, setting the whole thing off again. And one cannot, under any circumstances, have a bit of tickling that doesn’t eventually become a full-on wrestling match.
Cat lost, as she intended to do, for she didn’t feel it was fair to use any of what she’d learned of fighting against her friend.
She grinned and squirmed deliciously as Emma pinned her hands above her and used her full weight to try and keep her still — which, in truth, Emma didn’t try very hard to do.
Their struggles both ceased and they sobered at the same time, as if by some mutual signal, with their faces very close, lips almost touching.
“I should get you dressed and to your lessons,” Emma said, her voice rough.
“Yes, I suppose,” Cat agreed. “Hinds may return if we’re too long about it, and the door’s not locked.”
Reluctantly, but slowly and not without each darting little pecks and kisses to whatever part of the other happened to present itself, they disentangled themselves from the bedclothes and began to dress.
“Wear one of my dressing gowns to get to your room,” Cat said. “Yours will never dry in time.”
Emma nodded as she pulled Cat’s stays tight and tied them.
“That was clever,” Emma said, “with the pillows. I thought we was caught, sure.”
“It’s … well, it’s like a setup in the market,” Cat said. “One boy to let the baker see him fingering the buns while another pulls the till —” She gestured at the feathers strewn about. “— the lesser crime hides the larger.”
Chapter 20
Roffe’s behavior, and what further secrets he might himself be hiding, nagged at Cat.
She watched him carefully the next few times he came to the townhouse. His answer when asked where he spent his nights was always to simply say his “club.”
There were some times that Roffe came to the townhouse only for a brief visit — he’d go to his workshop, then leave again as though retrieving something, having Clanton drive the carriage for him instead of a hired coachman. It was around these occasions that Cat determined to follow him and learn more of his doings.
She waited until Roffe went to his workshop and Clanton left to ready the carriage, then retired to her room, but not to study or rest.
Instead, she quickly stripped off her restrictive dress and underclothes and put on the looser, dark clothes in which she trained with Clanton, then skinnied through her window. The bars had never been repaired from when she’d escaped after Clanton locked her in, almost as if Roffe were daring her to leave.
As if she would. The taste of this luxury, just the luxury of enough food at every meal, was enough for her to know she’d never give it up, no matter the cost. If it meant learning all Clanton and the others chose to teach, in the manner they chose to teach it — well, she’d accept the bruises with as much grace as she could muster. Those were skills that would keep her safe and fed her whole life long.
It was more difficult to squeeze through the bars than she remembered, she’d grown some, and in awkward places, but she made it. Then twisted to grasp the little ledge above the window and pull herself out and up. Another handhold a bit higher, a scramble to find purchase for her soft shoes, and she was climbing up the wall. Past Roffe’s workspaces and onto the roof.
She’d barely cleared the edge of the roof when she heard the rattle of a carriage and Clanton pulled around onto the street.
Cat looked around and judged the night. There was little fog yet, though that might change, so she’d have a good view of the carriage for a long way, and the roof was dry, for a wonder. The streetlights were lit, as well, adding to her advantage, and she knew these rooftops well, thanks to Clanton’s little tasks.
She heard, rather than saw, Roffe leave the townhouse and enter the carriage. She knew well enough to follow by ear for a time, as she knew how Clanton was so aware of his surroundings.
As the carriage started off, she rose and followed along the roof, keeping well back from the edge to be out of sight.
It was as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders — she hadn’t felt this free in quite some time, even when running the rooftops. Those sojourns had been at Clanton’s direction, not her own will, so this was very different.
The carriage turned and she had to leave the roof for the street, darting through an alleyway to catch it at the next street over. Her breath came easily as she ran, keeping to the shadows.
Through the city they went, Cat sometimes taking to the rooftops again, sometimes alleyways, and sometimes simply walking hurriedly if the street was crowded and the carriage slowed. To those around her, her clothes were enough like those of the poor that they paid no heed other than the occasional look of distaste.
Eventually their destination became clear — one of the larger estates on the outskirts of the city. Not townhomes set on the street, but large manors on open lands, set about with walls to keep the Mob at bay. It was an area of enough wealth that Cat began to worry she’d stand out too much with her dress. The rooftop garb would work well enough, with the skirts down, in most areas, but not the very wealthy.
Roffe’s carriage joined a line of others and when it reached the gate, Cat dashed around a corner of the wall.
She set her sights on a bit of tree branch overhanging the wall, one of many in a small copse set along it, and ran hard. She launched herself up the wall as Clanton had taught her, hands and feet scraping on the rough stone to find just enough purchase to propel her the tiniest bit higher, stretched out her arms, and gave one last push with her feet.
The branch slapped into her palms, bowing a bit under her weight, but she swung herself up enough to clear the wall and drop to the other side. Her foot came down on log or stone and she let that leg collapse to avoid turning her ankle, letting herself fall to the ground and roll instead of landing upright.
It was more noise than she’d like, though she didn’t think anyone, even out on the grounds, would hear over the noises from the house.
Carriages clattered up the drive, then edged forward as the ones ahead dropped their occupants at the front. Music, voices, and laughter, spilled out of the house and sounded through the grounds, as did the lights.
Cat made her way to the edge of the copse of trees and settled into the shadows. She was in time to see Roffe exit his carriage, greet a man still on the steps of the house, and enter with him. Clanton pulled the carriage away with the others, presumably to wait upon Roffe.
She frowned. This was not at all what she’d imagined Roffe was up to on those evenings he didn’t have her accompany him. She’d thought these were the times when he went about his business of theft and burglary. She’d wanted to show him that she was ready to join him in that, to expand her training. But this? Yet another dinner party? Then why shouldn’t she attend? Why would he go alone?
No, there was something more to it than appeared.
She watched more guests arrive; then the line of carriages became shorter and shorter until the last clattered away to wait upon its master. The last guest climbed the stairs and entered the house. The servants who’d been assis
ting with the carriages and the guests dispersed to other duties as well, leaving a lonely pair of footmen to wait upon any late arrivals.
The music and noise from the house increased and Cat was tempted to approach to look in the windows.
Instead she pondered the mystery of why Roffe was here without her. She was still convinced that these excursions were when he plied his trade. She supposed being an invited guest was a fine cover for a thief, but what could he really make off with? Whatever could fit in his pockets? Jewelry, she supposed, would make a fine haul and be easy to find if one were already in the house.
She glared at the house as though it were responsible for her confusion, then took a deep breath.
She’d wait, she’d watch, and see what there was to see. If not this time, then the next she’d discover what Roffe was up to.
Chapter 21
The night dragged on and Cat kept to her place, resisting the urge to sneak up to the house and peer in the windows. There was no one on the grounds and the lights inside would keep her hidden, but she felt it unlikely she’d catch sight of Roffe there. Instead, her eyes scanned the whole of the house, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
After some time, surely after the dinner itself was over and the guests had moved on to whatever entertainment was being offered, she saw something that seemed odd.
A light shone in one of the upper windows — door, really, as it opened onto a balcony — but not the bright light of a well-lit room — this was the flickering of a single candle, only dimmer and it came and went as though being repeatedly extinguished and relit.
That’s odd enough for a look.
She scanned the grounds to be sure no one was about. A bit of mist was rising — still not a great deal, though she suspected there’d be more in the city itself.
The bare sliver of a moon crept behind a cloud and Cat moved, scurrying from shadow to shadow, bush to tree, and finally into the deeper shadows beside the house itself.
Of Dubious Intent Page 14
