by Laura London
“That,” said Katie, in a hurt voice, “was not a kind thing to say.”
A lanky, doe-eyed girl with a red kerchief on her head came up in time to hear the last, and leaned over the bar with one hand on her hip, a saucy smile revealing the lack of one front tooth.
“ ‘Ey, Zacky, m’man. Are ya bein’ unkind to yer little friend ‘ere and ‘er jest arrived this afternoon? That’s a record even for ya.”
Zack leaned over the bar on his elbows and met the new arrival’s offered lips with a quick kiss of greeting.
“Hullo, Winnie. How goes the revolution?” said Zack.
“Not as good as th’ gin business looks. ‘N ya can stop makin’ fun o’ me chosen avocation. Ain’t ya interested in th’ struggle fer th’ rights o’ man?” replied Winnie.
“There’s only one man’s rights I’m interested in,” said Zack. “My own.”
“Aye, it’s a ‘eartless self-seeker, y’are,” said Winnie, mischievously. She turned to look at Katie. “Oi see ya changed genders since oi left this afternoon. Are ya all rested up from yer ride out from Essex this day on ‘at rattle-trapsy stagecoach? Was a fair piece ta come by yerself, wasn’t it? So. You talked Zacky around ta employin’ ya ‘ere.”
“Yes, with difficulty. Now Winnie,” said Katie, with a quick glance toward Zack, “tell the truth. Zack says people will be able to see through this disguise and be able to tell I’m a girl. Even with my hair up under my hat like it is. Is he right?”
Winnie subjected Katie’s trim form to a critical appraisal. “Oi’ll tell ya, sis. Yer so blisterin’ pretty even as a boy ‘n there’s some ‘at come in ‘ere won’t matter to ‘em one way or’t’other.”
Katie was shocked. “It seems to me, Zack, that you’ve set up your business in an awfully wicked part of London.”
Zack shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Mousemeat. It’s no place for the likes of you. There’s some bad people down here.”
“Yes, and if it was up to you, I’d be one of those bad people,” said Katie.
“Ooh, my, speakin’ o’ bad people,” exclaimed Winnie. “Lookee there who jest walked in th’ door. It’s Nasty Ned Fabian ‘n ‘is nasty friends.”
Katie followed Winnie’s gesture to the front of the shop, where a rough-looking bunch of foul-mouthed, dirtily dressed men were wading their way through sloshing tankards and sloshed customers and hailing a barboy for some gin. They set themselves up at a table near the gambling aristocrats and immediately began spitting gin on each other, “accidentally” dropping and breaking their flagons, and creating a loud disturbance. They were led by a nasty-looking brute indeed, well over six feet tall, with a crude, heavy face, glowering red-rimmed eyes, and a muscular, top-heavy look.
“Damn,” said Zack in a low voice. “Why does he have to pick my place?”
“Who is he?” asked Katie.
“Those lads likes’t’ mill, oi’m tellin’ ya,” Winnie informed her. “See ‘at big bloody rampsman in th’ middle, there, talkin’ louder than even th’ rest o’ ‘em? That’s Nasty Ned. ‘E’s tried fer years ta make it in th’ ring ‘n was almost top man a few times, but they say ‘e played too rough ‘n never really caught on. Now ‘e’s got nothin’ ta do but lead ‘is bloody gang o’ troublemakers ‘round ‘n bust up gin shops. ‘E’s so mean ‘e’d spit in ‘is own mother’s eye!”
“He’s a lot more than mean,” said Zack. “He’s a hired fist. If he’s in here, that means only one thing, that he has some business with someone. Katie, if he calls for anything, let me or one of the boys handle him. You stay away.” He glanced worriedly toward Katie. “If I had any sense, I’d send you up to your room now.”
“Zack, you can’t send me upstairs every time the clientele gets a little rough, or how am I going to be able to work here? And if Winnie can live in the Rookery, why can’t I?”
“Oh, pshaw,” said Winnie good humoredly. “Oi can take care o’ meself from point go. Anyone bothers me, oi jest tell ‘im oi got th’ French pox, or ‘at it’s me time o’ th’ month.”
“Kate, you can’t compare yourself to Winnie,” interjected Zack. “She was bom and raised here. Do you know that Winnie carries a knife in her garter? Do you think you could learn to do that? Or more to the point, do you think you could ever use it on anyone? I remember going fishing with you, and you couldn’t even hook the worm because you felt sorry for it. Katie, Katie, you can’t work in The Merry Maidenhead the rest of your life.”
“I’m not saying for the rest of my life,” protested Katie. “It’s only until I find Papa, or he finds me. Besides, it’s not the only possibility, not even considering your unmentionable idea of a few minutes ago. I could be a governess, for instance.”
“People don’t marry the daughters of outcast gentlemen,” said Zack, “and they won’t hire them to raise their children either.”
Katie tapped her lips thoughtfully with one finger. “All right then, I could be a chambermaid. That’s honest work.”
“Ha,” said Winnie. “Wi’ yer looks, girl? Oi can see ya trippin’ up ta change ‘is lordship’s sheets and findin’ yerself between ‘em instead.”
“I’m tired,” said Katie, “of hearing disparaging comments about my looks. If my looks are going to be a problem, I’ll take Winnie’s knife and cut off my nose.”
Zack grinned widely. “Believe you me, no one will hire you if you don’t have a nose.” He tapped the dainty member under discussion with one smudgy finger.
Katie drew herself to her full height. “If you will pardon me,” she said with a dignified smile, “I have not the time to dally. Someone’s signalled for service, and I’m going to wait on him. Pardon me.” Katie brushed past Zack, who watched as she walked through the hinged gate out of the bar and made her way across the crowded shop to the customer.
“Plucky, yer little friend,” said Winnie, making her fingers walk lightly up Zack’s bare arm. “And ya’d like ta turn ‘er into a playmate fer some baldin’, bloat-bellied banker? Seems a shame, y’know. Couldn’t ya jest let ‘er stay upstairs ‘til that father o’ ‘ers comes back ta look after ‘er?”
“Winnie, the Baron looks after Katie the way a thunderstorm looks after a picnic. Not that he ain’t fond of her, in his way, but the man’s so Godawful irresponsible that he’s barely aware of Katie’s existence six days out of the seven,” said Zack, grimly. “ ‘Sides, it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth of difference to Katie’s future whether the baron shows up or not, because it wasn’t my idea to set Katie up as some rich man’s light frigate. It was his.”
“What? A ‘ell o’ a father ‘e is,” said Winnie, with disgust.
“Can’t argue about that. The baron came to me some time ago and made me promise that if anything happened to him, I should make sure Katie goes to a decent protector. Said that when she was old enough, he meant to set to finding someone for her himself, but it’s more like him to disappear like this and leave me to do the dirty work,” said Zack bitterly. “Still, some provision’s got to be made for Katie—can’t leave a chit with her face wandering about the street.”
“What about Katie’s mother’s family? Wasn’t there money there?” asked Winnie.
“Aye, but the baron fought like badgers with his father-in-law years back and the two decided that if they ever saw each other again, it would be too soon. That grandpa never took much interest in his own daughter and none at all in Katie, but Katie wrote to him anyway after the baron disappeared. Clutching at stars, so to speak. She told him that he could get in touch with her here if he liked, but apparently he hasn’t liked. No help from that quarter.”
“Maybe not, but there seems ta be one thing missin’ from these nice little plans you ‘n th’ baron got fer Katie. ‘Er consent. Ya know, Zacky, oi’m thinkin’ that yer Miss Mousemeat may not go along wi’ it.”
“She will, Winnie,” said Zack with finality. “She’ll come around.”
Never, thought Katie, never, never, never.
She set down one glass of gin on the table she was serving as punctuation for each “never.” She made a mental list of the numberless things she would rather do than join the muslin company. This list encompassed the impractical to the ridiculous, and she considered and abandoned a dozen schemes while trying to think of words powerful enough to forever drive from Zack’s mind his infelicitous plan for her future. She’d known Zack before she had been able to say his name, and knew him to be not easily dissuaded from a set course. In fact, she thought with misgiving, she had never been able to talk him out of anything. She glanced at the bar where Zack and Winnie were engaged in an animated political conversation with a group of Winnie’s friends; Winnie was gesturing theatrically.
A group of students had vacated the table near the aristocrats, leaving a crop of half-empty bottles and thumb-printed glasses. Katie set her tray down and began a clinking harvest. It was a pleasant chore because Lord Linden sat no more than four feet from where Katie was working, and she was in a good position to observe him. Hankering, she thought. Myself and every other girl in London. She watched as he caught the dice thrown to him. He shook them in one long white hand and tossed them into the center of the table with a negligent graceful flip. A nearby companion rallied him at the unfavorable result of the toss, and Linden responded with a slow, attractive smile that caused Katie to take in a quick breath of the reeky air. She reflected ruefully that she had been pierced by a foil not meant for her.
A bottle crashed from a nearby table and Katie turned toward the sound.
“‘Ey, wot’s a bloke ta do ta get some service around ‘ere!” Nasty Ned bawled. He was gazing angrily at her, conspicuously waving the neck end of a broken gin bottle.
Katie took a hurried step backward. “I’ll go call Zack,” she said hastily.
Ned snaked out one hairy, muscular arm and pulled Katie in front of him. The tray she had been carrying was upset; the glasses and bottles dumped and rolling on the floor.
“Wot do we want wi’ ‘im?” Nasty Ned growled. “Yer all th’ ‘elp oi need.” One finger of his left hand was gone to the first joint, and he roughly caressed her cheek with the stub, “Oi’ve ‘ad me eye on ya, me boy. Oi likes yer looks. We could go fer a walk in th’ alley.”
His fingers dug into Katie’s wrist through the wilted cloth of her coat. She looked down the length of the room toward Zack and Winnie, who were still deep in conversation with their friends. It seemed as if the walls of the room were expanding, carrying her farther and farther away from them. She tried to call Zack’s name, but the words were without force, inaudible above the raucous buzz of conversation. Her mind searched for an escape.
“All right, sir. But, urn, first let me take off this apron,” said Katie hesitantly. Ned relaxed his grip for an instant, and Katie broke from him and began to race toward the bar. She was brought up short by one of Ned’s companions, who stood grinning evilly, blocking the narrow pathway. She turned to see Ned rising from his chair to follow her. Her foot knocked against a metal slop bucket, and as if in a dream, she took it in hand, and reaching up, overturned the disgusting contents upon the surprised features of Nasty Ned, placing the bucket over his ears as she did so. The fulsome mess that habitually lurked inside the slop bucket oozed and dripped down the clothing and person of the ruffian, who roared hollowly in the bucket like a wounded bull. Ned disentangled himself, revealing a besmirched countenance ugly with vein-popping rage.
“Oi’ll cut yer heart out ‘n eat it, ya young wretch! Talk ta me blade ‘ere if ya won’t talk ta me!” he roared, the repulsive slime from the slop bucket dripping from his eyebrows. From out of his pocket, he produced a thick-bladed butcher knife. He lifted it into the air and sent it whirling at her. Katie, her legs weak from fear, stumbled sideways and she felt the blade’s steely breath as it passed very close to her ear.
Lord Linden had been concentrating on his dice when the silver gleam of the knife whipped on its path through his field of vision to land with a crack in the wall in back of him. This drew a roar of disapproval from the crowd, which had been indifferent to the little argument until now. Linden looked casually toward the blade where it jutted from the wall. He directed a short, indifferent glance at Katie and then a slightly longer, slightly less indifferent glance at Nasty Ned.
“Hey, slum rat,” said Linden, and pulled the knife out of the wall with a backhanded jerk. “If you want to practice your aim, don’t place your target in front of me. There’s more room for this kind of game outside.” He tossed the knife negligently toward Nasty Ned who caught it in one hand.
“Oi’ll go outside, all right, ‘n oi’ll take this little barboy wi’ me. We’ll play a game ‘e may never’ve played before.” Ned looked viciously at Katie, who quailed and clutched frantically at Lord Linden’s arm as though to anchor herself to the relative safety of The Merry Maidenhead. Linden looked down at her fingers in some surprise and made a sharp movement to disengage his sleeve from their desperate clasp.
“Have I attracted a barnacle?” said Linden impatiently. “Let go of me, child.”
“Aye, let go o’ ‘im,” exclaimed Ned angrily. “Yer comin’ wi’ me.”
One of the bawds from a nearby table unexpectedly raised her gin-cracked voice in Katie’s behalf. “The poor young’un don’t want ta go wi’ ya. Leave ‘im alone, ya big bullock.”
Lord Linden made another attempt to pry off the little fingers, and then stopped to scan the soulful blue eyes raised pleadingly to him. He gave an exasperated sigh.
“Very well, if you don’t want to go with him, you don’t have to go with him,” he told her. “Detach yourself.” Katie didn’t move, so he spoke again, more gently. “I won’t let him take you outside. There is no need to cling to me as if you were drowning. That’s right, let me go. Thank you.” He slowly lifted his long legs from their resting place at the table’s edge, stood and took a few steps toward Nasty Ned.
“It’s a very small fish,” Linden said quietly. “Why not throw it back in?” A single ruby solitaire twinkled wickedly from his left hand, but it shone with less brilliance than the clear coffee shade of his eyes.
“‘At little maggot dumped a bucket o’ slops over me ‘ed,” Ned said furiously, his eyes red with rage. “Don’t let it cozzen ya wi’ ‘em big blue eyes. Oi knows its type, the two-faced little piglet.”
“Possibly,” said Linden. “But I’ve decided that you two should be separated, as you can’t seem to get along. So you’ll simply have to find someone else this evening.”
“And oi sez oi ain’t gonna,” said Ned, tightening his hands into melon-like fists.
The answer to this was not verbal, it was physical. Linden placed a hand on Nasty Ned’s chest and gave him a quick powerful shove. Ned fell backward heavily, upending a table in the process. He rose to his feet again, the blade gleaming.
“Ya panty-waist swell. Oi’d as soon skewer ya as anyone,” Ned threatened.
Linden raised his eyebrows. “Would you? I wonder. You won’t fare so well with me as with yon beardless weanling,” he sneered, nodding toward Katie. “I’ll tell you what, my homely friend. Shall we make this more interesting for our audience? Loser buys drinks for the house.”
“Fine with me,” snarled Ned, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor of approving yells. “Too bad ya ain’t goin’ ta be around ta enjoy th’ party.”
The crowd cheered as Linden removed his coat and tossed his hat into the hands of a companion. “ ‘Ave at ‘im, Lord Lesley, ‘at’s th’ lad,” came the calls from the onlookers. A veritable arsenal of knives, brass knuckles and truncheons began piling up on the table in front of him. Lord Linden ignored the pile of weapons and walked across the floor to stand carelessly in front of the enraged brute. A light, self-assured smile played with the corners of his lips as he spread his hands mockingly and said softly, “Now then, baboon. Come skewer me.”
Ned feinted twice with the shining blade as Linden stood before him, a study in cheerfully arr
ogant nonchalance. Suddenly, Ned lunged for blood. Quick as quicksilver, Linden shot out a strong wrist, pulling Ned off balance, and in a series of swift, graceful movements, he brought his knee up to batter Ned’s face, and then with one hand on Ned’s belt and another on his collar, he threw the failed pugilist into the wall with long practiced ease. The wall and Ned’s head collided with a thud that shook the room, and he fell heavily to the floor.
The room erupted with a resounding cheer. Byrne’s friends swarmed around him in a congratulatory huddle, clapping him heartily on the back with cries of “Capital move, Lesley, absolutely tops!” Drinkers surged toward the bar, demanding their drinks (to be charged to Nasty Ned) and shouting toasts to Lord Linden. As the hubbub died down, Linden and the other aristocrats turned their attention to the fallen adversary.
“Have I broken his neck?” inquired Lord Linden indifferently.
“Unfortunately, no,” replied one of his companions, prodding the man’s unconscious head distastefully with his boot. “I fear the ease of civilian life has put you a trifle off your touch.”
“A trifle,” agreed Linden. He turned to an admiring group of onlookers. “Perhaps you could drag this sleeping ox over to the straw? I think he may not wake for some time and he blocks the way.”
“Glad to, guv’nor,” came the response. Several pairs of filthy hands pulled Ned away and tossed him unceremoniously into the strawpile. Linden gingerly plucked Ned’s sweat-stained jacket from where it lay across a chair, walked over to the recumbent bully, and threw it over his shoulders.
“Bonne nuit, baboon,” said Linden, laughing under his breath.
Katie was leaning weakly against the table abandoned by Nasty Ned and his friends, when she felt someone pinching her elbow. She turned to find Zack beside her. “I’ve been standing here trying to think of a tactful way of saying I told you so,” he said mildly.
