Chapter Thirteen
Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bearit.
She will inconstant prove, I greatly fearit;
It so torments my mind, That my heartfaileth.
—Thomas Carew,Phillida FloutsMe
Three days passedbefore their fevers broke, but Mrs. Taylor was still too weak to get out of bed, and Rupert still fussed and wailed no matter how much Annabel rocked and soothed him with kisses and gentle words. Even the little stuffed bear in the sailor’s suit failed to bring a smile to his face.
The good doctor came to check on them every day, but it fell to Annabel to care for them, and she’d grown weary to the bone. Drops of laudanum helped Mrs. Taylor rest, but it seldom came at the same time as Rupert’s. It was one of those rare moments when both were sound asleep that Annabel took the time to wash. While splashing cold water on her face and scrubbing her neck and arms with soap in the kitchen, she thought of the luxurious warm baths she’d taken as the daughter of Bernard Leonard, Bristol’s great confectioner. She cleaned her teeth with paste and brushed her hair. Still, she scarcely recognized the woman who stared back at her in the looking glass. Chopped, unkempt hair, sunken eyes, lackluster skin, and a frame so thin it was almost gaunt.
Nate wasn’t due to pay his weekly visit until Friday. She didn’t think she could wait that long. She crept into Mrs. Taylor’s bedchamber and checked on her patients. Both were still sleeping. All she had to do was find a boy willing to take a message to Whitstable. He’d need train fare and want payment for his pains. She dug into her reticule, retrieved the money she’d received from her hair, extracted a few shillings, and then scribbled a note to Nate before creeping downstairs. The shop had remained closed, with customers warned away that fever plagued the house. None came to claim their half-mended clothing, and Annabel was grateful as she did not possess the skill to complete Mrs. Taylor’s work. But the neat pile of completed garments, those Mrs. Taylor had spent hours expertly sewing and mending, also went unclaimed, and this terrified Annabel. How would Mrs. Taylor pay her rent, having lost so much income?
She unlocked and cracked open the door to the shop and squinted at the daylight, which now seemed sharp to her eyes. Looking up and down the narrow street, she spotted a ragged boy turning onto Best Lane, where the baker would be baking fresh bread. She stepped onto the street, closing the door behind her, and hastened after the boy. Sure enough, she found him loitering near the baker’s shop. It was difficult to determine his age, but she predicted him to be about ten or eleven years.
“Should you like a loaf of bread?” she asked, approaching the child.
He turned to look at her; large, dark eyes dominated his face. “Yes, please, ma’am.”
“First, answer me this: Have you ever been to Whitstable?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know it well. There’s work to be had there on occasion.
“Last year, a fishmonger learned me how to shuck oysters. But I had to stop working on account of slicing me hand open.” He held up his palm to reveal a jagged, raised scar running from the crook of his thumb across the length of his palm.
“Well, I don’t need you to shuck any oysters, but I do need someone to go to Whitstable—to the harbor—and deliver a message for me. I’ll buy you a loaf and give you train fare with change to spare for yourself.”
A customer exited the bakery, and Annabel caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. Her stomach seized with hunger.
The boy must have smelled it, too. He licked his cracked lips and looked longingly at the bakery.
“Two loaves,” he said.
“One and a half,” Annabel’s stomach twisted with hunger again.
“Done!”
“Wait here.” Annabel pulled open the door to the bakery and stepped inside. Almost overcome with hunger, she could barely find her voice to order.
Annabel didn’t recognize the sharp-nosed woman behind the counter who eyed her with obvious suspicion.
“Two loaves, please,” She opened her reticule, and the woman’s face relaxed when she placed a coin on the counter. The shopkeeper snatched the money and put the loaves on the counter. Annabel tucked the bread under her arm and turned to see the hungry-eyed boy standing by the door, waiting for her.
“Get away!” The shopkeeper flew at the child and wielded the broom in the air, striking the lad once on the back before he scrambled away.
“Stop!” Annabel raced outside, but she was too late. The boy had vanished.
The shopkeeper scouted the street, holding her broom like Poseidon’s trident.
“Thieving vermin,” she mumbled before returning to her place of business.
Sure the lad would follow her, Annabel skirted the corner, broke one of the loaves in half, and bit into the fresh, soft bread. Seconds later, he was at her side.
“What’s the gentleman’s name I’m to find, ma’am?” He fixed his eyes on the bread. Annabel handed him the other half of her loaf and let him devour it before answering.
“The gentleman’s name is Nate. I’ve written it on this note. Can you read?”
