Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 82
“Bertie,” Cat said in a small voice as Bertie continued to lay out Cat’s clothes for the morning. “I know you all think I’m mad, but I’m not. I didn’t think the doll was my mother, or anything like that.”
“No, sweetie,” Bertie said quickly. “I don’t think you’re mad.”
“You do. Or at least you did for a while. Others do. But I’m not. I know she’s just a doll.”
Bertie left the clothes and returned to the bunk. “Now, you stop this nonsense, Cat McBride. I understand, and so does your dad. I explained that I’d have been climbing down that hill if I’d dropped my locket, and your dad understood, even if he’s still riled with me for doing it.”
Cat pleated a fold of the sheet. With her hair in a braid, in her white nightgown, she looked like an ordinary child, but her eyes held more sadness than an ordinary child’s should. “Mama left Daisy—the doll Daisy—to watch over me, you see. Mama told me so when she was sick. I didn’t really understand, but I thought if I kept the doll with me all the time, some part of Mama would be with me too. When I dropped her, when I saw her fall . . .” Cat’s throat worked. “It made me realize that Mama was truly gone.”
Bertie sat on the bunk next to her. “But she’s still watching, you know, your mum is, up in heaven. Mums always look after their kids, don’t they?”
“I was only four when Mama died,” Cat said. “I didn’t know what ‘died’ meant. It was a long time before I understood she was never coming back. I was very angry, I remember. I was angry at Papa for letting her go.” She looked morose. “Is that bad of me?”
“Naw.” Bertie had spent years furious at her father, even when it was clear he’d done nothing to cause her mother’s death. Her mother had fallen ill of a fever that had invaded most of the streets of the East End, and no amount of nursing by Bertie and her father had been able to save her. “Your dad, he’s one of the good ones. He loves you with all his might.”
Inspector Fellows had said something like that to Bertie before she’d left for the train station that afternoon.
“I grew up in the gutter, same as you,” Fellows had said after pulling her aside. “And in the gutter, a man like McBride seems like an easy mark. But he’s not.” He’d fixed her with a sharp look very much like those of his half brothers. “McBride is one of the good ones, Miss Frasier. Never forget that.”
Bertie had nodded, agreeing with him, and had started out of the house again, only to be stopped by Ian Mackenzie. “Take care of them,” was all Ian had said. He’d given her one of his rare direct stares, then he’d walked away without a good-bye.
“One of the good ones,” Bertie repeated.
And I’m in love with him, she continued silently. This very good man is going to break my heart.
London greeted them with billows of coal smoke, every house stoking its fires to stay warm. Down in the slums, they’d be shivering and burning anything they could find, in stoves, fireplaces, barrels, and tin coal boxes. In Mayfair, fires danced on bright hearths, and maids brought tea and scones to warm the belly.
Sinclair summoned his coach to take Bertie to visit her dad, and insisted on coming with her.
“You’re daft, you are,” Bertie said in alarm as he followed her out, Richards waiting patiently on the box. “If Basher McBride is seen about the backstreets of Whitechapel, things will go bad for you.”
Sinclair only gave her his scowl. “I’m sure everyone in Whitechapel knows full well you’re looking after my children. I’m not letting you go alone, and that’s the end of it.”
No amount of arguing could sway him. Bertie gave up, knowing they could stand all day on the street and fight about it while the neighbors watched with interest.
Bertie, resigned, let him hand her into the coach, and they set off.
The East End hadn’t improved since Bertie had left it. The mud was frozen in streets and lanes, fires burned in barrels with dozens of men and women standing around them, trying to soak up the heat. No sun penetrated the gloom of the afternoon, the tall buildings shutting out any hint of light.
The dark and cold struck Bertie harder now, after the wide-open spaces of Scotland and the splendid comfort of Kilmorgan Castle. She’d survived here because she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. There was a world out there, oceans of it, and Bertie meant to see it.
A few of the younger lads of the street were huddled around the front of the lodging house where her father lived. They swarmed the coach when it came to a stop, trying to look pathetic as they held out their hands. The pugilist Sinclair had borrowed from the duke’s house in Grosvenor Square jumped down and tried to scatter them.
“Oi, it’s Bertie,” one of the boys yelled when the pugilist opened the carriage door for her. “It’s Bertie-girl, dressed up all swank. Is that your protector in there?” They looked past her to Sinclair. “Looks like he could spare a bob or two. Give us a coin, Bertie.”
“Why’dya think I came here, to drop all my bread in your hands?” Bertie asked good-humoredly. “I came to see me dad. He’s poorly.”
“He’ll fall over dead if he spies you with your posh coach,” another of the lads said. “Come on, Bertie. We’re your old mates.”
The pugilist waded among them, the lads diving away from his bulk without him having to touch them. “Clear off,” he growled, his accent as Cockney as theirs.
“No, sweetie,” Bertie said quickly. “I don’t think you’re mad.”
“You do. Or at least you did for a while. Others do. But I’m not. I know she’s just a doll.”
Bertie left the clothes and returned to the bunk. “Now, you stop this nonsense, Cat McBride. I understand, and so does your dad. I explained that I’d have been climbing down that hill if I’d dropped my locket, and your dad understood, even if he’s still riled with me for doing it.”
Cat pleated a fold of the sheet. With her hair in a braid, in her white nightgown, she looked like an ordinary child, but her eyes held more sadness than an ordinary child’s should. “Mama left Daisy—the doll Daisy—to watch over me, you see. Mama told me so when she was sick. I didn’t really understand, but I thought if I kept the doll with me all the time, some part of Mama would be with me too. When I dropped her, when I saw her fall . . .” Cat’s throat worked. “It made me realize that Mama was truly gone.”
Bertie sat on the bunk next to her. “But she’s still watching, you know, your mum is, up in heaven. Mums always look after their kids, don’t they?”
“I was only four when Mama died,” Cat said. “I didn’t know what ‘died’ meant. It was a long time before I understood she was never coming back. I was very angry, I remember. I was angry at Papa for letting her go.” She looked morose. “Is that bad of me?”
“Naw.” Bertie had spent years furious at her father, even when it was clear he’d done nothing to cause her mother’s death. Her mother had fallen ill of a fever that had invaded most of the streets of the East End, and no amount of nursing by Bertie and her father had been able to save her. “Your dad, he’s one of the good ones. He loves you with all his might.”
Inspector Fellows had said something like that to Bertie before she’d left for the train station that afternoon.
“I grew up in the gutter, same as you,” Fellows had said after pulling her aside. “And in the gutter, a man like McBride seems like an easy mark. But he’s not.” He’d fixed her with a sharp look very much like those of his half brothers. “McBride is one of the good ones, Miss Frasier. Never forget that.”
Bertie had nodded, agreeing with him, and had started out of the house again, only to be stopped by Ian Mackenzie. “Take care of them,” was all Ian had said. He’d given her one of his rare direct stares, then he’d walked away without a good-bye.
“One of the good ones,” Bertie repeated.
And I’m in love with him, she continued silently. This very good man is going to break my heart.
London greeted them with billows of coal smoke, every house stoking its fires to stay warm. Down in the slums, they’d be shivering and burning anything they could find, in stoves, fireplaces, barrels, and tin coal boxes. In Mayfair, fires danced on bright hearths, and maids brought tea and scones to warm the belly.
Sinclair summoned his coach to take Bertie to visit her dad, and insisted on coming with her.
“You’re daft, you are,” Bertie said in alarm as he followed her out, Richards waiting patiently on the box. “If Basher McBride is seen about the backstreets of Whitechapel, things will go bad for you.”
Sinclair only gave her his scowl. “I’m sure everyone in Whitechapel knows full well you’re looking after my children. I’m not letting you go alone, and that’s the end of it.”
No amount of arguing could sway him. Bertie gave up, knowing they could stand all day on the street and fight about it while the neighbors watched with interest.
Bertie, resigned, let him hand her into the coach, and they set off.
The East End hadn’t improved since Bertie had left it. The mud was frozen in streets and lanes, fires burned in barrels with dozens of men and women standing around them, trying to soak up the heat. No sun penetrated the gloom of the afternoon, the tall buildings shutting out any hint of light.
The dark and cold struck Bertie harder now, after the wide-open spaces of Scotland and the splendid comfort of Kilmorgan Castle. She’d survived here because she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. There was a world out there, oceans of it, and Bertie meant to see it.
A few of the younger lads of the street were huddled around the front of the lodging house where her father lived. They swarmed the coach when it came to a stop, trying to look pathetic as they held out their hands. The pugilist Sinclair had borrowed from the duke’s house in Grosvenor Square jumped down and tried to scatter them.
“Oi, it’s Bertie,” one of the boys yelled when the pugilist opened the carriage door for her. “It’s Bertie-girl, dressed up all swank. Is that your protector in there?” They looked past her to Sinclair. “Looks like he could spare a bob or two. Give us a coin, Bertie.”
“Why’dya think I came here, to drop all my bread in your hands?” Bertie asked good-humoredly. “I came to see me dad. He’s poorly.”
“He’ll fall over dead if he spies you with your posh coach,” another of the lads said. “Come on, Bertie. We’re your old mates.”
The pugilist waded among them, the lads diving away from his bulk without him having to touch them. “Clear off,” he growled, his accent as Cockney as theirs.
