Page 39 of Once a Gentleman
Oh, hell and damnation, but it didn’t matter. He had determined to take the money with him if he left when he considered it before, had he not? And Turner had told him not to return it.
But the thought of departing Turner’s house under an obligation, paid for more work than he had legitimately completed, made him feel ill. He would, in a sense, be taking a wage for—well, he couldn’t bear to consider what else someone, like that ill-bred fellow in the breakfast parlor, would assume he’d taken it for.
He would pack his things, and if he felt he must give it back, he’d leave it with Samuel, who might either pocket it quietly or give it to Turner. And either way, it would no longer be Kit’s.
The small trunk he had used to bring his very modest possessions to Turner’s house sat in the bottom of his wardrobe, where he had insisted it be left rather than be put up in the attic, and he filled it as swiftly as he could. The aftermath of all that outwardly-calm rage had struck, though, and his hands shook as he attempted to fit everything in. When he reached those unfortunate evening clothes, upon which he’d spent too much of a salary he would now desperately miss, he stuffed them in with savage motions, heedless of crumpling and damage despite the fact that he’d likely need to sell them for food in not too many weeks.
A commotion seemed to have arisen downstairs, and Kit looked up from where he knelt beside his trunk to listen. He could easily distinguish Turner’s voice, of course, deep and commanding, like he might have been when issuing orders aboard his ship. Below that, a tenor rose in counterpoint, sounding both defensive and annoyed both.
That had to be Turner’s guest from breakfast. Perhaps he’d outstayed his welcome, and Kit let out a huff of irritation and bitter amusement.
With, perhaps, a tiny trifle of utter black despair in the mix, but Kit would submit to torture rather than admit it.
The voices rose, with a tenor crescendo followed by a sharp, angry few words from Turner, though Kit couldn’t make them out. And then heavy footsteps echoed up the staircase; it sounded as if someone, likely Turner, were taking them two at a time.
Kit leapt to his feet and lunged for the door, realizing he hadn’t locked it, but he was too late. Turner knocked briskly, a quick double-pound, and then the door flew open. Turner kicked it shut behind him and advanced into the room, wild-eyed and flushed and with his chest rising and falling far too rapidly to be the effect of merely running up the stairs.
