Under The Mistletoe (10 page)

 

Two minutes passed after the slamming of the door before there came a rustling from the direction of the cold chimney followed by a quiet plop and the appearance of a tiny, ragged, soot-smeared figure among the ashes. After looking cautiously around and stooping for a moment to grub about among the ashes, it stepped gingerly out into the room and revealed itself as a child.

The chimney sweep's boy looked briefly down at the diamond in his hand, a jewel he had mistaken for a shard of glass until he had overheard the conversation of the man and woman. His eyes darted about the room, taking in the door through which the woman had disappeared, and close to which she must have been standing while she was crying and when he had heard the tinkling sound.

She must have thrown the ring they had been talking about. It was just the sort of thing women did when they were in a temper.

His mind tried to narrow the search by guessing in which direction she would have thrown the ring from that particular door. But his wits really did not need sharpening, he saw as soon as he turned his eyes in the direction that seemed most likely. It was lying on the carpet in the open, the light from the window sparkling off the gold band.

What queer coves these rich people were, giving up the search for the diamond after only half an hour, if the woman was to be believed—and the man had not even searched at all. And throwing a gold band set full of precious stones across a room and leaving it lying there on the floor for anyone to take.

The child darted across the room, scooped up the ring, and pulled a dirty rag from somewhere about his person. He stopped when he had one foot back among the ashes, and tied his two treasures securely inside the rag. He must get back to old Thomas. The sweep would be hopping mad by now, and the old excuse of getting lost among the maze of chimneys had been used only three days before.

However, the child thought with a philosophy born of necessity, today's haul would probably be worth every stinging stroke of old Thomas's hand. As long as he did not use his belt. Even the costliest jewel did not seem quite consolation enough for the strappings he sometimes got from the sweep's belt.

The boy had both feet in the grate and was about to pull himself up into the darkness and soot of the chimney when the door through which the lady had disappeared opened abruptly again. He started to cry pitifully.

Estelle, now clad in a morning dress of fine white wool, even though her hair was still about her shoulders in a dark cloud, stopped in amazement.

The child wailed and scrubbed his clenched fists at his eyes.

“What is it?” she said, hurrying across the room to the fireplace and stooping down to have a better look at the apparition standing there. “You must be the chimney sweep's boy. Oh, you poor child.”

The last words were spoken after she had had a good look at the grimy, skeletal frame of the child and the indescribable filth of his person and of his rags. Hair of indeterminate color stood up from his head in stiff and matted spikes. Two muddy tracks flowed from his eyes to his chin. He looked as if he were no older than five or six.

“It's dark up there,” he wailed. “I can't breathe.”

“You shouldn't be climbing chimneys,” she said. “You are just a baby.”

The child sniffed wetly and breathed out on a shuddering sob. “I got lost,” he said. “It's dark up there.”

“Oh, you poor child.” Estelle reached out a hand to touch him, hesitated, and took hold of one thin arm. “Step out here. The ashes will cut your poor feet.”

The boy started to cry in noisy earnest again. “He'll . . . thrash . . . me,” he got out on three separate sobs. “I got lost.”

“He will not thrash you,” Estelle said indignantly, taking hold of the child's other arm with her free hand and helping him step out onto the carpet. He was skin and bones, she thought in some horror. He was just a frightened, half-starved little baby. “He will certainly not thrash you. I shall see to that. What is your name?”

“N-Nicky, missus,” the boy said, and he hung his head and wrapped one skinny leg about the other and sniffed loudly.

“Nicky,” she said, and she reached out and tried to smooth down the hair on top of his head. But it was stiff with dirt. “Nicky, when did you last eat?”

The child began to wail.

“Have you eaten today?” she asked.

He shuffled his shoulders back and forth and swayed on one leg. He muttered something.

“What?” she said gently. She was down on her knees looking into his face. “Have you eaten?”

“I don't know, missus,” he said, his chin buried on his thin chest. And he rubbed the back of his hand over his wet nose.

“Did your master not give you anything to eat this morning?” she asked.

“I ain't to get fat,” he said, and the wails grew to a new crescendo. “I'm so hungry.”

“Oh, you poor, poor child.” There were tears in Estelle's eyes. “Does your mama know that you are kept half-starved? Have you told her?”

“I ain't got no maw.” His sobs occupied the child for several seconds. “I got took from the orphinige, missus.”

“Oh, Nicky.” Estelle laid one gentle hand against his cheek, only half noticing how dirty her hand was already.

“He'll belt me for sure.” The child scratched the back of one leg with the heel of the other foot and scrubbed at his eyes again with his fists. “I got lost. It's dark and I can't get me breath up there.”

“He will not hurt you. You have my word on it.” Estelle straightened up and crossed the room to the bellpull to summon her maid.
“Sit down on the floor, Nicky. I shall see that you have some food inside you, if nothing else. Does he beat you often?”

The child heaved one leftover sob as he sat down cross-legged on the carpet. “No more nor three or four times a day when I'm good,” he said. “But I keep getting lost.”

“Three or four times a day!” she said, and turned to instruct her maid to sit with the child for a few minutes. “I will be back, Nicky, and you shall have some food. I promise.”

Annie looked at the apparition in some disbelief as her mistress disappeared from the room. She sat on the edge of the bed a good twenty feet away from him, and gathered her skirts close about her as if she were afraid that they would brush against a mote of soot floating about in his vicinity.

Estelle swept down the marble stairway to the hall below, her chin high, her jaw set in a firm line. At one glance from her eyes, a footman scurried across the tiles and threw open the doors of his lordship's study without even knocking first. His mistress swept past him and glared at her husband's man of business, who had the misfortune to be closeted with the earl at that particular moment.

“Can I be of service to you, my dear?” his lordship asked, as both men jumped to their feet.

“I wish to speak with you,” she said, continuing her progress across the room until she stood at the window, gazing out at the gray, wintry street beyond. She did not even listen to the hurried leavetaking that the visitor took.

“Was that necessary, Estelle?” her husband's quiet voice asked as the doors of the study closed. “Porter is a busy man and has taken the time to come half across town at my request this morning. Such men have to work for a living. They ought not to be subject to the whims of the aristocracy.”

She turned from the window. She ignored his cold reproof. “Allan,” she said, “there is a child in my bedchamber. A thin, dirty, frightened, and hungry child.”

He frowned. “The sweep's climbing boy?” he said. “But what is he doing there? He has no business being in any room where his master or one of our servants is not. I am sorry. I shall see to it. It will not happen again.”

“He is frightened,” she said. “The chimneys are dark and he cannot breathe. He gets lost up there. And then he is whipped when he gets back to the sweep.”

He took a few steps toward her, his hands clasped behind his
back. “They do not have an enviable lot,” he said. “Poor little urchins.”

“He is like a scarecrow,” she said. “He cannot remember if he has eaten today. But he is not allowed to eat too much for fear he will get fat.”

“They get stuck in the chimneys if they are too fat,” he said, “or too big.”

“He gets beaten three or four times a day, Allan,” she said. “He does not have a mother or father to protect him. He comes from an orphanage.”

He looked at her, his brows drawn together in a frown. “You ought not to be subjected to such painful realities,” he said. “I shall have a word with Stebbins, Estelle. It will not happen again. And I shall see to it that the child is not chastised this time. I'm sorry. You are upset.” He crossed the room to stand a couple of feet in front of her.

She looked up at him. “He is a baby, Allan,” she said. “A frightened, starving little baby.”

He lifted a hand to rest his fingertips against her cheek. “I will have a word with the sweep myself,” he said. “Something will be done, I promise.”

She caught at his hand and nestled her cheek against his palm. “You will do something?” she asked, her dark eyes pleading with him. “You will? You promise? Allan”—her voice became thin and high-pitched—“he is just a little baby.”

“Is he still in your room?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I have promised him food.”

“Have some taken to him, then,” he said. “And keep him there for a while. I will come to you there.”

“You will?” Her eyes were bright with tears, and she turned her head in order to kiss his wrist. “Thank you, Allan. Oh, thank you.”

He held the door of the study open for her, his face as stern and impassive as usual, and summoned a footman with the lift of an eyebrow. He sent the man running in search of the butler and the chimney sweep.

A little more than half an hour later the Earl of Lisle was standing in his wife's bedchamber, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at a tiny bundle of rags and bones huddled over a plate that held nothing except two perfectly clean chicken bones and a few crumbs of bread. The bundle looked up at him with wide and wary eyes. The countess's eyes were also wide, and questioning.

“You are Nicholas?” his lordship asked.

“Nicky, guv'nor,” the child said in a high, piping voice.

“Well, Nicky,” the earl said, looking steadily down at him. “And how would you like to stay here and not have to climb chimneys ever again?”

The boy stared, openmouthed. The countess clasped her hands to her bosom and continued to stare silently at her husband.

“I have talked with Mr. Thomas,” the earl said, “and made arrangements with him. And I have instructed Mrs. Ainsford, the housekeeper, to find employment for you belowstairs. You will live here and be adequately fed and clothed. And you will continue to have employment with me for as long as you wish, provided you do the work assigned to you. You will never be whipped.”

He paused and looked down at the boy, who continued to stare up at him openmouthed.

“Do you have anything to say?” he asked.

“No more chimbleys?” the child asked.

“No more chimneys.”

Nicky's jaw dropped again.

“Does this please you?” the earl asked. “Would you like to be a part of this household?”

“Cor blimey, guv'nor,” the boy said.

Which words the earl interpreted as cautious assent. He assigned his new servant to the tender care of the housekeeper, who was waiting outside the door and who considered that her position in the household was an exalted enough one that she could permit herself a cluck of the tongue and a look tossed at the ceiling before she took the little ragamuffin by the hand and marched him down the back stairs to the kitchen and the large tin bathtub that two maids had been instructed to fill with steaming water.

Estelle smiled dazzlingly at her husband and hurried after them. Her white dress, he noticed, standing and watching her go, his hands still clasped behind his back, was smudged with dirt in several places.

She looked more beautiful even than usual.

 

Estelle was lying in her husband's arms, feeling relaxed and drowsy, but not wanting to give in to sleep. It had been a happy and exciting day and she was reluctant to let it go.

The best part of it was that Allan had come to her after she had gone to bed, for the first time in two weeks. He had said nothing—he
almost never did on such occasions—but he had made slow love to her, his hands and his mouth gentle and arousing, his body coaxing her response and waiting for it. They were good in bed together. They always had been, right back to that first time, when she had been nervous and quite ignorant of what she was to do. Even when there was anger between them, there was always passion too. But too often there was anger, and it always left a bitterness when the body's cravings had been satiated.

It was best of all when there was no anger. And when he held her afterward and did not immediately return to his own room. She liked to fall asleep in his arms, the warmth and the smell of him lulling her.