I was home from school, trying to keep out of my stepmother’s way. Lizzie followed me into the woods one day. Pushed me up against the nearest tree and kissed me, took my hand and slid it beneath her skirts…
The girl must have felt my eyes upon her. ‘I’m not for sale,’ she warned, glaring at me.
‘I’ve no interest in hiring you, hussy!’ I snapped back, annoyed by her cheek.
She raised an eyebrow, gaze dropping to my breeches. ‘Then you should tell your cock, sir,’ she muttered, and turned back to the fire. A couple of men at the nearest table sniggered into their coffee bowls.
‘Kitty Sparks…’ Mrs Bradshaw tutted, bustling me away from the girl towards a seat near the window. ‘I do apologise, Mr Hawkins.’
I laughed and shook my head; she had caught me fair and square. ‘Moll would hire her in a flash, would she not?’
‘Aye, she might. But she’d have to slit my throat first.’ There was a hard tone to her voice; had Moll really told her I was a gentleman and left it at that? A sin of omission if ever I’d heard one.
Once I was settled, Mrs Bradshaw eased herself down into a chair by the door, resting her feet on a low footstool. A clever spot, where she could keep watch on her customers and still observe all the comings and goings on the stairwell. She took up a half-made quilted cap and began stitching with a neat, practised air, casting glances into the passage beyond whenever someone walked by. When Benjamin – Gilbert Hand’s boy – came by with paper and ink for my letter, she watched us sharply from beneath lowered lids, never missing a stitch.
I had just begun my letter to Charles when Kitty appeared with my coffee, slopping half of it upon the table. She mopped it up with her apron, cursing to herself. She was younger than I had first thought, eighteen at most, with a pale complexion and freckles all across her face and arms, as if God had flung them at her in a rage. I smiled at her and she responded with a complicated look, as if to say – what the devil have you to smile about?
I leaned back in my chair. Her ill-humour was intriguing, like the sharp tang of lemon in a syllabub. ‘Tell me. Are the rooms above us here for prisoners?’
‘This is the Oak ward.’ She shifted her weight to one leg; the familiar tilt of a girl humouring a man against her wishes. ‘This floor and the two above us. The women’s quarters are on the next landing.’
‘Indeed…’ Several delicious, indiscreet questions began to form in my mind.
