Page 61 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“Really, Hartley. You’re going to say that to me, of all people?”
“Your family is uniquely terrible.”
“No, they aren’t. Ask Alf about his parents. Ask Kate about her people. Not everyone starts with a family who likes them, so some of us make our own.” She glanced pointedly at the baby in Hartley’s arms, rolled her eyes, and turned back to the stove. “And since you’re asking, the thing that makes friendship between us a bit awkward isn’t that you pay my wages, but that I don’t have anywhere else to go. So if you died or went to France or took rooms, I wouldn’t have any recourse. Now, that doesn’t bother me much because if I had married the curate, as my father wanted, and he had died, I’d have been left equally badly off. Worse, even, because at least if you left I’d have a reference.”
“Perhaps we could do better than that,” Hartley mused. He didn’t know how, but he knew there had to be something he could do to make Sadie’s situation less precarious. Alf’s, too, although he supposed that being a man and not having a child, Alf had more options.
When the sun had fully risen, Hartley bundled the baby into a shawl, then wrapped her in one of his own wool mufflers, and carried her to the church to speak with the vicar about her christening. The plan was for Ben to do the talking. “They’ll always listen to one of their own,” Ben had said, and then proceeded to cheerfully extract a promise from the vicar about never mentioning the blank spot on the baptismal record where the child’s father ought to be named. Afterward, still carrying the baby and with his brother in tow, the three of them went to Philpott’s office where Ben did an admirable job of pretending that the scheme Hartley proposed to the solicitor wasn’t in the least remarkable.
That night, there was a scratching at the kitchen door. Hartley was once again holding the baby, pacing back and forth from scullery to the coal cellar and back again. Infants were both whimsical and fickle, Hartley was discovering; the cabinet clock upstairs was entirelyvieux jeu, and the baby would lay off her nighttime howlings for only as long as she was borne in state along this path. He had been walking long enough to be concerned about the state of his boots when he heard the sound from the mews. Shifting the child to his shoulder, he opened the kitchen door to see Daisy.
“Come in, you,” Hartley said, stepping back and beckoning the dog inside. But the dog didn’t cross the threshold. Instead he danced in a circle. “No, I will not bring cheese and bread for all your dog friends in the street. If you want supper, it’ll be indoors.” The dog let out a shrill bark, loud enough to make the infant stir against Hartley’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you?” Hartley demanded. The dog yelped a few more times, and in the interest of not disturbing the rest of the household, Hartley made haste in finding it some crusts of bread to eat. “Greedy is what you are,” Hartley told the dog while slicing him some cold ham.
“This is... quite a scene,” said a sleepy voice from the stairs. Hartley looked up to see Ben. “You’re holding your cook’s baby and feeding a... what is that thing? A ferret?”
Hartley didn’t dignify this nonsense with a response.
“Mother used to do that, pace back and forth with the baby. It must have been Percy, or maybe Lance. You look like her, you know. I stand by what I said earlier,” Ben said. “You do look tired. But you also look... I don’t want to say happy, because you plainly have a lot on your mind. But you look as if you’ve been living. As if you’ve been feeling things. Your heart seems lived in.”
“That sounds disgusting, Benedict.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Ben at his most vicarly.
Hartley held the baby closer. He shook his head, but managed a smile.
“I wish I were staying longer,” Ben said. He meant to spend only a few nights in London before returning north. Ben had little desire ever to go further than shouting distance from his village; for him to have come this far spoke of the seriousness of his concern.
“Why?”
“The Hartley Sedgwick I saw this summer would never have been so at home in anyone’s kitchen, in old clothes, with baby spittle on his shoulder. I’d like to see what you do next, because I think it’s going to be wonderful.”
Hartley turned so his brother wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. For the first time since he had been a child, he could see his way toward a future that was his own. Not a life his godfather had thrust onto him as revenge or recompense or some combination of the two; not a life he himself had clung to as if doubling down on a bad bet.
“Do you think you could hold this baby for a while? I have a dog to return.”
It was hard to believe that this was the same lane Sam had lurked in all those weeks ago. The winter’s first snow was falling, and when the sun rose London would have the temporary veneer of clean uniformity. Later, the snow would melt into greasy gray puddles, soaking through his boots and dirtying the hems of cloaks and gowns. But for a while, the streets would be smooth and white, the higgledy-piggledy array of rooftops merged together in a single expanse.
During his first hours in the mews that autumn, he had seen servants go in and out of Hartley’s house, before even knowing the house was Hartley’s. There had been maids and lads with their noses in the air, and Sam had decided they were all too far above his touch to ask about a dirty painting. He grinned at the memory. Little had he expected to share common cause with the master of the house. Even less could he have expected that common cause to turn into something else.
The door to Hartley’s house opened, and he saw a slim figure emerge, a coat in one arm and a dog in the other.
“You’ll freeze, dressed like that,” Sam said.
Hartley spun to face him. He was in his shirtsleeves, a pair of dust-stained pantaloons shoved into scuffed boots. One of his braces was sliding off his shoulder, and Sam resisted the urge to put him right. “Don’t tell me you came back for this troublemaker,” Hartley said, indicating the dog.
“I see two troublemakers here,” Sam said, stepping close.
“I missed you,” Hartley said.
It had been less than a week since they had seen one another. “I missed you too. I came to tell you that I’ll take your help. Whatever you’re offering. But I want to do something for you too.”
“Oh?” Hartley looked up curiously.
“I want to help you get your painting back.”
“Really?” Hartley’s eyes were a bit dazed. “You know I meant to burgle a solicitor’s office?”
“Look, Hart,” Sam went on, “I want to help you lay this to rest. When I met you, you were—”
