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“Yes,” Mr. P conceded, inclining his head, “but we could make your meals nothing but bread and water.”
“That’s worse than St. Stephen’s,” Rose said, folding her arms, as well. “We at least get boiled potatoes there, unless we’re being punished.”
“Very well, then. Boiled potatoes.” The husband unfolded his arms, made a note on the paper in front of him, and crossed them again. “In exchange for not running away, you may have bread, water, and boiled potatoes.”
“Rosie, stop helping,” George grumbled. He’d only negotiated once before, and that had been to not run away from St. Stephen’s again in exchange for not being transported to Australia—if they would do that to two babes as young as he and Rosie had been. But as the running away hadn’t been his idea the last time, he reckoned they’d done fairly well for themselves.
“I got us potatoes.”
“We’ve been eating better than potatoes since we left the stone jug. You got us worse than what we already had.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Now that your staying put is settled,” Mr. P went on, “our next point of negotiation is…” He sat forward to eye his papers. “Ah, there it is. Cursing. Profanity and slang.”
“We’ll say ‘damn’ and ‘shite’ for free.” George grinned. “See, you ain’t such a slyboots.” Ha.
“Ah, very clever. This agreement, however, says there is to be no cursing, and that you will avoid using colloquialisms. Slang. Name your price, Mr. Fletcher.”
The missus sat beside her husband, but she seemed happy to leave the parleying to him. George could see why; Mr. P was good at it. The nuns riled up much more easily than he did. But George wasn’t a half-wit, either, and he and Rose needed to get as much as they could, and a way to stay out of orphanages and London.
“Well,” George said slowly, stroking his chin the way Mr. P did when he was thinking about something, “we both curse a lot. Especially me. And if you mean for us to remember to say ‘shoes’ and not ‘kicksees’ or ‘stampers,’ I reckon that’ll cost you…”
“Biscuits,” Rose whispered. “Please say biscuits.”
“Hush, Rosie. All we have now is bread and potatoes,” he whispered back. “It’ll cost you beef stew once a week, and a roasted chicken with gravy. And—” He leaned over for a whispered conversation with his sister. “And two times of veal cutlets and gravy.”
The two adults exchanged another look, and the mister made a note on his papers. It was a lot of meat, but Rosie was little and she needed better meals than they had at the orphanage, and for as long as possible.
“Hmm,” Mr. P mused, tapping his pencil against the table. “I might possibly agree to one veal cutlets and gravy, but two? That’s a bit much.”
“If I may,” Mrs. P said, “I think we could offer one cutlets and one venison pasties, with a dessert of raspberry ice cream.”
Rose lifted up on her knees, her eyes widening. “Ice cream? I’ve heard of ice cream. Deirdre says it’s like eating clouds.”
“Rosie, stop making th—”
“I want ice cream!” The little girl bounced on the library chair. “I won’t call anybody bottle-headed if I can have raspberry ice cream!”
“Stop giving in to everything, you baby!”
Rose’s expression fell, her mouth turning down at the corners and a fierce furrow emerging between her brows. “I am not a baby!” she shouted, banging her small fists against the tabletop. “And if you want me to sew or embroider, you have to show me how to use a sword. And if you want me to learn the pianoforte, you have to teach me dancing.”
With her face red and her jaw jutted forward, she looked ready to take on the entire British army. George kept his mouth closed—sometimes Rose had a way of getting what she wanted that not even the nuns could stand against. He hoped this was one of those times.
“That seems reasonable,” Mr. P said after a moment.
George let out his breath as his sister jabbed a finger at the paper. “Write it down, then, please,” she said. “Swording and dancing.”
“Fencing,” the missus corrected mildly.
“Fencing,” Rose repeated, and plunked her bottom back onto her chair. “You negotiate your own stupid things, Georgie.”
“You picked stupid things,” he retorted. Dancing might be useful, but she wouldn’t be using fencing at all, unless they became highwaymen.
“I chose what I wanted. And I’m not a baby.”
George scowled. He knew one thing he needed, so grown-ups would stop taking advantage. “I want to learn to read,” he said aloud. “And write. The nuns are always writing things, and I want to know what it says.”