didn’t do, and making her feel— despite what reason told her—that she was worthless, unlikable, and ought never to have been born.
The other seamstresses seemed to accept her as one of themselves. Though Madame was inclined to be emotional and easily provoked by demanding customers, she indulged her aggerations in the solitude of her office. She treated her employees kindly, realising that good health and even tempers were as critical to the creation of exquisite finery as were quality fabrics, well-lit work areas, and carefully maintained tools.
Yes, she had been most fortunate to meet up with Jemmy that day, Catherine thought, as she watched the little boy who sat with her at the worktable. At present he was stabbing viciously with his stubby pencil at a grimy piece of foolscap.
If she had not met him, she’d be home now and utterly wretched. She would never marry Lord Browdie. Now, being unable to provide a respectable accounting of her disappearance, she could never marry at all.
Perhaps Aunt Deborah was worried about her. Perhaps even Papa was concerned. If so, their concern was mainly pride. If they’d truly cared about her, she would never have gotten into this fix in the first place. How could they possibly have expected her to give her property and person into the keeping of that odious man?
Good heavens, even her employer showed more compassion—and Jemmy seemed genuinely fond of her. He was so determined to please Miz Kaffy that he would drag out his foolscap and pencil the instant the other seamstresses rose to leave for the day. They were all gone now except Madame, who was in the showroom attempting to rid herself courteously of the inconsiderate customer who was staying well past closing time.
“No, dear,” Catherine said as she gently extracted the pencil from her student’s grasp. “You do not clutch it in your fist as though it were a weapon. You hold it thus, between your fingers.” She demonstrated.
Jemmy complained that the pencil wriggled like a worm.
“You must show it who is master. You are a great, growing boy and this is only a small pencil. Here, I’ll help you.” She inserted the instrument between his grubby fingers and guided them with her own. “There. That is ‘J.’“
“J,” the boy repeated, gazing soberly at the mark he’d must made.
“Isn’t that grand? I’ll warrant none of the other boys you know can do that.”
“No,” he agreed. “To ing’rant.”
Catherine stifled a smile. “You, on the other hand, are very clever. In just a few days you’ve made all the letters in the alphabet as far as ‘J.’ Do you realise that’s nearly halfway?”
Jemmy groaned. “More still? Ain’t ‘ere never no end to ‘em fings?”
“Those things —and ‘ain’t is not a proper word. Sixteen more to go. Then,” she quickly added, noting the expression of profound discouragement upon his round features, “you will have enough letters to make every word you ever heard of—even your own name. By this time next week you’ll be writing your whole name all by yourself.”
“Show me wot it looks like,” Jemmy ordered, offering her the pencil.
Miss Pennyman agreed on condition he help her. Once more she placed the pencil between his fingers and guided them.
“Miss Pelliston, I presume?”
The “y” of “Jemmy” trailed off into a long crazy scrawl as Catherine dropped the child’s hand.
At the sound of the familiar voice all the muscles in her neck stiffened. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the same stiffly painful way, she became aware of gleaming boots, light-coloured trousers, a darker coat, and the blinding contrast of white linen as her gaze travelled up from the floor to his face, to be pinioned by the deep piercing blue of his eyes.
Blue ... and angry. He had never seemed so tall and overpowering as he did now, his long, rugged form filling the narrow doorway.
Chapter Eight
Jemmy stared as well.
The other seamstresses seemed to accept her as one of themselves. Though Madame was inclined to be emotional and easily provoked by demanding customers, she indulged her aggerations in the solitude of her office. She treated her employees kindly, realising that good health and even tempers were as critical to the creation of exquisite finery as were quality fabrics, well-lit work areas, and carefully maintained tools.
Yes, she had been most fortunate to meet up with Jemmy that day, Catherine thought, as she watched the little boy who sat with her at the worktable. At present he was stabbing viciously with his stubby pencil at a grimy piece of foolscap.
If she had not met him, she’d be home now and utterly wretched. She would never marry Lord Browdie. Now, being unable to provide a respectable accounting of her disappearance, she could never marry at all.
Perhaps Aunt Deborah was worried about her. Perhaps even Papa was concerned. If so, their concern was mainly pride. If they’d truly cared about her, she would never have gotten into this fix in the first place. How could they possibly have expected her to give her property and person into the keeping of that odious man?
Good heavens, even her employer showed more compassion—and Jemmy seemed genuinely fond of her. He was so determined to please Miz Kaffy that he would drag out his foolscap and pencil the instant the other seamstresses rose to leave for the day. They were all gone now except Madame, who was in the showroom attempting to rid herself courteously of the inconsiderate customer who was staying well past closing time.
“No, dear,” Catherine said as she gently extracted the pencil from her student’s grasp. “You do not clutch it in your fist as though it were a weapon. You hold it thus, between your fingers.” She demonstrated.
Jemmy complained that the pencil wriggled like a worm.
“You must show it who is master. You are a great, growing boy and this is only a small pencil. Here, I’ll help you.” She inserted the instrument between his grubby fingers and guided them with her own. “There. That is ‘J.’“
“J,” the boy repeated, gazing soberly at the mark he’d must made.
“Isn’t that grand? I’ll warrant none of the other boys you know can do that.”
“No,” he agreed. “To ing’rant.”
Catherine stifled a smile. “You, on the other hand, are very clever. In just a few days you’ve made all the letters in the alphabet as far as ‘J.’ Do you realise that’s nearly halfway?”
Jemmy groaned. “More still? Ain’t ‘ere never no end to ‘em fings?”
“Those things —and ‘ain’t is not a proper word. Sixteen more to go. Then,” she quickly added, noting the expression of profound discouragement upon his round features, “you will have enough letters to make every word you ever heard of—even your own name. By this time next week you’ll be writing your whole name all by yourself.”
“Show me wot it looks like,” Jemmy ordered, offering her the pencil.
Miss Pennyman agreed on condition he help her. Once more she placed the pencil between his fingers and guided them.
“Miss Pelliston, I presume?”
The “y” of “Jemmy” trailed off into a long crazy scrawl as Catherine dropped the child’s hand.
At the sound of the familiar voice all the muscles in her neck stiffened. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the same stiffly painful way, she became aware of gleaming boots, light-coloured trousers, a darker coat, and the blinding contrast of white linen as her gaze travelled up from the floor to his face, to be pinioned by the deep piercing blue of his eyes.
Blue ... and angry. He had never seemed so tall and overpowering as he did now, his long, rugged form filling the narrow doorway.
Chapter Eight
Jemmy stared as well.
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