“Surely, you gentlemen are not going to put a sick child inprison,” she pleaded, putting on her best miss-of-Mayfair act, which was admittedly out of place in the doorway of crumbling 21 Halston Place.
“Not us,” grunted the short one. “Tis the order of the grocer and the clothier—they needs paying.”
“I think there has been a terrible mistake,” Catherine protested, angling her body to block the doorway, “because our account is not yet past due.”
“Nice ’un, miss,” the short man responded. “But we ’ave it on good authority that the misses and the little baronet at number 21 ’alston Place are to be taken to Marshalsea until the paying of their debts.”
“Good fellows,” she tried again, her mind working as they tried to muscle past her. They weren’t so callous as to bowl her out of the way completely—a promising sign. “Surely, we can come to a civilized agreement. My aunt…” Lady Wethersby wasn’t her aunt, really, but, in these situations, she simplified “…will have the money soon. She has a sick child and has spent her funds physicking him.”
The tall man remained impassive. The short one stuck his head farther into the house, inserting his greasy crown into the space between her elbow and her hip. From most other men in London, the gesture would have been lascivious, but Catherine suspected that the only thing that raised this man’s pulse was the clink of coin falling into his hand.
Nevertheless, she rearranged herself roughly in the doorway, forcing the short man to pull back.
“If boy’s sick, where is ’e?”
Catherine took her opportunity. They had, after all, prepared.
“He is convalescing right here in the drawing room, nearly on his deathbed.”
She pushed the door behind her open, letting the man peer through the antechamber, but not surrendering her protective perch in the doorway. There, on a worn divan, lay Ariel Wethersby, his face a deathly white speckled with spots. Next to him, clutching his hand and looking stricken, sat his mother, Lady Wethersby. Ariel let loose a racking cough. When he removed his handkerchief from his mouth, it was covered in blood.
“We fear he has the smallpox,” she whispered to the short man, who stepped back quickly. “I don’t feel quite right myself. They say it’s terribly catching. If I gave you fellows a shilling apiece, perhaps you could tell Mr. Clapp and Mr. Sherman that you could not find us? We will pay our bill soon. The illness of the little one has taken a toll, but we will soon send the funds.”
The men now looked concerned with leaving as quickly as possible. Neither wanted to catch the disease that, if it didn’t kill you, left you disfigured for life. These two didn’t need any more demerits in the physical beauty category, Catherine thought, and they seemed to know it.
“C’mon, Ern,” the short one said, taking the shillings with his handkerchief. The tall man staggered down the steps after him.
Catherine shut the door and placed her back against it, heaving a sigh of relief before walking back into the drawing room.
“Good thinking with the blood, Ariel.” She reached the divan and picked up the handkerchief in which the boy had crushed a raspberry.
Ariel now pushed off the blanket, revealing himself to be a ten-year-old in blooming health. He began wiping his face clear of the thick paste in which they had coated him when they had heard the duns at the door.
“Although I think coughing up blood is a symptom of consumption rather than smallpox.”
“Mother told me to do it!” Ariel cried, halting his project of paste removal and throwing up his hands.
Lady Wethersby waved off this exclamation. “We needed to beconvincing,my dears.”
“It did seem to scare them,” Ariel said, grinning. “They didn’t seem very clever.” His smile dimmed. “We have to think of something else to deal with the duns, though. I can’t go on dying forever.”
Lady Wethersby let out a squawk.
“Oh, Mother!” Ariel groaned. “Don’t cry.”
“To hear you talk ofduns, my dear. What your father would say!”
Catherine felt a pang for Lady Wethersby, even though she was being ridiculous. It was just like Lady Wethersby to participate in a ruse to avoid debtors’ prison and then cry about their lost nobility. Not that their nobilityhadn’tbeen lost. Catherine had to admit that dodging duns through ever-increasing schemes of desperation was, indeed, a long fall for Elena. It was also typical of Lady Wethersby to invoke how her deceased husband would have disapproved of their current predicament when he was the one who had gotten her and Ariel into these difficulties in the first place. And Catherine, too, although Sir Francis’s responsibility to her had been of a more tenuous nature.
“Igrievethat I cannot provide more for the two of you. You both deserve so much better.”
Lady Wethersby always claimed Catherine as one of her children. It made her more absurd—and at times even infuriating—behavior much more lovable.
“Don’t worry, Elena,” Catherine said, taking her hand. “I’ll have the money soon. The editor at theWinchester Dailyis going to pay me any moment now for my item on Castle Lachlan.”
“We are so lucky to have you, Catherine. You, who work so hard for us.”
With these words, Lady Wethersby threw her arms around Catherine and continued sobbing. Catherine patted her back and smiled at Ariel over her shoulder, who regarded his mother with his most exasperated expression. They had played outmanysimilar scenes since the death of Sir Francis three years ago.
