I stood and came to her side. “Is there anything else?”
She met my gaze and held it. Therewasmore, but she only said, “No, no. That’s all.”
I nodded. “Thanks for tea.”
“Wait.” She dried her hands on her apron, went to the wooden box where she kept money, and counted out fourteen shillings for two days’ work.
For the first time, I felt uncomfortable accepting it. When she saw my hesitation, she took my hand and folded my fingers over the coins and spoke with the forthrightness I liked about her. “Whether you’re keeping company with James, and if I share my tea once in a while, it doesn’t change anything. I’m still paying you for your work. And come on Monday ’nless you hear from me. I’m expecting cloth at the warehouse.”
I bid her goodnight, dropped the coins into my pocket, fetched my coat from the cupboard in the shop, and headed toward my room. As I crossed the cobbled square, my mind dwelled on what Emma had said and what I hadn’t thought to ask. Emma had never thieved, but their mother, Adelaide, had been a thief with my mother, Amelia, and Maggie. Had Adelaide ever told Emma about Maggie? Did Emma know about the day Maggie was caught?
One thing was clear: It mattered to Maggie that we thieves didn’t cause difficulties. What might she do, if we did?
Chapter 9
The next evening, Amelia gathered all of us thieves—minus Josie—together in the goods room. From the taproom below came the sounds of evening supper and the beginnings of card games. Some of us perched on the long table where we laid our dresses for emptying, others sat on the benches where we relaced our boots, and I leaned between Fanny and Mary against the wall near the costume alcove. But we all faced Amelia, who stood beside her desk, her fingertips brushing its wood surface. Did I imagine it, or did she long to keep them there, to touch her desk, until the very last possible moment? The thought twisted at something inside my chest, pinched my breath.
I surveyed the room. Most faces wore an expression of wariness, for no one but us thieves ever came in here, and half a step to Amelia’s right stood Maggie, with that air—again—of belonging. She was dressed in a gown that was fashionably cut but of a medium blue that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, her dark hair in a neat chignon, her hands quiet at her sides.
Amelia began, “I know this will come as a surprise to all of you.”
She did not even cast a glance in my direction, but I heard the reminder to guard my expression.
“As most o’ you know, I’ve always meant to step down eventually. And now is the right time.” Amid some shallow gasps, she gestured to her right. “This is Maggie Wirth O’Connell, Patty Wirth’s daughter. After twenty years away, she’s come home. The ring is hers by birthright, so she’ll be leading you now.” She turned her head slowly, meeting our eyes, one by one. “I’m asking you all to do your best for her.”
A quick glance around the room confirmed that I was the only one who knew of this announcement beforehand. Every face showed shock and dismay verging on rudeness toward Maggie.
Maggie took it in but seemed undisturbed. Amelia opened her mouth to continue, but Maggie stepped forward, clasping her hands at her waist, the injured one wrapped around the other.
“O’ course you’re surprised,” she said.
It was her voice I noticed first, low and musical, and I recalled she’d sung on stage. But it was Maggie’s intonation that caught my ear. The raspy Southwark consonants, the vowels throaty.
She took one more step forward, one that made her skirts sway gracefully. “And why should you trust me, a stranger steppin’ in for Amelia. Like as not, I wouldn’t, either.” Maggie’s frankness was disarming, and a few muttered in agreement. A smile tugged at her mouth, and her entire expression and demeanor altered. “But while I can’t replace Amelia in your hearts, I hope I’ll prove to you over the next weeks that I can lead this ring.”
We all gaped, for now her consonants were clear and clipped, her vowels pure. Even the way Maggie held her shoulders and hands and the very tilt of her chin were no longer those of a woman from Southwark; they belonged to a lady from the West End.
Maggie hadn’t only been a chanteuse, I reminded myself. She’d been an actress too, a mimic. This was her small performance for us, a transformation to show us her abilities. Amelia’s face showed no surprise, and it occurred to me that whatever Amelia had taught me about speaking like a proper lady had come from Maggie first.
Maggie relapsed into her natural manner. “No doubt you’re wonderin’ where I’ve been these twenty years. I got copped for thieving and sent to Swan River. I was lucky to escape with only this,” she said, raising her injured hand. “When they finally cut me loose, I came back. I haven’t much left here, to be sure. My ma’s dead, and my brother’s run off, and some of the best friends I had are gone. But this is my home, and ... if you do right by me, I’ll do right by you.” She scanned the room, letting her eyes move from face to face. “I’m not planning on changing much. No reason to, with the ring doin’ so well.”
The tension was already beginning to ease from people’s faces, replaced by curiosity.
Maggie continued to speak about how she would be spending the next fortnight jennying for each of us, learning about the shops and our methods, though she’d been going over the books with Amelia, and she was acquainting herself with our dodges and takes. She spoke well, pleasantly even, and people attended her words, their faces telling me that they were each working out what this change meant for them.
My eyes slid to Amelia. Her blank expression sent worry knifing through me. I’d have been more reassured by resentment or concern or acceptance.
Her eyes caught mine and narrowed, flicking to Maggie and back to me. Telling me to pay attention, or at least make a show of doing it. I shifted my gaze to Maggie and kept it there, but I longed for one last quiet minute with Amelia to ask her—Maggie’s charm notwithstanding—what was really happening here.
Maggie asked us all to give our names, with surnames, and we went from one side of the room to the other. When it was my turn, I said mine. She studied me for a moment before moving on to Fanny, to my right, and I wondered if Maggie had worked out who my mother was, and what that meant to her.
When there was nothing more to be said, Maggie let Amelia dismiss us, but she stood by the door saying goodbye to each of us by name. It was a clever trick; I couldn’t have done it myself, as names never fixed themselves in my head the way faces did. I had hoped that Maggie might leave so I could speak to Amelia, but clearly Maggie intended to forestall that. I was the last to go, and she touched my arm to stop me. “Kit Jimeson, you said?”
I nodded.
“You look like someone I knew. Annie Avery. You aren’t by chance related?”
“She was my mother.”
