Chapter 3 #2
“I know,” she said. “But I believed it when I said it. Marjory… my sister… she is trying hard to help me support our family. Things are difficult, money is tight…”
“The transportation hulks are crammed with people who had difficulties,” he snapped, his voice tight and angry.
“That pocket watch would see you both locked up in gaol, if not transported. You could pretend that you knew nothing of it, and perhaps the court would believe you, but your sister? Oh, her life is over.”
Cold dread stabbed at Amelia’s stomach.
“So that is it, then? You plan to call the constables?”
He breathed in through his nose, lifting his chin. His gaze never left her. She did not allow herself to look away, either.
I should be more afraid. Perhaps he means to harm me.
But that thought didn’t sit right with her for some reason.
Amelia had never prided herself on sharp instincts, yet a distinct feeling told her that she was not going to end up floating face-down in the Thames over this matter.
Probably not, at least.
“That watch means more to me than you can imagine,” he said at last, his voice shaking.
“Then I will get it back for you,” she promised. “If Marjory has it, I shall make her give it back, I promise.”
“Why should I believe you? You have already lied once.”
“Unintentionally!”
“Perhaps you are lying unintentionally again.”
It was difficult to argue against that point.
Swallowing hard, Amelia tried a different tactic.
“Marjory is a child. Just a little child, trying to help me. I’ll pay on her behalf.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
She let her eyes close briefly. Visions of a moldy, filthy gaol cell flashed before her eyes tauntingly. One needed money to bribe one’s way through gaol, not simply to live comfortably but to survive.
Money that, of course, they did not have.
“I shall pay on my sister’s behalf,” Amelia said, her voice trembling.
She opened her eyes and fixed them firmly on the man. That was what the situation called for—a firm stare to show that she meant business.
He eyed her for a long moment.
“No, I think not. And I had better hurry if I am going to catch the girl,” he responded, turning and taking one long stride in the direction Marjory had disappeared in.
Amelia yelped in panic, grabbing at his sleeve. “No, don’t! Please, take me in my sister’s stead. I’ll do anything.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.
The man’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline.
“Anything?” he echoed. “Are you sure about that?”
Color rushed to her face until she was sure that her head might explode. Letting out a ragged breath, Amelia tilted up her chin.
For Marjory.
“Anything,” she repeated.
The man held her gaze for a long moment. Then, to her absolute amazement, he rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes, biting back a smile as if she’d made a bad joke, and complained when he did not laugh.
“You ought to be more careful with your words,” he muttered.
Quick as lightning, his hand shot out again, fingers wrapping around her wrist. She was too surprised to resist, and he tugged her back along the way they had come.
When she glimpsed the storeroom window, Amelia understood where they were going. Briefly, she considered wrestling or struggling, but then decided against it. He had not promised her any harm, and whatever could save Marjory from meeting a thief’s fate would be worthwhile.
“If you are going to kill me, I should like to know it,” she managed, breathless. “It’s only fair to warn me.”
“Kill you? What a notion. I bet you read those penny dreadfuls all the time, don’t you?”
“I do not!” Amelia lied, thinking of the pile of tattered books beside her bed. “It is a natural conclusion to come to.”
“Then I can assure you that we will not be reenacting the plot of any of those erudite works of literature. Climb in through the window again, if you please.”
Amelia obeyed and found herself standing in the storeroom once more. Sure enough, she saw the chest of drawers, with its topmost drawer hanging open. The drawer was empty, except for a pair of old boxing gloves, the leather across the knuckles cracked and stretched.
The man climbed in through the window after her, seizing her wrist once more. He dragged her to the door and flung it open. Amelia found herself in a rather dark and airy hallway, with good-quality paper on the walls and some neat little paintings hanging here and there.
There was no time to take in her surroundings, however, as her captor dragged her along at a punishing pace, almost forcing her to jog to keep up with him.
“I wish you would slow down,” she breathed.
He ignored her. Abruptly, they came to a round foyer and began to ascend a velvet-carpeted staircase. Amelia began to worry faintly about bedrooms and their implications, but the man marched her past door after door until they reached yet another staircase and continued upward.
“What is your name?” she asked eventually, struggling for breath. “I cannot keep calling you man and fellow in my head.”
He glanced briefly at her over his shoulder. “My name is Stephen, and I mind my tongue a good deal more than you do.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
He gave a huff of what might have been laughter.
“Where are we going? Are you taking me to the roof? Are you going to throw me off it?” she pressed, when he did not speak.
“No,” Stephen responded bluntly, without looking at her this time. “This is not just a clubhouse. Part of it is my home, and I am taking you to the attic.”