The thought was enough to turn anyone’s stomach, especially a woman who had been turned out of the only home she had ever known on her father’s death. Bereft, bewildered that her beloved parent had not made better provision for her, Allie had been terrified. She was terrified again.
And then there was Harriet. How could Allie abandon the poor little chick?
Easily, most times, and with a clear conscience. But other times, like now, the child was as sweet as spun sugar. She had taken dinner with the staff, who were now preparing for the club’s evening opening and a night of work. With everyone too busy for her, Harriet had come upstairs, bringing a plate full of pudding for later. She was trying her best to be quiet, since she knew Allie did not feel well and was upset. For once Harriet was a perfect angel, sitting at the dressing table painting.
Painting? Allie pulled the lavender-soaked cloth from her forehead and leaped off the bed, nearly tripping over the dog on her way to snatch the rouge and lip color and powder and a tiny pot of something dark out of her charge’s hands. “You wash your face this instant, young lady!” Allie ordered, reaching for the cloth she’d discarded. “This is a bit of muslin,” she said, waving it in front of Harriet, who looked like a miniature Covent Garden corner convenient. “You are not!”
Without waiting for Harriet to take the cloth, Allie started scrubbing at the girl’s face, rubbing hard enough to erase the face paint, if not Harriet’s freckles. “Where did you get this…this devil’s dyestuff anyway?” she asked over the girl’s howls.
The dog started howling too, but subsided when Allie threatened him with the wet towel.
“I won it from Miss Solange. She’s the pretty black-haired lady.”
Half the women who worked for Captain Endicott were raven-haired, and every one of them was pretty, so that was no help, not that it mattered. Harriet should not be talking to women who painted their faces, much less be gambling with them. Mrs. Semple would be apoplectic…all the way to her new home with Harriet’s money. Stealing was one thing; gambling was another. “What do you mean, you won it? You were not playing dice with her, were you, or wagering over cards?”
“No. She bet I could not eat five portions of Cook’s eel in aspic at dinner. But I could.”
“Ech.” Telling the girl not to make bets when her guardian owned a gaming parlor seemed like a waste of time. So did ordering her not to speak with her dinner companions on the principle that only fast women used face paint. Those were the only companions the child was likely to have, here. Allie consoled herself by saying, “You are too young for cosmetics, and too pretty to need any.”
“Then you can borrow them, if you want.”
Why, because she was old and plain? Allie scrubbed harder.
“Want to hear about the rest of my day?” Harriet asked when Allie was done, the girl’s cheeks as red as her hair.
“Not if it is about eels or eyelash blackening.” In fact, after her own day, Allie thought Harriet’s adventures might be a welcome relief. Lessons, a walk in the park, tossing sticks for the dog in the rear garden—these were normal, proper activities for a young girl, except for the dog, Allie supposed, never having had one of the creatures. Harriet needed the routine of a school day, and so did Allie.
School had never been like this.
First Harriet had helped Cook make meat pies for lunch, but Harriet ate half the pie dough and fed Joker half the meat. The chef had started throwing pots and pans, so Harriet had started stuffing his raspberry tarts in her mouth and pockets as she ran.
Then she had helped Snake shine the captain’s boots. He used champagne. Harriet drank some.
Mr. Downs was decanting wine from the cellars to serve tonight. He had to taste it, of course. Harriet did too, of course.
One of the dealers was packing to leave, so Harriet was sent to help. She was given a box of bon-bons in return. “Do you think they put love nests up in trees?”
Allie did not answer. “Go on, dear. What did you do next? Your mathematics lesson?”
In a way. Another of the dealers sent Harriet with a coin next door for a bottle of cologne, and the apothecary gave Harriet a sack of licorice drops.
Then Papa Jack told Darla and Mr. Downs to take Harriet away after the roulette wheel was so nicely greased, and they bought her a lemon ice. Mr. Downs let her eat his, so he could hold Darla’s hand under the table.
Then Papa Jack bought her a bag of horehound drops from next door to show he wasn’t mad anymore.
And Mrs. Crandall came home with a jar of pigs’ knuckles to share.
“I don’t feel so good, Miss Silver.”
“Neither do I, dear.” How could she leave a child alone in this place?
But Harriet really did not feel well. She moaned and groaned for hours and was even more restless than usual in the bed they shared. Then she was truly sick. In the bed they shared.
Chapter Fourteen
Allie knew where the linen cupboard was, thank goodness, and the water closet. She did not have to call to anyone for help, then wonder if anyone would come. Captain Endicott and his employees were all busy downstairs performing their duties at the club. Allie’s duty was looking after Harriet.
The child fell asleep eventually, only to awaken an hour later. This time Allie was ready with a basin and clean cloths. She was not truly worried that Harriet had contracted some foul and fatal disease, only that she did not cast up her own accounts while the impossible child emptied her stomach.
She did not dare to go to sleep when Harriet dozed off, so she sat reading by candlelight in her robe, listening for sounds of distress or someone passing by in the corridor. She had left the sitting room door open so she could hear if anyone walked down the hall, Captain Endicott or one of the others, to send for a pot of tea or a restorative for Harriet. Allie was not about to go below herself, to chance meeting one of the gamesters, not even using the service steps. Libertines always lurked in dark stairwells, in novels anyway. Even if she were not accosted, being seen anywhere near the gaming rooms would put paid to any hopes of redeeming her reputation. At least in the guest room Allie was out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind.
Twelve o’clock and all she heard were whimpers from Harriet, snores from the dog, and sounds of merriment from below. With the door ajar, the noise from the club was louder than she expected. Perhaps the casino rooms were more crowded than before, as people came to see the latest scandal for themselves. Maybe they were hoping for a glimpse of Jack Endicott’s bastard, or the whore who bore her. Flaunting an illicit affair and its outcome did not seem beneath the captain’s dignity. Was anything?
Well, Allie had more self-respect than that. She was not going to add fuel to the fire of public opinion by putting one toe out the bedroom door. Her good name might have gone up in the conflagration, but her pride was merely singed around the edges.
This had to be the longest night Allie could recall, though. Harriet never slept longer than an hour, and stayed sick and fretful for an hour between naps. She cried out for a cold drink, a warm brick, the dog, Papa Jack, and comfort. She swore to be a good girl forever after if Allie made her feel better. She would even give back the miniatures of Miss Silver’s parents, that Allie thought had been lost at Mrs. Semple’s School. And she would not save her pennies to get a tattoo like Snake’s. She’d donate all her coins to the Widows and Orphans Fund, if she lived long enough.
“Don’t let me die, Allie, please!”
“Silly goose, no one dies of overeating.” At least Allie hoped not, because Harriet was looking as pale as a redheaded ghost, lying limply in the bed. “But maybe you will have learned your—”
Now Harriet was snoring.
Two in the morning and all was not well, not upstairs, at any rate. The club must be earning money, for the noises from below continued. Captain Endicott might know how to run a profitable gaming establishment, but he had to be the world’s worst guardian, judging from Harriet’s condition.
Th
ree in the morning and Allie was exhausted. She must have drowsed herself, for she had not heard the patrons leaving or Jack coming upstairs, yet the club seemed quiet, with no high-pitched laughter from the so-called hostesses. The serious gamesters might still be present, however, concentrating on their cards, too rapt in their wagers for idle chatter. They were courting Lady Luck instead of the pretty girls who were either on the top floor in their own beds, or elsewhere, in someone else’s.
Four of the clock and Allie could not think of anything else but whether Jack had brought one of the females up to his own rooms, just across the corridor from where his ward lay suffering. The devil take him and his doxy.
Everyone had to have gone home by five, hadn’t they? The hardiest gambler needed to sleep sometime. And Harriet needed some nourishment. Broth or sweetened tea, perhaps a slice of toast to settle her stomach, or peppermint drops if there were any on Cook’s shelves. Allie needed tea and sustenance herself, if she was going to keep awake and on with her vigil.
She put on her shoes, and pulled her cloak over her nightrail, just in case anyone still lingered. She hoped Calloway might be up, thinking one of his gory stories might entertain Harriet while Allie made the tea. Even Mr. Downs or Darla could stay with the sick child for a few minutes while Allie rested in the sitting room. The others could all sleep late in the morning. Allie had to see a man about a scandal.
She would not ask Jack to keep Harriet company. He did not belong in Allie’s rooms, especially if he had another woman’s scent clinging to him.
Of course if he were in his office, adding his receipts, alone…
Allie checked there, via the deserted service stairwell, shielding her candle. No one was stirring at all. She could not resist peeking into the public rooms, just to make certain no one was there to surprise her, she told herself.
Her candle’s light could not reach into the far corners of the large room, with tables scattered throughout. Some chairs were overturned, others leaned drunkenly against the walls. Pasteboard cards and scoring papers and soiled napkins and empty glasses were everywhere. She knew the cleaning staff came in the morning, but now the place looked disheveled and debauched. She thought she smelled the scent of desperation in the air, plus other even less wholesome odors. A feeling of doom hid in the corners.
Allie shivered. She had obviously been reading too many of those damsel and dungeon novels herself.
The staff dining hall was dark and bare, with a single oil lamp left burning on the side table. She hurried to the kitchen, where she could find what she needed and return to Harriet, and the security of their bedroom.
In contrast to the public rooms, everything in the kitchen was tidy, every pot hanging from its hook, every mixing bowl and platter washed and dried. No one was about, but the scullery maid would be up soon to relight the fires and start the day’s bread.
Allie lit a new candle and headed toward the pantry, to see if anything on the shelves might help poor Harriet’s digestion, before the apothecary opened in the morning.
She was coughing, though, and her eyes were itching. She was not merely tired, Allie realized, she was inhaling smoke, more than lingered in the card rooms. The air there had been heavy, but this was nearly unbreathable. Her father had loved his pipe and tobacco, and some of his scholar friends had indulged in the occasional cigar. This smelled different.
Allie went back to the kitchen and checked to see that the enclosed stove’s fire was banked, the ovens empty. Nothing was left burning, no pots were simmering. The ever-present tea kettle was cold to her touch.
Then she started to feel the heat, seemingly coming from the rear door. She touched the door handle, then jumped back, cradling her stinging palm. She had to see, though, so she wrapped her other hand in a fold of her cloak and opened the door—to find a pile of rags and rubble on fire!
As she tried to kick the burning mound apart and stamp on the smouldering pieces, her first thought was that the fire had to have been deliberately started there. Cook would never have tossed garbage, much less the burning embers, right outside the back door. Her second thought was that Harriet could not have done this, because she was too sick, and had never left their bedroom. Harriet! She was upstairs asleep, as was Captain Endicott and the women. They would never smell the smoke or feel the heat. And while the rags under Allie’s feet had burned themselves out, flames were climbing up the wooden door frame to the back side of the house.
Remembering the nightmare of the fire at Mrs. Semple’s School, Allie grabbed up the full kettle from the stove and tossed its contents on the fire. Then she found the pump and a bucket used for carrying water, and filled that. Too slow! She could not pump hard enough, or fast enough, and the fire was spreading. Now the flames were higher than she could reach, with no hope of putting them out.
She could not do this on her own. But no one came to her screams. She grabbed another pot from its hook, and a lid, and started banging them together, in between pumping and carrying and shouting and stamping on flying embers. Mr. Downs and Calloway and the cook slept somewhere below. Surely they would hear and come help.
“Fire!” She yelled until she was hoarse, the smoke filling her lungs, tears clouding her sight. She could barely lift the pump handle now, with every muscle burning, her arms quivering. She pulled off her cloak and soaked it in the bucket, then spread that over the first part of the fire, dampening that, at least.
Then she heard someone cursing behind her, the sweetest, most vile words she had ever heard. A bare arm with a snake tattoo took her bucket, and more voices called out for someone to man the pump, someone to fetch a ladder, someone to call for the Watch.
“My beautiful kitchen!”
“Keep pumping, you clunch. The Fire Insurance Company won’t get here for hours.”
Downs sent Darla—who had obviously not been asleep upstairs in her narrow attic bed—to check the front of the house, in case the arsonist had tried to make more damage. Darla tried to pull together the back of her evening gown as she ran.
Downs pushed Allie out of the way. “Go on, miss, we’ll take over. Go wake the others.”
Allie ran for the stairs, where the air was fresher, thank goodness. She took a deep cleansing breath before yelling “Fire! Fire! Wake up! Fire!”
Jack was already headed down, pulling a shirt over his bare chest, not bothering to tuck it into his breeches.
“How bad?” he demanded, grabbing her arms before she could crash into him.
“Not terrible,” she gasped, “if the men can stop it soon.”
“Get Harriet!” he yelled as he rushed past.
Harriet was on the far side of the house, away from the fire. So Allie ran up to the top floor first, yelling, banging her fist on all the doors as she went by. “Wake up! Get out. Fire! Tell the others.”
Then she went back down to her own floor, panting for air, not because of the smoke but because she had almost reached the limit of her strength. Even with her lungs close to bursting and every muscle in her arms protesting, somehow she managed to get Harriet off the high bed. She wrapped the child in a blanket and half-dragged, half-carried, her down the wider front stairs toward the front door, away from the fire. Joker led the way, barking.
Then strong arms took her limp burden from her. “Great gods, is she…?”
Allie shook her head. “Just ill. That’s how I discovered the fire. I was trying to find her a restorative.”
“Thank heaven!” Jack said, carrying Harriet toward the front casino room, where the chandelier had been relighted. “We think the house is safe enough to stay inside now. And it is too cold outdoors, unless it proves necessary to evacuate.”
He carefully placed Harriet on a leather armchair, tucking the blanket more firmly around her. “Poor little puss.” Then he gently touched Allie’s cheek with the back of his hand. “And brave little governess.” Then he was gone, back to make sure the zealous firefighters did not destroy the rear of the house, trying to save it.
Someone handed Allie a blessed glass of water. She drank it and sank onto a chair next to Harriet, looking around while she caught her breath. The dealers sat huddled in their thin night clothes at the tables, some weeping, some hugging each other while Downs tried to make sure everyone was accounted for. Allie heard it in a daze.
“Susan? She’s with her lover.”
“Jane’s out at Kensington with Sir Mortimer.”
“Mary? Mrs. Crandall?”
“Oh, she’s housekeeping for that lawyer bloke.”
They all laughed, relieved that they could. Then they cheered when Cap’n Jack returned with two bottles of wine and the news that the fire was entirely out, with no one hurt, not much damage.
When everyone had a glass, he raised his in a toast, to Allie. “The bravest, most clever woman in England!”
Allie blushed. “No, I was terrified.”
“But you did not run away or fall down in a faint or start crying.”
One of the dealers stopped sniveling on the instant.
“We could all have died in our beds, without Miss Silver,” Jack told the others, who stood and cheered, to her further embarrassment. Then everyone was hugging Allie and kissing her and patting her back. Cook gave a dirty look toward Harriet, where she was sleeping on the chair, but came to kiss Allie’s hand for saving his beautiful kitchen.
Allie winced, and Jack immediately grabbed her hand and turned it up, to see blisters already formed on her palm. Allie did not know whether they were from the hot door knob or from the bucket’s handle, but they hurt like the devil, now that she had time to think about it.
Jack poured another few drops of brandy into her glass and sent Calloway next door for the apothecary.
Jack of Clubs Page 14
