by Mary Balogh
The child darted across the room, scooped up the ring, and pulled a dirty rag from somewhere about his person. He stopped when he had one foot back among the ashes, and tied his two treasures securely inside the rag. He must get back to old Thomas. The sweep would be hopping mad by now, and the old excuse of getting lost among the maze of chimneys had been used only three days before.
However, the child thought with a philosophy born of necessity, today’s haul would probably be worth every stinging stroke of old Thomas’s hand.
As long as he did not use his belt. Even the costliest jewel did not seem quite consolation enough for the strappings he sometimes got from the sweep’s belt.
The boy had both feet in the grate and was about to pull himself up into the darkness and soot of the chimney when the door through which the lady had disappeared opened abruptly again. He started to cry pitifully.
Estelle, now clad in a morning dress of fine white wool, even though her hair was still about her shoulders in a dark cloud, stopped in amazement.
The child wailed and scrubbed his clenched fists at his eyes.
“What is it?” she said, hurrying across the room to the fireplace and stooping down to have a better look at the apparition standing there.
“You must be the chimney sweep’s boy. Oh, you poor child.”
The last words were spoken after she had had a good look at the grimy, skeletal frame of the child and the indescribable filth of his person and of his rags. Hair of indeterminate color stood up from his head in stiff and matted spikes. Two muddy tracks flowed from his eyes to his chin. He looked as if he were no older than five or six.
“It’s dark up there,” he wailed. “I can’t breathe.”
“You shouldn’t be climbing chimneys,” she said. “You are just a baby.”
The child sniffed wetly and breathed out on a shuddering sob. “I got lost,” he said. “It’s dark up there.”
“Oh, you poor child.” Estelle reached out a hand to touch him, hesitated, and took hold of one thin arm. “Step out here. The ashes will cut your poor feet.”
The boy started to cry in noisy earnest again. “He’ll… thrash… me,” he got out on three separate sobs. “I got lost.”
“He will not thrash you,” Estelle said indignantly, taking hold of the child’s other arm with her free hand and helping him step out onto the carpet. He was skin and bones, she thought in some horror. He was just a frightened, half-starved little baby. “He will certainly not thrash you.
I shall see to that. What is your name?”
“N-Nicky, missus,” the boy said, and he hung his head and wrapped one skinny leg about the other and sniffed loudly.
“Nicky,” she said, and she reached out and tried to smooth down the hair on top of his head. But it was stiff with dirt. “Nicky, when did you last eat?”
The child began to wail.
“Have you eaten today?” she asked.
He shuffled his shoulders back and forth and swayed on one leg. He muttered something.
“What?” she said gently. She was down on her knees looking into his face. “Have you eaten?”
“I don’t know, missus,” he said, his chin buried on his thin chest. And he rubbed the back of his hand over his wet nose.
“Did your master not give you anything to eat this morning?” she asked.
“I ain’t to get fat,” he said, and the wails grew to a new crescendo.
“I’m so hungry.”
“Oh, you poor, poor child.” There were tears in Estelle’s eyes. “Does your mama know that you are kept half-starved? Have you told her?”
“I ain’t got no maw.” His sobs occupied the child for several seconds.
“I got took from the orphanage, missus.”
“Oh, Nicky.” Estelle laid one gentle hand against his cheek, only half noticing how dirty her hand was already.
“He’ll belt me for sure.” The child scratched the back of one leg with the heel of the other foot and scrubbed at his eyes again with his fists. “I got lost. It’s dark and I can’t get me breath up there.”
“He will not hurt you. You have my word on it.” Estelle straightened up and crossed the room to the bellpull to summon her maid. “Sit down on the floor, Nicky. I shall see that you have some food inside you, if nothing else. Does he beat you often?”
The child heaved one leftover sob as he sat down cross-legged on the carpet. “No more nor three or four times a day when I’m good,” he said.
“But I keep getting lost.”
“Three or four times a day!” she said, and turned to instruct her maid to sit with the child for a few minutes. “I will be back, Nicky, and you shall have some food. I promise.”
Annie looked at the apparition in some disbelief as her mistress disappeared from the room. She sat on the edge of the bed a good twenty feet away from him, and gathered her skirts close about her as if she were afraid that they would brush against a mote of soot floating about in his vicinity.
Estelle swept down the marble stairway to the hall below, her chin high, her jaw set in a firm line. At one glance from her eyes, a footman scurried across the tiles and threw open the doors of his lordship’s study without even knocking first. His mistress swept past him and glared at her husband’s man of business, who had the misfortune to be closeted with the earl at that particular moment.
“Can I be of service to you, my dear?” his lordship asked, as both men jumped to their feet.
“I wish to speak with you,” she said, continuing her progress across the room until she stood at the window, gazing out at the gray, wintry street beyond. She did not even listen to the hurried leavetaking that the visitor took.
“Was that necessary, Estelle?” her husband’s quiet voice asked as the doors of the study closed. “Porter is a busy man and has taken the time to come half across town at my request this morning. Such men have to work for a living. They ought not to be subject to the whims of the aristocracy.”
She turned from the window. She ignored his cold reproof. “Allan,” she said, “there is a child in my bedchamber. A thin, dirty, frightened, and hungry child.”
He frowned. “The sweep’s climbing boy?” he said. “But what is he doing there? He has no business being in any room where his master or one of our servants is not. I am sorry. I shall see to it. It will not happen again.”
“He is frightened,” she said. “The chimneys are dark and he cannot breathe. He gets lost up there. And then he is whipped when he gets back to the sweep.”
He took a few steps toward her, his hands clasped behind his back. “They do not have an enviable lot,” he said. “Poor little urchins.”
“He is like a scarecrow,” she said. “He cannot remember if he has eaten today. But he is not allowed to eat too much for fear he will get fat.”
“They get stuck in the chimneys if they are too fat,” he said, “or too big.”
“He gets beaten three or four times a day, Allan,” she said. “He does not have a mother or father to protect him. He comes from an orphanage.”
He looked at her, his brows drawn together in a frown. “You ought not to be subjected to such painful realities,” he said. “I shall have a word with Stebbins, Estelle. It will not happen again. And I shall see to it that the child is not chastised this time. I’m sorry. You are upset.” He crossed the room to stand a couple of feet in front of her.
She looked up at him. “He is a baby, Allan,” she said. “A frightened, starving little baby.”
He lifted a hand to rest his fingertips against her cheek. “I will have a word with the sweep myself,” he said. “Something will be done, I promise.”
She caught at his hand and nestled her cheek against his palm. “You will do something?” she asked, her dark eyes pleading with him. “You will?
You promise? Allan”-her voice became thin and high-pitched-“he is just a little baby.”
“Is he still in your room?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. �
��I have promised him food.”
“Have some taken to him, then,” he said. “And keep him there for a while. I will come to you there.”
“You will?” Her eyes were bright with tears, and she turned her head in order to kiss his wrist. “Thank you, Allan. Oh, thank you.”
He held the door of the study open for her, his face as stern and impassive as usual, and summoned a footman with the lift of an eyebrow.
He sent the man running in search of the butler and the chimney sweep.
A little more than half an hour later the Earl of Lisle was standing in his wife’s bedchamber, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at a tiny bundle of rags and bones huddled over a plate that held nothing except two perfectly clean chicken bones and a few crumbs of bread. The bundle looked up at him with wide and wary eyes. The countess’s eyes were also wide, and questioning.
“You are Nicholas?” his lordship asked.
“Nicky, guv’nor,” the child said in a high, piping voice.
“Well, Nicky,” the earl said, looking steadily down at him. “And how would you like to stay here and not have to climb chimneys ever again?”
The boy stared, openmouthed. The countess clasped her hands to her bosom and continued to stare silently at her husband.
“I have talked with Mr. Thomas,” the earl said, “and made arrangements with him. And I have instructed Mrs. Ainsford, the housekeeper, to find employment for you belowstairs. You will live here and be adequately fed and clothed. And you will continue to have employment with me for as long as you wish, provided you do the work assigned to you. You will never be whipped.”
He paused and looked down at the boy, who continued to stare up at him openmouthed.
“Do you have anything to say?” he asked.
“No more chimneys?” the child asked.
“No more chimneys.”
Nicky’s jaw dropped again.
“Does this please you?” the earl asked. “Would you like to be a part of this household?”
“Cor blimey, guv’nor,” the boy said.
Which words the earl interpreted as cautious assent. He assigned his new servant to the tender care of the housekeeper, who was waiting outside the door and who considered that her position in the household was an exalted enough one that she could permit herself a cluck of the tongue and a look tossed at the ceiling before she took the little ragamuffin by the hand and marched him down the back stairs to the kitchen and the large tin bathtub that two maids had been instructed to fill with steaming water.
Estelle smiled dazzlingly at her husband and hurried after them. Her white dress, he noticed, standing and watching her go, his hands still clasped behind his back, was smudged with dirt in several places.
She looked more beautiful even than usual.
Estelle was lying in her husband’s arms, feeling relaxed and drowsy, but not wanting to give in to sleep. It had been a happy and exciting day and she was reluctant to let it go.
The best part of it was that Allan had come to her after she had gone to bed, for the first time in two weeks. He had said nothing-he almost never did on such occasions-but he had made slow love to her, his hands and his mouth gentle and arousing, his body coaxing her response and waiting for it. They were good in bed together. They always had been, right back to that first time, when she had been nervous and quite ignorant of what she was to do. Even when there was anger between them, there was always passion too. But too often there was anger, and it always left a bitterness when the body’s cravings had been satiated.
It was best of all when there was no anger. And when he held her afterward and did not immediately return to his own room. She liked to fall asleep in his arms, the warmth and the smell of him lulling her.
Except that she did not want to fall asleep tonight. Not yet.
“Allan,” she whispered hesitantly. They almost never talked when they were in bed. And very rarely when they were out of it, except when they were yelling at each other.
“Yes?” His voice sounded almost tense.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for what you did for Nicky. I think he will be happy here, don’t you? You have taken him out of hell and brought him into heaven.”
“Our home, heaven?” he said quietly, jarring her mood slightly. “But he will be safe here, Estelle, and warm and well fed. It is all we can do.”
“He has a new home in time for Christmas,” she said. “Poor little orphan child. He must be so very happy, Allan, and grateful to you.”
“He has merely exchanged one servitude for another,” he said. “But at least he will not be mistreated here.”
“What did you say to the sweep?” she asked. “Did you threaten him with jail?”
“He was doing nothing that every other sweep in the country is not doing,” he said. “The problem does not end with the rescue of the boy, Estelle. I merely bought him for twice his apprenticeship fee. The man made a handsome profit.”
“Oh, Allan!” Her hand spread across his chest over the fabric of his nightshirt. “The poor little boys.”
She felt him swallow. “Some members of the House are concerned over the matter,” he said, “and over the whole question of child labor. I shall speak with them, find out more, perhaps even speak in the House myself.”
“Will you?” She burrowed her head more deeply into the warmth of his shoulder. She wanted to find his mouth in the darkness. But she only ever had the courage to do that when he had aroused passion in her.
“In the meantime,” he said, “you can console yourself with the thought that at least your little Nicky has a warm and soft bed for the night and a full stomach.”
And then a wonderful thing happened. Something that had never happened before in almost two years of marriage. He turned his head and kissed her, long minutes after their lovemaking was over, and turned onto his side and stroked the hair back from her face with gentle fingers. And before another minute had passed, she knew that he was going to come to her again.
She fell asleep almost immediately after it was over. It was not until later in the night, when she had awoken and nestled closer to the sleeping form of her husband, who was still beside her, that reality took away some of the magic of the previous day. He had done a wonderful thing for Nicky, she thought. They would be able to watch him grow into a healthy and carefree childhood, long after this particular Christmas was past.
They would be able to watch him? He would, perhaps. Allan would. But would she? She was to be banished to Papa’s home after Christmas for a stay that would surely extend itself beyond weeks into months. Perhaps even years.Perhaps forever. Perhaps she would only ever see Allan again on brief visits, for form’s sake.
He was sending her away. So that they might rethink their relationship, he had said. So that he might end their marriage to all intents and purposes. He didn’t want her anymore. He did not want their marriage to continue. And even if he were forced to continue their marriage to some degree, even if her suspicion and hardly admitted hope proved right, it would be an empty thing, only a third person holding them together.
And there was that other thing. That thing that she had not allowed to come between her and her joy the previous day.The missing ring. Not just the diamond, but the whole ring. She had hunted for it until she had felt almost sick enough to vomit. But she had not found it. Or told Allan about its disappearance. She had repressed her panic and the terrible sense of loss that had threatened to overwhelm her.
Where could it have gone? Had it been swept up by the maids? She had even thought briefly of Nicky, but had shaken the thought off immediately. It had just disappeared, as the diamond had.
Christmas was coming, and there would be no Star of Bethlehem for her.
No joy or love or hope.
But she would not think such depressing and self-pitying thoughts. She settled her cheek more comfortably against her husband’s broad shoulder and rested a hand on his warm arm. And she deliberately thought back
on the brighter part of the previous day. She smiled.
Nicky not wanting to be parted from his filthy rags and bursting into pitiful wailings when Mrs. Ainsford snatched away the rag of a handkerchief he clutched even after he had relinquished all else. He had a curl of his mother’s hair in the little bundle, he had claimed, and a seashell that someone had given him at the orphanage. All his worldly possessions. Mrs. Ainsford had given the rag back to him and another clean one to use instead. But the child had not unpacked his treasures to their interested gaze.
Estelle smiled again, listened for a few moments to the deep and even breathing of the man beside her, and turned her head to kiss his shoulder before allowing herself to slip back into sleep.
The earl had not slept for a while after making love to his wife for the second time. He ought not to have come. Relations between them had been strained enough for several months, and the bitter quarrel of the night before had brought matters to a crisis. He had made the decision that they should live apart, at least for a time. They must keep up the charade over Christmas, of course, for the sake of her family and his own. But the pretense did not at least have to extend to the bedchamber.
There was no harmony between them-none-except in what passed between them in silence between the sheets of her bed. He had often wanted to try to extend that harmony into other aspects of their life by talking to her in the aftermath of passion, when they would perhaps feel more kindly disposed to each other than at any other time.
But he had never done so. He was no good at talking. He had always been afraid to talk to Estelle, afraid that he would not be able to convey his inner self to her. He had chosen to keep himself closed to her rather than try to communicate and know himself a failure. He had always been mortally afraid of having his love thrown back in his face. Better that she did not know. And so he had contented himself with giving his love only the one outlet. Only the physical.
