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“It’s just very… vivid.” He smiled. “You’re writing from experience. Not just your imagination. And while I’ve read the descriptions in your journals, this feels more real.”
“I… Thank you. If you’re asking what I think you are, no, I don’t believe my parents will suspect anything.”
Will handed the letter back, but kept hold of her hand. “You are a marvel. I say you send it. We need to have the children make an appearance, and it may as well be now.”
“I agree. It’s just…” Why was it that when he touched her now, she couldn’t think straight? This wasn’t about them. It was about the children, and her grandfather’s party, and Winnover. “I don’t know how to quell Rose’s insistence that she’s a queen or a duchess. It may amuse you, but as our daughter she could conceivably wed a duke, which makes her silliness sound like we’re relentless social climbers.”
“She’s five. Doesn’t every girl wish to be a queen or a duchess? She also wants to be a pirate, which seems horribly dangerous, but you haven’t objected to that.”
“Because that could never happen.” Men. “Don’t let her twist you around her finger, Will. She needs to learn to behave appropriately.”
His thumb brushed along her forefinger. “Says the woman who purchased a pair of ponies on a whim.”
“It wasn’t a whim. It was a strategy.”
“You’re worried she’ll embarrass you,” he countered. “I doubt anyone will remember anything but her charm and good humor. There are other things for us to fret over.”
“Well, I didn’t get James a pony. And thus far he’s been harmless, if… how shall I put it? Insincere?”
“Oily,” Will added, nodding. “He thinks he’s outwitted us about something. And he may have. Unless we can convince him to sign an agreement, our future is presently in his hands. It’s too late for us to start over with different children. And I wouldn’t want to even if we could.”
She wished James were their only difficulty. “Which brings us back to Rose. Your solution to her lack of discipline is to let her do whatever she wants, while you stand back and laugh. That’s no way to raise children.” Freeing her fingers, she returned the letter to its drawer. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to dress.”
Her husband stood. “Certainly. You might consider that constant criticism is no way to raise children, either.” He paused halfway to the door. “I only came in to query whether you wanted Rose about while you give George an art lesson this afternoon, or if you’d prefer that I take her for fencing. Unless that’s not useful to you, of course.” With that he slipped out of her bedchamber again.
Emmie eyed the vase by the window. No, ladies didn’t throw things. Ladies were responsible for their children’s manners, and any fault in them would belong to her. So while Will could think Rose’s spinning and dreams of elevated status endearing, she couldn’t afford to do so.
Riding horses was stupid. George hiked up his nightshirt to look at his arse in the reflection of his dressing mirror. It looked the same as always, but his thighs felt bruised and stiff all the way up his back. “Damn,” he muttered, after checking to be sure his door was closed. Cursing was against the agreement, and he wasn’t going to be the one to break it.
If he didn’t dress soon, Edward the footman would knock on the door and ask if he needed assistance—as if he hadn’t been dressing himself for as long as he could remember. True, his old clothes hadn’t included a cravat or a coat, but he could tie a knot, even in a fancy neckcloth.
After he finished dressing, he walked over to listen at Rose’s door. She was singing, probably playing at being a queen general again. It was silly, but her imaginings didn’t hurt anything. He liked seeing her happy, but at the same time he wished she would understand that this was just a few weeks. A holiday. That after the duke’s birthday party, the two of them would be right back on their own again. Or they’d go with James, who so far seemed to be keeping his word. Nobody saw him around the house much, but last night he’d shown George ten quid he’d gotten for selling some of the Pershings’ little baubles.
Ten quid was a lot of money. George went to his blanket box and opened it. Beneath the sack, under a spare blanket he’d allowed to remain, a folded handkerchief hid. When he retrieved it, opening it on the floor beside him, he carefully counted the assortment of coins he’d been able to gather. He might still need to learn his multiplications, or whatever it was Mrs. P called them, but he could count money. Seven pounds and eight pence. Rosie must have added some, too.
That was more money than he’d ever had at one time before. Rich folk were careless with their coins, leaving them under cushions, in pockets, and sitting on furniture. Not even counting the money James had gotten them, that much blunt could get them as far as York, but he wasn’t sure he wanted them living where it got so cold in the winter. London had been cold enough, and they might not always be lucky enough to find an open church cellar.
He pocketed the money, liking the solid feel of the coins bumping against his thigh. James would want to go back to London because he knew it, knew who would buy a lady’s parasol or a man’s pocket watch. But he’d said they would be rich, so maybe they could all stop dipping into people’s pockets.
South might be good, especially if it was just him and Rose. They could find some village big enough that any grown-ups seeing them could logically think they belonged to someone else. If a place was too small, everybody knew everybody, and he and Rosie would be noticed straightaway. That would never do.
Since the fart-catcher still hadn’t arrived to make sure he was awake, George went over to look out one of his pair of windows. A week or two ago, he would have spent his morning slipping into the orphanage kitchen after an extra potato or cup of milk or anything he could get his hands on for Rosie, plus a little something for the long-haul boys so they would leave the two of them alone.
The idea that he’d never see those boys again, never become one of them, made him want to lift up on his toes, lighter. But if he’d learned anything it was that while the people around him might change, there was always a bully and a tongue-wagger and a thief, and all the other things that made his life harder. The only difference here was that he hadn’t yet decided who was playing all those parts.
At first he’d figured Mr. P for the bully, but Mrs. P was turning out to be more bossy—not in a mean way, though. As long as he didn’t push things too far with Mr. P, the swell just smiled and said something smart and let him do as he pleased. That could be handy, but he’d have to be careful about it. Of course James was always a bully, so George didn’t even count him.
A whistle from outside caught his attention, and he blinked. Down below Billet walked Willow about the drive. The groom pointed to his eye and then jabbed a finger in George’s direction. George gave the groom a two-fingered salute, which only got him a grin and a laugh in return. Yes, Billet was definitely the tongue-wagger, or at least the dogcatcher, and he knew more about skirting around the edge of the law than anybody else at Winnover Hall. The groom could watch him, but George would be watching him right back.
Rose had said that Hannah the maid liked the groom. That could be a useful tidbit of information, especially if they decided to take the horses wherever it was they were going. With whomever they were going.
But it might not be just him and Rosie. George pocketed the nice inkwell he’d found in a back room, and a tea saucer the footmen had been slow to fetch. It wasn’t much, but it hadn’t been noticed, and that was what mattered.
Walking over to James’s room, he knocked and opened the door. His brother sat by the window, a nice tea set on the table beside him. “What’ve you got for me?” he asked around a too-big bite of ham.
“We have a breakfast room,” George said. “The rest of us eat in there.”
“You eat with the swells. I recognize an opportunity when it jumps out at me.” James dumped out the sugar and put the bowl in his pocket. A spoon and the emptied cream pot followed it.