Page 5 of Too Scot to Handle
“He’s Lady Rosalyn’s beau,” Dickie said. “Saw them at Gunter’s last week with Mr. Montague.”
That earned another scowl from Joe, who took a seat on the floor beneath the window. Joe was blond, blue-eyed, and not a bad-looking boy, but he got cuffed a lot because he spoke so little. One of those blue eyes sported a fading bruise as a consequence.
“I know I shouldn’t have been out on me own,” Dickie said, “but I go barmy staring at these walls, sitting on me feak, listening to old Hitchings wheezing hour after hour. If Miss Anwen would come read to us more often, I might not get so roam-y.”
Restlessness affected all the boys, the longing to be back out on the streets, managing as best they could, free of Virgil and Proverbs—and Hitchings.
“What do you suppose Hitchings will do when this place runs out of money?” Dickie asked.
Hitchings wouldn’t last two days on the streets, but he certainly did well enough as the headmaster of the orphanage. Very well.
“He’ll go for a tutor to some lord’s sons,” Tom said, “pound them with Latin and his damned birch rod, or kick them with his new bloody boots.” What would it feel like to put on a boot made for your own very foot?
Joe swung his open hand through the air, mimicking a slap delivered to a boy’s face.
“That too,” Dickie agreed. “Thank the devil we’re too big to be climbing boys.”
Joe motioned jabbing the earth with a shovel.
“The mines are honorable work,” Tom said, an incantation he’d overheard down at Blooming Betty’s pub.
“The mines will kill us.” John climbed in the window as he spoke, making one of his signature dramatic appearances. “I had uncles who went down the mines. They were coughing their lungs out within a year.”
He leapt to the floor as nimbly as an alley cat. The skills of a born housebreaker went absolutely to waste in this orphanage, as did Dickie’s ability with locks, and Joe’s pickpocketing.
“Who wants a rum bun?” John asked, withdrawing a parcel from his shirt.
Joe shook his head.
“C’mon, Wee Joe,” John said, holding out a sweet and folding cross-legged to the floor. “It’s a cryin’ damned shame when a man can’t work his God-given trade. Me own da often said as much.”
“Before the watch nabbed him,” Dickie muttered, snatching the bun. “You’ll get us all flogged to bits, John.”
“I’ll get us all a fine snack,” John said around a mouthful of bun. “What was that gent doing here?”
“Same thing we all do,” Dickie said. “He was falling in love with Miss Anwen.”
“Lady Rosalyn won’t like that,” Tom said, tearing off a small bite of his bun.
“Lady Rosalyn won’t care,” John countered. “She’s so pretty, all the gents want her. I should have stolen more buns.” He eyed the window longingly but remained where he was.
“Don’t leave crumbs,” Tom cautioned. “Hitchings will see them, and we’ll be locked up in the broom closet next time.”
The broom closet stank of dirt and vinegar, and the boys were never incarcerated there all together, the space being too small.
“Hitchings claims we’re running out of money,” Tom said, tearing off another tiny bite.
“Hitchings has to say we’re nearly broke,” John replied, dusting his hands. “He has to keep them pouring money into his pockets whether or not there’s money in the box.”
Tom studied his next bite of bun. “We could check. See what’s in the box. It’s been nearly a month. Never hurts to know the facts.”
Nobody contradicted him, though sometimes it hurt awfully to know the facts. Tom had been the one to find his mum dead in her bed after the baby was buried. That fact still hurt a bloody damned lot.
“I don’t mind it here, so much.” Dickie stuck his feet out straight in front of him. His trousers had no holes or patches, though the hems were a good three inches too short. His boots fit, and they almost matched. “For once, I didn’t spend all winter fighting for a place to shiver my nights away. That gets old.”
“Nobody coughing himself to death here,” John conceded. “Damned consumption gets hold of a place, next thing you know, everybody’s being measured for a shroud.”
“I say we should see how much blunt’s in the box.” Tom got to his feet and slouched against the wall near the window, not hanging out the window for all to see like some boys would.
