Vera’s expression brightened. “I’d like that. Neither of the children is working here today, so I’m not needing to see them off.”
Brogan might’ve pointed out that their errands could be dangerous and that the people they were looking in on didn’t know Vera and might be uncomfortable with her seeing them in their difficulties. He might’ve. But she set her hand gently on his arm, and he was entirely undone.
In no time, they had the shop set to rights: the various items back in drawers, a cloth set over the penny dreadful display to save it from dust and make it less tempting to anyone passing by the window.
“This is the first I’ve seen your da up here today,” Brogan said as they pulled their coats on. “Whatever job he secured a bit ago must be quite a large one.”
“It ain’t a heap of printing,” Vera said. “He says it’s complicated, and he’s worried he won’t get it right. Must be important.”
“Enough that you’d not be selling the penny dreadfuls any longer?” That might let him finally tell her who he really was. Except, of course, that she and her da both distrusted writers and telling them he’d been lying about being one wouldn’t improve their opinion of them.
“He’d need a string of important print jobs. Until that happens, we’ll be selling the stories, and he’ll be put out about it.”
The three of them stepped out of the shop. Vera tucked her scarf more securely around her neck.
“Perhaps we’ll find Clare while we’re out,” she said, walking alongside them. “She’s not been in the shop in ages, it seems.”
“Makes the lass a bit more suspicious, yeah?” Móirín said.
“She didn’t strike me as the type to be part of anything like this.” Brogan had spoken with Clare a few times in the past. “Quiet, a bit withdrawn, personable.”
Móirín didn’t look put off the idea. “It may be she’s a fine actress. Or it may be she’s being forced into it.”
“Plenty enough women in Soho haven’t choices in how they live their lives or keep the roof over their heads,” Vera said. “Some fare better than others. I suppose that’s true of most everyone on Old Compton, i’n’it?”
Brogan knew the street wasn’t faring too well just now. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Overton?”
“Peter said he was in the area this morning, picking through the ashes of his business. He’s ruined. Won’t be long before the bailiffs come from King’s Bench Prison.”
“He has a lot of debts, then?”
She nodded. “He could make good on ’em if he had his business, but that’s no more than soot now.”
Brogan reached over and took her hand as they walked. “’Tis moments like this when I wish I had the resources of a lord. Breaks m’ heart not to be able to help people who’re needing it. There’re far too many suffering people in this world, and I’ve far too little ability to help them.”
She moved closer to him, walking so near that their shoulders brushed. Vera was almost exactly his same height, making holding her hand and walking in-stride a far simpler thing than it would be otherwise.
“I’m feeling proper guilty myself,” she said. “I told my neighbors I’d help. Don’t seem I’ve done much.”
Brogan slipped his hand free and, instead, set his arm around her. She rested against him, still walking along. He’d assumed the arrangement simply to offer her comfort but found his heart pounding in a most disconcerting way. He didn’t drop his arm away. He couldn’t. Walking with her as he was, enjoying their conversation and her nearness, he felt more at home than he had in ages.
Home. A future. Love. They were dreams he’d not let himself have in years. This remarkable woman was stirring them up in him again. His heart insisted he fully embrace the possibility; his mind argued that it wasn’t wise.
He was still waging that internal war when they reached Somers Town.
Vera took up the efforts there without hesitation, distributing food and medicines and listening to people share their stories. He wasn’t surprised—she’d shown herself compassionate time and again—but he was grateful to see it extended far beyond her own neighbors and customers.
They’d been there a full quarter-hour when Brogan finally had a moment to talk with Frank. “Móirín says you’re having difficulties.”
The man looked torn down. “We’d a fire not long past. No one was hurt, and we managed to put it out quickly.”
“Fires seem the threat of choice lately,” Brogan muttered.
“A note’s been left at a few flats saying more fires could be prevented if—”
“If the note-leaver gets paid a small bit each week?”
“Oi.” Frank eyed him, confused and clearly more than a bit worried.
“The same thing’s happening in Soho,” Brogan explained.
“I’ve heard whispers from Covent Garden, Vauxhall, Globe Town.” Frank shook his head, the gesture one of weariness. “Someone’s turning a fine profit, but on the backs of the poor.”
“And does that someone have a name of sorts?” Brogan asked.
“Oi. Calls ’imself the Protector.”
“Same villain that’s causing trouble in Soho,” Brogan said. “We think there’s a woman by the name of Clare, who might know something about him.” He pulled out the drawing Móirín had made and showed it to Frank. “Have you seen her?”
Frank studied the sketch but shook his head. “Cain’t say I have.”
“Study it a spell,” Brogan said. “If you see her, send word to Móirín or me. We’re needing to find her without her knowing we’re looking.”
He made an obvious study of the face in front of him. “I’ll send word.”
“We’d appreciate it.”
Ganor served the poor people of London as naturally as most people breathed. Vera enjoyed watching him every bit as much as she appreciated being helpful herself. He’d told her that he was disappointed at not being able to do more for people in need and that his heart was heavy at not having a means of taking his sister back to Dublin. She’d known his was a kind heart, but seeing such ample evidence of it endeared him ever more to her.
Her efforts with the O’Donnell siblings took them to a few different corners of Town. At each spot, the brother and sister knew the people they worked with by name and remembered without prompting what was weighing on each of them. Ganor was precisely that way with the people of Old Compton. He cared, and he worked tirelessly on behalf of others. When she had been torn to bits with exhaustion, he’d buoyed her.