George bit her lip again and gave another fearful glance into the bedchamber. Her stomach roiled until she thought she was going to cast her account. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her rebellious stomach to subside. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember, but what the bloody hell did it matter? She couldn’t sit here all bleeding night, and if old man Grimm caught her, she’d likely never eat again.
Heart thudding, she gripped the top of the window and gingerly pulled one foot up to the sill. Then, using all her strength, she hauled her body upwards until she was standing – or rather crouching – on her two feet. The branch was tantalisingly close. Gripping the window with one hand, she reached out the other towards the swaying limb. It was no good, she couldn’t reach that far. George inwardly cursed whoever her real parents were for gifting her with nothing but a short arse. She was going to have to jump.
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford sat on a small bench set in a secluded corner of the vicarage garden, Flossy on his knee. Despite the relative warmth of the July day, the little dog was doing her best to burrow underneath his cassock. In the end, with an impatient sigh, the Reverend lifted up the hem and she quickly scooted underneath. What was it about small dogs and even smaller spaces?
He glanced over at the small headstone simply inscribed with a name - Freddy. Surely after three years he shouldn’t still feel the urge to shed unmanly tears whenever he thought about the foxhound? Especially given that Freddy was likely having a high old-time frolicking with the Almighty.
He felt rather than heard Flossy give a contented sigh as she curled into his warmth. In truth, she was a delightful little dog - more his shadow than Freddy had ever been. But the Reverend knew she missed the foxhound too. When she’d first arrived at the vicarage, she’d been wary and skittish after the shenanigans with the King’s Coronation. She’d been Freddy’s shadow then - even sharing the old hound’s basket until early one morning she’d barked and whined until he’d climbed out of his bed to see what on earth was the matter and found his faithful companion stiff and cold.
Freddy had died in his bed, with more years on him than any dog had a right to. But that didn’t make it any easier – for him or Flossy. With another sigh, Reverend Shackleford got carefully to his feet, gently tipping the disgruntled little dog back onto the ground. ‘Come on girl, I reckon it’s time for a bit of Mrs. Tomlinson’s lemon cake.' Giving Freddy’s headstone a small pat, he turned and made his way back towards the kitchen, wondering when Anthony would be back from London.
Despite the years he’d spent desperately trying to get his daughters wed, Augustus Shackleford was surprised to discover that when Prudence finally left, the house was entirely too quiet for his liking. Naturally, he had Agnes to speak to, but his wife rarely had anything to talk about other than her potions and their son’s not-so-impending matrimony. The Reverend had told her several times to leave the man alone. Whether Anthony did or didn’t marry well, they still had eight daughters with wealthy husbands. It was unlikely either of them would end up in the poor house.
Unfortunately, there was no arguing with Agnes once she’d got a bee in her bonnet. It was no wonder Anthony restricted his visits. Still, tonight Percy and Lizzy were coming for supper and since he knew just how much the curate loved it, he’d asked Mrs. Tomlinson to make an extra-large bread-and-butter pudding. As he opened the kitchen door, the Reverend felt a lump rise into his throat.
Bread-and-butter pudding had been Freddy’s favourite.
∞∞∞
In the end, George not only succeeded in escaping with all limbs intact, but she managed to get clear away without alerting her so-called foster family. But that was hours ago and her stomach was now cramping badly. She had to find something to eat. Grimacing, she picked her way through the filthy lanes that comprised the town of Exeter. Fortunately, she didn’t attract any unwanted attention since she was dressed as a boy. - and had been for as long as she could remember. She had no idea whether it was because the Grimms didn’t see the point of buying new cloth when second hand would do, or whether they thought to keep hidden the fact that she was a girl. It didn’t stop the old man’s wandering hands though, and it had become harder and harder to avoid being alone with the bastard.
Grimm wasn’t the family’s real name. It was from a story she’d heard on one of her rare visits to the local Sunday School. Their actual names were Henry and Martha Atkins. They had twin boys John and Frank, both coming up to twelve. Fortunately, they hadn’t yet got past the bullying stage so the worst she’d ever received from them was a thrashing. But she knew that would change soon.
Once her flow started and her bubbies began to develop, old man Grimm had begun to take an interest. It was only a matter of time before his sons followed suit.
George stood at the mouth of an alley overlooking the market square. She’d have to be bloody quick if she didn’t want to end up bummed. She needed to get as far away from Exeter as she could, but if she didn’t eat soon, she’d likely not last a sennight. She sidled towards a fruit and veg stall, only to receive a cuff about the head that sent her to her knees. ‘If’n yer thinkin’ to ‘elp yersen, ye can think agin boy,’ a vicious voice muttered in her ear.
Head ringing, George fought the urge to cast her account for the second time in as many hours and climbed shakily to her feet.So much for freedomshe thought, almost hysterically. At least with the Grimms she had food in her belly. Most people would have said that was worth a quick prigging. But even the thought of being pawed by the fat, filthy, toothless Henry Atkins elicited a terror so acute, it stopped her breath until she felt as though she was choking. She would rather die.
Wincing, she felt the side of her head where the stall owner’s fist had connected. No one was paying her any attention. Cuffing raggedy boys was all in a day’s work after all. Then abruptly, she jumped as a hand was laid on her shoulder. Instinctively, she stepped back to give herself room to flee.
‘Please, don’t run,’ a soft voice pleaded. George stared in bemusement at the finely dressed lady standing in front of her. ‘Are you hungry?’ the woman continued.
Georgiana narrowed her eyes. She’d heard of so-called do-gooders who turned out to be wolves in sheep’s clothing. Recruiting urchins from the streets with the promise of a hot meal and a bed. She took another step back, then paused as the woman began fumbling in her reticule. Would she have time to snatch it and run? George watched in agonised indecision. If she was caught, she’d end up in Devon County Gaol at the very least. More likely hanged.
Before she could make a choice, the lady abruptly drew something from her purse and held out her hand. For a second, George thought she was seeing things. In the woman’s palm lay three guineas.
It was more than George had seen in the whole of her lifetime. Her eyes travelled from the money to the lady’s face in wonder. ‘Take it.’ The voice remained low, but the woman’s manner became nervous, and she began scanning the immediate area around them anxiously.
‘Is it dirty?’ George whispered harshly, staring at the coins as though they might disappear if she took her eyes off them. She felt rather than saw the lady shake her head. When she still didn’t move, the woman gave a frustrated click of her tongue, and grabbed George’s hand, tipping the coins into it before the girl had a chance to snatch her fingers away.
Reflexively closing her fingers over the blunt, Georgiana finally began to stutter her thanks, only to be presented with the strange woman’s back as she quickly strode away.
Catapulted back to the real world from what was surely a fairy tale, she looked round, suddenly aware that she actually held three whole guineas in her hand. Anyone could have spied the transaction and might even now be looking to gift her with a knife to her throat in some filthy alley. Swallowing, her heart thudding like she was just about to jump off a cliff, George shoved the coins into her deepest pocket and ran.
Chapter Two
Percy Noon eyed the huge tray of bread-and-butter pudding with a resigned sigh. In all the years he’d been in Blackmore, he’d never managed to persuade the Reverend that he loathed this particular dessert. But either his superior couldn’t conceive ofanyonenot liking bread-and-butter pudding or had simply never listened. Possibly a little of both.
He glanced over at Lizzy who was biting her lip in an effort to hold in unseemly laughter as she watched the Reverend pile her husband’s bowl high. ‘There you go Percy, lad,’ Augustus Shackleford declared. ‘There’s always more once you’ve managed that lot.’
He handed the bowl to Lizzy to pass on. ‘There you go love, ’ave at it,’ she murmured, placing the mountain in front of Percy. Observing his bilious face, she fought back a chuckle and handed him the large jug of custard.
Sighing, the curate poured a liberal helping over the top and reluctantly picked up his spoon. A small whine from next to his chair caught his attention after the first mouthful. Flossy sat gazing at him adoringly, her small tail wagging. The curate grinned down at her. ‘Don’t worry girl, there’ll be plenty left,’ he muttered.
Taking another miniscule spoonful, Percy turned towards the Reverend who was tucking enthusiastically into his own pudding. ‘Have you heard from Anthony?’
