“Don’t celebrate yet,” he warned her. “I’ve never washed proper dishes.”
She frowned at his word choice. “What does that mean? You previously washed improper dishes? Makeshift items no one could reasonably mistake for plates and bowls? Or that you’ve never taken a cloth to a piece of porcelain in your life?”
“Yes,” he answered, then changed the subject. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing when I arrived. Were you working on a new play?”
“Answering advice letters,” she said with a rueful sigh. “They’re the only people willing to pay me for my words. Unfortunately, that only buys paper, pencils, and postage.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You mentioned Quentin has a trust…”
“And he gives me an allowance from it. My pin money covers my clothing and anything else I might need.”
“Does it?” Jacob said with skepticism. “And is the money really agift if you work as maid and cook and nanny and tutor and probably valet as well?”
She pressed her lips together. “Would I like to receive all those salaries? Of course. Who wouldn’t? But Quentin’s quarterly dividends aren’t nearly the sum you must be imagining. If he could afford to hire staff, he would. We wouldn’t be livinghere. As soon I sell a play and establish a solid career for myself…”
Jacob held his tongue. He wondered how long she’d been telling herself that recognition and riches—or at least a living wage that allowed her a full night’s sleep once in a while—were right around the corner. Probably for years. Maybe her whole life. And here she was. Living here. Like this. Somehow still confident and hopeful.
“Iwillsell a play,” Vivian said hotly, as though she could read Jacob’s mind. “But… it’s impossible to predict when that might be. In the meantime, I hope Quentin returns before the rent is due.”
Jacob looked at her sharply. “You can’t pay your rent?”
“With what I earn answering anonymous letters sent to the newspaper? Either you have no idea how much rents cost, or you vastly overestimate how periodicals compensate their contributors.”
Probably both were true. Jacob had never paid rent. He didn’t have a house the first several years of his life, then moved in with Baron Vanderbean, who had built the Wynchester siblings’ Islington residence months before they had become a family.
Jacob’s only experiences with earning money were a circus that had paid almost nothing, his failed publishing attempts as Mr. Wynchester, and his subsequent career as Jallow, which had rocketed far beyond his wildest dreams.
He was embarrassed to admit that although he’d meant it when he’d said Vivian should earn the wages of maid and cook and governess and any other roles she provided, Jacob actually hadn’t the least notion what those positions might earn. He wasn’t even certain ifChloe still managed the Wynchester family’s books, or if she’d passed the task on to someone else.
WouldVivian’s newspaper income be enough to afford a small room of her own? Probably not. Servants lived with the families they served for a reason. Without her cousin’s trust money, Vivian would either be out on the streets or toiling just as much as she did now for some other wealthy employer. Either way, there would be no free time for penning plays.
“I can cover the cost of your—” he began.
“Quentin would never allow me to be evicted,” Vivian said. “He’ll show up any day now.”
Jacob hoped so.
Then again, Quentin hadn’t made any attempt to communicate with his increasingly worried cousin. Jacob’s siblings frequently traveled far and wide on a moment’s notice for many of their justice missions, but they wouldneverdisappear for days without a word.
The lad was either pathologically self-centered and incredibly inconsiderate… or something else was going on.
Jacob had never hoped harder for a lad to bear the personality traits of young and thoughtless.
“How did it go at the meeting last night?” Vivian asked.
He couldn’t hide the grin that threatened to take over his face. “I faced my fears.”
“And lived to tell the tale!” She clapped her hands. “Well done.”
“You might give decent advice once in a while,” he teased.
“Why don’t you let me read some of your work? I’m a playwright, not a poet, but I can spot talent a mile away.”
“No, thank you,” he said hastily.
He’d known the Dreamers Guild for years, and Vivian for less than a fortnight. If Jacob wasn’t yet ready to tell his siblings, he certainly wasn’t going to divulge his second identity to a client. Muchless the world at large. Not when a secret that big would turn his life—and half of England—upside down.
“I’m not so scary,” she coaxed.
