It was a girl – he was fairly sure – but he had no idea how to speak to one. He had no sisters, and although some of his friends did, he tended to stay away. His chum Jasper had told him an atrocious tale of how an older female cousin had once dressed him up as a girl – complete with her mother’s best wig, rouge and a parasol. Jasper threatened to beat him if he blabbed, but Lucas was more than content to take the story as a warning – stay away from girls.
The single candle fluttered, and Lucas shuffled from foot to foot, wondering if he should call his father. The bundle had stopped trembling, but it still didn’t move from its position, and Lucas could no longer bear to see it lying on the hard floor – despite it being a girl.
Quietly walking over, he kneeled down and put a hand to its shoulder. It flinched under his touch, and Lucas patted it awkwardly.
“Erm…there, there,” he said, remembering his mother’s reassurances when he’d fallen out of a tree. “I’m Lucas Mainwaring. Who are you?” He sat back, pleased with his words, but whoever it was still didn’t move. “It’s very hard on the floor. Would you like a blanket? Or a pillow?” A frown creased his young brow. “No one’s going to hurt you in here. I promise.”
With those words, the small bundle started to move and unravel. A mop of red bouncing curls sat up amid a mass of white lace. A delicate hand then moved up and brushed away the hair, revealing the child’s face.
Lucas felt his mouth gape. It was a pretty face, not beautiful like his mother’s, but pretty. Wet-lashed, deep-green eyes stared at him from plump, rounded features and bow lips quivered in fright. That wasn’t what made Lucas gawk, however: it was the livid red handprint on the girl’s right cheek and the split lip which was slowly seeping blood.
“Who did that to you?” was all he could blurt out, his eyes widening.
The only time he’d ever been struck was when he’d disobeyed his father and entered a stallion’s stall; he’d just wanted to pat the animal and feed him an apple. The horse had nearly trampled him but luckily a groom had heard the commotion and dragged him out. He’d been birched thrice for his disobedience, before his father had pulled him into his arms, tears leaking down both their faces after his near-death.
This little girl just stared at him, fat blobs of water spilling over her lashes and wetting the burning cheek. One thing Lucas did know about girls was that a gentleman never raised a hand to them. He scrambled to the chest of drawers to wet his handkerchief in the pitcher of water and then approached her again. She watched, warily.
“I just want to dab your lip as you’re bleeding. Can I?” he ventured. The girl looked to be of six or seven years, but it was hard to tell as she still sat on the floor, her legs curled up beneath her. Finally, she nodded, and Lucas kneeled before her.
Drying her wet-stained face, he lightly dabbed at the red cheek, all the time feeling her eyes follow his movements. It was a strange sensation but he quite liked it, similar to tending his pony when it had caught a stone in its hoof. He’d felt the horse’s wariness but also its affection and warmth once he was done.
He touched the soft cotton to her lip; it had nearly ceased bleeding, but she would have an awful bruise in the morning. He’d seen men beat their dogs, he’d been in a few scuffles with his friends, he’d even seen some pugilists fighting for money, but never had he seen such violence perpetrated on such a soft, delicate thing and never had he felt such a strange surge of temper within himself.
The girl shrank back slightly, and Lucas realised he was letting that temper appear on his face. “Don’t be afraid. I’m just angry that someone did this to you. Who was that man?”
Delicate, dry lips opened, but nothing came out, and Lucas rose to fetch some water. He handed it to the girl, but her hand shook, the glass clanking against her teeth. Lucas clasped his hand around hers and steadied the trembling.
“My father…” The girl’s voice was high and reedy.
“Do you want me to go and get him for you?”
“No! I mean…it was my father. That man…he hit me, my father.”
Lucas looked at her horrified. Whatever had she done to be beaten and flung into this nursery like a piece of rubbish?
“What did you do?” Lucas couldn’t imagine that it involved a slow-worm.
“I just…Isawhim. I did, honestly. It’s only… I was asleep, and I told mother, and she was so angry. Then father was angry…and, and…” Tears started to pour down her cheeks again, and Lucas looked at his soggy handkerchief – it wasn’t going to be much use.
“What did you see?”
“My father…touching mouths with my aunt.”
Ooh, thought Lucas. Although he didn’t have a huge amount of knowledge regarding adult behaviour, he did know that was very bad.
“Perhaps if you see your father doing that again, you shouldn’t say anything.”
“I should lie?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocence. Lucas shifted uneasily. She was very young and probably didn’t know yet that you could lie…occasionally, if youreallyhad to.
“Well, if it upsets people, sometimes it’s best not to say anything or to lie…nicely.” He desperately tried to think of an example. “My cousin Juliet always asks me if she looks pretty in brown and I always say yes, even though it makes her look like a sack of horse feed. But she likes brown, so–”
A muffled giggle interrupted his speech, and he looked down to see the girl holding a palm over her mouth to suppress the laughter. Lucas smiled, and she removed her hand, grinning back. He felt his insides warm, and he got a funny feeling in his belly as though he had worms in it.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, holding out his hand shyly. “I’ve got bread, butter, cheese and… Well, that’s all actually. You’d better tell me your name as well.”
“Rosie. My name’s Rosie,” she replied softly.
Taking the boy’s hand, she let him pull her up. “Why are you in here? Is this your room?”
