risk I shall have to take.”
“No,” she found herself saying. “It’s too risky.”
“I do not care. I promised to help you, and so I shall. I am an honorable man, Anna, and for all my faults, I believe in keeping a promise.”
She stared at him, hardly daring to believe that he would do this for her. But the look in his eyes, the determination she saw on his face…
“What do you plan to perform?” she asked, the perspective shift she suddenly underwent making her feel almost fumble-tongued.
“Poetry.”
“Poetry?
They don’t ken to poetry at Piccadilly Theatre.”
“Ah, but you see, I don’t recite the flowery poetry.” He lowered himself a bit—that was the only way Anna could describe it. It wasn’t that he moved closer, it wasn’t that he stooped down, yet somehow she had a feeling that he’d leaned closer.
“You don’t?” she asked, feeling suddenly dry in the mouth.
“Indeed, no,” he said with a smile as wide as the London Bridge. “My poetry is—shall we say—bawdy?” His eyes narrowed. “I see that brain of yours working.”
It was. She was busy naming a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t let his willingness to help her affect her.
“I’m just praying you win the competition,” she said. “If not, I’ll have to find another way to pay for your funeral.”
And so that evening, after Anna returned from market, they set off, though throughout the day she tried to tell herself that she shouldn’t be grateful to Mr. Hemplewilt because he was willing to help her. He
owed
her his help.
And yet still…
He
could
have left, though she supposed he might be afraid to be out on his own. Still, he might have tried to win the performance for his own benefit. Instead he was going to do it for her.
“Do the crowds never go away?” Mr. Hemplewilt asked as they stood in the doorway of her tenement and looked out over her narrow street. The sun made a temporary appearance, at an angle so low that long shadows stretched into the middle of the street—some thin, some short, depending on the height of the buildings around them.
Anna followed his gaze, seeing her world though his eyes for the first time. It’d stopped raining, but the moisture had caused the roads to turn to muck, sedan chairs tugged along by scruffy-looking men in black hats and blue jackets who worked their way among a myriad of brown or black carriages that spilled their way down the lane like marbles from a bag. A hay cart rolled by with its load ready to spill off the back, and for a moment, just the briefest of seconds, the sweet smell of cut grass filled the moist air, only to be overcome again by the gutter. It was noisy, always noisy, this part of London as active as an anthill no matter what time of day or night.
“No,” she said, setting off. It would rain again soon, the sunlight just a brief bit of optimism shot down by a cloudy sky.
“Evenin’, gov.”
Anna stopped as a tart wedged herself in front of Mr. Hemplewilt.
“Care to sample me wares?” Anna heard her ask with a wiggle of her breasts. The back of the wench’s head looked like she’d slept on that mop of blond (or was it gray?) hair, the strands teased into a frizzy mess. She wasn’t exactly clean, either. And she smelled like… well, she just plain
smelled.
Or was that smell from the big brute of a man who’d just passed by?
Rein looked over at Anna as if to say,
Is she talking to me?
But he must have realized she was, for he straightened, saying, “Thank you, no. I am otherwise presently engaged.”
Which made Anna shake her head and roll her eyes.
Otherwise presently engaged,
she silently mimicked. As if this were a fancy drawing room and the woman a well-dressed swell.
“Certain, are you?” said the crone, her hand going to Mr. Hemplewilt’s codpiece; at least Anna thought it might be there, for he jumped, shifted, his hand swatting the crone’s fingers away.
“Please do not touch me.”
Which made Anna reach around
“No,” she found herself saying. “It’s too risky.”
“I do not care. I promised to help you, and so I shall. I am an honorable man, Anna, and for all my faults, I believe in keeping a promise.”
She stared at him, hardly daring to believe that he would do this for her. But the look in his eyes, the determination she saw on his face…
“What do you plan to perform?” she asked, the perspective shift she suddenly underwent making her feel almost fumble-tongued.
“Poetry.”
“Poetry?
They don’t ken to poetry at Piccadilly Theatre.”
“Ah, but you see, I don’t recite the flowery poetry.” He lowered himself a bit—that was the only way Anna could describe it. It wasn’t that he moved closer, it wasn’t that he stooped down, yet somehow she had a feeling that he’d leaned closer.
“You don’t?” she asked, feeling suddenly dry in the mouth.
“Indeed, no,” he said with a smile as wide as the London Bridge. “My poetry is—shall we say—bawdy?” His eyes narrowed. “I see that brain of yours working.”
It was. She was busy naming a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t let his willingness to help her affect her.
“I’m just praying you win the competition,” she said. “If not, I’ll have to find another way to pay for your funeral.”
And so that evening, after Anna returned from market, they set off, though throughout the day she tried to tell herself that she shouldn’t be grateful to Mr. Hemplewilt because he was willing to help her. He
owed
her his help.
And yet still…
He
could
have left, though she supposed he might be afraid to be out on his own. Still, he might have tried to win the performance for his own benefit. Instead he was going to do it for her.
“Do the crowds never go away?” Mr. Hemplewilt asked as they stood in the doorway of her tenement and looked out over her narrow street. The sun made a temporary appearance, at an angle so low that long shadows stretched into the middle of the street—some thin, some short, depending on the height of the buildings around them.
Anna followed his gaze, seeing her world though his eyes for the first time. It’d stopped raining, but the moisture had caused the roads to turn to muck, sedan chairs tugged along by scruffy-looking men in black hats and blue jackets who worked their way among a myriad of brown or black carriages that spilled their way down the lane like marbles from a bag. A hay cart rolled by with its load ready to spill off the back, and for a moment, just the briefest of seconds, the sweet smell of cut grass filled the moist air, only to be overcome again by the gutter. It was noisy, always noisy, this part of London as active as an anthill no matter what time of day or night.
“No,” she said, setting off. It would rain again soon, the sunlight just a brief bit of optimism shot down by a cloudy sky.
“Evenin’, gov.”
Anna stopped as a tart wedged herself in front of Mr. Hemplewilt.
“Care to sample me wares?” Anna heard her ask with a wiggle of her breasts. The back of the wench’s head looked like she’d slept on that mop of blond (or was it gray?) hair, the strands teased into a frizzy mess. She wasn’t exactly clean, either. And she smelled like… well, she just plain
smelled.
Or was that smell from the big brute of a man who’d just passed by?
Rein looked over at Anna as if to say,
Is she talking to me?
But he must have realized she was, for he straightened, saying, “Thank you, no. I am otherwise presently engaged.”
Which made Anna shake her head and roll her eyes.
Otherwise presently engaged,
she silently mimicked. As if this were a fancy drawing room and the woman a well-dressed swell.
“Certain, are you?” said the crone, her hand going to Mr. Hemplewilt’s codpiece; at least Anna thought it might be there, for he jumped, shifted, his hand swatting the crone’s fingers away.
“Please do not touch me.”
Which made Anna reach around
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