“If we contact the police …”
“Hmm.” He seemed to consider it as if it was a novel suggestion. “Mayhap they can help. There is a constable who wanders by here occasionally. I will see him in the morning.”
She turned toward where he sat. “Thank you, Mr. Sassoon. I have interrupted your night and now ask you to run errands for me. That is so much to ask.”
“Nonsense.” His chair scraped the floor as he rose. “You sit there a minute while I find an extra blanket.”
Mariel savored the consoling warmth of the tea. Through its rich aroma, she could smell the grease of the poorly cleaned kitchen. The building reeked of too many people and too many years. She listened to the man’s footsteps as he wandered about the small room.
When he put his hand on her shoulder, she started. She. had not realized she was nearly asleep. That he did not mention her skittishness added to her obligation to this kind stranger. He helped her towel off her foot. Determined to be brave, she bit her lip as he touched her tender ankle.
“Do you think you can stand?” His finger gently wiped away the involuntary tears rolling down her cheeks. “I am sorry to hurt you.”
“I know you did not mean to hurt me,” she gulped around the blockage in her throat. “I think I can stand.”
She learned how optimistic her words were when she tried and fell back into her chair with a soft cry. Mr. Sassoon patiently consoled her. Again he placed her arm around his neck. This time, she realized he could not be much taller than she, for he did not bend forward far.
He sat her on a narrow bed and told her to have a pleasant night’s sleep. Running her hand along the coarse wool cover, she said, “But, Mr. Sassoon, I can’t take your bed.”
His smile shone through his gentle reprimand. “Where I come from, and I suspect where you come from, Miss Wythe, a lady is given the best the house has to offer. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we will begin looking for your fellow. Good night, Miss Wythe.”
“Good night, Mr. Sassoon.” She knew it was useless to protest. Even if she could keep her eyes open, she did not want to argue any longer. She wanted to enjoy the relative luxury of this bed.
As she closed her eyes and drew the paper-thin blanket over her, she was unaware of the old man’s gaze on her. It went from her to an age-dimmed photograph sitting on the sideboard. The beautiful woman in the picture shared Mariel’s dark hair, although it was impossible to determine the color of her eyes. It did not matter to the old man. He held every facet of her face in his heart, although his wife had been dead for more than twenty years.
In his mind, he could hear her lyrical voice urging him to take good care of the lost lamb that had wandered into his life. He did not need to hear her on this matter. Too many he had seen destroyed by Kitty and her counterparts along these streets. This was one woman who would escape back to the world where once he was welcome.
Mariel woke to the aroma of fresh coffee and something frying. Grease snapped with the heat. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes. As she stretched, she heard threads break. She ran her hands along her ruined blouse and was pleased to discover it continued to protect her modesty.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wythe.”
“Afternoon?”
He chuckled, a sound like the distant boom of a cannon. “You did not get to sleep until near dawn. I figured it would be best if you woke on your own.”
From the jaunty tone of Mr. Sassoon’s voice, she knew he had good news for her. She did not have to wait long to hear it. After he urged her to sit at the table, he checked her ankle for her with gentle, efficient fingers.
“Looks good,” he pronounced with satisfaction. “Never did see a sprain a good soak didn’t help.” Like an elfin sprite, he jumped to his feet and sat in the other chair. “Saw the constable. He is going to see about finding your Mr. Beckwith-Carter.”
“That is wonderful!” she cried. “Thank you, Mr. Sassoon.”
“You’re welcome and more, Miss Wythe.”
“Mariel,” she corrected gently.
He laughed. “Mariel, it shall be. Do not be expecting to hear from your fellow right away. Like everything else, the police department is overwhelmed by the activities for the queen’s jubilee. Not that I am complaining. Our good Victoria has made this mighty Empire proud. She deserves this celebration.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “I wasn’t here for the last one a decade ago, so I’ve been enjoying the pageantry. Of course, you don’t remember the golden jubilee. You must have been not much more than a youngster then.”
His easy acceptance of her made her comfortable enough to tell him about the small celebration she recalled in Foxbridge. Memories of bonfires along the cliffs and dancing on the village green eased the lines of worry from her face. He asked many questions about the western coast.
“Been all over this world, but I have never seen that part of the island.” He chuckled. “Is it as wild as they say?”
“Not any longer. With the coming of the trains, we are much the same as the rest of England. I guess it was different years ago.” She took a sip of the rich coffee. “At least, that is what I hear from the stories of my more adventuresome ancestors.”
When they finished the late breakfast, Mr. Sassoon ordered her to soak her ankle again. He left her to that task as he went out to find food for their supper. She wondered how he could afford to feed an extra person. Her brief exploration of the room after he left showed her there was little of value here. A sideboard, the table, bed, and chairs nearly filled the room. On the shelves, she found several tins containing tobacco, coffee, tea and sugar. Nothing more.
Grease streaked as she touched the warmth of the cast-iron stove. He must use it both for cooking and for heat. She wondered how long it had been since it was properly cleaned. She moved her chair next to it. While she soaked her foot in the warm water, she used a rancid cloth to remove the most pungent filth. Although there was little she could do, she felt better offering something in exchange for the welcome her savior had given her.
Mr. Sassoon exclaimed over her work when he returned, and he urged her not to do more than she felt comfortable doing. He cooked a simple supper. While she set the table with the few dishes he owned, he shared the news he had heard on the street.
A knock on the door interrupted them just as they were about to sit down for their meal. With a grumble and creaking joints, he went to answer it. She heard him urge the caller to enter.
“Go ahead, boy,” he commanded.
Mariel strained to discover what was happening as footsteps approached her. Someone lifted her hands, and she gasped as three objects were dropped into them. Instantly, she identified the uneven edges of stones and jewels as the jewelry stolen from her the previous day.
“Thank—thank you,” she managed to say as she closed her fingers over the necklace and earrings.
“Boy!” Mr. Sassoon’s voice was sterner than she had ever heard it.
In a drawling, superior tone she recognized as that of the “Cap’n” who led the band of hooligans, he stated, “Pretty lady, ye should have been telling me ye be a friend of Mr. Sassoon. We don’t take from our friends. Only from snotty, uppity ladies and gents.” He turned away to ask, “Is that good enough?”
“A bit of sincerity might be more in keeping with an apology,” mused the older man. He looked directly at the scrawny boy, whose bones appeared ready to outgrow his skin. Fiercely stubborn spikes of black hair sprouted in every direction and nearly hid his intelligent eyes.
“Have you eaten, Cap?”
He started to answer with braggadocio, then hesitated. Having given back the fine pieces, he would not have coins to buy food until he could find his next wealthy victim. There was no guarantee if that would be tomorrow or next week. With a grin at the old man, who was unbent by the passage of years, he sat on the bed, held out his hands, and asked for a trencher.
“Wash your hands before you eat with us,” ordered Mariel as she rehooked the neckla
ce around her neck for safekeeping.
“Lordy. She may be pretty,” complained the lad, “but she carps at me like a fishwife, Mr. Sassoon.”
Their host chuckled, delighted by the spirit Mariel showed. He had been concerned in the early hours of the morning that she would be traumatized by her experiences with the roughest elements of the city. She clearly had rebounded. “You heard her, Cap. Bucket is in the hall. Come back with hands that don’t stink of the sewers and alehouses.”
With a grumble about such silly conventions, Cap rose and stomped out of the room. He left the door open behind him. They could hear his less than enthusiastic splashing in the bucket.
“Thank you, Mr. Sassoon,” she said quietly.
“Cap is not a bad boy, Mariel.” When her eyebrows arched in blatant disagreement, he said, “Don’t judge what you haven’t lived. He is doing the best he can in this hell. So far, he has been lucky. He has stolen enough to survive, but not enough to attract the attention of either the police or the more vicious criminals who stake claim to these streets.” More gently, he added, “When you told me about who robbed you, I guessed it was Cap and his boys. I sent him a message to bring your jewelry here. He owes me a few favors for nights when he had no place else to go.”
Mariel asked, “If he is so bright, why isn’t he in school?”
“Tried it once. They couldn’t teach me nothing.” She turned as the lad reentered the room. His steps were so light, even her keen ears could not detect them.
“Don’t you want to be more than a petty thief?”
“Naw.” He took the saltcellar and spooned a generous serving on his food. Taking a large spoonful, he chewed enthusiastically. Around the food in his mouth, he demanded, “Why do I want to be a banker in a big house driving to work every day? Too much money, and a man worries about it. Too little money, and ye worry about other things, like food and where ye’ll sleep at sundown.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it, Cap …” She gasped as she felt the edge of his knife against her nose.
“Didn’t tell ye to call me by m’name, pretty lady.”
“Cap,” stated Mr. Sassoon in an exasperated tone, “put that away or you can leave with your empty stomach. We are all friends here. Mariel doesn’t mean any insult to you.”
He glared at her as she smoothed her skirt to hide her trembling hands. Slipping his knife back into its easily accessible sheath, he snapped, “Then tell her to stop ordering me about. I do what I want.”
Mariel bit back her retort as she dipped her spoon in the stew. It tasted a bit dull. She reached for the salt cellar, but it was not where she had put it. Her fingers swept the portion of the table next to where it should be. When Mr. Sassoon placed it in her fingers, she heard Cap’s choking gasp. He spoke, but not to her.
“She be blind?”
Mr. Sassoon answered quietly, “I thought you knew that.”
“I don’t rob no blind folk.” His outrage showed his wounded pride. He shared the few morals of the street, and he clung to those tenaciously. His voice softened as he asked, “What ye really be doing here, pretty lady? Ye didn’t get thrown out by no lover. Who tossed ye on the street?”
It did not take her long to tell the simple tale. He whistled in appreciation as she told of her escape from Kitty’s house. When she finished, he laughed. “Kitty is raising hell up and down the street about her broken window and busted furniture. Ye are not so bad, pretty lady.”
“My name is Mariel.” She smiled. Being complimented so sincerely by Cap she recognized as a great honor. Already she was liking the brash young man. He reminded her of the young people she worked with in Foxbridge, although they would have been insulted by the comparison.
He gulped down another spoonful. Pushing his too long, dark hair away from his mouth, he wiped his lips on his tattered sleeve. “So I heard. Lady Mariel Wythe is the one Kitty is offering a reward to have brought back to her. Did think Kitty was fooling us, but ye be a lady.”
“Lady?” Now it was Mr. Sassoon’s turn to be shocked. “You did not mention that, Mariel.”
She shrugged. “It is not important.”
The old man did not reply, but she sensed her title did make a difference to him. If possible, he treated her even more kindly as the evening passed. When she yawned, he urged her to go to bed. She did not ask if Cap was staying. Since she told of her escape from Kitty, the lad seemed to give her the respect he grudgingly granted to few.
Occasionally, over the next few days, as she became accustomed to living in the small apartment, Cap would stop in and chat with her. He told her he wanted to keep an eye on her while Mr. Sassoon was out shopping, but she suspected he was interested in having a noncompetitive friend close to his own age. When she confided in him her need to find her way back to Ian, he was surprised.
“Why didn’t ye ask me if ye needed help? Constable is no good here. We pay him enough to keep him in the pub while we be working the street.” He leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the table. When she knocked them to the floor with a thump, he laughed.
“Pretty lady, tell me the name of yer lover.”
“Lover?” she asked lightly as she wiped the now shining top of the stove. When she ran her fingers along its comforting warmth, she felt only the smoothness of the metal. “What makes you think Ian is my lover?”
“Ye smile when ye talk about him. Sure sign of being besotted. Is he a peer?”
She shook her head. “He is not a peer. He is a minister.”
“Like the prime minister?”
“No, a church minister.”
“Ye have a lover who’s a bloody parson?” He swallowed the oath he was about to say. Shaking his head in sorrow, he said, “Are ye sure ye want me to find the blighter?”
“Can you?”
He leaned forward and tugged on her patched skirt. “Try me, pretty lady.”
Mariel dampened her lips. If she sweetened the challenge, he would be more likely to put his street intelligence to work in solving the puzzle. Like him, she had come to see that the constable would do nothing. Mr. Sassoon so enjoyed her company, he did not seem in any hurry to have her leave.
She drew the necklace from beneath her shirt, knowing Cap’s eyes would rivet on it. “I say you can’t find him. I am willing to wager this necklace you will not be able to find him in twenty-four hours.”
“Earbobs, too?”
“All right. Twenty-four hours. You must have Ian here.”
Suspiciously, he demanded, “And if I don’t find the rotter? Of course, I will, but I want to know what ye expect from me.”
“If you don’t, you go back to school and stay for at least a year.”
“That is no bloody deal! That is blackmail.”
She smiled as she sat down in the other chair. “If you don’t want to try, it is all right with me. I would just as soon keep my jewelry. It’s very valuable, you know. More than three hundred years old, I believe.”
As she expected, the lure of the jewelry was more than Cap could ignore. “All right. Twenty-four hours. I’ll leave now. Yer minister bloke will be here by this time tomorrow. Give me a description.”
He listened intently as she told him about Ian, about his home and his mother’s home, even about the doctor she should have met days before. When he asked questions, she discovered he already was narrowing the search to certain sections of the city. With a laugh, he patted her on the shoulder.
“Should be simple, pretty lady. See ye before this time tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” she replied fervently. She realized he had not heard her as she heard the door slam shut. From beyond the portal, the sound of his footsteps racing away told her he intended to win what he once had stolen.
Mariel did not tell Mr. Sassoon about her bargain with Cap. The old man had been so kind to her. She did not want to hurt his feelings by showing that his assistance had been ineffectual.
That night, as she lay on the hard cot listening to Mr. S
assoon’s snores, she wondered if she was putting too much credence into a cocksure lad’s boasting. She drew the blanket over her and wished Ian would find her and take her back to her own world.
The morning dawned cold and damp. The stove sputtered and died. Finally Mr. Sassoon coaxed it into giving them heat. While he went to find some coal, Mariel started breakfast. The embers were fading as he returned. He placed the few pieces on the fire and puffed them into flame.
She glanced up when she heard a knock and the door opened again. Her hands remained poised over the table. Her breath froze in her chest. Some sense she could not name loosened the wooden spoons from her hand to clatter on the bowls. She leapt forward into welcoming arms.
Her whisper of Ian’s name vanished into his lips as he pressed them against hers. A hunger she had quelled too long erupted forth to engulf her in longing. In the months since the accident, she had forced him away when she needed him most. The familiar comfort of his arms around her sent tears coursing along her cheeks.
“Mariel!” He repeated her name over and over as he examined her. Except for her ragged clothes, she seemed unharmed. His lips touched her damp cheeks, her eyelids, the delicious flavor of her mouth. So long he had waited to kiss her and feared he never would again. The days of waiting to find some clue to her sudden disappearance had left him with worry lines engraved in his face.
He pressed her head to his chest as he heard her sob. Looking over her head, he met the eyes of the man who had opened the door. This must be the old one who had offered her shelter. He noted the clean, though threadbare, clothes the old man wore. Well shaven cheeks glistened beneath his bald pate.
Quietly, he said, “I am Ian Beckwith-Carter.”
Mr. Sassoon laughed, although his throat was thick with emotion. “I guessed that, pastor. She’s been waiting for you, pining for you.”
Ian nodded absently. He stroked Mariel’s back and leaned his cheek against the top of her head. By her kiss, he had learned she was ready to face the future instead of wallowing in the past and what could have been.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Mr.—?”
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