by Shana Galen
“You cannot have it. Go on before I scream.”
The woman laughed—or rather cackled. “Scream all you want, dearie. No one will ’ear you.” She raised the knife and moved toward Julia.
Julia had two choices at that moment—give up her hair or fight. She’d always been rather proud of her hair. It was vanity, she supposed, and unfounded vanity, as the color was not fashionable. Still, she knew it suited her, and more men than she could count had complimented it. One had even had the audacity to touch it. But her hair was not worth dying for. And yet, if she didn’t fight now, when would she fight? She couldn’t hide under couches—metaphorical or otherwise—for the rest of her life. She couldn’t close her eyes and hope those who wished to harm her—men like Slag—would simply disappear. If she’d fought Slag from the beginning, maybe Neil wouldn’t be in a burning building. Maybe Mostyn wouldn’t be risking his life to save him. Maybe she wouldn’t be on the street being accosted by a foul-smelling hair thief.
“Leave me be,” Julia said and took a step toward the woman and—dear God—the knife.
“Stand still or I’ll slit yer throat and then take yer ’air.” The woman advanced, but Julia didn’t cower. She had no room to back away. Instead, she made a grab for the knife. The woman slashed down, and bright pain flared in her arm. But Julia grabbed the woman’s wrist anyway, pushing her assailant’s arm back. A quick glance showed her the pain in her arm was accompanied by a stream of blood.
“Now look what ye done,” the woman said, struggling to wrench free of Julia’s hold.
“What I’ve done?” Julia used her momentum to push the woman a step back. “Who knows what sorts of filth you have on that blade?” She would probably die of some horrible as-yet-undiscovered disease. She forced the woman back another step, but it was a hard-won victory. The woman was tall and Julia was barely medium height. Both women were breathing hard, and Julia was grateful the struggle had forced the woman to stop speaking.
Her muscles burned and blood ran down her arm, but she refused to give in to fatigue. This was life and death. If she failed, Mostyn would find her lifeless body when and if he returned. Her bald, lifeless body.
With a growl, the woman pushed back, and Julia stumbled. Her feet scrambled for purchase, and she regained her balance and fought back. She might be small, but she had spent the last few months carrying small children, laundry, and heavy pots. She was strong.
The woman bared her teeth and pushed Julia back again, lowering her knife hand a fraction of an inch. Julia tried to raise the knife, but gravity was not on her side. She was tiring.
The woman pushed her back again, and this time Julia lost ground, her feet sliding backward. She concentrated all her strength on keeping the knife high and away from her face. But as she watched, the knife came closer and closer. The dull blade, red with her blood and black with God knew what, dipped lower and lower.
Julia tried to muster the strength to make one last push, but all she could manage was to keep the knife from plunging into her forehead.
Dear God, she would die this day. She had survived the Ox and Bull, survived Slag, and made it out of a raging fire, only to be killed on the street by a hair thief.
She closed her eyes as the knife moved closer, infinitesimally nearer to her skin. She did not want this woman’s face to be the last thing she saw.
And then suddenly, the woman’s wrist sprang free of Julia’s grip, and the knife clattered to the ground. Julia opened her eyes in time to watch the woman’s feet leave the ground as she flew backward. A dark-skinned man had the woman about the waist and shoved her at a pale man streaked with soot.
Julia’s gaze flew to the man who’d saved her. It was Neil, his skin covered with soot and ash. Only his sea-blue eyes were recognizable to her. He was alive!
“Mr. Wraxall,” she gasped.
“Good God, but can no one leave you alone for even a moment?”
She wanted to tell him if he insisted on being so surly, he could go straight back into the fire, but just then her legs gave way, and she wobbled. His arms caught her around the waist even as she caught herself. But he swept her up anyway, bringing her closer to his chest and the overpowering smell of smoke and fire.
“I can walk,” she insisted.
“And step into the middle of a dice game or a street brawl? I think I had better carry you for your own good.”
“You are acting like an arse,” she said, too tired to care that she’d used language unbecoming a lady.
“Yes, well, watching you almost stabbed through the eye brings out the worst in me.”
She looked up at him, hoping to discern something from his face. Was his statement an admission that he cared for her or was he simply angry that she might die and he be blamed for not meeting his responsibilities? But she could not see his features through the black grime. And then she remembered Mostyn. And Billy.
She struggled to look behind her. “Where is Billy? Did you find him?”
“I’m here, my lady,” came a voice from somewhere nearby. Wraxall was moving quickly through the dark streets of Spitalfields, and she could not pinpoint the voice. But she knew it.
“Billy.” She reached out a hand, and the boy took it. His hand was the same size as hers but rougher. He squeezed it.
“Major found me, he did. Got me out just in time.”
“Thank God. I will scold you later for all the trouble you caused, but now I am so thankful to have you alive.”
“Could we save the speeches for when we’re safely indoors?” Wraxall muttered. “The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”
“What about Mr. Mostyn?” she asked, ignoring Neil’s injunction. “I thought I saw him—”
“Here, my lady.” He moved from behind Neil so she could see him and then back again. He truly did seem to always be at Neil’s back.
“Thank you,” she said to him. He gave a curt nod and went back to his position. They were all accounted for and safe, or nearly safe, at any rate. Slag was gone. His alehouse was gone. She did not know if Goring had survived or not, but she did not think he would dare show his face again.
But most importantly, Billy and the other boys were safe. She hadn’t lost one. She could rest now.
Leaning her head on Neil’s chest, she closed her eyes and dreamed of fire.
* * *
Neil had felt fear. He had known dread and profound loss, but nothing could compare to the terror he’d felt when he caught sight of Juliana and the street wench struggling with the knife. In that moment, the rank, muddy street in Spitalfields became a battlefield once again, and he was racing against time to save Christopher.
He raced to save Juliana, but in his mind, they had become one and the same. He hadn’t been able to reach Christopher in time, and he would not be able to reach Juliana. He would live the rest of his life with the image of her death imprinted in his brainbox—the way he stored the images of the deaths of so many of those who’d trusted their lives to him.
Neil knew if she died, he would not live long. This was one death he could not survive.
He’d begun to run, pushing through the crowd still heading for the Ox and Bull and the spectacle of the fire. When he’d reached the wench with the knife, he was certain he’d been too late. He’d pulled her off Juliana, prepared to rip her to shreds with his bare hands, when he’d heard Juliana’s voice.
The woman had been forgotten, and in that moment, there was only Julia.
He held her close and stood in the entryway of the orphanage. When they’d come in—just the three of them, as Mostyn had melted away once they’d reached the building—Jackson had bustled the older boys off to their beds, taking Billy by the shoulders and threatening a bath. Rafe had only glared at him, taking in his soot-stained face and clothing.
“I get all the worst missions,” he complained before leaving
in a huff. Neil rolled his eyes.
The cook’s brows lifted and then she retreated to the kitchen to prepare something soothing, but Mrs. Dunwitty had seemed unperturbed. “She always was a trial, this one. I told her father on many occasions her life—and mine—would have been a great deal easier had she been born male.”
Neil supposed that would have made his life easier too, but he couldn’t wish for it. Not when he held her soft body in his arms, loving the way her curves pressed against him.
“Don’t just stand there, Mr. Wraxall; carry her to her chamber. I don’t suppose there’s a maid about,” she said as she ascended the stairs in front of him. “I imagine I will have to see to that as well. Ah, Jackson, there you are.”
Jackson had been shepherding the boys into their room, but he took a few steps into the corridor. “May I be of service, Mrs. Dunwitty?”
“Yes, you may. I need hot water for a bath and clean linen for a bandage. My lady is filthy and injured.”
Jackson glanced at Juliana, who looked relatively clean compared to Neil. “I will have Mrs. Koch heat water and bring it personally.” He gave Neil a direct look. “While the lady is bathing, sir, perhaps you might do the same downstairs.”
Neil frowned. He didn’t want to leave Juliana, but Mrs. Dunwitty would hardly allow him to stay while she bathed Juliana, even if he’d already seen far more of her than he ought.
“Very good, Jackson.” Neil looked at the former governess. “Shall I hold her until the water arrives? If I set her on the bed, the sheets will need washing.”
“No need,” came a small, quiet voice. Juliana moved in his arms. “I am awake. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Shock and exhaustion, I imagine,” said her former governess. “Let us just hope you have not caught some dreadful disease of the lower orders whilst you were out and about in those dreadful streets.”
“You know I am never sick,” she told the woman, pushing out of Neil’s arms. He was forced to release her, his body protesting at the loss of her warmth and her softness.
“And I intend to keep it that way. Now, out of those clothes. Jackson will draw you a bath.” Mrs. Dunwitty gave Neil a pointed look.
“Excuse me,” he said and moved into the hallway. There, he was confronted by four sets of small eyes, each wider than the last. “What’s this?” he said. “I thought you were all in bed.”
“Will she die?” asked Chester, his dark hair rumpled and his cheeks wet.
“You can’t let her die,” Charlie said, or something to that effect. His thumb was firmly in his mouth.
“She ain’t going to die, is she?” said Jimmy.
“No,” said Neil. “She will not die.”
“I told you,” James broke in, hand swiping at the wetness on his cheeks. “I told you Major would keep our lady safe.”
Neil put his hand on James’s shoulder. “And so I will. I’ll keep all of you safe, and that is a promise.” He did not know how he would keep that promise, but he meant it. “Now, back to bed with you.”
“Lory?” Charlie asked.
“No story tonight,” Neil translated. “My lady or I will read you one tomorrow.”
The boys groaned.
“I’ll read them a story.”
Neil turned and saw Robbie behind him. He also spotted Juliana leaning on the casement in her doorway. Their eyes met—hers shiny with unshed tears—before she closed her door.
“You can read?” Neil asked before glancing back at Robbie. The boy shrugged. “A little. Come on, boys. Climb in bed. Uncle Robbie will tuck ye in tonight.”
The boys cheered and raced into their rooms, all fears for Lady Juliana momentarily put to rest. Robbie made to follow, then looked back at Neil. “And if I can’t read the words, I can always make them up, right?”
Neil nodded. “A time-honored tradition among storytellers.”
“That’s what I thought.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’d best clean up, Major. You stink.”
“Thank you, Robbie.”
He moved toward the steps, listening as Robbie said something that made the little boys giggle. For the first time he could remember, Neil felt like he was home.
Eighteen
Julia closed the door and turned to a narrow-eyed Mrs. Dunwitty. “You have ideas.”
Julia blinked. “No, I don’t,” she answered quickly. Denial of all culpability was second nature when it came to dealing with Mrs. Dunwitty.
“Oh, yes you do. And I know because if I were a few years younger, I would have the same ideas.”
Julia stared at her, hoping she had misunderstood.
Mrs. Dunwitty held out a hand. “Give me your clothing. I doubt it is salvageable. Why don’t you employ a maid, for goodness’ sake? And do not stare at me so. I was young once.”
“I don’t have the funds for a maid.” Julia pulled off her gloves and the remnants of her hat. She refused to imagine Mrs. Dunwitty as young.
Mrs. Dunwitty looked at the proffered articles and motioned for Julia to drop them on the floor. “I had plenty of beaux when I was your age, and in my time, we were far less prudish.”
“Oh dear,” Julia muttered. This was not at all a conversation she wished to be part of. She bent to unlace her boots.
“How did the boys’ lessons go today?” she asked.
“But when the time came,” Mrs. Dunwitty said, ignoring Julia’s attempt to change the subject, “I decided marriage was not for me. I wanted my freedom. I think you of all women understand that.”
Julia removed her half boots. They were dirty but still serviceable. Those she moved to the side of her discarded garments, then unpinned her bodice and loosed the tapes of her dress, allowing it to fall to the floor. Once her outer garments were removed, Mrs. Dunwitty stepped forward to assist her with her stays. “I can manage,” she said.
“You are tired and have been through quite the ordeal, from what I can see. I’ll hear no argument.”
Julia was tired, and she offered none as her stays were removed, and when the hot water arrived, she wore only her chemise and stockings. She retreated behind a screen to wash. The small hipbath she had bought for the orphanage and insisted the boys use at least once a week was in the older boys’ dormitory. She always made do with soap, a cloth, and water from a basin. At least this water was hot.
“It’s obvious you feel something for Mr. Wraxall,” Mrs. Dunwitty said on the other side of the screen. Julia heard her moving about, probably straightening up Julia’s already-straight chambers. “In your absence, I asked his man, Jackson, about his presence here. Apparently, Mr. Wraxall has been living here for several days. Unchaperoned.”
Julia paused in the act of sliding the cloth over her face. “I am hardly in need of a chaperone at this point,” she said. “I have been living, more or less, in a house with twelve boys for a quarter of a year.”
“Those are boys. Mr. Wraxall is a man.”
“He is a gentleman my father sent to take me home. That is all.” She rubbed the cloth over her knife wound. It was just a scratch, really, but it still burned.
Mrs. Dunwitty huffed. “Your father might have sent Wraxall, but if he knew the man had taken up residence—”
“Mr. Wraxall has not taken up residence. He will be leaving in a day or so, and now that you are here, we are adequately chaperoned, not that anyone will care. Like you, Mrs. Dunwitty, I have chosen not to marry. In time, my father will come to accept that. He will understand that this is the life I want, and I am quite content to live here and help these boys.”
“Oh, is that why you came here? To help these boys? I thought it was because you were running away.”
“I have never run away from anything in my life.”
“You ran away from the situation with Lainesborough.”
Julia dropped the cloth and stuck her head aroun
d the screen. “I did not run away. I did everything I could to keep Davy. I fought Lainesborough until the end.”
Mrs. Dunwitty’s eyes held sorrow, but Julia did not want her sorrow. Instead, she focused on the older woman’s mouth, which was set in a determined line. Julia wanted determination. “And I lost. The court and the judge and even the bloody regent—”
“Language, Juliana.”
“—did not care about the best interests of the child or what his mother would have wanted or that his father didn’t even show the most remote interest in the child until he was half a year old. The law gives the man precedence in this case, as in practically every case. Now, you tell me why I should want to tie myself to a man when men are selfish, manipulative, and cruel at best?”
“Your father was not cruel.”
“My father was benignly neglectful, and when I needed him—when Harriett needed him—he would not lift a finger to help,” Julia cried, her voice rising to a pitch that heralded tears. “Now I am in a position to help, and I will not walk away. Mrs. Dunwitty, if you have come hoping to persuade me to return home or to abandon these children, then you should know that I will do neither.”
Mrs. Dunwitty nodded and said nothing. After a moment, Julia moved back behind the screen. She took a moment to compose herself, then finished washing. When she’d dressed in a clean chemise and come around the screen, Mrs. Dunwitty waited with Julia’s robe and some linen she’d torn into bandages. “And yet,” she said quietly after she’d bandaged Julia’s arm and held out the robe, “you are in love with Wraxall.”
Julia started. “I most certainly—”
Mrs. Dunwitty raised her hand. “Do not bother to deny it. I saw him with those children just now. I fell half in love with him. And it was still in your eyes when you closed the door.”
“I can’t love him. I’ve only known him a handful of days.”
“And you think there are rules to falling in love?” Mrs. Dunwitty laughed. “Even if there were, you would not follow them. But you must hear me in this, Juliana.”
