Her room was smaller than his, but somehow the air seemed fresher, less close. He could hear the sound of the child’s heavy breathing in sleep and softer, slower, the woman’s. He went to stand next to the bed and even though the room was unlit, he could make out, faintly, her slight form beneath the covers. The sight somehow calmed his soul. She lay in his bed, in his house, and no matter what bargain she thought she’d made with him, he knew the truth.
He had no plans to let her go—ever.
Chapter Three
The king roared with royal rage and called his three nephews.
“Whomever of you can find this nighttime thief shall be my heir!” cried the king.
Well the nephews all looked at each other and then they each gathered weapons and settled themselves beneath the cherry tree to wait for night and the thief….
—from Clever John
Silence’s third meal of the day came just after two of the clock the next afternoon and from a quite unexpected source.
“Mum’s the word, mind,” Bert said gruffly, laying his finger aside of his nose.
Silence didn’t even have time to thank the guard before he hurriedly stomped from the room.
She blinked, rather bemused at the bounty she’d received from Mickey O’Connor’s servants. She’d never thought that the pirate’s own people would defy him to bring her food. Uneasily she wondered what Mr. O’Connor would do if he found out about the underground rebellion against his orders not to feed her.
Shaking her head, she opened the rather grimy handkerchief Bert had thrust into her hands and contemplated the contents: three walnuts, a crumbled bit of pigeon pie, and a smashed cake with pink icing. Earlier she’d been given a slice of gammon and a muffin from Fionnula, and a scandalously out of season plum and a duck’s wing from Harry.
The outer door to the room began to open and Silence hastily shoved the kerchief and its contents beneath a pillow on the bed. She turned, half-expecting to see the pirate himself, but it was a younger man who faced her. He was quite good-looking—nearly as handsome as Mickey O’Connor, but much more solemn, a bit shorter and only about twenty years old, if that.
The young man looked startled to see her as well. “Ah… er, I was looking for Fionnula.”
“Oh,” Silence said. “You must be her friend.”
He blushed at her blurted words and looked suddenly even younger.
“I’m Mrs. Hollingbrook,” she said to set him at ease. “Fionnula has gone down to fetch some hot water for Mary Darling’s bath.”
He nodded curtly. “I’ll just be going.”
“She’ll be back soon,” Silence said. He really did seem ill at ease. Perhaps he wasn’t overly used to talking to outsiders? “Why don’t you wait?”
“Ah…” He blinked, glancing past her. “Well, I—”
Suddenly he darted around Silence and scooped Mary Darling up. “Mind the hearth, lass. ’Tisn’t safe for pretty little fingers.”
“Goodness!” Silence hadn’t noticed Mary near the fire, but the toddler had been quite inquisitive this afternoon. Mary had soon bored of remaining in one room and had been fretful and restless since noon.
Silence looked at the young man gratefully. “Thank you, er…”
“Bran,” he said, smiling down at Mary Darling. “Bran Kavanagh.” The little girl usually protested mightily at strangers, but she seemed charmed by Bran, looking curiously into his face.
Silence had to admit that when he smiled he was quite dashing. “She likes you.”
“Aye.” He fished a bit of string from his pocket and tied it in a loop before deftly threading it through his fingers and showing Mary the resulting cat’s cradle. “The little ones often do. My mother had a dozen children and I looked after the ones younger than me.”
“You’re Irish?” His accent wasn’t nearly as strong as Fionnula’s or Mr. O’Connor’s.
He glanced up warily, a lock of auburn hair falling over his forehead. “Bred and born right here in London, but, aye, both my mother and my father were from Ireland. Father was a weaver in Spitalfields.”
“What happened—” Silence started, but Fionnula came in the room carrying a kettle of steaming water at that moment.
The maid stopped short on sight of Bran, her face lighting up. “Oh! I didn’t know you were here.”
“I just came to tell you I’d be gone tonight.” Bran set Mary gently down by the settee and gave her the loop of string. “I thought you might want to know.”
Fionnula knit her eyebrows, looking worried. “Is it the Vicar again?”
Bran frowned, darting a glance at Silence.
“What vicar?” Silence asked, looking between the two. “You have pirate business with a man of the cloth?”
“No, no,” Bran said hastily. “The Vicar of Whitechapel isn’t part of any church. He’s a gin maker and he’s…” Bran paused as if trying to find the word that wouldn’t offend Silence’s delicate ears.
“He’s evil,” Fionnula said. She crossed herself. “Pure evil.”
Silence shivered at the solemn dread in Fionnula’s voice and glanced at Mary, happily playing on the settee. “He’s Mickey O’Connor’s enemy, isn’t he? One of the people Mr. O’Connor thinks might hurt Mary.”
Bran didn’t reply, but his grim glance at Mary was answer enough.
“Ye’d best be off, then,” Fionnula said softly.
He nodded and left without further comment.
Silence blew out a breath and bent to pick up Mary. There had been a tiny, niggling suspicion at the back of her mind that Mr. O’Connor had made up all his talk of enemies who might hurt Mary. Perhaps he was playing some game of his own and simply wanted her and Mary in his palace for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. That small suspicion was now laid to rest. The fear in Fionnula’s face had been too genuine, Bran’s voice too sure as he spoke of the Vicar. Whoever he was, the Vicar—and the danger he posed—would seem to be quite real.
Well, Mickey O’Connor might be an overbearing pirate, but they were safe enough in his palace. Silence sighed and began undressing Mary Darling for her bath, her thoughts turning to another matter. “Bran seemed quite nice.”
“Yes.” The maid was blushing still as she carefully poured the hot water into a basin and tested it with her elbow.
“And quite handsome,” Silence said carelessly.
Fionnula jerked and some of the water splashed on the floor. She stared at the puddle and then raised worried eyes to Silence. “He’s too pretty for me, ’tisn’t he?”
Silence blinked. She’d meant to tease, not hurt. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that.”
“But he is,” Fionnula said dismally. “His eyes are so blue and he has such a handsome face. I see other girls lookin’ at him and I just want to tear their hair out.”
“Does he look back?” Silence asked as she placed Mary into the shallow bath.
“Nooo,” Fionnula drew out the word as if unsure.
“Then I wouldn’t worry,” Silence said as she began to sponge Mary’s little back. Mary was still busy with her string, dipping it into the water and draping it over her tummy. “I’m sure he finds you quite pretty.”
Fionnula nibbled her lower lip as if unsure, then brightened. She took a bundle from her apron pocket.
“I got some more victuals for ye, ma’am,” she whispered as she handed the bundle over.
“How kind of you,” Silence said brightly as she unwrapped her fourth meal—either her third luncheon or perhaps an early supper? It was hard to tell. At this rate she might actually grow plump while on Mr. O’Connor’s starvation diet.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Mickey O’Connor was entirely oblivious to his people smuggling her food against his express command. She shivered at the thought.
What was the pirate’s punishment for mutiny?
WINTER MAKEPEACE WOKE the next morning with a groan at his aching muscles. His room was still dark—the new day wouldn’t dawn for another hour or more—yet he knew it was exactly half past five of the clock, for that was the time at which he’d trained his body to wake. He sat up in his narrow cot, feeling the twinge of thighs and buttocks, the result of spending all yesterday riding a horse.
Since he lived in the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children and the day school where he taught small and not very disciplined boys was only a stone’s throw away, he had no need to ride a horse usually. However, his trip to Oxford had necessitated the renting of a nag. He rubbed his legs for a half minute or so and then stood, pushing the aches from his mind. They were of no consequence and would fade soon enough.
He had to duck his head as he bent over the washbasin to sluice his face. His room was under the eaves and the roof sloped sharply. But months of living in the cramped space had accustomed him to the irregularities of the room, so now he could move about without knocking his head on a beam, even in the dark.
Winter dressed in white shirt, black waistcoat, black breeches, and black coat and threw open his attic window to toss the wastewater from his ablutions into the alley below. The sky was turning a pinkish gray, silhouetting the haphazard rooftops of St. Giles. He gazed at it only a moment before shutting the window firmly and lighting a candle. For the next hour he worked steadily at a narrow desk, writing and reading. Some of his work was in preparation for the day’s lessons, but he also was in correspondence with scholars of philosophy and religion both in England and on the continent. In fact, his recent trip to Oxford had been to call upon an old acquaintance—an elderly philosopher who was on his deathbed.
When the sky had fully brightened, Winter stood and stretched before pinching the candle out. Picking up the pitcher, he locked his bedroom carefully behind him and paused for a moment to glance at his sister, Silence’s, bedroom door. No light shone beneath it. She was probably still abed. He contemplated waking her, then decided against it. Silence could use the extra minutes of rest.
He clattered down the stairs, nearly running into a small boy lurking rather suspiciously on one of the turns.
Winter grabbed him by the collar—he’d learned early in his career of teaching young hellions that it was best to catch and then ask. “Why are you not at breakfast with the other boys, Joseph Tinbox?”
Joseph, his freckled face cowled by the jacket Winter held, rolled his eyes up at him. “I was jus’ now goin’ down, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Indeed?” Winter inquired skeptically. He set down the pitcher and made a lightning fast snatch at the object Joseph had been attempting to hide behind his back. “And what plans did you have for this sling?”
Joseph’s eyes widened in what was a very good imitation of innocence at the leather strap dangling before his eyes. “I found it on the stairs, truly I did.”
Winter cocked his eyebrow, staring at the boy.
Joseph’s gaze slid away from his own.
“Joseph,” Winter said quietly. “You know that I do not condone lying in this house. A man’s word is a treasure he holds within himself no matter how poor his outer garments. To squander it recklessly is the mark of not only a fool, but a cheat as well. Now tell me. Is this sling yours?”
The boy swallowed, his small throat working. “Yes, sir.”
“I am displeased to hear that you’ve been playing with a sling,” Winter said calmly. “But pleased that you have spoken the truth to me. As punishment for the former, I would like you to sweep out the kitchen hearth and scrub clean the outer tiles around the fireplace.”
“Aw!” Joseph began, but gulped back his groan at a look from Winter. “Yes, sir.”
