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He understood Rose liking it here, because Rose was barely more than a baby, and she adored anything that was frilly or shiny. If someone was nice to her, she considered them a friend. She was too young to know it wasn’t that simple, that nice nearly always expected something in return. Even this time, he would have been willing to wager that Mrs. P was giving him books because she didn’t want to feel bad when she sent them off to live on a pig farm. It did make him feel bad that he’d nicked a pearl necklace from her bedchamber and handed it over to James this morning, though.
Taking his seat at the worktable, he pulled one of the books over and opened it. “Rosie said Father John called on you yesterday,” he commented as the missus sat beside him. “Did you ask him to find us a family?”
“Not specifically,” she returned, which was more honest than he expected. “I did ask him about various strategies we might use to find you a home.”
“But you didn’t tell him to find us one? I thought that was why you wanted to talk to him.”
She grimaced. “Father John is a very nice man, but I don’t always agree with some of his… opinions about things. And he’s also something of a gossip.”
That explained it. If Father John went about telling everyone that the Pershings had taken in two children and now wanted to be rid of them, not only would it make them look very bad, but it would give away their game and lose them Winnover Hall. It always came down to the blasted house.
And now he was mad because he was mad. He wasn’t surprised, after all, that the house came first, but that didn’t explain why it made him want to punch his fist into the table. What had he expected—that she would have been thinking about him and Rose first, about what might be best for them?
“Oh,” he said aloud, because at least she’d told him the truth. “What did you decide to do, then?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll need to discuss it with Will, and with you and Rose.” She sighed as she leaned over to flip the book to the page they’d been reading. “What sort of family would you wish to live with, George? If you had your choice? Would they have other children? Would they live in a city, or a village, or out in the country?”
For the devil’s sake, she was just like her husband, asking him about what he wanted, when real life had nothing to do with that and would only make what they actually ended up with seem even worse than it would have.
Well, he knew how to put a stop to that. It had worked with the nuns, and it had worked with Mr. P. The mister had hardly asked a question for the rest of fishing, and just kept muttering to himself. “I know it doesn’t matter to you,” he said. “Mr. P told us you just want everything to go back the way it was before, that we’re just a disruption you can’t wait to be finished with.”
The missus opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again. “Don’t forget,” she said, much too brightly, “you need to practice calling him Papa.” She took a breath, then another one. “And you are not a disruption, George. I’ve become quite fond of you and Rose. I want what’s best for your future.” Pushing to her feet, Mrs. Pershing hurried over to the nearest window and put both hands on the sill.
Damnation. Now he felt bad again. He didn’t care about the nuns, and Mr. Pershing had acted angry, but he didn’t like it if he’d made Mrs. P cry. She’d been good to them, whatever her reasons for bringing them there. The ice cream had been her idea, and it had been so good that he dreamed about it sometimes—and that was much better than dreaming about rats crawling all over him.
The trouble was, as often as Rosie talked about living here forever and how perfect it would be, there were times, especially in the last day or two, that he could imagine it, too. And that didn’t help anybody—him and his sister least of all.
Scowling, George tipped back his chair. Reaching behind him, he nicked a small purple and yellow blue john stone bowl from the shelf and shoved it into his pocket. It didn’t quite fit, so he shifted it to the inside coat pocket over his chest. That didn’t completely hide it, either, so he had to slouch forward to make the other side of his coat poof out in the same way.
By itself the bowl would be worth almost a quid. Put with the other things he and Rose had managed to acquire even before James had started making them nick more expensive baubles, they could afford lodging and food for a year or more. When it ran out he would be almost ten, and could find better-paying work toting boxes or delivering packages or letters for rich people. Maybe James would even decide that being paid for work was better—and safer—than stealing.
“Why don’t you read that first line to me, George?” Mrs. P said, not moving from her spot by the window. “Remember, if you don’t know a word, sound out the letters.”
He’d barely made it through “the cat liked cream” when she turned around and sat beside him again. That was good, because he wanted to keep learning to read and write, but she looked like she might have been crying. How she managed to hide it so well, he had no idea. When Rosie cried, her face turned red and blotchy, and her nose ran.
“I want you to know, I have never called you a disruption, or thought of you as one,” she said abruptly. “I did say that our lives have been turned upside down, but that might have been a good thing.”
George shrugged. “I don’t mind. It ain’t—isn’t—the first time someone’s called us disruptive. We disrupt things a lot, I reckon.”
Mrs. Pershing turned in her seat to face him. “I like you, George. You and Rose. Very much. I hope you understand why you can’t stay here. And it’s not because of anything you’ve done. Or anything Mr. Pershing and I might or might not want, or even because your brother wants you.”
“You told us already. Some people think you have children and other people know you don’t, and if we stay, everyone will know you lied and you’ll lose your house.”
“Yes. Exactly. The only good thing about my lie is that because of it we met you two. And I can never thank you enough for helping us save Winnover Hall.”
This conversation needed to change, because it was making him feel mushy inside, and he didn’t like that sensation. He liked being hard inside, except where Rosie was concerned, because he had to be ready for anything around James. Soft meant he was thinking too much about other people, and that was the opposite of being ready for trouble.
“If you want to thank us, send us off with some blunt in our pockets.”
“We intend to do that. In fact, we would like to open bank accounts for each of you.” Her cheeks turned pink. “I should probably wait for Will to be here before I explain the rest, but we won’t abandon you, George. And again, I do not think you’re a disruption. I don’t know why Will would say that.”
Well, Mr. P hadn’t said that, actually. George had told the story, though, and now he needed to keep it aloft or he and Rosie would have to run with James before they were ready to go. Lying to adults and getting caught at it was the worst. Especially now that he knew the Pershings meant to give him and Rose some money—unless that was a lie, just like the ones he’d been telling. Even if it wasn’t a lie, James would make sure the money went to him. Ugh. Now George was almost certain he was getting a megrim.
“Keep reading, George. You’re doing amazingly well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. P—Mama.”
She sighed. “You really should practice calling me that, my dear. Pretend you’re studying lines for a play, if it helps. You don’t have to mean it.”