A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

Bel followed him, mute with confusion, as they entered a cool, ceramic-tiled foyer and made a sharp left. Behind them, the manservant trotted to keep up, bearing the hamper.

“This way, then.” Toby led them up a twisting flight of stairs and down a narrow corridor. A variety of unpleasant scents battled for prominence: sickness, laudanum, vinegar. Finally they emerged into a narrow ward lined with small beds on either side. In each bed lay a pale-faced, wide-eyed waif, frozen in an unnatural attitude of innocence. They wore the smug expressions of children interrupted in the midst of an illicit game and quite satisfied with their success at concealing it.

At Toby’s direction, the servant began opening the hamper. Toby strode to the center of the room, clapping his hands. “All right, children. Time for medicine.”

A chorus of groans rose up from the beds. A thin voice protested, “We already had our medicine!”

“Ah, yes. But this is a different medicine. Especially ordered by your new nurse, Miss Grayson.” He turned to Bel and gave her a frown that she immediately recognized as an exaggerated mirror of her own expression. “Don’t worry, I know she looks stern. But I promise, she’s soft as kittens inside.” He went to the hamper and pushed aside a layer of straw, then a sheet of waxed parchment. Inside, rows of pastel ices glistened like jewels. Toby lifted out two frosted glass dishes and held them out to Bel. “Here,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself.”

Impossible man. Surely these children had other, more urgent needs he might have addressed, rather than spending money on this extravagant treat: bandages, linens, nourishing food, real medicine. But just like the children, he looked so pleased with his own mischief. And so handsome besides. Smiling, she took the ices from his hands.

“There’s my girl,” he said, giving her a little wink. A correspondingly girlish thrill swept through her. Turning, he called to the room, “Who likes strawberry?”

The resulting clamor persisted for a good quarter hour, as the ices were distributed and demolished by the eager children. Bel seated herself at the bedside of a spindly-limbed boy sporting bandages on both arms, feeding him spoonfuls of apricot-flavored ice. The rapturous expression on his face warmed her heart.

Toby joined her, sitting on the other side of the boy’s bed. “Well? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“You know I am. Thank you.”

“This ward houses the children who are nearly ready to be released. Perhaps next time we’ll visit some of the truly miserable ones. You’ll be in perfect ecstasy, I predict.”

Bel looked back at the bandaged child. He had fallen asleep, a cherubic smile on his face. “Peter Jeffers, aged nine, ward of Charlesbridge-Crewe Chimney Sweeps,” she read from a slate tacked to the boy’s headboard. “Aged nine? Why, he looks no more than five or six!”

“Underfed, most likely. Climbing boys have to be thin, or they won’t fit up the flues.”

“Up the flues? What ever do you mean, up the flues?”

“I suppose they don’t burn coal in the West Indies?”

She shook her head.

“Well, these boys, they climb up the chimneys with brushes to remove the soot. The flues are narrow and often clogged, so it’s dangerous work. This one must have suffered some burns.”

Bel noted the bandages on the boy’s forearms, and on his elbows above them, gnarled calluses with the texture of gravel. Observing the old, yellowed bruise on the child’s jaw, she whispered, “Not only burned, but beaten too.” She shut her eyes, imagining the horror of being wedged into a soot-clogged chimney two bricks wide. “And when he is healed, he will be released again to his employers? Only to be injured again, or maimed or killed? Can nothing be done?”

“There’s a society, with a ridiculously long name, devoted to replacing the climbing boys with modern machinery. My sister Augusta is a member, but thus far I think they have met with little success. Climbing boys are the traditional method of cleaning flues, and we English do cling to our traditions.”

“Traditions.” Bel spat the word. “Abominations, more like.”

“Shhh.” Toby tilted his head toward the boy, who stirred in his sleep. “You’ll wake him.”

Bel pressed her lips together, fuming in silence.

He stared at her for a moment, then leaned toward her across the bed. “Do you know,” he whispered, “that you’re uncommonly beautiful when you’re angry?”

Bel sniffed. What a time for trite compliments. “I’m not angry.”

“Ah, but you admit to being beautiful. Very good.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Cringing, she lowered her voice. “I do not admit to being beautiful, either.” Possessed of a provocative figure, perhaps. But not beautiful.

“Come now. If you will not admit to beauty, I must accuse you of dishonesty.”

“I am not dis—” She frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you teasing me?”

“Yes.”