Page 57
“Common knowledge, innit. Water washes out the strength. Puts out the fire o’ life.”
Yet another issue, John thought sourly, in which the poor had been ill-served. Not only was it difficult for the lower class to obtain facilities and supplies for bathing, they also put their trust in outdated medical information about the “dangers” of applying soap and water to the skin.
“I’d say you have more than enough ‘fire of life,’ ” he told Belinda acidly. “It wouldn’t hurt to sacrifice a bit of it for the sake of cleanliness.”
The girl sent him a baleful glance and turned her back, extending her hands to the heat of the stove.
June folded her arms across her chest and regarded John with narrowed eyes. “Have a way with women, do you?” she asked with exquisite sarcasm.
“I’m not one to walk on eggshells,” John said defensively.
“Course you’re not. Why should you go to the trouble of considering someone else’s feelings?—big, important man like your lordship.”
John’s reply was forestalled as Mad Dog shouldered through the back door into the kitchen, bringing a rush of biting-cold air with him. He closed the door with the back of a booted heel and set down the slop pail. Catching sight of June, he drifted toward her like a nail in the presence of a magnet.
“Wash your hands at the sink,” June told him.
“Why?” he asked.
“Cookery school says always wash your hands after you touch the slop pail.”
Mad Dog examined his hands, front and back. “Can’t see no dirt.”
“It’s invisible. But it’s still there.”
Mad Dog gave her a skeptical glance, as if suspecting her of having a joke at his expense. “Invisible dirt,” he repeated.
“It’s scientifical, you plonker.”
He shrugged and went obediently to the sink to wash.
John’s gaze went to Belinda’s stiff back, and the sight needled his conscience. She was only fifteen years old, no matter that she had the disposition of a feral cat. From what he knew of her past, she’d been abandoned by her parents, and had drifted among the residents of a tenement in Whitechapel until she’d joined a gang at the age of twelve.
It didn’t make him feel powerful to have insulted someone who couldn’t fight back. It made him feel mean and low.
“Belinda,” he said reluctantly.
The girl didn’t respond.
John cleared his throat and tried again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I apologize.”
June gave him an approving glance and nudged Belinda with her elbow.
The girl ducked her head to confer with June. “What do I say?” she muttered.
“Hasn’t no one never apologized to you?” June asked.
“No.”
“Does he look like he means it?”
Belinda twisted to scrutinize John’s face. “I guess so.”
“Then tell him ‘no harm done,’ ” June prompted.
“No ’arm done,” Belinda grumbled to John.
June poured a mug of coffee and asked, “Mr. Pembroke, do you take cream and sugar?”
