by Judith Ivory
A ratcatcher. He was one. Imagine. And he'd kissed her: once gently, once with so much passion it had made her cry.
Oh, dear, dear, she reprimanded herself. Don't find him exciting. Or, no, why not hire a chimney sweep to clean the chimney, then kiss him, too? She could call the glazier to fix the front window and perhaps have a hug. And the plumber was a nice man—smirk, smirk, smirk. Oh, Edwina, she thought, get hold of yourself.
Rats, she thought. Goodness. Time to leave. He was set up, ready to begin. She turned. "Well—" she said.
Mick watched her and knew she was about to go. For no better reason than he wanted to hold her there, he said, "Watch this."
He raised his arm over Magic, snapped his fingers. And ol' Magic did his old magic. Just for fun, just because Mick wanted him to, he started to jump.
Now Magic wasn't a good-looking dog. He had a white body, a whiskery-looking snout from the white fur flecking into brown, a short, shaggy coat, and a wizened little face. A scruffy little dog, barely a foot high at the withers. But Maj had the heart of a giant. If he did something, he put his whole, fearless self into it.
He jumped more than five feet into the air. Straight up. Then, his neat little feet no sooner touching the ground, he went up, straight up again. It delighted Mick to see the energy the dog put into it. Over and over. He wouldn't stop till Mick told him to. If Mick should die someday between when he told the dog to jump and the stop signal, Maj would jump himself to death.
Mick smiled at Win, at her face beaming with wonder. "It's like he has springs in his back legs," he said. "Have you ever seen anything like it? He's jumping five times his height. If I could do that, I could leap this carnage house."
She shook her head, glued now to the sight. He felt exhilarated, seeing her there, her expression amused, absorbed. Oh, he wanted to charm her. He wanted to woo her, make her stay. He just wasn't sure how to do it. Not by setting rats loose on her.
For Maj's sake, he gave a nod of his head, and the dog settled to earth, bright-eyed, happy, ready to go again the second he might be asked. Mick fed him a piece of apple from his pocket, something the dog loved, his payment—though had there been no payment that would have been all right, too; often there wasn't.
Mick knew Win wasn't listening as he told her about the dog; he was barely listening to himself. He wanted to say, Don't go. Just stay. Stay and keep looking at me like that. He rattled on instead, "Only once did a rat ever mess with this fierce little fellow, and the bite only made Magic madder…"
He glanced at Winnie. She was enjoying the dog's antics, but she was dancing on her feet a little. The ratting made her nervous. She didn't like the atmosphere. She didn't want to watch rats killed.
Why had he brought her out here? He could have predicted her reaction.
He knew the answer, of course. Her face was the answer. Because he was so damn good at this that it was obvious even in the way he laid out his attack—and he was so damn awkward at everything else she was teaching him. He wanted to be … skillful, elegant at something in front of her. Ha. Elegant at being a ratcatcher. Now, there was a way to impress the ladies.
Thing was, it often did impress them. More than once, a lady had watched from over her upstairs banister as he got rid of the brown rats below. Brown rats on the ground floor, the milder black rats in the upper stories; it never varied. It was the order of the rat world. A few cats could take care of the black rats upstairs, but Mick was the man for the meaner ones who dominated the more accessible turf. More than once, a lady had watched him do the deed, shrieking in disgust but riveted. Then he'd clean himself up in her scullery or mudroom, and been invited for a cup of tea or a glass of claret, where one thing led to another.
"I have to go," Winnie said.
He looked up at her. "I know. I'll wash and change, then meet you for the afternoon lesson. I'll be on time."
"That would be good." She took a step, then rotated back. "Oh, and I have to tell you something. Milton," she said, as if the man should be forgiven for something, tolerated. Then she shook her head. "No, not Milton. Me—"
Mick waited. The blood in his body knew before he did. It reacted to her expression or reluctance or something. It started to pump hard, rush. He was going to be told something bad.
She said, "Um, I'd, uh—like you to move your things downstairs to the room next to Milton's. He'll help you do it."
More for her to deny it, he asked, "You want me to move into the servants' quarters?"
She shook her head no, but she confirmed it. "You'll be with Milton," like it was a big privilege, "the room down one from his."
"Right."
Defensively, she added what he already knew. "I like Milton. He's more than a servant. He lives downstairs because he prefers to and because it's proper."
"And because he's your butler."
She frowned, opened her mouth, then said nothing, like she was angry with at him for saying it out loud.
While the reality of it raced around inside him. He knew why he was being moved. Mick the rake, banished. Maybe she could remember not to kiss the help, if the East End hooligan-help lived a few feet further away from her. Bloody hell, she was welcome to try.
He didn't dare say anything for a moment. And he didn't want her to see his disappointment, so he turned his back, waving away her tongue-tied, irritated confusion. "No need to explain," he said. He stooped down and stroked his dog. "I'm as good as there, Miss Bollash. I'll do it as soon as we finish here. You better go now. I'm gonna start."
He stood, dusted his hands on his trousers, pulled his gloves off his belt.
Just then, a ferret down the way made an angry little sound at her coworker in the carrier. There was a hiss and a little bonk of soft bodies.
And, like that, Winnie was on him. Her weight hit him. She grabbed his shoulders and half-climbed his back to his neck. She all but knocked him down, before he got a leg-hold of her with her clutching him by his chin and a handful of ear.
"Ferrets," he muttered as best he could with her arm under his jaw.
Her body relaxed a little, though she didn't relinquish her higher position. She had her legs wrapped around him like a vise, skirts and all.
"Just ferrets," he assured her.
He torqued at the waist and slowly pulled her down him, trying to lower a sizeable woman from an awkward position without dropping her. Oh, it was right odd and delicious, the feel of easing her down. He jerked when her parted legs slid for a second over the top of his thigh. She leaped, too, from the contact of their bodies, though she was more taken aback. Him, he was getting used to the jumps and jolts of their pleasure. It was a fierce thing. No help for it; it slammed them around.
He peeled her off him, his blood hopping. He could feel the place where her breasts had pressed into his back, the place where she'd straddled his thigh. Christ, he thought. He shifted her around in front of him, lowering her by her spectacular bum, down onto her feet.
And there she was, her face an inch away from his for a second, her body all but up against him. She paused, looking up. If he blew on her, her eyelashes would've fluttered from his breath. For one blistering moment, he was sure she was waiting—waiting for him to do what he normally might. If he wanted to kiss a woman who got this close, he didn't usually hesitate.
This time, though, he murmured down into her face, "It'd be my fault again, wouldn't it?"
"What would?" She wet her lips, staying right there, waiting.
Hell, he thought. He didn't do half bad, when he had some distance. But when she was this close, it just made him angry she wouldn't admit it. He asked bluntly, "Do you want me to kiss you?"
"No!" she said instantly. Though the shock in her face, he would've guessed, was more for having her mind read than from the idea.
He turned her loose, pushing her away. "Fine. If you ever do, just remember I like a little participation. A little share in the responsibility, Miss Bollash. If you want me to kiss you, it'd be right damn nice if
you'd say so. Otherwise"—he reverted intentionally—"you ain't havin' a kiss from me."
She glared and pressed her lips so hard together, they turned white. Her face was full of havoc—frustration, vexation, bewilderment—for what had just happened.
Then the mean witch of a woman said, "Instead of right—right nice or right fine—you should say quite or rather or even ratherish."
He gave a snort. He wanted to hoot. "I'm not saying ratherish."
Then he wanted to laugh outright. Here they were, him and Winnie, going at it again. Jesus, the woman was thick. Didn't she feel it? Hell, he wanted to shove her against the wall between bridle straps, pull up her skirts— Or no, maybe in the carriage, flat out on the seat or— Jesus, he couldn't think how to do it or, rather, he could think of a hundred ways he wanted to. He wanted to have her, just have her—maybe the floor would do, if the dogs and ferrets didn't mind.
He made himself ask instead, "What do you want me to say? What was the rest?"
She corrected him again. "Pardon. Remember you're supposed to say pardon when you want someone to repeat themselves."
He raised his brow with theatrical impatience and said, "Pardon, Miss Bollash? What the bloody foke do you want me to say instead of right damn fine?"
She stared fixedly. "Quite fine. Or rather fine."
"Rather," he repeated. Rahther. Mick could hear himself saying it right. He looked at Winnie. She waited for the whole phrase. Stupid woman. She was happier fixing him than admiring him. It was her way of connecting, her way of shagging him blind. "Rahther fine, Miss Bollash."
He wondered if maybe he still said it wrong though, because she blinked at him, stared. But then she said, "Well. Yes. That's quite good." She laughed. "Right damn fine, in fact." She had a bloody wonderful laugh when she let it out, which wasn't often. Then she murmured, without explanation, "I'm sorry."
Another apology, though he wasn't sure for what. But without a word more of explanation, she turned and bolted.
He watched her run from the carriage house, up her back garden, all the way to her back door and inside her house without stopping.
Bloody wonderful, Mick. You're a prize.
He pushed his hand back through his hair, then held a handful of it, closing his eyes. He breathed, only breathed, for a minute, letting his mind, his blood calm. God bless, the woman made him crazy.
He took it out on the rats.
He rid the place of them in short order—ferrets chasing and diving, dogs jumping, rats screeching and running everywhere. Ten minutes of pandemonium, which suited his mood perfectly.
At the end of it, he sat on the floor in the midst of mayhem. He took an accounting: several dozen dead rats, with a ferret and a dog bit, the dog pretty badly. Right, he thought. Right.
"She could have a point, you know," he told the little dog softly as he cleaned out its wound. "It's awful, isn't it? Look what they did to you."
Another reason to have brought Winnie out here struck him. Yes, he'd wanted to show her how good he was at something, but—maybe more so—he'd come out here to prove in his own mind he was still himself.
Only to succeed in proving he wasn't: The dog didn't agree with him. He hopped right up the moment Mick let him, ready to do it all again. Stupid dog. Something always got ripped up by rat teeth, and though not often, more than he liked, that something on occasion was Mick Tremore. He had a place on his hand where a rat got it, a place on his shin. Ratting might be good sport, but as a line of work it was right disgusting.
Rather disgusting.
He let out a breath, a laugh, down his nose. It was extremely disgusting, which had never bothered him before. It was dangerous, but he'd never thought he had a choice. And there was the problem. Choices. New ones could be there for him, if he just looked.
Mick sacked rats with a hook, not touching them, then rallied his whole brood of animals and washed them out back. In cold water at the pump. He washed his dogs and ferrets to protect them from the diseases and vermin rats carried, the same as he'd wash himself.
As he poured cold water on Magic, though, he couldn't help be glad he had a hot tub to look forward to.
Then he heard himself thinking. Bloody hell, was he even liking baths these days? He was. He hated to pull the plug on the tub. He usually lay back and soaked himself wrinkled.
Being here in this house was having a more drastic effect on him than he had expected. He'd begun to like things he couldn't afford. Tubs. Gallons of hot water pumped in at a spigot. Steamy rooms just for bathing.
He'd begun to want a woman he couldn't have.
It was funny how he trusted Winnie. He'd gotten used to her fixing him. He trusted her to look at him, then say, to listen and correct what might give him away in a few weeks. And lately, he'd begun to make notes in his head, things he liked that he was learning and intended to keep, things he would abandon the moment they were finished. He was getting more from her than a way to win a bet. He was getting new ideas. And Winnie was like a kind mirror. He could look into her and adjust himself to suit himself.
When she wasn't being stiff-necked, she was the friend he most wanted to talk to, who he couldn't wait to see each day. She came into his mind with the first ray of consciousness at daybreak. He nodded off, smiling over her with his last, heavy-eyed blink before sleep. Sweet Win. Funny Win. Clever Win. Frightened, brave, careful, meticulous Winnie, trying to avoid the bite of the world by pretending it didn't have teeth.
No, he wasn't his old self. He wasn't sure what he was, except different. And to know it, to see himself a different way, was like looking for the first time at his bare lip again. It rattled him. It ran him off his rails. He felt turned around by the vague, untried choices that lay before him. He wasn't certain what he was beyond a ratcatcher who chummed with Rezzo and the others. He couldn't say for sure where he was going, and it was right unusual—no, rather unusual—to feel so directionless. Which made him remember suddenly a swarm of words from his and Winnie's nightly reading, reading he liked so much, on one hand, while, on the other, it made him curse his good memory: disconcerting, confounding, addling, perplexing.
What was a ratcatcher going to do with these words?
* * *
After he was finished, he went to calm Freddie, his ferret who no longer worked but rather stayed in her cage at the rear of the carriage house. She had to have been "disconcerted" herself by what had gone on. Freddie was thirteen year old, when ferrets only lived ten or twelve years. She was feeble and near-blind. When he'd thought she was dying, he'd carried her in his pocket and made up excuses to people to have her with him. In her day, though, she'd been the bravest, craftiest ferret, the best of her kind. She'd fed him and his kin rabbits in Cornwall. She'd given him work when he'd brought her to London: She'd given him self-respect.
These days, she was getting around pretty well again. She was less thin. Her new surroundings agreed with her. So Mick stroked her and cooed and told her of all the rats that had gone under today as he fed her the liver of the healthiest kill. It cheered her, he could tell. While petting her, seeing her look good, certainly cheered him.
* * *
Chapter 15
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Mr. Tremore wasn't very genteel about the move. He came in that afternoon, cleaned himself up, then threw his things into his bed's counterpane, yanked it all up by the corners into a knapsack, and hauled it and himself downstairs. He wouldn't take the room next to Milton's. He took the one farthest from the butler's, which happened also to be the smallest, but "more private, more my own." It was a room that would have belonged to the scullery, had there been one, a miserly piece of space with only one high window that looked out onto the sidewalk in front—onto the glow of a street lamp by night; by day, the feet of London passersby.
Fine, Winnie thought. At least they would get along better now. And so they did, in their way. She'd silenced him. It was an eerie silence though, much happening beneath it, invisible, undiscussed. Fine, she thou
ght again. Just as well.
It took another few days for her finally, fully to return to her side of the table, to sit across from Mick and work with him—something, as she began again, she realized, she enjoyed too much to give up.
Mick wasn't educated very well, though not as badly as she'd first thought. The country school he'd been to in Cornwall had done a decent job on basic reading. Heavens, though, had he made the most of a fundamental education. His mind loved wordplay. It made teaching him language a pleasure. He was a classic case of the student, though less knowledgeable, keeping the teacher on her toes. He was always one step ahead of her, always leaping in directions she had never considered.
In particular, he took to the vocabulary exercises she gave him. Of course, he ended up acquiring favorite words, then couldn't be pried away from them. Diabolical was a standard he only moved from when he discovered others. Along with his avidity came, also, a mystery. From nowhere, he started using words she hadn't taught or read to him. He brought them like gifts, coming up with them on his own.
"Junoesque," he said one day.
She looked up and across the table. He was staring at her in that thoughtful way he had, contemplative.
He continued. "Callipygian."
She blinked. He couldn't possibly know the word's meaning.
But he did: "Having well-shaped buttocks."
"It has pear-shaped connotations. A large bum."
He smiled. "I know. Large and well-shaped. I wish I knew a word for a large, well-shaped bum that goes into legs yards long and with more curves than an orchestra of violins."
She didn't know where to look for a moment. Boldly, she tried to hold his eyes. Well, she thought. An orchestra of violins. The Venus Callipygus. His references were certainly changing, if not the direction of his mind.
She lost the battle of eye contact when her gaze dropped a degree, to his lip where a mustache had been. It remained clean-shaven, but felt now somehow like a joke. He could shave the mustache, but a big, bristling masculinity remained in him.
