Chapter 5- Callum
Though St. Alban’s Home for Children was old and worn, it was tidy compared to the dismal neighborhood that surrounded it.
Workmen were in the midst of attacking the faded yellow facade with wire brushes.
Chips of the peeling paint littered the ground; it appeared the orphanage was molting.
The building leaned toward the next-door church as if trying to claim some relation, attempting to avoid being lumped in with the rollicking pub on its other side.
Callum stood against the single intrepid tree that had managed to survive in this environment.
Though ostensibly his attention was on the orphanage across the street, he kept an eye on the band of boys who were eyeing him right back.
The quality of Callum’s clothing was several degrees from the norm.
It singled him out as a man of fortune, as a potential mark for mischief—or worse.
Callum had taken a hackney across town, gritting his teeth as he checked his pocket watch.
Traffic had been abysmal—a cart had broken its axle and dumped a load of cabbages into a main thoroughfare.
The cart driver had been screaming at another fellow while his cart horse blinked patiently in the sunshine.
Probably the beast was used to such displays.
By the time the hackney driver found another route, it was nearly an hour past the time for luncheon.
Callum had gotten out anyway, though his hope in doing so was now proving to be in vain.
Not a single child had exited the building; they were all out on the street already.
Half an hour later, Callum regretted sending his cab away.
His time would have been better used reading the last few pages of the diary.
“Whatchoo want here?” one of the boys asked.
His face was smudged with dirt; his red hair hung in overlong tufts beneath his ragged cap.
Callum frowned; he hadn’t realized the little urchin had gotten so close. He pressed a protective hand to his chest, reassuring himself that the diary was still in place. The boy’s eyes latched on to the movement with avarice.
The rest of the boys hung back in a group; the boy with the red hair was obviously their elected representative.
Callum nodded at the orphanage. “Do you know the place?”
A bony shoulder jerked in response. “What’s it worth to you?”
He couldn’t help but smiling. Things were the same everywhere. Give this boy a different accent, and he would fit in nicely in the slums of Edinburgh.
“Not much, to be honest,” Callum said. He arched an eyebrow. “Not for an answer to that question, at least.”
A flicker of interest lit the red-headed boy’s eyes. The other boys slunk closer. They’d all heard the unspoken promise of coin, should right question be answered.
“I know the place.” The boy slicked a hand beneath his damp nose; Callum did his best not to grimace. “I eat there twice a day, stay there at night.”
“You fellows, too?” Callum asked, addressing the other three boys who stalked ever closer.
“Sure,” one said. “What’s it to you?”
The four boys were cut from the same cloth.
Or rather, they were cut from the same hodge-podge of cloth.
None of their clothes fit well, and they all had that half-starved look about them.
Not that it was the orphanage’s fault. They were all at the age of endless hunger and growth spurts.
Callum had looked much the same at that age, and his parents’ table had been plentiful.
“You boys are old enough for work, so why are you hanging about here?” he asked.
One of them scowled; two of them shrugged. The other jabbed his worn boot into the street and avoided Callum’s eyes.
“Aint that easy finding work,” the scowling boy argued. “Can’t get no apprenticeship without parents, nohow.”
Callum nodded. He reached into his pocket. Four sets of eyes lit with hopeful expressions; four faces looked disappointed when he pulled out a silver card case.
“If you want work, go to the servants’ entrance of this address. Ask for Geoffrey.” Callum held out four cards; three were snatched from his hand. He met the eyes of the scowling redhead who hadn’t taken a card. “You don’t want work?”
“I know what it means when a gentleman tells a boy to come to his house.”
“That he’s looking for a stable boy?” Callum said lightly. He shook his head. “Take it or not, it’s your choice.”
“Do you truly have horses?” One of the boys peered down at the card. He was holding it upside down; Callum suddenly wondered whether he could read.
“I do,” he said, then rattled off his address.
“Prime address, Berkeley Square,” the boy said. “What’re you doing hanging in this part? Driver get confused and drop you off at St. Alban’s by mistake?”
He laughed uproariously at his own joke until one of his cohorts jabbed him in the middle.
“Your suspicious friend is right on one count,” he said. “I didn’t come here looking for stable hands. I have ulterior motives.”
All the boys took a step back, and Callum wondered what on earth the world was coming to. “I want to ask about the lady who brings the stew.”
“Oh, Stephen’s in looove with Miss Margaret,” one of the boys crooned with a mocking lilt.
“Am not,” the boy with red hair said, too quickly and sharply to be anything but a lie.
Margaret, Callum thought.
Finally, he had a name. It was a beautiful name, from beginning to end, but it wouldn’t be hers for long. Not if he had his way of things. For—knowing what he knew now—he hoped people would call her the Duchess of Ettrick soon enough.
“You really going to hire us?” one of the others said, his head tilted.
“That depends on whether you’re really willing to work.”
“It’s too good to be true.” Stephen, the redhead, scowled. “Don’t fall for it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Callum said.
“I’m offering fair pay for long hours of work.
Room and board, nicer than what you have now.
But there are strings attached—you have to wake up at dawn, be respectful, keep yourself clean.
You have to not get angry when the head groomsmen tells you you’ve done something wrong. You have to learn. You have to work.”
“That’s all?”
Callum leaned forward. “Here’s the secret to life, boys.
I came here and held out four cards. One of you won’t even take it from my hand.
Too suspicious; thinks it will never work, that it’s all lies.
Of the three of you, maybe two will bother to show up and ask for a job.
And of those two, maybe one will be willing to work, day in and day out, for a better life.
It takes patience and hard work, and those are two things that most people aren’t willing to give. ”
Callum was still holding out the fourth card. At his words, Stephen snatched it from his hand, still scowling.
He read it and his eyebrows rose. “Are you really a duke?”
The other boys’ eyes went wide at his words. One of them jabbed the other in the stomach preemptively, as if to shut him up before he started talking.
“You can read?” Callum’s head tilted.
“My ma taught me.” There was a wealth of pain in Stephen’s words.
“I see. About Miss Margaret…” Callum said.
“What do you want with her?”
The boy seemed on the precipice of bolting.
His eyes shifted from Callum to down the street and back again as if judging the distance he’d need to run before he escaped.
Callum felt a sudden wellspring of desperation surge within him.
Aside from the detail of St. Alban’s—and now the name Margaret—he had very little tangible evidence to go on.
And how many Margarets were there in London?
“Look, I don’t mean to hurt her. I think I love her, you see.” Callum blurted the first honest thing that sprung into his mind that might convince or shock the boy into staying. “I just need to know what she looks like.”
The boy frowned, his smudged nose dipping with the expression. “How can you love someone you haven’t even seen?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous.” Callum frowned. “We’ve been writing to each other—secret penpals. I’ve been looking for her for years.”
It was a strange mixture of truth and lies. He had been looking for a woman he wanted to make his wife, so that part was true. And this Miss Margaret had been writing letters, though she certainly hadn’t intended upon Callum being the recipient.
If he were being honest, Callum didn’t know why he’d told the boy his feelings about her in the first place.
Perhaps it was because he longed to confess to somebody, anybody.
He felt as if the last few days had been the most monumental of his life.
Yet there was no outward change, no mark of the transformation that had taken place.
Stephen scowled. “And what do you plan to do, once you’ve met her?”
Callum shrugged. “Marry her, if she’ll have me.”
“You’re from Scotland,” he accused.
Callum nodded his agreement. lt wasn’t something he could hide, not the moment he spoke to someone, at least.
Stephen thought for long moments, then tilted his head. “How much is the information worth to you, then?”
He dug in his waistcoat and came up with a sovereign. The other boys gasped.
Stephen’s eyebrows flew upward; he held out his hand. “Mighty generous of you.”
Callum held the coin just out of reach. “The information first. Then payment.”
Just then, the door to the neighboring church creaked open. A thin woman emerged and paused upon the crooked steps, blinking for several moments in the sunshine.
“That’s her. That’s Miss Margaret,” Stephen said, snatching the coin from Callum’s fingers and darting away.
Callum didn’t care that the boy and his cohorts left so suddenly.
He stared at the woman. She was a bit older than he’d expected, perhaps thirty or so years of age.
Her dark brown hair was pulled back severely against her head.
Her dress was of fine make, though it had been mended many times.
She was exceedingly plain in both face and figure, her narrow lips drawn downward in a deep frown.
Callum didn’t care. He started across the street, his heart pounding.
It’s happening, he thought. I’m going to meet her.
When he got close enough, the woman blinked up at him in alarm. She pulled her wrap more closely about her shoulders.
“Miss Margaret?” he asked lamely.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Callum frowned. “Pardon me, Miss…?”
“It’s Mrs., sir. Mrs. Cooper.”
Callum’s heart sank. She was married already. “My apologies.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you, sir?” The woman glanced about nervously, as if this might be some sort of a trick.
“Apologies. It’s just—I found something of yours. A journal.” Callum dug in his pocket and presented the small book.
The woman stepped back, frowning as if she found the journal objectionable. “That’s not mine, sir. I have no journal.”
He frowned. “But you are Margaret, are you not?”
“Of course not, sir. My name’s Martha. Martha Cooper.”
“My mistake,” he said, tucking the book back into his pocket. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
Callum turned and scanned the street, frowning, but of course the redheaded boy was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone and taken Callum’s sovereign with him.
All the way home, Callum cursed himself for a fool. He never should have believed those boys. He’d known better, even as he’d handed over the coin. But the way they’d played him, so skillfully, so quickly…
He loves Miss Margaret, the one boy had crooned. And the other—the thief—had blushed red to the roots of his ginger hair. How had they come up with such a gambit on the spot?
Then again, necessity was the mother of invention, and Callum had been wearing his heart on his sleeve. He’d been too anxious, too eager. Perhaps if he’d played his role as a bit more aloof, he might be in possession of the information he desired even now.
Then again, what if the first boy had been telling the truth, and the thief was the only one who’d lied? If the boy fancied himself in love with this Miss Margaret, he’d had no incentive to tell Callum the truth, no matter how many gold coins Callum waved under his nose.
Callum narrowed his eyes. Miss Margaret, where are you?