Pickett said, not without sympathy. “No, I would never give another man advice I’m neither willing nor able to follow myself. Now, Mr. Robinson, if you’ll unlock the door, I’ll take this fellow off your hands.”
“Don’t think I’m not grateful, Mr. Pickett,” the linen-draper said, “but I can’t see him bound over for trial, not after he’s lived under my roof since he was a lad. No, you can’t stay,” he told Andrew, whose face had lit up at the prospect of a reprieve. “You’ll gather your things and go. And I’ll watch you pack, for I’ve no doubt I’ll find another roll of my money hidden among your possessions.”
All the fight went out of Andrew, who no doubt knew better than to push his luck. He trudged slowly up the stairs with his master behind him, leaving Pickett alone with Miss Robinson.
“Thank you, Mr. Pickett,” she said quietly, staring down at the candle in her hands with great concentration. “This is—hard—on all of us, but we do appreciate what you’ve done. If we seem less than grateful, it’s because Papa and I were both fond of Andrew. Even knowing what he did, it’s difficult for me not to feel a bit sorry for him.”
“And yet, pity is a poor reason to marry someone,” Pickett pointed out.
She shook her head. “No, I could never do that, even if he hadn’t—tell me, Mr. Pickett, will I—will I see you again?”
He did not have to ask why she should want to do so. “No, Miss Robinson,” he said gently. “My work here is done.”
“There are other reasons you might call,” she said breathlessly.
“Miss Robinson—Nancy—I think you should know that I—I’m married.”
“Married? Oh!” She pressed a hand to her bosom, as if he had plunged a dagger there. “I didn’t know—you never said—”
“We are—estranged, my wife and I.” It was all the explanation he felt capable of offering. “But I think I can reassure you on one matter, at least. You need have no fear of being forced into marriage with Mr. Brundy. He has no more desire to marry you than you have to marry him. I daresay the two of you together will be able to withstand any pressure that might be brought to bear.” Privately, Pickett thought she might have done a great deal worse than Ethan Brundy, but the heart, after all, had its own reasons—as he had cause to know.
Since Mr. Robinson did not intend to prefer charges, Pickett judged it best to be gone before master and apprentice came back downstairs, in order to let them say their undoubtedly painful farewells in private. He bowed over Miss Robinson’s hand and then let himself out the front door.
Outside, it was still dark but for the streetlamps casting pools of flickering light onto the pavement at intervals. He had no idea how late it might be; he’d lost all sense of time during the long wait for Andrew to make his move. Now he feared it was too early to report to Bow Street, yet too late to return to Drury Lane and seek his bed. And so he wandered aimlessly through the dark, quiet streets of Town until, inevitably, he found himself standing on a familiar corner in Curzon Street, gazing up at the dark windows of Number 22.
And quite suddenly, almost as if his thoughts had summoned her, one of the windows on the second story opened and a lady leaned out, her unbound hair spilling over the windowsill, pale in the moonlight.
Chapter 11
The End . . . Or Is It?
Julia awoke abruptly from the throes of nightmare, confused and disoriented at suddenly finding herself in her own bed, in her own room. In her dreams she had not been in her own house at all, but at Drury Lane Theatre, seated in a box overlooking the stage. Nor had she been alone, for John Pickett had been there, as well—not in the pit, where she had seen him once before, but in her own box, dressed as a gentleman (why was that particular aspect of the dream so painful to recall?) and looking every inch as if he belonged there. And suddenly, in
“Don’t think I’m not grateful, Mr. Pickett,” the linen-draper said, “but I can’t see him bound over for trial, not after he’s lived under my roof since he was a lad. No, you can’t stay,” he told Andrew, whose face had lit up at the prospect of a reprieve. “You’ll gather your things and go. And I’ll watch you pack, for I’ve no doubt I’ll find another roll of my money hidden among your possessions.”
All the fight went out of Andrew, who no doubt knew better than to push his luck. He trudged slowly up the stairs with his master behind him, leaving Pickett alone with Miss Robinson.
“Thank you, Mr. Pickett,” she said quietly, staring down at the candle in her hands with great concentration. “This is—hard—on all of us, but we do appreciate what you’ve done. If we seem less than grateful, it’s because Papa and I were both fond of Andrew. Even knowing what he did, it’s difficult for me not to feel a bit sorry for him.”
“And yet, pity is a poor reason to marry someone,” Pickett pointed out.
She shook her head. “No, I could never do that, even if he hadn’t—tell me, Mr. Pickett, will I—will I see you again?”
He did not have to ask why she should want to do so. “No, Miss Robinson,” he said gently. “My work here is done.”
“There are other reasons you might call,” she said breathlessly.
“Miss Robinson—Nancy—I think you should know that I—I’m married.”
“Married? Oh!” She pressed a hand to her bosom, as if he had plunged a dagger there. “I didn’t know—you never said—”
“We are—estranged, my wife and I.” It was all the explanation he felt capable of offering. “But I think I can reassure you on one matter, at least. You need have no fear of being forced into marriage with Mr. Brundy. He has no more desire to marry you than you have to marry him. I daresay the two of you together will be able to withstand any pressure that might be brought to bear.” Privately, Pickett thought she might have done a great deal worse than Ethan Brundy, but the heart, after all, had its own reasons—as he had cause to know.
Since Mr. Robinson did not intend to prefer charges, Pickett judged it best to be gone before master and apprentice came back downstairs, in order to let them say their undoubtedly painful farewells in private. He bowed over Miss Robinson’s hand and then let himself out the front door.
Outside, it was still dark but for the streetlamps casting pools of flickering light onto the pavement at intervals. He had no idea how late it might be; he’d lost all sense of time during the long wait for Andrew to make his move. Now he feared it was too early to report to Bow Street, yet too late to return to Drury Lane and seek his bed. And so he wandered aimlessly through the dark, quiet streets of Town until, inevitably, he found himself standing on a familiar corner in Curzon Street, gazing up at the dark windows of Number 22.
And quite suddenly, almost as if his thoughts had summoned her, one of the windows on the second story opened and a lady leaned out, her unbound hair spilling over the windowsill, pale in the moonlight.
Chapter 11
The End . . . Or Is It?
Julia awoke abruptly from the throes of nightmare, confused and disoriented at suddenly finding herself in her own bed, in her own room. In her dreams she had not been in her own house at all, but at Drury Lane Theatre, seated in a box overlooking the stage. Nor had she been alone, for John Pickett had been there, as well—not in the pit, where she had seen him once before, but in her own box, dressed as a gentleman (why was that particular aspect of the dream so painful to recall?) and looking every inch as if he belonged there. And suddenly, in
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