“Did my best, sir,” the man said.
“Well done, corporal. Stand by. I want to talk to you after…” Doug took the bun feeling like a damned fool for touching off a scuffle. He glanced at the sticky sweet in his hand and back at the woman. In repose, her heart-shaped face had a gentle beauty, but her stillness frightened him. He had no idea what to do; he hated that feeling.
Butterfield hunkered down next to him, clutching a mug of water. “Stupid little fool. Oughtn’t to be out in her condition,” he muttered.
“Nope,” Doug agreed, taking the mug while watching the woman’s hazel eyes blink open. “Pity what hunger will drive a person to do.” He slipped one arm under her shoulders and offered the water. She took a few sips.
“This won’t sit well with the other shops,” Butterfield muttered. “They already complain that my charity brings beggars into the street. I oughtn’t to be causing unrest.” He shook his head. “Poor duck. Much more of this and she’ll be too weak to birth a healthy one.”
“You can’t let folks starve,” Doug said, putting the mug back to her lips. “We’ll have to sort out a better way.”We? When did Butterfield’s beggars become your problem, Marsh?He concentrated on the woman. “Can you sit up?”
She nodded. He raised her gently, holding her back when she appeared to be dizzy. “Better?” She nodded again.
When he held out the sweet bun she grabbed it as if she thought he would pull it away. He watched it disappear into her mouth in seconds.
“Thank you,” she gasped. “Forgive my rag manners, Mister—”
Manners? Damned nonsense in her state.“Marsh,” he growled. “Sergeant Marsh.” He didn’t know why he added that last. It wasn’t as if some civilian cared about a washed-up sergeant.
“Th… thank you, Sergeant Marsh.” She made no effort to rise but accepted the mug again and drained it. She pushed herself unsteadily up then and looked around, noticing for the first time that the crowd had disappeared. “I missed the bread,” she rasped.
Doug grasped his walking stick and pushed himself up to glower at Butterfield, but he needn’t have. “No, miss,” the man soothed without prompting. “Your distress upset the routine. Don’t you worry.”
Doug waited while the baker bustled back into his shop and returned with three loaves of bread. Butterfield handed the woman his day-old bread without making eye contact and shut the door to the bakery without speaking, leaving Doug alone with a very pregnant female who was not—most assuredly not—his problem. Even Corporal Browning had left them.
He motioned to the loaves clutched against her breast. “Those should keep you a few days. Stay put, mind you, and off the street.”
She bit her lower lip and nodded, eyes fixed on her feet. He followed her eyes and drew in breath.
“Where are your shoes, woman? Winter is upon us. Don’t you have the sense God gave a goose?” He immediately wished to take the words back. He’d wager she sold a pair of quality half-boots to eat on—if they hadn’t been stolen first.
Her head bobbed up, and the fire in her eyes rocked him to his core. “I thank you for your assistance, sergeant, but I don’t believe it gives you the right to judge my actions.” Her speech—both pronunciation and tone—marked her origins as surely as the quality of the worn-out dress she wore. She spun on her heels as if to make a grand exit, but she stumbled on the second step.
Doug cursed under his breath and grabbed a slender—much too slender—elbow in one hand and maneuvered the woman toward his trap. When she hesitated, he paused to draw a weary breath. “I mean you no harm. You’re in no state to walk home.”
When she seemed to relax but still didn’t move, he growled, “Don’t give me any trouble about overstepping. It’s hard enough to manage with this blasted cane.”
She didn’t muster the strength to argue, however displeased she might have been at his high-handed tactics. She took a seat and mumbled her direction, and he drove her five blocks to a jumble shop, one that sold thrice-owned clothing, odd bits of chipped china and dinged pots to those who could afford nothing better. Peeling paint and dirt-stained windows gave it an air of utter despair.
“This is it?” he demanded.
“There are rooms to rent above,” she murmured.Not that it is any of your business, her eyes told him. He had to admire her backbone.
She jumped down before he could and trudged into the place stoop-shouldered, still clutching her bread.
Doug had cursed more that afternoon than he had in a while. He did it again when he lifted himself clumsily out of the trap and limped into the shop in search of the proprietor.
There’ll be hell with my back and legs this night. Hell to pay with Aunt Edna, too. No sweet buns, no bread, and late into the bargain.
* * *
Esther stared at the bits of rag in front of her. They made up a coat once, possibly a good one, but that was likely two owners ago. Mrs. Smalley promised her some pennies off her rent this month if she managed to assemble it into something resembling one again, so she could hardly refuse. It would need some additional bits of rag for patching.
With luck I might get it done before… She let the thought trail away, unwilling to carry it to the end. Before it happened. Before her life complicated further. Before that life changed forever—before the baby.
Mending rags would never be enough. She needed dressier samples, quality work she could take to a modiste or milliner who would pay more. Something to prove her skills. A chemise—one she’d embroidered around the hem and trimmed with lace—nestled in the bottom drawer of the washstand. It might do, or it might not be enough. For now, Esther did without, having bartered her second best one for a month’s rent, and she had nothing to barter for silken threads or bits of lace to improve the one she hoarded.
She leaned back, tempted to sleep again, but she couldn’t mend after dark and sunlight would fade soon enough. At least today, she didn’t have to stand in line at Butterfield’s Bakery. The loaves would keep her for a few days. The gift had been generous even if, as she suspected, the baker merely wanted to keep her embarrassing presence from his premises for a while.
