Page 38 of The Spinster & the Sock

“I think that this is not what I expected when you said you wanted to go for a walk.”

“Well, Mister Hollows, what do you think of the lot?” the man from the land agency asks as he strides into the room. “I have to admit, the other gent who was here just left, and he’s placed a substantial offer on the table. If you’re interested, you’ll need to outbid Mr. Lamb, and you’ll need to do it soon.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d like to discuss it more with my wife before committing to anything.” I thank him and promise to get in touch soon. Jo is quiet as I help her into her thick coat and as we start walking back to the modiste. I can’t help but feel like it’s not the house, but the concept of the house that is bothering her, and I intend to ask her the second we get home.

The streets are empty compared to when I first got here—turns out most of the town goes out to the country for the winter—but we still have to weave our way through the end of day crowd. The modiste comes into view at the same time that I notice a quick tug on my coat. If I didn’t know any better, I would blame it on the wind, but I’ve been to New York, and I recognize a pickpocket when I feel one. I snatch the boy by the collar, his hand still in my pocket. My anger is gone the second I see his gaunt face with tears streaking through what must be weeks of dirt. He’s just a kid and can’t be older than thirteen.

I’m just about to let the kid go, give him a handful of coins and send him on his way when Jo frantically grabs my arm.

Secrets That Gerty Keeps

Josephine

The boy’s eyes widen in pure terror as my stocky husband holds him aloft by his coat. The child’s hands are still sunk deep inside Blaze’s pockets when a panic fills my chest and I glance at our surroundings to discover who might have spied the thief in action. So far, none seem any wiser, so I seize Blaze’s arm and tug his attention away from the boy.

“Don’t hurt him,” I plead. “He is only a child. You don’t know what they do to children here for stealing!”

Blaze frowns down at me, distracted by the boy’s panicked breathing. “Jo, I wasn’t going to hurt him.” He gently sets the child down. “Look at him; he’s clearly starving. Not sure what kind of 19th century, stockade bullshit you’re referring to, but it’s clear both your time and my time share something in common…” He whispers the latter under his breath, “We don’t treat our less fortunate well either.”

Too concerned to inquire, I shake my head and pull the child’s hands from empty pockets, warming them in my own. “Here,“ I hiss, wiping a smudge of dirt from the boy’s cheek, “he would be sentenced to seven years’ transportation”

“Seven years what?”

“Basically prison and servitude in one.” I clarify, side-eyeing passersby.

“Fuck this place,” Blaze mutters angrily, looking from the boy to me, and then back again. “Jo, I was going to give him some money for food and send him on his way. You.” He points at the trembling child. “What is your name, kid?”

The child peeks up at Blaze from behind freckled cheeks, which shroud his brown eyes in a wince. “Augustus,” he pants, trying to jerk free of his detainer’s grasp. “I-I-I meant no harm, sir, please don’t w-w-whip me.”

“If I let you go,” Blaze says calmly, and my pulse steadies at his gentle tone. “Do you promise to stick around long enough for my wife and me to offer you a hot meal?”

Augustus’s big brown eyes widen to the approximate size of soup bowls, and I can’t help but smile as his entire body relaxes. He bobs an enthusiastic nod, and Blaze relinquishes his hold on the threadbare jacket the child wears. “Come on, then.”

We walk quickly back towards the modiste, all the while the child trots behind us like a stray dog. I glance over my shoulder every few steps to ensure he is still there. “Thank you for not hurting him,” I whisper as I take Blaze’s hand. “Any other man would have.”

“I’d think you’d know me well enough by now that I’m not cruel.”

My frown melts into a smile, and I unlock the door to my shop. “We have biscuits and ham upstairs.” I gleam down at the still trembling boy. “Perhaps a bath will do you well? Where is your family?”

He shrugs, eagerly eyeing the stairs as if his salvation awaits him just there. “Been on the streets as long as I can remember, ma’am.”

We learn that Augustus, or Gus as Blaze nicknames him, is twelve and ran away from the orphanage several years ago. He has since been living on the streets with other orphaned children. Gus knows little of his family and even less about living. I send over to Dashwood House for a few of my youngest brother’s old clothes, and we ensure the boy takes a proper bath and has a safe place to sleep for the night.

The soft mattress is already lulling me to sleep when I hear Blaze trudge heavily up the staircase, latching the door behind him. “He’s asleep.” He yawns, and I think it won’t be long before my husband is too.

“Add this to the list of reasons people will call me daft,” I answer sleepily. “We should come up with a better plan tomorrow. We certainly can’t keep him.”

Blaze slides into bed beside me and drapes an arm over my belly. “Let’s worry about it tomorrow,” he coos in my ear, nuzzling the soft skin with his mustache. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth, okay?”

“I promise,” I reply, gazing at his serious face only inches from mine.

“What were you thinking about when we were looking at houses today?”

I chew my lip and turn my attention to the wooden rafters overhead, which are painted a soft blue in the moonlight. “Those houses will be far too big and expensive for me when you have left.” I want to reach out and hold on to him. And I long to feel his warmth and have the security of his presence now. The words tremble and crack as they leave my mouth, and I can hardly speak them. The thought of living them makes me believe that death would be kinder.

Alas, his arm tightens around me, and his body expands with a deep breath. He is tense against me, then he softens, tracing a single finger down my neck and past my sternum, relaxing finally on my stomach. “I don’t think I can leave.”

I sit upright. “We will figure it out!”