“Ennui is unseemly in one so young,” Genevieve said. The baby attempted to grasp the slate and chew on it. “Oh, Mary, that is not for chewing, dear.”
“Teeth coming in,” Hannah said, worldly wise at five in the way of babies.
“Prodigiously so,” Genevieve allowed, handing the baby a handkerchief soaked in cool water to gnaw.
Justin, just two, banged the wooden spool that Genevieve had found for him on the floor.
“Perhaps Hannah could tell us a word that starts with ‘g,’” she prompted. “I am sure she could tell us what sound it makes.”
“Guh,” Hannah obediently intoned. “Does goose start with ‘g,’ Miss Dryden?”
“It does. Very good, Hannah.”
The little girl beamed, showing the large gap between her two front teeth.
“Gun,” Peter said, clearly unwilling to be shown up by a younger pupil, and a girl at that. “Gout. Gusto.”
“Well done, Peter,” Genevieve said. “Only think, in some languages, they use a completely different alphabet to write with.”
Peter pursed his lips and sighed. He had no patience for other alphabets when the modern English one was giving him fits.
The children she looked after from dusk until the early hours varied from day to day, but usually, Peter and Hannah were her regulars. Some nights their mother, Sally Blevins, went around to the pub. Other nights, she went elsewhere. There had been a Mr. Blevins at some point, but he had “piked off”—Sally’s words—and she had not found herself another suitable man with whom to split household costs and live in semi-respectable commonality, as many did in the East End. She took what work she could get, whether day work or charring to put food on the table and to pay the rent on the one-room lodging the family occupied, but often what brought her coin was done between dark and early morning.
Other children of women in similar straits to Sally’s were often dropped off for Genevieve to mind for a time in the evenings. They were glad for a safe place for the children, as well as what spontaneous schooling Genevieve could offer, since for many, even the national schools cost too much for their purse strings to stretch. Genevieve only charged a penny or two per child, mindful of those who needed food and shelter and clothing and money to supply it all.
She had started the child-minding as a way to gain some measure of independence—both physical and financial. Bacchus had liked to have her ask him for every little thing, even for his leave to go out and feed. When her talent had developed and she and Elspeth had begun to trust that their makers would not appear at odd hours or demand her appearance through the bond, Genevieve had begun sneaking out of the Ossuary. It had taken a little time to build trust with those like Sally, and then she had earned enough coin for basic things like new gloves and bonnets—their original ones had been falling apart.
Now she earned enough to buy the needlework supplies Elspeth wanted and was able to sell her work to the shops. She had gotten a tidy profit from the lace, and now a new skein of thread and a good amount of coin waited in her pocket. The seamstress shop had also said they would have piecework ready for her to pick up tomorrow and complete—something for Sparrow’s hands to keep busy with.
Maybe one day, they could afford lodgings outside the Ossuary. Her bond to Bacchus had been broken by his death, but Elspeth was still fettered, and Laurent had set down that she might not leave the Ossuary without his leave. And of course he had not shown his face since the coup, for he had been one of the main toadies of the Draugodrottin.
And it would be just like Laurent to spitefully deny Elspeth’s request in any case, Genevieve knew. He would do it just to cause them pain. Because he liked that.
So, she waited and minded the children and tried not to hope too much. Because where had hoping gotten her?
They got through two more letters—the dreaded ‘h,’ which many of the children in this corner of London could not hear, and ‘i’—before baby Mary began to fuss and Genevieve had to call a pause to lay her down on a pallet. And then of course Justin began to rub his eyes.
“Who would like song?” Genevieve asked, patting Justin’s back.
“Oh, please Miss Dryden, a Christmas song,” Hannah pleaded. “Isn’t Christmas coming soon?”
“It will be here in a few short weeks.”And what kind of Christmas will you have, Hannah?Genevieve wondered, thinking of convivial years long past with gifts exchanged and family all around. Her ruined hopes cut like a knife.There is no “peace on earth, good will to men” for either of us.
But the child deserved to hope, even if there would be no presents or Christmas treats. Everyone deserved hope. Genevieve swallowed back the pain and sang through the first two verses of “While Shepherds Watched their Flocks” as Mary’s and Justin’s eyes drooped.
“Why don’t the two of you get to bed?” she whispered to Hannah and Peter. “Your mother will be home before long.”
“What about a story?” Peter mumbled.
Genevieve swept his hair back from his forehead. “Yes, I can tell a story. I shall tell you one of my very favorite stories. It’s about a brave girl named Wynnflaed.”
The words flowed from memory out of the past and into the tiny room that smelled of that night’s supper and one of baby Mary’s napkins, but judging by the looks on the children’s faces, they were smelling the scent of heather and rain as Wynnflaed pulled from the swift-flowing river near her dun a wounded stranger clad in warrior raiment, which would change her destiny forever.
By the time Sally had returned with Ruth, Justin’s mother, and Colleen, Mary’s mother, all children but Peter were sound asleep. The boy would nod off for a time, but every half hour would rouse to wakefulness, as if he could not rest easy until his mother was home.
“Lord bless you, Miss Dryden,” Sally said in a loud whisper after the two other women had taken their children and left Genevieve with their pennies. “I’ve told the girl on the second floor that you’ll watch the little ones—her husband died two months back, and they’ve been barely scraping by. She needs to get herself another man, but the grief is powerful. But she has a boy and a baby girl, so perhaps she’ll bring them by some night. A good mother, she is. Not like that Myra Stubbins.” Sally shook her head. “Poor woman, she’s got the trouble with drink.”
“Yes, I know all about that,” Genevieve murmured.
