He looked up briefly from his stitching. “Sir?”
“The circumstances surrounding my current state of undress.”
“Ah, yes.” He tied off the thread and began on the pants. “I will admit to a slight curiosity. No more than proper. I’m not one to pry into anyone’s business.”
“Ah,” I nodded, pretending disappointment. “A laudable attitude.”
There followed a long moment, the only sound was that of the thread being drawn through cloth. I fidgeted. Finally, I continued as if he had asked me, “A whore stole my clothes.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes, she tried to get me to trade them for my purse, the bitch.”
Bentley looked up briefly, genuine curiosity on his face. “Wasn’t your purse with your clothes, sir?”
I looked shocked. “Certainly not! ‘A gentleman’s hand is never far away from his purse.’ So my father says.” I waved my purse at him to make my point.
I noticed him trying to suppress a laugh and it made me feel a little better. I’d made the man miserable for almost an hour, the least I could give him was a story to tell his friends.
“She told me if I wanted to keep my dignity, then I’d give her my purse and walk home wearing my clothes.” I shook my head scornfully. “‘Wanton,’ I said to her, ‘A gentleman’s dignity isn’t in his clothes. If I handed over my purse simply to save myself an embarrassment then I would be handing over my dignity.’”
I looked thoughtful for a second, then spoke softly as if thinking aloud. “It only follows that a gentleman’s dignity is in his purse then.” I looked at the purse in my hands, and gave a long pause. “I think I heard my father say something of the sort the other day.”
Bentley gave a laugh that he turned into a cough, then stood up and shook out the shirt and pants. “There you go, sir, fit you like a glove now.” A hint of a smile played around his lips as he handed them to me.
I slid out of the robe and pulled on the pants. “They’ll get me home, I suppose. How much for your trouble, Bentley?” I asked.
He thought for a second. “One and two.”
I began to lace up my shirt and said nothing.
“Sorry, sir,” he said quickly. “Forgot who I was dealing with.” He swallowed. “One even would do nicely.”
Taking out my purse, I put one silver talent into his hand and looked him in the eye. “I will be needing some change.”
His mouth made a thin line, but he nodded and handed me back two jots.
I tucked the coins away and tied my purse firmly underneath my shirt, then gave him a meaningful look and patted it.
I saw the smile tug at his lips again. “Good-bye, sir.”
I picked up my towel, left the store, and started my altogether less conspicuous walk back to the inn where I had found breakfast and a bath.
“What can I get for you, young sir?” the innkeeper asked as I approached the bar. He smiled and wiped his hands on his apron.
“A stack of dirty dishes and a rag.”
He squinted at me, then smiled and laughed. “I’d thought you’d run off naked through the streets.”
“Not quite naked.” I laid his towel on the bar.
“There was more dirt than boy before. And I would have bet a solid mark your hair was black. You really don’t look the same.” He marveled mutely for a second. “Would you like your old clothes?”
I shook my head. “Throw them away—actually, burn them, and make sure no one accidentally breathes the smoke.” He laughed again. “I did have some other items though.” I reminded him.
He nodded and tapped the side of his nose. “Right enough. Just a second.” He turned and disappeared though a doorway behind the bar.
I let my attention wander around the room. It seemed different now that I wasn’t attracting hostile stares. The fieldstone fireplace with the black kettle simmering. The slightly sour smells of varnished wood and spilled beer. The low rumble of conversation….
I’ve always had a fondness for taverns. It comes from growing up on the road, I think. A tavern is a safe place, a refuge of sorts. I felt very comfortable just then, and it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be a bad life, owning a place like this.
“Here you go then.” The innkeeper laid down three pens, a jar of ink, and my receipt from the bookstore. “These gave me almost as much of a puzzle as why you had run off without your clothes.”
“I’m going to the University.” I explained.
He raised an eyebrow. “A little young, aren’t you?”
I felt a nervous chill at his words, but shrugged it off. “They take all kinds.”
He nodded politely as if that explained why I had shown up barefoot and reeking of back alleys. After waiting for a while to see if I’d elaborate, the barman poured himself a drink. “No offense, but you don’t exactly look to be the sort who would want to be washin’ dishes anymore.”
I opened my mouth to protest; an iron penny for an hour’s work was a bargain I was hesitant to pass up. Two pennies was the same as a loaf of bread, and I couldn’t count all the times that I had been hungry in the last year.
Then I saw my hands resting on the bar. They were pink and clean, I almost didn’t recognize them for my own.
I realized then I didn’t want to do the dishes. I had more important things to do. I stood back from the bar and got a penny from my purse. “Where’s the best place to find a caravan leaving for the north?” I asked.
“Drover’s Lot, up Hillside. Quarter mile past the mill on Green Street.”
I felt a nervous chill when Hillside was mentioned. I ignored it as best I could and nodded. “You have a lovely inn here. I’d count myself lucky to have one as nice when I’ve grown up.” I handed him the penny.
He broke into a huge smile and handed back the penny. “With such nice compliments, you come back any time.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Coppers, Cobblers and Crowds
IT WAS ABOUT AN hour before noon when I stepped out onto the street.
The sun was out and the cobblestones were warm beneath my feet. As the noise of the market rose to an irregular hum around me, I tried to enjoy the pleasant sensation of having a full belly and a clean body.
But there was a vague unease in the pit of my stomach, like the feeling you get when someone’s staring at the back of your head. It followed me until my instincts got the better of me and I slipped into a side alley quick as a fish.
As I stood pressed against a wall, waiting, the feeling faded. After a few minutes, I began to feel foolish. I trusted my instincts, but they gave false alarms every now and again. I waited a few more minutes just to be sure, then moved back into the street.
The feeling of vague unease returned almost immediately. I ignored it while trying to find out where it was coming from. But after five minutes I lost my nerve and turned onto a side street, watching the crowd to see who was following me.
No one. It took a nerve-wracking half hour and two more alleys before I finally figured out what it was.