Page 17 of When You Rescued Me
“I should have asked him to haul me to the warehouse in the sedan chair,” her father growled. “At least then we would have received some practical help from the fellow.”
“I suppose we should be glad that he came when he did. There is still time left in the day to visit the warehouse and have Mr. Ellerby hire guards.”
“Not whilst I am held captive by this blasted leg.”
“I will go.”
“No, Hannah. It will not do. Ellerby’s letter proves it. Even though you represented my interests at the wharf last week perfectly well, the clerk dismissed your efforts and reached out to Cantrell. Getting to the bottom of this vandalism and theft—and ensuring it does not reoccur—is too important to risk our requests being ignored.”
His words hurt, but she could not deny their truthfulness.
“I wish I were a man. Your burdens would be so much lighter if you’d had a son.”
“Good heavens!” He appeared genuinely appalled. “Regardless of any challenges you may face as a forward-thinking young lady, Hannah, I hope you never have cause to utter those words again. I would not exchange my three beautiful daughters for a dozen sons.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Two dozen, perhaps?”
Her father’s chuckle eased the strain in his face and brought a smile to hers.
“No. Not even three. They would eat me out of house and home.”
“Well then, I suggest you write to Mr. Ellerby and outline your specific requests, along with a firmly worded assertion that you will take your business to another wharf if those requests are not met in a timely manner. I shall fetch my bonnet and spencer, and the moment you have finished the letter, I will take it directly to the gentleman.”
“I shall send John,” he said, reaching for a piece of paper in the desk drawer.
“No, Father.”
He halted his search for a fresh quill, shock at her emphatic refusal clearly evident in his displeased frown. “No?”
“No,” she repeated. “In this instance, a footman won’t do. You saw how dispassionate Mr. Cantrell was about our cargo. I may not have the clout of a monied gentleman, but I have more than a servant does, and I am considerably more invested in today’s happenings than either of them.”
“Hannah, we have already discussed this.”
“Let me go, Father. If Dr. Meyer’s prediction is correct, you shall be walking with a cane in a fortnight and will no longer have need of someone to take your place. And then, if an emergency of a business nature arises, I shall happily send you on your way and remove myself to the parlor.”
“You will do that happily?”
“Well, I may have overstated somewhat,” she admitted. “But I promise I shall do it without so much as a murmur of protest.”
He held her gaze for three long seconds before dropping his shoulders and conceding defeat. “Heaven help me, child. Will I ever have the strength to turn you down when you ask something of me?”
“Secretly, I hope not,” Hannah said with a smile. “But realistically, I daresay the day will come. Perhaps when I ask if I might place a bet on a horse at White’s.”
With a helpless shake of his head, he took up his quill. “Fetch your outerwear and find a sister or servant to accompany you,” he said. “I shall have the letter ready when you return.”
Samuel circled around to the front of the old house Thrasher had used to shelter his gang. It was hard to believe the rundown building of his youth could look any more decrepit. Broken boards and stairs, shattered glass, fallen plaster, and the whisper of rats’ feet running across the debris. It had been the lowliest of dwelling places twelve years ago; now it was an empty, broken shell of a building with one missing wall and weeds growing on the floor.
Averting his eyes from the corner where he and Charlie had slept, he pushed back the painful memories and stood, hands on hips, surveying the abandoned space.
“Where did you go, Thrasher?” he muttered. “Are you still luring homeless boys off the streets, or have you moved on to other more lucrative crimes?”
A shutter creaked. Beyond that, the abandoned structure maintained its silence, keeping its secrets, much as the boys had.
Samuel frowned. He’d spent the past week at Jealous’s beck and call: running messages all over the city, transporting criminals to the Old Bailey, standing guard while Jealous interrogated suspects and quizzed receivers of stolen goods. It had given Samuel a better vision of the scope of the principal officers’ work, but it had left him wanting. He’d contributed almost nothing beyond eliminating pedestrian errands from Jealous’s list.
This morning, Jealous had sent him to deliver handbills to some of the pawnshops in the East End. The last establishment had been close enough to Samuel’s former abode to make a slight detour possible.
He’d known that the likelihood of arriving to find Thrasher sitting in the seedy parlor, awaiting the return of his scavengers, was almost nil, but Samuel had held fast to the hope that he would uncover a clue to the gang’s whereabouts here—a subtle message left for those who came looking. He turned slowly, studying the dilapidated walls more carefully. Some scratches caught his eye. He moved closer. These were different from the cracks and crevices the decaying wood caused. A knife had made these marks: a semicircle that looked like a bowl and, immediately above it, a cross that looked not unlike a lowercase T. Did it mean anything? Samuel could not say, but it gave him something to ponder.
