The clothing is out of period, but I love the determined look on the model’s face. AI generated, and the sneakers made me giggle.
(An excerpt from The Secret Word, my current novel-in-progress)
Soon, they had covered the short distance to Leicester Square. Billy had suggested the destination and provided a key to one of the gates so they could walk in the private garden that filled the center of the square.
Apart from a sharp look when Chris pulled out the key, Clemmie did not react to him claiming resident’s privileges. As soon as Martha had lagged far enough behind them, he answered the question she hadn’t asked. “Ramping Billy gave me the key. I didn’t ask where he got it.”
The answer was not to her taste, Chris could tell, but he had no other, so he changed the subject. “Shall we talk about the choices each of us has before us?”
“Do I have a choice?” Clemmie asked. “Father has already said that the decision is his, and that if I refuse the groom he offers me, I will be—and I quote—‘out in the street in your shift, my girl.’”
Nasty old man. “Then your choice is whether you cooperate with me to convince your father I am the preferred suitor, or make common cause with another suitor, or simply sit back and let come what may.”
Clemmie bowed her head so all he could see of her was her bonnet. A pretty confection, but he’d have preferred it back in her wardrobe so her face was visible. She had not mastered the art of keeping her thoughts to herself, which was probably what her father meant by saying she needed to be more ladylike.
Personally, Chris preferred her openness.
“But if you are at risk of being thrown out, Clemmie, send for me, and I will meet you with a cloak and take you some place safe.”
She turned her head up at that and searched his face. Let her. He meant every word. Some of the women who had raised him took to their way of life because they’d been thrown penniless into the street—by a lover, a father, even a husband. For their sakes, he’d come to the rescue of anyone in such need.
Perhaps she did not believe what he saw. Certainly, her harrumph sounded dismissive. “What choices do you face, Chris?” she asked.
That was a victory! She had called him by his preferred name. He hoped his exultation did not show on his face. “Two, but each has options and both benefits and costs. Do I accept your father’s challenge or do I walk away? If I accept, can we manage your father’s expectations or will we end up paying his price? I think we can avoid being his puppets, and I know Billy will help, but what will Billy’s price be?” He paused for her comment, but she said nothing. That pestiferous bonnet was back in the way again.
“If I walk away, what will your father do to force my hand? Or can I convince him that I would be too much trouble, so that he dismisses me. And what of Billy? He is taking an interest in this match. If I refuse it, what will it cost me?”
She had a tart comment about that. “My, Mr. O’Hara is taking an interest in my affairs. I wonder that you let him push you around. I know that you owe him, but does he own you?”
“In much the same way as your father owns you, Clemmie. And I daresay Billy has been as much a father to me as my own was. More, in fact, for he…” He trailed off, not sure if he was ready to share that particular piece of dirty laundry.
He expected her to demand that he finish his sentence, but instead she asked a question that got to almost to the heart of his discomfort with her knowing his past. “Why do they call you Fingers? The people at Mr. O’Hara’s.”
They turned a corner and walked along the next side of the square. She didn’t press the question except by her silence.
Well, and why not? If she rejected him once she knew his story, so be it. If they were to decide to marry, he wanted a relationship based on honesty and trust. “When I was nine, my mother died,” he said, eventually. “My father had not been home for some time. I found out later that he was dead, too, which I suppose is why his debts were called in. The debt collectors took everything and left me homeless and alone.”
Out in the streets, in fact. In more than his undershirt, but that didn’t last. A gang of boys beat him up for his clothes, which were still sturdy though not new. Fortunately, they were impressed at how well he fought and how many of them it took to subdue him, so they took him back to the den they’d made in the cellar of a burnt out building.
“I was lucky. I found a place to live with some people who taught me a skill with which I could pay my share of food and board.” For nearly a year, he worked in a team lifting purses and watches, swiftly graduating from decoy to pick pocket as his skill grew. “They taught me to be a pickpocket, Clemmie.”
An indrawn gasp was her only comment. After a pause, he picked up the story. “Then I was caught. Ramping Billy had me, and not only that, he recognised me, because he was one of the men who had collected money from my father in the past, though not one of those who stripped my mother’s rooms. He took me back to Fortune’s Fool—at that time, it was his only establishment. He handed me over to the ladies who worked there.”
Chris could remember exactly what he said to them. “Wash him, delouse him, dress him in something that isn’t rags, and put him to work. We’re keeping him.”
“He told them to watch me, because I was light fingered. So they called me Fingers, and they still do. I never stole again, though.”
He shuddered at the memory of the hungry, terrifying year from which Billy had saved him. He’d been well aware of his fate if he were caught, and scared every time he lifted something.
And it had been made clear that if he was caught stealing from Billy or any of his employees or customers, he’d be out on his ear again. By that time, he’d been a street rat for long enough to know how lucky he had been the first time. Being beaten and stripped was far from the worst fate to befall a handsome boy alone in the stews of London.
“So that is why they call me Fingers, and that is why, between your father and Billy, I’ll take Billy every time. He is a villain, Clemmie, I’ll grant you that. But he’s an honest villain.”
“Whereas my father is a dishonest upright citizen. I accept your point, Chris.”
She was not yelling for her maid and stalking off in outraged disgust. That was a bonus. Instead, she seemed to have decided on an interrogation. “Do you gamble?”
