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“And we love having you here,” Emmie murmured, not trusting her voice enough to speak any louder. “Let’s go, shall we?”
Will had done his part, and she would do hers, but no, she didn’t like it. At all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
George had almost managed to put this bit out of his mind, the part where he and Rose would have to meet whomever the Pershings had chosen to be their new parents.
All of his free time had been taken up with keeping count of how many treasures they’d nicked, and how long the blunt from selling the baubles off would see them fed and clothed, even though he still hadn’t even decided for certain where they should go—because he actually didn’t want to go anywhere. But what he wanted didn’t matter; this was about what had to happen.
With the servants all interfering it had gotten even more complicated, because he and his sister had to take the things they needed, plus some things they didn’t so that the staff would have things to find and put back where they belonged.
In a way it had become a game, and as he followed Rose and the Pershings into the morning room, he realized that pretending this was a contest between him and Powell had been a mistake. It could only be a game when the winner didn’t matter. But everything kept moving forward, and now there was a family for them to meet. Staying here at Winnover Hall wouldn’t last. No miracle had happened.
“George, Rose, you know Mr. Fenmore. This is Mrs. Fenmore and young Patrick. Caroline, I am pleased to introduce George and Rose Fletcher to you.”
With that statement Mr. P stepped out of the way, and George looked at the Fenmores. The man, Michael, had been polite before, but now George knew why he’d looked at him and Rosie so much. He was broad and soft-looking, not all hard edges like Mr. P. But he looked nervous today. The lady had blond hair in a high bun, with little curls in front of either ear. From the way she looked at him and then Rose, she wasn’t convinced that her family needed two more children in it. Well, neither was he.
“I’m Rose,” Rose said, making a curtsy. “I’m five years old.” She walked up to the skinny little boy with yellow hair standing beside his mother. “Are you five years old, too?”
“Yes,” Patrick answered. “Five and a half.”
“I’m still the youngest, then. That’s good. But I’m not a baby.”
George watched her with these new people. Rosie made everyone like her, and he wished he knew how she did it. He never knew what to say, because he didn’t trust anyone not to try to use it against him later.
But then Rose had him to protect her, and he didn’t have anyone. Not even when he’d been littler and pretended James cared about them. For a while he’d managed to forget that good nights of sleeping and a full stomach and the knowledge that nothing bad was about to happen wouldn’t last forever. Here, though, was the proof that no one would look after him and his sister as well as he did, because the Pershings were giving them away.
“Hello, George,” the stout man said, holding out his hand. “You know why we’re here today, yes?”
“Yes.” George shook his hand, even though he wanted to leave the room, collect his clothes, and head out to the orchard for their treasures. “Hello again.”
“I’ve told Caroline that you’re an impressive young man. And although previously I was pretending to be a solicitor, I actually am one. I help people with rules and laws.”
A solicitor was almost as bad as a Bow Street Runner. “You help people take blunt from other people, you mean,” he stated.
“I actually specialize in land purchases and water rights, with some inheritances thrown in for flavor. I like to think of myself as a navigator on a ship. The captain is my client, and I help him avoid the rocks and whirlpools.”
“Our papa was on a ship. He’s in Davy Jones’ locker now.” Rose sent her brother a glance, clearly proud that she hadn’t said “locket” this time.
“I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” Mrs. Fenmore said, finally stirring. “Were you very young when it happened?”
“I was a baby. I don’t even remember him. George does, a little, but I think sometimes he pretends to remember when he really doesn’t.”
Well, he wouldn’t have to pretend if she didn’t keep asking for stories about their father and pirates and whales and Frenchmen. This was stupid, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like that she was just saying things like she didn’t care who they lived with, because he did care. And if it couldn’t be the way he wanted, then they would live on their own.
“George, Rose, why don’t you show Patrick your ponies?” Mrs. P suggested.
“Oh yes,” Rose gushed, grabbing Patrick’s hand. “Mine is a boy and he’s named General, but I call him General Jenny because a lady should ride a lady horse.”
George didn’t want to go, because he knew what would be happening in the morning room while they were somewhere else. Mr. P would say what fine children they were, and Mrs. P would say they were high-spirited but sweet darlings. None of it would be his decision, but they would all expect him to go along with it because he was only eight years old.
“You’re a damned pettifogger, is what you are!” he burst out, jabbing a finger at Michael Fenmore. “Rubbing elbows with bugaboes and Philistines! And you don’t want us at all, Mrs. Princum Prancum.” Clenching his fists, he whipped around and bolted out the door.
He was halfway up the stairs when a hard hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him to an abrupt stop. “George,” Mr. P said in a low voice. “We have an agreement about slang.”
George twisted to look up at the tall man. “I just insulted your friend, and you’re mad about slang?” he asked, frowning.
“Michael is a solicitor; do you think he’s never been insulted before? And if I’m not mistaken, you actually called Caroline a well-dressed woman, isn’t it?”