“Yes, you have, but I don’t mind hearing it again.” She ran to him and placed a kiss on his cheek and gave him a hug, hoping to remove the regret in his soft brown eyes. “I know you love me, Pa. I feel Mama watching over me, and we’ll find a way to make my gewgaws sell.”
They both missed her dreadfully, but life did not stop because one’s heart was broken.
Cheapside was already busy as she made her way down Walbrook Street. She could hear the vendors calling from Cornhill and Lombard. At the corner, she took a left onto Pancras and stopped at her first house. It was a small printing shop with rented rooms above.
Kitty took out her pea shooter and a few dried peas, popped one of the tiny vegetables into her mouth, and squinted up at the darkened windows. Focusing on the second window on the left, she blew into the slender wooden tube. It pinged against the glass, and she waited several minutes before trying again. If she’d only known when her brother taught her how to do this, that it would become a life skill as an adult.
It took three tries before Mr. Mornay, clerk at a drapery and linen shop, waved at her through the window. She backtracked, ducked up an alley, and came out onto Poultry. This street was already crowded with wagons, carts, and pedestrians shopping for the day’s meal. Voices mingled with shouts of the hawkers and dogs barking, the rumble of rickety wheels, and squish of mud as boots slopped in and out of the thick muck. It was still muddy from the rain two days ago, and Kitty had to pick up her skirts as she crossed Poultry to take Prince Street over to Throgmorton.
“G’morning,” called Mr. Habin, an accountant for the bank, as he opened the window and waved. He was still adjusting his spectacles, and Kitty’s hands fidgeted, ready to catch them if the old man dropped them. “Looks like a good day.”
“A fine one, indeed. Give the missus my regards,” responded Kitty with a smile and a wave. She stopped again on the next block.
“Hello, Mrs. Ranker,” Kitty called up to the widow, who was a day cook for a wealthy merchant. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Much better,” called the round-faced woman. “And your father?”
“Very well, ma’am,” she answered back, turning left at the corner onto Broad Street.
She had one stop along here, then proceeded to turn right onto Wormwood. This was a short lane, with the centuries-old houses leaning toward each other like elderly people without their canes. It was darker along the narrow street where the sun struggled to find a path between the slanted buildings.
Kitty reached in and fingered several more dried peas, popping one into her mouth. She counted to the second floor, spotted her target, and blew. And missed.
“Jabbers!” She tried again and hit the pane. Mr. Lockton’s drapes opened, and Kitty moved on. He wasn’t a social man—not a bad man, by any means, just not much of a conversationalist. So as long as the curtains were pulled back, she knew he was up and about.
Kitty peered into the shadows, searching for the pup she’d seen the last few days. He was a little scruffy terrier mix, gray and brown with a tangled beard. She had brought along a slice of bacon. Squatting next to Mr. Lockton’s building, she made a kissing sound and called for the dog.
Woof! Then a blur of head, paws, and tail whooshed past her, did an about-face, and looked up at her happily, sitting up pretty. She laughed at his begging pose. Holding the meat above his head, he did several circles on his hind legs before she dropped the treat. His tail wagged furiously as he crunched, and she scratched his wiry coat.
“You’re quite the dancer,” she cooed to the pup. “I wish I knew if you belonged to someone.” She felt along his ribs, knowing in her heart his home was on the streets. He lifted a paw and set it on her arm, his light-brown eyes seeming to look into her soul.
“You are welcome to keep me company,” she told him as she resumed her route. To her surprise, he followed behind her at a steady trot.
Turning right onto Bishopsgate, she stopped at her next house. The Miss Fenleys, sisters in their late thirties or early forties, both worked for a seamstress on Bond Street. She blew a pea at the window, and the dog added a woof.
“Hello, Kitty,” called the elder sister, her curly blonde hair still stuffed under a mob cap. “Who is your friend?”
Kitty peered at the dog next to her feet. “We’ve only met a few days ago. He doesn’t have a name.”
“Not yet? I’m sure you’ll come up with something that fits him,” said the younger Miss Fenley, poking her head over her sister’s shoulder. “He’s very dirty. What about Muddy?”
“Muddy?” snapped the elder Fenley. “That’s a ridiculous name.”
“Well, do you have a better one?” groused the other sister.
“No, but…”
Kitty walked away smiling, the voices of the two siblings fading. Every morning, they began the day bickering over something. Yet everyone knew they were devoted to each other.
She checked the houses as she walked, looking for the direction of her new client. When she found the boarding house, she double-checked the number, found his window, and shot a dried pea right in the middle of the pane. And waited. The pup let out a bark. She drew out another pea and hit her target again. The curtain pulled back, and a handsome blond man’s face appeared.
She held up a hand to acknowledge he was awake, and he did the same. Walking away, Kitty looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Cooper still watching her. Warmth spread through her, and she smiled to herself.
“My, I think he should be at the beginning of my route. What a lovely way to start my day,” she said to the terrier. “He’s quite…”
The dog barked again. “Exactly,” she agreed.
The next morning, Pa announced, “Your canine friend is waiting for you.”
