Page 7 of Guardian
“From what I can tell, the work is hard, but she doesn’t complain. I think she’s afraid I might make her quit.”
“She probably likes earning a wage,” James replied. “Makes her feel like she’s grown, and she’s helping you, after all you’ve done.”
“I haven’t done much,” I said dismissively.
He left that alone, caught Pat’s eye, and pointed at his glass. “Another?” he asked me, and I nodded.
As our full glasses appeared, Pat leaned over the bar toward James, raising his voice to be heard. “You’re staying with Emma tonight? I’ve some chairs that need mending.”
“Aye, I’ll come by in the morning,” James replied and put down coins for our glasses. Pat made to wave them off, the drinks part of an easy exchange of favors, but James shook his head and shoved them toward the till.
We backed away from the bar to make space for others, and James gave me an inquiring look and raised his glass toward a small round table in the corner. I nodded and followed in his wake as he threaded his way between tables, greeting people he knew. James was one of the few Castle men who’d left and found legitimate work—at the Custom House, in his case, after being in prison for smuggling. I asked Emma once how he’d wrangled that, and she’d shrugged and said she had no idea. Rumor was he’d ratted out other smugglers, but I never believed it. James might be a rogue, but he was no copper’s nark.
Though he lived north of the river now, James came around to the inn most Fridays, joining the group of us by the fire. I wondered why he was pulling me aside. As I sat in one slatted wooden chair, James turned his sideways so he could rest his forearm along the top rail. “Emma says you’ve been helping her a good deal.”
“Well, someone had to. She had two trousseaus to finish last week,” I replied. “Needed by some West Ender in a hurry, as usual.”
One eyebrow rose. “She told me about some woman who changed her train three times.”
I snorted. “It wasn’t just her train—she couldn’t decide if she wanted her flounces gathered, box pleated, or fluted. She drove Emma half distracted.” I sipped my ale. “How is the Custom House?”
“Good,” he said. “Busy.”
“You miss smuggling? The dodges?”
He spun his glass on the table. “Nae. Clerking’s easier.”
I eyed his hand. The thick calluses along his thumb and forefinger weren’t from clerking.
“I thought you were on weights and measures,” I said.
“Started there, but I’m on records now,” he said. “Most days it’s like trying to catch a runaway train. We work till after dark—and there’s still ships lined up to be unloaded and counted the next morning, with the captains cussing at the delay. But they come from all over, Kit. The East Indies, Egypt, Spain, France.” He reached into his pocket. “Look here.” He chose a coin from the half dozen in his palm and held it out. “It’s from Greece.”
I took it, peering at the circle of silver with a young, straight-nosed man in profile on one side and on the other wheat sheaves encircling a word. “AERTON,” I puzzled out. “What is it?”
“One lepton,” he said. “Their letters are close but not the same.”
“Does it make you want to go places?” To my surprise, a note of envy crept into my voice.
“Sure,” he said. “Though some of the stories they tell of pirates make me happy to be right here.” I made to give the coin back, and he waved it back toward me. “Keep it. It’s a curiosity. Can’t spend it.” He drained his glass and smiled at me. “What would you say to a proper night out? We could go to a music hall, see a show.”
I drew back. “With you?”
“Aye, why not?” he asked, unperturbed. “We’ve been friends a good while.”
I was silent.
James raked his dark curls back from his forehead. “Stop it, Kit. You’re looking at me like I’m running a confidence game.”
I laughed. “Do you know how to do anything else?”
He gave me a mock-wounded look and laid a hand across his chest as if I’d stabbed him. “Humor me. What’s the harm in a night at Wilton’s?”
“There was a man murdered there last year,” I reminded him. It had been in all the papers. A violinist had leapt into the crowd, fists flying, and landed a blow that sent the spectator down, his head smacking the floor, with blood everywhere, and the performer had been tried and thrown in prison.
He laughed. “You’re right. Tell you what,” he said, drawing a pack of cards from his pocket. “We’ll play. If I win, you have dinner with me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Everything is a game with you.”
