“Of course I can,” she said stiffly, and promptly stumbled. He had to catch hold of her and support her weight to stop her from falling. He made no remark about it, and tried hard to think of some other subject to talk about.
“Why din't yer go ‘ome then?” he demanded.
“Because I was lost,” she replied, not looking at him.
They walked in silence for another fifty yards.
“Find any pictures?” he asked. He was not sure if that was a good thing to say or not, but perhaps it was worse to take her failure for granted.
“Yes, I did,” she said immediately. She named the shop and the exact address. “I have no idea which boys they were.” She shuddered violently. “But it was the sort of thing that Phillips does, I imagine. I would prefer not to know any more about it.”
“Really?” Squeaky was surprised. He had not expected her to succeed at all. That must have been when she knocked the cards out of the man's hand. “So you din't really faint then?”
She stopped abruptly. “How do you know about that?”
“Well, ‘ow d'yer think I found yer?” he demanded. “I been askin’! D'yer think I just ‘appened ter be wanderin’ along ‘ere, fer summink ter do, then?”
She started to walk again, hobbling a bit because her feet were so sore. She said nothing for quite a long time. Eventually all the words she could find were “Thank you. I am grateful to you.”
He shrugged. “It's nothin’,” he replied. He did not mean that it was of no importance to him, he meant that she did not owe him any debt. He wondered if she understood that, but it was far too awkward to explain, and he did not know where it might lead.
“Mr. Robinson,” she said about a hundred yards later. They were in the Shadwell High Street, but there were no cabs in sight, only the usual traffic of carts and drays.
He looked at her to indicate his attention.
“I saw some customers go in and out of that shop,” she said a little hesitantly. “I recognized one of them,” she went on. “That was why I ran away.”
“Oh yeah? ‘Oo was it?” He was not sure if it would matter, and who could possibly recognize her, looking like this?
“Mr. Arthur Ballinger,” she replied.
He stopped abruptly, catching her arm and swinging her to a halt as well. “Wot? Ballinger, as Lady Rathbone were?” he said incredulously.
“Yes.” Her eyes did not waver. “He is her father.”
“Buyin’ pictures o’ little boys?” His disbelief sent his voice up almost an octave.
“Don't look at me like that, Mr. Robinson,” she said sharply, her voice catching in her throat. “I am acquainted with Mr. Ballinger. I ran because he looked at me very closely indeed, and I was afraid that he had also recognized me.”
“Where d'yer know ‘im from?” he asked, still dubious.
She shut her eyes, as if her patience were exhausted. Her voice was flat and tight when she answered. “It is part of my duty, and I suppose my privilege, as Mr. Burroughs's wife, to attend a great many social functions. I met him at several of those, along with Mrs. Ballinger, of course. Much of this time the ladies are separate from the gentlemen, but at dinner we will all sit where we are directed, according to rank, and I have had occasion to sit opposite Mr. Ballinger, and listen to him speak.”
It was an unknown world to him. “Listen ter ‘im speak?” he asked.
“It is not appropriate for ladies to speak too much at table,” she explained. “They should listen, respond appropriately, and ask after interests, welfare, and so on. If a gentleman wishes to talk, and usually they do, you listen as if fascinated, and never ask questions to which you suspect he does not know the answer. He will almost certainly not listen to you, but he will certainly look at you closely, if you are young and pretty.”
He caught a sadness in her voice, possibly even a shadow of real pain, and felt an upsurge of anger that startled him.
“Ask opinions or advice,” she continued, lost in memory. “That is flattering. But it is unbecoming to offer either. One is not supposed to have them. But I am quite sure it was Ballinger. I have listened to him on several occasions. One has to listen, or one cannot ask appropriate questions. Sometimes it is even moderately interesting.” She stopped suddenly.
For a moment he was not sure if it was because she was still remembering something of the past that alarmed her, or if it was simply that her feet pained her too much to continue. Then he realized that they had reached an intersection of two fairly busy streets, and she was hoping at last to find a cab.
When he had hailed one and they were at last sitting side by side, necessarily rather close together, she spoke again.
“If Mr. Ballinger is involved in this business,” she said, looking towards him in the dark, her voice anxious, “it is going to be… very distressing.”
That was an understatement, he thought. It would be monumental. Lady Rathbone's father!
“It may even reflect upon Sir Oliver,” she added. “Since he was the one to defend Phillips. There will be many people who will not accept that he had no idea of the connection. He may be accused of participating in the profit, being… tainted by it. Mrs. Monk will be very unhappy.”
He said nothing. He was thinking of just how awful it would be. The few moments of conflict in Hester's office would be a summer's day compared with what might be to come.
“So I would be very grateful, Mr. Robinson, if you would say nothing about my seeing Mr. Ballinger, at least not yet. Please?”
It would be the honorable thing to do, the right thing. “No,” he agreed without hesitation. “No, I won't tell ‘er. Yer say when yer ready.”
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence for quite a while. He was not sure, but he thought she might even have gone to sleep. Poor creature, she must be so tired she would have slept on her feet, now that she knew she was safe. Guaranteed she was hungry too, and would like a clean, hot cup of tea more than anything in the world, except maybe a bath. Funny how women liked a bath.
When they arrived at Portpool Lane it was after midnight but Hester was still there. She had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the big entrance hall where they first saw people as they arrived. She was curled up with her feet half underneath her, her boots on the floor. She woke as soon as she heard their footsteps, jerking her head up, blinking. She recognized Squeaky before she realized that it was Claudine with him. She scrambled to her feet and ran across to throw her arms around Claudine, then with flushed face and eyes shining with relief, she thanked Squeaky profoundly.
“That's all right,” he said a bit self-consciously. “Weren't nothin’. She were lost, that's all.” He made a casual gesture as if to dismiss it.
Hester decided to allow it to pass. Just at the moment she was dizzy with relief that Claudine was safe. She realized only now how deeply afraid she had been that some harm had come to her. If she had gone around asking about Phillips, he was quite capable of killing her, and they would probably never even know. She would appear to be just one more beggar woman dead of cold or hunger, or some unspecified disease. Even a knife attack or a strangling would not occasion a great deal of remark.
She thanked Squeaky again, told Ruby that Claudine was safe, and decided to allow Wallace Burroughs the privilege of having a good night's sleep, or not. She would send him a letter in the morning, unless Claudine wished to go home and tell him herself. If she did not, then that was up to her.
Another message she would definitely send would be to Rathbone, to tell him that Claudine was safe. It would be polite to address it to Margaret as well.
Over breakfast in the large kitchen she asked Squeaky what Claudine had discovered, if anything, but he told her he had no idea. He looked slightly surprised when he said it, and it was several moments before she realized that it was not Claudine's lack of discovery that startled him, but his own reply to Hester. That must be because it was a lie, to defend Claudine.
She looked at him more closely, and he returned her look with a straight, slightly belligerent gaze. She found
