Page 100 of A Ruse of Shadows
“What is that?”
“Some sort of intelligence-gathering apparatus,” answered Jessie. “Should be interesting.”
Johnny turned to Mumble. “Do you think so, too?”
Mumble did not answer immediately, which gave Johnny an excuse to stare at his starched collar, immaculate against his golden skin.
“Yes, I do think so. I’m intrigued by the opportunity to work with Sherlock Holmes,” said Mumble eventually. “You, Johnny? Any plans for your ten pounds a month?”
Johnny thought of the garden his mother had longed for since they came to Britain. With a hundred twenty pounds a year, he couldgive her a gardenandprovide his sister with a dowry. His brothers would be educated enough to have professions: Earlier his greatest dream had been that they would man ticket booths at railway stations or, if they were spectacularly lucky, work as guards at the British Museum; but now they could become clerks, even accountants like Mr. Constable.
And he said so, stuttering at the grandeur of his new aspirations.
“No, I meant, what doyouwant to do, Johnny?”
Mumble draped an arm over Johnny’s shoulders. Heat suffused Johnny—heat and a happiness so sharp it hurt. What did he want? He wanted this moment to last forever, the weight of ten pounds in his inside pocket, the fullness of hope in his heart, the smile on Jessie’s face as she said, “Yes, what doyouwant, Johnny?” and the smell of starch and lavender water on Mumble’s clothes.
He wanted Mumble’s shirt so he could always remember this day.
The thought startled him so much that he stammered, “I—I—is it too late for me to go back to school?”
He could read—and write if he had to. But he felt downright illiterate next to Mumble, who read a book in less time than other people took to have a meal.
“Possibly,” said Mumble. “But I’m willing to hire myself out as a tutor if you are serious about learning.”
“You are?”
Chaotic images flashed in Johnny’s head, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, heads bent together.
“Of course, but I won’t come cheap,” said the man who had tutored his brothers for free for a whole year.
Johnny didn’t know why, but his cheeks burned—and not in an unpleasant way. “Let me think about it.”
“Come on, boys,” called Jessie, who was already walking away. “I have to go to work first thing in the morning.”
“Coming, madam,” answered Mumble, letting go of Johnny and starting after her.
“I like what Mrs. Claiborne said about our character.” Jessieturned around and walked backward. “I am going to write it down in my diary.”
Johnny hurried to catch up with Mumble. “Nobody has ever said anything to me about my character.”
Mumble gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s a shame, my friend. Your character—is the most beautiful anything I have ever come across in my life.”
?It had been several days, but Miss Harcourt still couldn’t believe that her aunt Meadows had called on her at her hotel.
She hadn’t recognized the unannounced visitor, but had greeted the woman courteously, thinking she had the wrong door.
The woman, a patch over one eye, had gazed at her and said, “My goodness, for a moment I thought you were your mother.”
And Miss Harcourt, in that moment, had realized exactly who she was.
It had been a teary reunion—most of the tears Miss Harcourt’s own. For dear Miriam, forever gone. For her aunt Meadows—no, her aunt Farr, who’d had to endure so much. And for gladness, because Aunt Farr was still alive and, after everything, still had hope.
When she had proposed a second meeting, Miss Harcourt had immediately agreed—and half expected that when no one came, she would finally wake up from her exceptional dream.
But no, Aunt Farr had not only come again but brought her adopted daughter.
Miss Harcourt had no desire to marry but adored children. She spent a happy half hour fussing over Eliza, planning a special afternoon tea with the girl.
