“Yes, indeed.”
Temperance bid Polly good night and closed the door to her room gently behind her. When she looked up, she saw Mary Whitsun watching her.
“Will the baby live, ma’am?”
Temperance smiled. “I think so, Mary.”
“I’m very glad,” Mary said somberly.
They clattered down the rickety stairs and out the front door of Polly’s rooming house. Temperance glanced uneasily at the sky. The sun was beginning to set. “We need to hurry home before dark.”
Mary hurried beside her. “Is it true that the Ghost of St. Giles comes out after dark and hunts girls?”
“Where did you hear that?”
Mary ducked her head. “The butcher’s boy. Is it true?”
Temperance frowned. “Some girls have been hurt, yes. But you needn’t worry so long as you stay at the school, especially at night.”
“Will you stay home?”
Temperance glanced at Mary. The girl had her eyes fixed on the ground as they walked. “I need to do errands, naturally—”
“But if another baby needs help at night?” Mary was biting her lip.
“My job is to help orphaned babies in St. Giles,” Temperance said gently. “Where would Mary Hope be if I hadn’t gone after her?”
Mary said nothing.
“But I hardly ever have to make trips after dark,” Temperance said briskly. “Really, there’s no need to worry.”
Mary nodded, but she still looked troubled.
Temperance sighed, wishing she could set Mary’s mind at ease, but as long as the murderer was loose, that would be hard to do.
When they reached the home, yet more work waited and Temperance sent Mary Whitsun to supervise the littler girls in washing the hall walls.
By the time Temperance climbed the stairs to her room that night, it was quite late. The preparations for opening the home for viewing were exhausting. Every time she thought they were nearly done, another job would rear its head and she’d have to somehow see to it.
She turned the corner on the rickety stairs, examining the banister. It was in need of a polish, but would making it look better merely persuade any potential patron that the home wasn’t really in need of funds? This was the dilemma with all the decisions she made to neaten and clean the home. Every decision she second-guessed, even when Winter told her in his quiet voice that she was doing a fine job and not to worry so much. And beneath all her worries was a nagging sadness. Put simply, she missed Caire. She found herself wondering what he’d think of her decisions, wanting to discuss her problems and small joys with him. She wanted to be with him.
But she’d pretty well fouled those waters, hadn’t she? Her shoulders slumped at the thought as she rounded the final twist in the old staircase, coming at last to the uppermost floor of the home. He thought she’d wanted him only for a crass sexual relationship, and while she certainly longed to embrace him again, there was so much more to her emotions.
She halted, there at the top of the stairs, a single candle wavering in her hand to give her light, as she finally acknowledged what she’d known all along. She felt much more for Caire than lust.
A sob caught in her throat before she could stifle it. She’d been so lonely before he’d come into her life. His absence now only highlighted just how alone she was. Oh, she had her brothers and sisters, the children and Nell, but even with her own family, she was apart. Only with Caire was she herself, flaws and all. He saw her sexual need, her sometimes un-Christian urges and emotions and, wonder of wonders, liked her just the same. Wanted her just the same. It was so freeing, simply being with him! Knowing that she could be herself—all of herself—and he would not turn away.
She looked about the dim, squalid hallway. Alone. She was so alone.
IT WASN’T UNTIL half an hour into the viewing that Temperance decided that the event was going quite well, all things considered.
They’d had a rather rocky start when their first visitors—a lady with an enormous plume in her hair accompanied by a stout gentleman in a full-bottomed wig, improbably dyed an inky black above his elderly face—arrived a bit early at just before five of the clock. Joseph Tinbox had been the only one to hear the knock at the door, and when he’d answered it, had at first refused them entry on the grounds that they were “too early and ought to go away and come back at the proper time.”
Fortunately, Nell had gone looking for Joseph Tinbox at that moment and found him about to shoo their visitors away. Profuse apologies, and the application of two cups of Mr. St. John’s punch, had done much to soothe the couple’s indignation. After that, a steady stream of gentlepersons had arrived. So many, in fact, that at one point their grand carriages had clogged the end of Maiden Lane, much to the interest of the usual inhabitants. Some had, in fact, taken out chairs and sat along the street to watch the parade of nobility go by.
Yes, all was going quite well, and if the punch held out and she could keep Winter from engaging in a political discussion with a rather loud young gentleman in an atrocious yellow coat who insisted on saying the most idiotic things, they might actually live through this day.
Temperance smiled and shook the hand of a vivacious lady in a plum-colored dress as the lady exclaimed about the “poor little wretches.” She was leaving and, despite her rather unfortunate choice of words, seemed genuinely moved by the orphanage.
“Who is that?” Nell muttered behind Temperance.
“I don’t know, but she’s quite enthusiastic,” Temperance whispered back.
“No, not her. Her.”
Temperance looked over their guest’s head to see Lady Caire picking her way across the cobblestones, her mouth twisted in distaste. She wore an entirely inappropriate gold and blue brocade dress and held the hand of a gentleman in a ginger wig and lavender coat. The Maiden Lane spectators were quite taken with her, many elbowing their neighbor as she passed. Fortunately, Mr. St. John had seen her approaching and intercepted her, apparently pointing out the home’s rather sad architecture. He couldn’t hold her off forever, though.
“Oh, no!” Temperance groaned.
“What? What?” Nell hissed, all agog.
“It’s Lady Caire,” Temperance murmured. “She’s quite horrible.”