Tommy, and shoved her behind him.
The servant halted his shuffling steps and hoisted the lamp high, peering into the dark.
“That be Lord Feckwith?”
“Yes,” Jonathan replied coldly, muffling his voice in his cravat.
The lamp continued to sway. Fortunately the man couldn’t hold it steady.
“Wiv a doxy?” Interestingly, the servant sounded entirely unsurprised.
“Yes. Wiv a—with a—doxy. Off with you now.”
He couldn’t tell if Tommy had stiffened with indignation or hilarity.
“Very well, sir. I be sorry to trouble ye. It’s just we’d beef for dinner, and seems the beef turned, ye see, and . . .”
As the consequences of the beef turning were really rather self-explanatory, he bowed, the lamp clinking and swinging on down with him, and turned and shuffled into the house.
They waited. Jonathan counted to ten after the door shut behind the servant. Tommy’s breathing was alarmingly swift now. And then she crept forward, out from behind him.
He followed.
And when they were close enough to the privy to make their eyes water, she whispered: “Sally?”
Seconds later there was a rustle.
All the little hairs stood up on Jonathan’s neck. A tiny figure crept out from behind the shrubbery near the privy. “Tommy?”
And Tommy lunged for whatever it was, snatched it up, turned tail, and ran back down the passage.
“The devil —”
Jonathan bolted after her. She couldn’t move very quickly with her bundle, but fright often substituted for strength in extreme circumstances.
The carriage driver laconically opened the carriage door when he saw them tearing toward him. Tommy transferred her bundle to beneath her arm, Jonathan gave her arse a nudge up with a shoulder to get her all the way in, and then he locked his pistol, and with a “Back to where you found us, and a shilling more if you go like the devil,” to the driver, he leaped aboard.
The carriage lurched forward, tumbling the passengers a little. They righted themselves apace.
Across from him, Tommy flung herself backward and heaved a sigh of relief. She gently settled the bundle down next to her on her seat, patted and soothed it.
Jonathan stared. “It’s a child .”
No one, no one, had ever sounded more aghast than Jonathan at that moment.
Tommy was unaffected. “For heaven’s sake. You say that the way someone else might say, “It’s the pox! ”
Just then the little girl—for that’s what it was— seemed to notice Jonathan.
And she screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed and screamed and screamed.
It was a scream of exceptional quality. A nerve-shattering, eardrum-shredding, blood-congealing scream that shaved years off his life, hurled him backward in his seat, and nearly made him wet himself. He found himself clawing at the walls of the carriage, as if that could help him escape it.
Tommy was in a flailing panic, too. She’d whipped off her cloak, and Jonathan harbored a brief irrational hope she might smother the thing with it.
Instead, she whisked it over the little girl’s shoulders and started up a nonstop soothing one-sided conversation. “Sally, it’s all right. It’s all right. Hush now. Hush. Hush .”
Oh, enough .
“CEASE THAT NOISE AT ONCE!” he bellowed.
Sally ceased with remarkable equanimity and stared at him, wide-eyed. Clearly impressed with the power of his lungs.
Oh, the bliss. The bliss of silence. How had he never appreciated it before? He vowed never again to take it for granted.
“The . . . fekking . . . hell . . .” he said faintly.
Tommy clearly couldn’t yet speak.
He felt like he needed smelling salts.
The horrible sound lived on in the ringing of his ears. He put one finger in and twisted it, as if he could return his hearing to its former innocent state. He wished he was one of those young bloods who carried around a flask of whisky.
Tommy’s voice still had a certain tremolo quality when she spoke.
“Sally, this is . . . er . . . Mr. Friend. He is a
The servant halted his shuffling steps and hoisted the lamp high, peering into the dark.
“That be Lord Feckwith?”
“Yes,” Jonathan replied coldly, muffling his voice in his cravat.
The lamp continued to sway. Fortunately the man couldn’t hold it steady.
“Wiv a doxy?” Interestingly, the servant sounded entirely unsurprised.
“Yes. Wiv a—with a—doxy. Off with you now.”
He couldn’t tell if Tommy had stiffened with indignation or hilarity.
“Very well, sir. I be sorry to trouble ye. It’s just we’d beef for dinner, and seems the beef turned, ye see, and . . .”
As the consequences of the beef turning were really rather self-explanatory, he bowed, the lamp clinking and swinging on down with him, and turned and shuffled into the house.
They waited. Jonathan counted to ten after the door shut behind the servant. Tommy’s breathing was alarmingly swift now. And then she crept forward, out from behind him.
He followed.
And when they were close enough to the privy to make their eyes water, she whispered: “Sally?”
Seconds later there was a rustle.
All the little hairs stood up on Jonathan’s neck. A tiny figure crept out from behind the shrubbery near the privy. “Tommy?”
And Tommy lunged for whatever it was, snatched it up, turned tail, and ran back down the passage.
“The devil —”
Jonathan bolted after her. She couldn’t move very quickly with her bundle, but fright often substituted for strength in extreme circumstances.
The carriage driver laconically opened the carriage door when he saw them tearing toward him. Tommy transferred her bundle to beneath her arm, Jonathan gave her arse a nudge up with a shoulder to get her all the way in, and then he locked his pistol, and with a “Back to where you found us, and a shilling more if you go like the devil,” to the driver, he leaped aboard.
The carriage lurched forward, tumbling the passengers a little. They righted themselves apace.
Across from him, Tommy flung herself backward and heaved a sigh of relief. She gently settled the bundle down next to her on her seat, patted and soothed it.
Jonathan stared. “It’s a child .”
No one, no one, had ever sounded more aghast than Jonathan at that moment.
Tommy was unaffected. “For heaven’s sake. You say that the way someone else might say, “It’s the pox! ”
Just then the little girl—for that’s what it was— seemed to notice Jonathan.
And she screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed and screamed and screamed.
It was a scream of exceptional quality. A nerve-shattering, eardrum-shredding, blood-congealing scream that shaved years off his life, hurled him backward in his seat, and nearly made him wet himself. He found himself clawing at the walls of the carriage, as if that could help him escape it.
Tommy was in a flailing panic, too. She’d whipped off her cloak, and Jonathan harbored a brief irrational hope she might smother the thing with it.
Instead, she whisked it over the little girl’s shoulders and started up a nonstop soothing one-sided conversation. “Sally, it’s all right. It’s all right. Hush now. Hush. Hush .”
Oh, enough .
“CEASE THAT NOISE AT ONCE!” he bellowed.
Sally ceased with remarkable equanimity and stared at him, wide-eyed. Clearly impressed with the power of his lungs.
Oh, the bliss. The bliss of silence. How had he never appreciated it before? He vowed never again to take it for granted.
“The . . . fekking . . . hell . . .” he said faintly.
Tommy clearly couldn’t yet speak.
He felt like he needed smelling salts.
The horrible sound lived on in the ringing of his ears. He put one finger in and twisted it, as if he could return his hearing to its former innocent state. He wished he was one of those young bloods who carried around a flask of whisky.
Tommy’s voice still had a certain tremolo quality when she spoke.
“Sally, this is . . . er . . . Mr. Friend. He is a
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