Chapter 19-Margaret #2
This statement was met with a deep frown and consternation. It wasn’t a good neighborhood by any stretch of the imagination. A silent compromise was reached—one of the footmen would walk behind her, alongside her maid, for protection.
Margaret set off down the street at a quick pace, admiring the speed with which the new building was being erected. Even in the time she’d been inside the orphanage, the wall had grown measurably taller. One of the boys she recognized spotted her; he grinned and gave a hearty wave.
Margaret nodded back and wondered at his neat appearance.
He wore a pair of sturdy new boots and a set of clothes that, except for the dust of his current duties, appeared relatively clean.
She sought out the other boy and found him in the same condition.
Perhaps the new patron had extended his generosity to the boys personally; she could think of no other explanation.
She passed the largest section of wall, the one that faced the street adjacent to the current orphanage.
Margaret was pleased and a bit amazed to see the number of windowsills that had already been blocked off.
Glazing was seen as a rare luxury in this part of town—the idea of giving such a building to orphans would raise many an eyebrow.
Margaret turned the corner. She was now to the rear of the church and the current orphanage, but the new building spanned the width of the entire block.
From Mrs. Fuller’s raptures, Margaret knew that there was to be a large courtyard kitchen garden, with a greenhouse tucked in the corner.
It was their new patron’s desire that no child would leave the walls of St. Alban’s without learning some sort of trade or skill that could assist them in finding employment.
Margaret shook her head, half in amazement that a man of such vision and generosity had happened across St. Alban’s, half in regret that she hadn’t been able to do more herself.
It was a persistent problem—the lack of a solid future available to these children—but one that had been out of her reach to solve.
Margaret walked to the end of the building and inspected the corner.
She was just about to turn back when a small snuffling noise caught her attention.
Tucked into the shade of the half-built wall behind some construction rubble was a small brown dog.
He was thin, his ribs visible beneath his matted, grimy fur.
Everything about the dog should have repulsed her, but for some reason, Margaret was compelled to draw closer. Then his large brown eyes met hers. His tail thumped, raising a plume of dust. She was done for.
“Do you belong to someone?” she murmured.
Even as she asked, she could see the truth of it—the little dog was a stray. Strays were often vicious, dangerous creatures, but there was no warning growl, no baring of teeth. Margaret squatted and reached out her hand.
The little dog limped forward, his head lowered as if her kindness might be a trick, his tail wagging in restrained hope. When her gloved hand finally slid gently over his fur, his tail wagged a quicker tempo—gone from andante to allegro in a moment.
“You’re a very nice boy,” she crooned lowly. For he was a boy—a sweet boy with a scar above his eye and a missing foreleg. “That explains the limp, doesn’t it?”
Margaret made her decision in a moment. Before she’d even realized she meant to, she’d scooped the dog up. The thing sniffed at her cheek, then licked her chin. He smelled dreadful, as if he’d been rolling in the collective muck of the neighborhood.
“Quiet now,” she murmured. “I’ve no idea how I’m going to sneak you into the house, but you’re coming home with me.”
She stood holding her rather unwieldy parcel and frowned.
Though her brother William hadn’t expressly forbidden her getting a dog, neither had he approved it.
Knowing him, even if he had, he would have chosen a dog with excellent pedigree and appearance.
William had grown a taste for luxury in all its forms. Though he was generosity personified, Margaret privately suspected him to be a bit of a snob.
“You smell like rotten cabbages,” she said.
The dog just opened his mouth and panted his terrible breath in her face, his tail wagging.
Though William had not yet denied her or her sisters anything they’d requested, Margaret thought that she would have much better luck presenting a dog that was clean and brushed, rather than this grime-encrusted specimen. The missing leg couldn’t be prevented, but perhaps she could—
“Margaret?”
She jerked and accidentally squeezed the dog, who grunted his displeasure. The deep, accented voice could only belong to one person. Margaret flicked the edge of her cape over the dog before turning.
Ettrick stood smiling down at her. “What are you doing, mo ghrian?”
“Nothing at all,” she said, all too quickly. She felt irrationally guilty; heat colored her cheeks.
“What do you have there?”
“Nothing.” It was a blatant lie and they both knew it. The dog was small, but large enough to make a substantial bulge beneath her fine worsted wool. Besides, the thing was wiggling.
Callum didn’t seem at all disturbed by her false denial. If anything, he appeared amused. His eyes brightened and the corners of his soft lips tipped upward into a smile. Even though her blush deepened, Margaret stared him down as if daring him to contradict her.
There were a few moments of silence during which they stood gripped in the ridiculous standoff. It was soon broken by the snuffling appearance of a nose from beneath her cloak.
“Is that a dog?”
“Certainly not,” Margaret said, trying to wrestle the animal back beneath the safety of her cloak.
Callum reached forward and flicked back the edge. Margaret huffed and scowled.
If he noticed her umbrage, he ignored it. Instead, Callum grinned. “Doubtless, you’re surprised to find such a creature hiding in your cloak.”
“Terrified,” she agreed.
“I would be willing to relieve you of your unwanted burden…”
He reached out as if to take the dog; Margaret spun to put more distance between them and frowned. Callum laughed so loudly that several of the workmen’s heads turned.
“I certainly didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “Who’s this fellow?”
As always, the warm swoops of his accent fiddled with her ability to think sharply. The sound of his voice was like one of those sleeping draughts from the doctor—Margaret could still hear and see, but everything came through a bit slower, a bit fuzzier.
“I’m not sure,” she replied lamely.
“May I see him?” Callum reached out and gently took the dog from her. Margaret wrinkled her nose—how had he done that? She certainly hadn’t meant to hand him over.
“Poor wee chap,” he said, cradling the dog to his chest and examining his missing foreleg.
Callum didn’t seem to care at all that the dog was most likely covered in vermin. He probably already has fleas, Margaret thought irritably, her eyes narrowed. Perhaps his are lonely and they’re looking for company.
Of course she didn’t truly believe her own thoughts—Callum was well groomed and dressed in fine quality clothes, and he always smelled very nice indeed.
He didn’t strike her as the type of dandy who spent hours at the perfumier’s, but rather the kind of man who’d made one fine selection several years ago and never thought about his aftershave again.