Chapter 20 #2
Phinn and Miss Davenport stood in the deep shadows of the alley near the Lion and Lamb public house, the place where he’d first encountered Tom Fleet.
“So this is where Tom comes at night?” asked the governess in a low voice by Phinn’s ear.
There was still quite a substantial group of boisterous merrymakers inside the pub, and their voices and laughter echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings, making it hard to hear unless one drew close.
At least that’s what Phinn told himself as he felt Mina’s deliciously warm breath caress the edge of his stubbled jaw.
He swallowed as his throat tightened with a wave of longing. And then he inwardly berated himself for not focusing on why they were here in Covent Garden to begin with. “Aye. Mostly. I suppose it’s what he knows.”
“He told me that after he left the workhouse, he was forced to work as a chimney sweep for a while, poor sweet boy,” said Miss Davenport, her tone weighted with sadness. “But he ran away and joined a gang of pickpockets. I cannot blame him for doing so.”
“Nor can I,” agreed Phinn. The life of a chimney sweep was horrendous.
Certainly, the cruel—and indeed, inhumane—practice of recruiting young boys because they were small and could fit into tight spaces, should be outlawed as far as he was concerned.
It was one of the many social reforms he wanted to work on.
“I-I haven’t caught him pick-pickpocketing when I’ve shadowed him at night, but … he’s very quick.”
Miss Davenport nodded. “And I haven’t noticed anything odd or out of place in his bedroom. But then, it would be easy enough to conceal money and other small objects like pocket watches and coin purses that he might have pinched.”
“He doesn’t need to steal any long-longer though,” said Phinn. “But I suppose it’s all he’s know-known for so long.”
Miss Davenport peered into the alley behind them, scanning the darkness.
A London fog had begun to filter through the streets, making it even harder to see anything at all, let alone detect a slight boy.
“I do wonder if that’s the point. Tom is a canny lad.
Perhaps he’s worried that when you no longer need me, then you won’t need him.
And he’ll have to come back”—she gestured at their surroundings—“to all this. He’s never had anyone he can count on.
It would be only natural for him to assume that the life he has at Kinsale House might only be temporary. ”
Good God. Miss Davenport was right. As the horrible truth slammed into Phinn, leaden guilt settled inside his chest. He’d spent some time with Tom in the schoolroom, watching him as he grappled with learning to read and write and spell.
While in many ways the boy was a quick study, he also got bored very easily.
Of course, Miss Davenport was endlessly patient and also quite ingenious when it came to engaging both the boy and her son. Somehow she always knew what both boys needed. Phinn supposed that was why she provided a “bespoke” service. She was a governess like no other.
What she’d just said also made Phinn realize that he could do much better. In future, he would do his utmost to reassure the boy that he wouldn’t have to go back to living on the streets. Not ever. He would always have a home with Phinn.
He was about to say all this to Miss Davenport when there was a shout and a curse from across the street not far from the Lion and Lamb.
“What the ’ell, you li’l gobshite!” bellowed a man.
A coarse laborer by the looks of him, who was at least two—perhaps even three—sheets to the wind.
The problem was the “little gobshite” he was referring to was Tom!
The irate stranger was gripping the boy’s thin shoulder in one meaty paw while his other ham-sized fist was drawn back as though he were going to punch the child into next week. “‘And over wha’ever you nicked from me pocket. Or so ’elp me …” He gave Tom a violent shake.
Feck.
Miss Davenport had taken note that Tom was in trouble too.
Before Phinn could stop her, she’d raced across the street in a blaze of fiery indignation, swirling wool skirts, and a billowing navy-blue cloak.
“Unhand that boy at once,” she ordered in a tone so fiercely confident even Phinn was taken aback.
The small crowd of patrons outside the Lion and Lamb all turned to look at the drama unfolding.
As Phinn jogged over to intervene—he had no doubt he could easily fell the laborer if he had to—Miss Davenport gave the drunken oaf a swift, sharp poke in the midriff with the end of her umbrella while she muttered one of the strangest words Phinn had ever heard: “Perplexio.” And then to Phinn’s utter astonishment, the man let go of Tom and took a step back.
What the feck?
“Miss, so sorry to ’ave …” The laborer trailed off as he scratched his head and frowned in apparent confusion at Miss Davenport.
“Bleedin’ ’ell, I fink I’ve ’ad one too many pints.
I forgot wha’ I was goin’ to say.” His attention turned to Phinn.
“’Ullo. Do I know you?” he asked with an affable grin plastered on his face. “Wha’ can I do you for?”
“No. You don’t … you don’t know me,” said Phinn warily. “And I don’t need any-anythin’.” He wasn’t quite sure why the laborer had suddenly decided to obey Miss Davenport. Or why he was acting so flummoxed. Or should he say “perplexed”?
But Phinn wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. To be sure, he was adept with his fists, but he’d prefer not to use them, especially in front of Miss Davenport and Tom.
Miss Davenport sent the unusually agreeable laborer a charming smile. “We’re all perfectly fine, sir,” she said, laying a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Good evening to you.” And then she caught Phinn’s eye. “Let us be on our way.”
“Aye,” agreed Phinn. He offered the governess his arm, which she readily took, and then he escorted her and Tom back across the street.
As soon as they were around the corner, he stopped and bent down to speak to Tom. “Are you … are you all right, lad? Did … did that brute hurt you?”
Tom sniffed. “Apart from rattlin’ me teef a li’l, only me pride is dented,” he said. “It’s been a while since anyone’s caught me pinchin’ stuff out o’ their pockets.”
Phinn huffed. “If-if you recall, lad, I did.”
“Well, aside from you an’ that grumpy old geezer, no one ’as. Not for bleedin’ ages.” Then the boy sighed. “I must be gettin’ soft in me old age. I’m losin’ me touch.”
Phinn couldn’t help but laugh at that. Old? The lad must think that he, Phineas O’Connell, a man of eight-and-twenty, was positively ancient.
Once they were all safely installed inside a hansom cab a short time later, Phinn took advantage of the shadowy interior and studied Miss Davenport with no small degree of curiosity and frankly, wonder.
She was sitting across from him, back perfectly straight—a portrait of propriety—with a subdued Tom on the bench seat beside her.
Her gloved hands lightly clasped her umbrella across her lap.
That umbrella and the peculiar word Miss Davenport had spoken—“Perplexio”—as she’d poked that drunken brute with the pointed tip … What was all that about?
Phinn would readily own that he was still mightily perplexed himself.
Indeed, he could almost believe that Miss Davenport had cast a spell outside the Lion and Lamb.
How else to account for the dramatic—dare he call it a magical?
—change in the laborer’s demeanor. He’d miraculously become as malleable as unfired clay.
Pleasantly confused and as docile as a lamb.
Casting his mind back to the moment when he’d unexpectedly encountered Miss Davenport exiting her son’s bedroom earlier on, Phinn had also been puzzled by the strange mist he’d glimpsed in the air, just before she’d closed the door.
It was almost as though the governess had been veiled in a purple-hued, softly shimmering light; it had given her an ethereal appearance, making him think of otherworldly creatures like the Fae—the aos sí.
Of course, the bedroom window could simply have been left open, allowing fog to creep in …
Phinn’s gaze drifted to the hansom cab’s window. But London fog was not purple, he reminded himself. It was usually a greenish yellow, just like the pea-souper that was presently cloaking the city’s streets.
And then there were those mysterious pockets of hers that could produce almost anything at all. From kerchiefs to business cards to pencils and marbles. Even mousetraps. And how did she end up on the Kinsale Cloud?
But how could he possibly ask the governess about any of this?
Miss Davenport, can you perform magic? Are you a witch or a sea maiden or a faery or even an angel?
Even in his mind, the questions sounded nonsensical.
If he was wrong about her, he couldn’t bear it if she regarded him differently.
If she looked at him as though he were completely daft or not right in the head.
Not when he’d come to value her company so very much.
Maybe his imagination was simply running wild because he was so captivated by this young woman.
And of course, he was so very grateful for all that she’d done for him so far.
The difference she’d made to his speech and to his confidence in general—turning this simple Irishman into someone who resembled a mannered gentleman—now that was nothing short of a miracle.
Yes, it was best that he kept his suspicions to himself and accepted Mina Davenport for who she was at face value.
In any event, it mattered not whether she was a magical being or simply human just like himself, as long as she stayed and they could continue—Phinn frowned into the shifting fog outside the window—to explore whatever this relationship was.
It didn’t much feel like an employer-employee arrangement anymore.
But then, had it ever been just that?
It was Miss Davenport who at last broke the heavy silence in the cab when she asked her charge gently, “Tom, is the reason you’ve been sneaking out at night related to the idea that you need to … to maintain your pickpocketing skills? In case you might need to rely on them again?”
The governess’s question was met with silence as Tom fiddled with a torn piece of leather on the cab’s bench seat. “Maybe,” he mumbled after a few moments. “It’s better to be safe than sorry, I always say.”
“Oh, Tom,” said Miss Davenport, her voice soft with compassion. Looking up, she caught Phinn’s eye and he knew straightaway that it was his cue to reassure the lad.
“We’ll talk more to-tomorrow, Tom. But …
but I want you to know that you don’t have to pick pockets anymore.
You will al-always have a home with me,” said Phinn gravely.
“And if I have to swear a blood oath or vow to cross me heart and hope to die to convince you that I’m sincere, and that you can trust me, I’ll do it.
Whatever it takes, lad. It-it worries me more than I can say that you keep venturin’ out at night on your own. ”
Tom lifted his chin. “I know you’ve been followin’ me some nights, my lord. You’re not ’ard to miss, even in the dark.”
“Aye, I have.” Phinn’s voice was gruff with emotion as he added, “It’s … it’s because I care about you, lad. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
The boy nodded. “I believe you,” he said solemnly. Then his mouth kicked into a smile. “Even though you’re a bleedin’ Irishman.”