The Torn Wing (23 page)

Shamus propped his hands on his skinny hips and stared down at Johnny. “We’ll never get him through the tunnels on a stretcher.” He raised his eyes to Tiki. “We can’t take him through the station.”

“We have to get him out of here,” she replied. “He’ll die if we don’t.”

Fiona let out a little cry of despair.

Shamus bent down and slid his hands under Johnny’s armpits. He grunted as he lifted the boy’s dead weight. “I’m just goin’ta carry ‘im.” He slung Johnny over his shoulder like a bag of flour. Johnny groaned as he dangled over Shamus’ back.

Fiona scrambled to the back door and held it open so Shamus could pass through, then followed behind Tiki. Once they were out in the alley, Tiki ran ahead to the wagon and spread the three blankets out on the floor.

“Catch his head, Fi.” Shamus lowered the boy to the wooden floor of the wagon. Fiona climbed into the wagon and caught the back of Johnny’s head, supporting his neck and shoulders as Shamus set him down.

Once Johnny was settled, Shamus wiped his hands on his pants and looked at Tiki. “Where to now?”

“We’ve got to take him to hospital,” Fi said. “St. Thomas’ just opened last year ‘cross from the Houses of Parliament down in Westminster or there are a load of surgeons up on Harley Street.”

Tiki pressed her lips together. “We can’t take him to a surgeon, Fi.”

Fiona’s mouth dropped open. “But why not? You said—”

“I’ve had a chance to see the wounds better now. I’m afraid a surgeon would cut off his leg.” She lifted her head. “Then he wouldn’t have a prayer of surviving,” she finished in a whisper.

Fiona covered her mouth with her hands as tears cascaded down her cheeks. Shamus gave a slow nod of agreement.

“I think you’re right, Teek.”

Tiki grabbed hold of the edge of the door and pulled herself into the wagon with Fiona.

“Take us to back to Grosvenor Square.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

A
s soon as they arrived, Tiki and Fiona dashed into the stall in the coach house and changed back to their dresses, gasping as they washed their faces with cold water from the horse’s trough. Tiki left her hair in a long braid and ran into the house to look for Mrs. Bosworth.

“I remember that Johnny chap. He enjoyed my sausage and biscuits,” Mrs. B. said as she rubbed her hands on a dish towel. Tiki feared ashes still clung to her face, but if they did, Mrs. Bosworth gave no sign of noticing them. “A charmer, that one. I think he had his eye on Fiona when he visited.” Two dimples appeared in Mrs. B.’s cheeks, making her look younger, as she winked at Tiki. “Goin’ta be a handsome sort one day, wouldn’t you agree?”

“He’s had an accident, Mrs. B…” Tiki faltered, trying to think of her cover story. “I think he was hit by a carriage over on the Strand. He’s got some awful cuts on his leg that need tending.”

Mrs. Bosworth dropped the towel on the counter and bustled out of the kitchen. “Can he walk?”

“No.” Tiki followed behind in the big woman’s wake. “He’s ah…asleep.”

Mrs. Bosworth shot Tiki a look over her shoulder. “It sounds like it’s a good thing Clara is upstairs taking a nap. I don’t think she needs to see this.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Tiki murmured. “I think Shamus can carry him to a bedroom, though.”

“Put him upstairs in the guest room on the third floor. Juliette!” Mrs. B. called to the house maid who was dusting in the entry foyer. “Run upstairs and pull down the covers on the bed in the blue room.” Her voice took on a determined tone. “We’ve got a patient.” Mrs. B. whirled to face Tiki. “Where is he?”

Taken aback at her take-charge attitude Tiki pointed toward the coach house then followed her outside.

“Let me take a look,” Mrs. B. said, brushing Fiona and Shamus aside. The housekeeper leaned into the back of the Binder’s wagon, as if a bakery wagon in the coach house was an everyday occurrence. She placed her reddened, rough hand on Johnny’s forehead and smoothed his hair back from his face. “He’s burnin’ up.” She sized up Shamus’ skinny frame. “You sure you can haul him up to the third floor? Geoffrey can help, if you need it.”

“I can do it,” Shamus said.

“Take his boots off here,” Mrs. B. said, reaching over to untie the dirty boots that had holes worn through the soles. She sniffed. “And take everything else off without making him indecent. He needs a bath.” She ran her hand over his cheek. “We need to get that fever down.”

JULIETTE TOOK AN armload of clean blankets upstairs while Mrs. B. helped cut the legs of Johnny’s pants away. She pointed to his wounded leg. “Who wrapped this?”

“I did,” Tiki replied.

“Fine job, you did,” she said with a nod. “What’s it look like underneath?”

Tiki explained about the size and depth of the cuts, motioning with her hands. “The edges are very red and it seems to be bleeding a lot.”

Mrs. Bosworth stopped her bustling and gave Tiki a steady look. “Does the boy need a surgeon?”

Tiki’s eyes darted to Shamus’s before returning to the older woman’s face. “I think they’d take his leg, M’am,” she said softly.

Mr. Bosworth hovered near the bakery wagon now, watching his wife work, as did Geoffrey, Rieker’s driver.

There was only a split-second of hesitation before Mrs. Bos-worth gave a sharp nod. “Then we’ll need to stitch it,” the older woman said in a determined tone.

Fiona gasped, wringing her skirt between her hands. “
Stitch
it?”

“No different than stitching a piece of fabric.” Mrs. B. shot a look at Fiona out of the corner of her eyes. “You’d probably be the best one to do it.”

“No!” Fiona cried. “I could never—”

“You could and you would if you had to,” Mrs. B. said, waving a finger at the girl to cut her off. “Have more confidence in yourself, Fiona, you’re a survivor, girl. You can do anything.”

A small, satisfied grin creased Shamus’ thin face and he nudged Fiona in the back.

Mrs. Bosworth started barking out orders. “We’re going to need some clean cloth strips to wrap his leg after we get done stitching it up. Juliette—” she pointed toward the housemaid who had just returned. “Get to work. We’ll meet you upstairs.”

“Yes, mum,” Juliette said with a bob and raced back inside.

“Mr. Bosworth,” she turned and pointed a finger at her husband, “set a kettle to boilin’ —we’re goin’ta need hot water. Fiona, thread a darning needle with your stoutest thread and meet us upstairs. Miss Tara, you go find some soap and towels so we can clean this boy up.” Mrs. B. looked down at Johnny, her face softening. “He stinks somethin’ awful.”

IT TOOK ALMOST two hours to clean Johnny up. Fiona and Shamus waited in the hallway while Tiki and Mrs. Bosworth tended to his injury.

Mrs. B. had enough foresight to put a heavy quilt, along with several thick towels, underneath the boy as they worked on him, with the plan to roll him over and gently pulled the blood-soaked blanket and towels clear when they were finished.

Tiki watched in fascination as Mrs. B. rinsed the wounds, then doused them with whiskey. Johnny woke up with a scream then, but it wasn’t long before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slept again. The stitching was exactly like stitching two pieces of fabric together—looping back and forth between the two pieces of skin and pulling them tight between each stitch. The older woman never flinched once. When Mrs. B. was done, three neat seams stretched along the top of Johnny’s skinny leg.

“I’ve been caring for people practically since I could walk,” she said. “Raised four boys of my own before I lost them to the typhoid. It’s what I’m best at.”

With Tiki’s help, she re-wrapped the wounds. She was surprised that Mrs. B. never questioned Johnny’s ragged state. It was as if she took poor street children under her wing every day.

When they were finally done, Johnny was clean, his leg tightly stitched and wrapped in white bandages. For the moment, it appeared the combination of stitching and wrapping had stopped the bleeding. Mrs. Bosworth pushed off the edge of the bed with a tired sigh and brushed several strands of gray hair away from her face with the back of her hand. She reached down and smoothed the hair away from Johnny’s forehead.

“We’ve done what we can for now. Let him sleep and we’ll check on him every hour or so. By the looks of it, we’re going to need to get some food in him right away, but we’ll let him rest for a bit.”

When Tiki tried to thank Mrs. Bosworth for her help, the older woman put her rough hand along Tiki’s cheek. “I’ve seen what you’ve done for my William.” Her blue eyes got misty. “I know ‘twas you who brought my boy back from a living death.” Her hand dropped to Tiki’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m glad to repay the kindness.”

THE NEXT DAY Johnny awakened long enough for Fiona to get some hot broth in him and he promptly fell back to sleep. He was still fighting a fever and hadn’t even asked where he was.

They took turns running upstairs to check on him, though Fiona volunteered most often. In the meantime, Tiki and Fiona played a game of chess in the parlor, though neither could really pay attention to the game. Fiona was worried about Johnny and Tiki couldn’t stop thinking about Rieker. It was a relief when Mr. Bosworth interrupted to announce a visitor.

“A seamstress?” Fiona repeated. “What on earth is a seamstress doing here?”

“S’pose she’s got the wrong address.” Tiki shrugged, staring glumly at the black king and imagining Donegal sitting on his throne arguing with Larkin. The visitor entered the room carrying a large bag.

“Mistress Dunbar?” She was an older woman, past her childbearing years. Curly gray strands of hair escaped from the bonnet she wore on her head. Her eyes and skin were as washed out as the dress she wore, an air of exhaustion hanging around her like a cloak. “I’m Mrs. Emerson. Here to fit your gown today.” She made an awkward attempt at a curtsy, the crack of her knees loud across the room.

“A gown?” Fiona said, looking at Tiki with wide eyes. “Whatever for?”

Tiki stood up. “I have no idea.”

The woman flopped the bag over the edge of a chair and was busy pulling the garment from inside. “Mr. William Richmond hired me several days ago. Rush job, it were. Had to be completed by next Friday.”

Tiki sucked her breath in. She’d completely forgotten about the party to which Arthur had invited them.

“Another ball—” Fiona’s wistful words died off in a gasp as Mrs. Emerson held the gown up for them to see. The fabric was a stunning shade of emerald green, exactly the color of Tiki’s eyes. The sheen of the fabric seemed to glow in the lamplight. Gold ruffles swept the front of the dress and anchored on each side with elegant red roses. The wide neckline was embroidered in gold with sequins and beads that twinkled in the light, almost as if the dress itself was pleased with the surprise.

The older woman held the dress up. “You’ll have to try it on, Miss, for me to measure it properly.”

Tiki stood rooted to the spot. Had Rieker bought this beautiful gown for her?

“Teek.” Fiona shoved her from behind. “You have to put it on.”

As if awoken from a stupor Tiki hurried forward. “Of course, of course. I’ll need my shoes—”

“Ohp,” the woman clucked, reaching for her bag with one hand. “The young master sent matching shoes as well.” She dug around and eventually produced a pair of shoes made of the same satin fabric as the dress, embossed with gold ruffles and a single red rose.

“Fer the love of Pete,” Fiona whispered, turning one of the beautiful shoes over and around in her hands. “I’ve never seen shoes so fancy.” She ran a finger along the side of the shoe, tracing the gold. “Have you, Teek?”

“Never,” Tiki said in a whisper.

“If you please, Miss….”

“Yes, of course.” Tiki’s hands were shaking. She’d never owned a dress so fine. Not one that was actually meant to be hers. “Fiona, could you help me, please?”

THE ACTUAL MEASURING didn’t take long. Mrs. Emerson had been a seamstress for many years and was quick and efficient. She exited, promising to return by Friday with the finished gown.

“Oh Tiki,” Fiona cried after the woman had left. She held the skirt of her own well-worn dress out and twirled around the room. “Another ball.”

“I think it’s just a party, Fi.”

“Will you talk to Prince Leo and Prince Arthur again?” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “And this time we won’t even have to sneak you in.” She giggled and fell backwards over the arm of the sofa to stretch out across the cushions. Her voice was heavy with longing. “I wonder what it would be like to go to a ball.”

A twinge of guilt coursed through Tiki. Fiona had saved her when she was homeless, starving and without a shilling to her name. Fi had shown her how to pick pockets to survive, and along with Shamus, had invited her to live with them in Charing Cross. It wasn’t a stretch to say she had saved Tiki’s life.

“Did you see the ruffles on that dress?” Fiona sighed again. “They shone as if they were spun from real gold.”

Tiki was only a year older than Fiona, yet, because of a moment of sheer lunacy when she’d stolen the Queen’s ring, she had already attended a masked ball at Buckingham Palace and had actually met the Queen of England. Now she had the opportunity to attend another party with the royals—this time as an invited guest. Would she be as gracious if it were Fiona attending instead of her?