Sinclair enjoyed himself watching her. Bertie regarded everything with lively interest—the most ordinary experience was something fascinating to explore. Sinclair had been dead for so long, he didn’t notice much anymore. But today, through Bertie, he saw anew the fine marquetry in his own carriage, the crispness of the bright day outside, and the luxury of the Georgian houses they passed. London could be a beautiful and vigorous place. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life?
Bertie, raised in one of the grittiest parts of the city, looked as though she’d never be tired of London.
Richards took them down Park Lane, past its ponderous mansions with lavish gardens, to Hyde Park Corner and on into the park itself. The coach rolled up toward the Serpentine, and finally Richards halted near one of the walking paths. Sinclair alighted first, lifted down Cat and Andrew, then handed out Bertie.
Andrew danced and bounced on his feet, his energy incredible. Sinclair waved to Richards, and the coachman nodded and slowly drove off.
“Can I run now?” Andrew asked Bertie.
Bertie scanned the park around them, her gaze sharpening as she looked down every path, over every person she saw, checking for enemies. Sinclair had already been giving the place a once-over, and he knew Richards had too.
Finally Bertie, after a confirming look with Sinclair, gave Andrew a nod. “Off you go.”
Her eyes on Andrew, Bertie tugged a watch out of her pocket. Sinclair glanced at it, then looked again in surprise. Not a watch, but a chronograph, a device that could record the time of any event. Racehorse trainers used them to clock their horses’ speeds. They were highly expensive.
Andrew stopped his prancing, marked a line in the dirt with his toe, then crouched down. As Sinclair watched, mystified, Bertie shouted, “Go!”
Andrew bolted. Bertie had clicked a lever on the chronograph, and she eyed both it and Andrew as the boy hurtled himself along.
Andrew was running, flying. His legs weren’t very long yet, but they were long enough. He ran like a deer, sprinting over the ground, gracefully leaping over anything in his way. Cat watched him without expression, her arms around her doll.
Andrew ran past an indeterminate line, then he flung his arms out, his pace slowing. He did a long, running turn, then loped back toward them.
Bertie had clicked the chronograph as soon as Andrew slowed. “Look at that,” she said, shoving the watch in front of Sinclair.
Twenty seconds. Sinclair didn’t know the exact distance that his son had run, but it had been a bloody long way.
“He’s amazingly fast,” Bertie said. “You should put him into races.”
Sinclair frowned even as his pride at Andrew’s skill rose. “My son is not a horse.”
“Races for humans, silly. I knew a bloke who didn’t have two coins to rub together, but he could run like nothing you ever saw. A trainer took him up, and now he goes around the world, winning races and prizes. He lives like a king now.”
“Andrew can’t run races. He has to go to school. I’ve delayed too long sending him already.” The thought of not having Andrew’s voice blasting through the house made Sinclair feel suddenly empty. Cat would feel his absence too. Though she never said much, Sinclair knew she was very fond of Andrew.
Bertie’s nose wrinkled. “You mean one of the schools where they’ll give him cold porridge three times a day? Mrs. Hill told me about those.”
“He’ll go to one that serves meat and bread at least occasionally,” Sinclair said, then he caught Bertie’s eye. She looked angry, not realizing he was joking. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they treat him very well indeed. He can run races at school if he wants. You’re right, he might be good at it.”
“Are you sending Cat off to school too?” Bertie asked. Cat glanced at them, hearing. Bertie had no qualm about discussing the children in front of them. Sinclair could hear her explaining why—Stands to reason. It’s their lives, innit?
“No,” Sinclair said sharply. “Cat will stay home.” He refused say farewell to both his son and daughter.
“I want to go to Miss Pringle’s Select Academy,” Cat said, looking straight at Sinclair. “Like Aunt Ainsley and Aunt Isabella.”
“I saw your aunt Ainsley at your dad’s do,” Bertie said to her. “She looked like a fine lady to me.”
Cat nodded solemnly. “She is. She used to pick locks and steal things.”
Bertie laughed. “Did she?” she asked Sinclair. “Can I meet her?”
Sinclair frowned. “We’ll speak of it later.”
“About what? Cat going to this Pringle’s place or me meeting your sister?”
“Both.”
Bertie grinned. “Well, if your sister’s anything like Eleanor, I shall like her.”
Sinclair growled again, but he wanted to burst out laughing. Then he wanted to grab Bertie and hug her tight. She had no snobbishness in her, no need to impress those born above her in life. Bertie was frank and honest with all, from duchess to scullery maid.
Andrew made it back to them and declared he was hungry. No surprise, since Andrew was always hungry.
Sinclair took his still-prancing son by the hand and led him back toward the coach. Bertie held her hand out for Cat, and Cat readily slipped her fingers around Bertie’s. Cat trusted so few, and yet she was completely comfortable with Bertie.
“Where did you find the chronograph?” Sinclair asked her in curiosity.