Chapter 11 #2
But that wasn’t the only reason for the locked door.
His father often took it into his head to wander the house, often at night, often with his nightshirt billowing around his skinny calves.
And often with a bottle in his hand. His moods were unpredictable.
They were never usually violent, but they were strange and wild.
Terrifying to a small boy. As Sebastian well knew.
A surprise meeting between boy and man wouldn’t have done either of them any good.
The boy had been asleep on the sofa, but he raised his head groggily at the sound of the door opening then snapped into alertness, lying as still as a frightened rabbit except for his eyes, which ran over the three of them, left to right then back again.
None of them looked like watchmen, Sebastian supposed, as the boy watched their approach in wary confusion.
“Oh, God bless the poor little soul,” breathed Lady Pemberthy. The boy stared at her, confusion deepening, but his wariness not abating one iota.
“Hello.” Mrs Ardingly smiled, getting down to kneel by the sofa as she’d done last night. “Do you remember me? You might not.”
“I…I reckon. You was there last night. And him.” His wary gaze darted over her shoulder and up to Sebastian, then over the three of them once more. He started to struggle to sit up, wincing.
“No, you don’t need to move,” said Mrs Ardingly gently.
“Lie there and rest a while. We’re going to prepare you a bath, and that will take some time.
” She glanced to where Sebastian stood. “Can the fire be lit too, there in that grate? If we do the bath here? There’s little point moving him more than we need to. ”
“Of course,” murmured Sebastian, only somewhat haunted by visions of water puddling the highly polished marquetry of the floor.
The Aubusson rug could, he supposed, at least be rolled up and moved out of the way.
That’s if it didn’t need burning, infested with lice and fleas as it undoubtedly now might be.
He’d only just finished decorating this room, a scheme of Papworth’s he’d liked the look of, though it was meant for a country cottage.
Maybe that was why he’d brought the boy here last night instead of to the servant’s quarters or the stables.
Some small part of him had wondered whether Mrs Ardingly might like the room.
He rang the bell, summoning a servant to prepare the bath. He doubted she’d noticed it at all.
The two ladies tried talking to the boy while they waited for the bath to be prepared, servants bustling in and out.
Mrs Ardingly remained kneeling on the floor; Lady Pemberthy settled herself into a chair Sebastian carried over and set by the sofa.
He himself stood near the window, keeping out of the way, mostly superfluous except for the few directions his staff required.
The women’s conversation seemed largely superfluous too. The boy either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell them where he’d been born, who his parents had been, whether he had brothers or sisters, or where he lived.
They eventually managed to get him to admit to possessing a name, but as this turned out to be Tonk, it wasn’t much of a prize. And that small confession owed less to the ladies’ apparently endless patience than the large piece of cake Lady Pemberthy insisted on giving the boy.
He’d been dazzled at the first glance. It was a large, dark cake, rich and dense with fruit and sporting a shiny glaze.
Lady Pemberthy had pulled the tin from her capacious bag, opened it while talking, then sat there with the cake on her lap, its vast circumference glinting stickily and giving off the scent of spiced raisins and sugar.
It was a highly effective interrogation technique, despite being the product of the lady’s bumbleheaded absentmindedness more than a torturous cunning.
The boy stared at it, and even when he was finally rewarded with a slice, he held it tightly in a grubby hand, eyes flicking down to it as though he couldn’t quite believe it was there.
Sebastian watched, biting his tongue, remembering the doctor’s advice about nothing but broth and barely water.
But perhaps that had only applied while there had been worry about the boy’s internal injuries.
Mrs Ardingly had heard the doctor’s advice too, and she didn’t prevent the cake being given.
It didn’t matter anyway. The boy didn’t eat it.
Just held it, skinny knuckles white, every part of him suspicious.
“But is that the name your parents gave you, or were you known by something else in your earliest years?” Mrs Ardingly was all gentle patience.
Sebastian suspected that if the boy hadn’t been so sore, she would have set a reassuring hand on his arm or stroked the greasy hair from his forehead.
Her voice took the place of that touch, soft as angels, sweeter than the cake. He didn’t know how the boy held out.
Tonk’s eyes flicked back to the rest of the cake on Lady Pemberthy’s knee. He glanced down at the slice in his hand. “I…I reckon I don’t know. Maybe I was called something else.”
Across the room came the splashing of another bucket filling the bath. Tonk’s attention darted to that, his hand tightening on the cake.
“I don’t want no bath. Ain't healthy.”
“It’s very healthy, I assure you,” coaxed Mrs Ardingly. “All good, clean water.”
“Could catch a chill. Catch a chill and die.”
“It’s very warm. And there’s the fire too. I don’t suppose you’ve ever bathed in warm water? It’s extremely pleasant.”
Sebastian fixed his gaze on the window, on the garden, all blue and green in the spring sunshine. Now was not an appropriate time to imagine Mrs Ardingly in the bath.
“It ’urts too much to move.”
Mrs Ardingly nodded, mouth pursing in sympathy. “I know. But we will help you, my aunt and I. We can carry you over, or support you to walk, and help you into the bath. You only have to sit, and we’ll do everything else. You’ll feel so much better with all these lice and fleas gone, I promise you.”
Had he ever known life without them? Just how quickly did a child get infested? Were there babies with fleas? Right now, in London, were there babies and small children covered with all the scabs and reddened bites he’d seen on the boy…all mingled with the bruises and the scars…
Sebastian set his jaw and looked out of the window again. It showed nothing but his own immaculate garden.
“It’s ready, my lord.”
He turned at the servant’s voice, noting the steaming water, the pile of washcloths and drying cloths, the little cake of plain soap. He nodded at his man. “Thank you.”
The man bowed, retreating. He closed the door behind him.
“You don’t have to stay.” Mrs Ardingly got to her feet.
She gave her attention to brushing the front of her dress, though he was sure none of his floors would have left dust on her garment, only flashing the briefest glance at him.
Her voice held a note of apology—she was sorry for the trouble she’d caused him.
But there was dismissal too. No doubt she remembered last night, him telling the boy to get to the door.
You’re no good at this, her lowered eyes said.
This isn’t your concern, said the sweep of her hand on her skirts.
He’d watched the boy all night, hadn’t he? If she could perform at Lady Frances’s picnic, then he could perform at this.
“I’ll stay. I can lift the boy, if needed.”
They both looked at the boy, Tonks, this scrap of human detritus snagged from London’s sewer.
He lay very still on the sofa, skin and bones and bruises all covered by the sheet the doctor had laid over him after this morning’s examination.
He’d gone very still again, that frightened rabbit trying to evade the falcon’s sight.
He’d had that same sort of animal stillness last night, even when he was panting and sweating with pain. He didn’t cry and wail and plead like another child might, but held it all very still and quiet inside him.
Sebastian remembered that instinct, lying on the stable floor after his uncle had whipped him. He’d refused to ride the vicious stallion his uncle and his drunken friends had thought it would be ever so funny to get the whelp astride.
His uncle never liked to be shown up in front of his friends.
You went very small and deep inside yourself at those moments, and you wrapped the pain even tighter and smaller still.
You built walls around it and made a big space between it and the world, a big empty space where you could force yourself to smile, blood on your teeth, and refuse to cry in front of a half dozen men twice your age and three times your size.
You learned to keep the pain very secret and deep so that the face you showed to the world and the things people thought of you became more important than the things you truly felt.
“Let’s put this cake down for later.” Mrs Ardingly had gone back to the boy, gently taking the precious, untouched cake from his grip.
“There’s plenty more, my little lad,” said Lady Pemberthy, smiling though it looked very much like she was about to cry. “You don’t have to worry, there’s plenty more cake.”
Sebastian winced at the little lad. He must be nine, or even ten. Boys his age went to be midshipmen, had worked for years. And boys like this one…they’d never been young.
He came over too, though the three of them staring down was probably an intimidating sight. “You can walk, I reckon.” He nodded at the bath some four or five yards distant. “I bet you three pence you can.”
Mrs Ardingly glanced his way, no doubt remembering last night yet again. But she had brothers. He trusted she understood.
Avid interest mingled with the boy’s suspicion as he stared at Sebastian. “You don’t mean it.”
“By my word as a gentleman, I do. Walking, but leaning on my arm. Those are the terms of the wager. Do you accept?”
The boy scrutinised the offer, like checking an apple for worms, turning it this way and that. He nodded. “All right. If you mean it.”
“Bad manners to doubt me, boy.”
The boy flushed, but only set his jaw, mulish. He pushed himself up on his good arm, the splinted one held stiffly in a cotton sling across his chest.
He tried to keep the sheet around him as he sat up. An awkward task with only one working arm. Sebastian stepped forward and swiftly gathered the sheet, wrapping it around the boy’s skinny back and tucking it inside itself. He took a grip under the boy’s good arm and helped him to his feet.
“On my arm, remember,” he admonished as the boy made to protest the assistance. “Those were the terms of our wager. It’s even worse manners to break terms than it is to cast doubt.”
The boy muttered something that sounded like, “What do I care for manners,” but he got to his feet, not quite masking his grunt of pain.
Lady Pemberthy flapped around them, hand to her chest, to her cheek, eyes wide and fretful as she pressed them to be careful, go slow. Mrs Ardingly walked on the boy’s other side, ready to catch him if he swooned.
As well he might. He was very weak. Sebastian could feel how he trembled, his knees seeming like they could give way any moment. He heard the sharp breaths the boy took through his nostrils, jaw clenched against the pain. And the arm is his grip… Lord, it might well have been a twig.
But they reached the bath.
“There,” he said. “You did it. I knew you could.”
“Shouldn’t have bet, then. You owe me three pence now, you do.”
“Quite right. And you shall have it.” He looked at Mrs Ardingly over the boy’s head.
She nodded, briskly going to undo the tie he’d made in the sheet and saying, “In you get now, while it’s still warm. Aunt, can you—”
But she cut off, frowning at her aunt behind her. The woman had turned white, hand pressed to her mouth as she saw for the first time the bruises that covered the boy’s body. Tears welled in her eyes, and her chest heaved on a shaky breath.
“Oh the poor boy, the poor, poor boy, how could anyone… I can’t…”
No doubt she’d seen the old weals scarring the boy’s back and buttocks too. Sebastian had seen them last night, the sheet falling as the boy tossed and turned in a nightmare, the pain waking him with a cry. Sebastian had pulled the sheet back over him. “You’re safe,” he’d said. “It’s over.”
The scars were silvery in the daylight. Mrs Ardingly spotted them now too, mouth set in a flat line. She looked from the boy and back to her aunt, who was still staring, horrified, tears on her cheeks. “Aunt…if you’re overcome…” She looked at him. “Can she sit somewhere and wait, another room?”
“Of course.”
The boy had twisted around to look at Lady Pemberthy too, confused by her reaction, and frightened by it. “What is it? What’s wrong with me? Why’s she staring like that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” soothed Mrs Ardingly.
“My aunt isn’t used to seeing bruises such as yours, that is all.
Here, I will help you into the bath.” She came to where Sebastian stood and reached out to replace his grip on the boy’s arm.
“Please take my aunt to another room and get her some tea? I can bathe the boy myself.”
Her voice was brisk, but her eyes were shadowed with concern. She clearly wanted to be in two places at once, helping her aunt, helping the boy, and if she could have found time, she probably would have apologised to him too while doing it all.
How awful, that her charity was encroaching so fully upon his day. And he’d meant to be at his tailors this morning—and the boot makers too.
He nodded, stepping back. “Of course. I’ll just be a moment. And then I’ll come back to help you.”