“This is furnished,” Mrs. Jacobs countered. “What more do you need?” She blew out a breath. “You even have curtains on the windows. Sewed them myself.”
Bridget crossed to the window at the other end of the room, all of six steps, and opened the curtains. The window looked out on another building and down into an alleyway. She closed the curtains again.
“How much?”
“One shilling and two pence a week.”
It was reasonable, though she’d hoped for better. “Is coal included?”
“That’s extra.”
“What about meals?”
“Extra.”
She could take meals at the school, but James needed to eat. “Water?”
“There’s a well in the yard. Help yourself.”
“I’ll give you a shilling a week for it.”
“It’s a shilling and two pence, and I won’t take less.” Mrs. Jacobs folded her arms over her chest with finality. Bridget would not be deterred, however. For almost two years, she had been working toward the goal of reclaiming James. She had a plan, and obtaining a room was the last step before she sought James. She needed this room, dingy as it was.
“I’ll pay a shilling and two pence if that price includes a pail of coal a week.”
Mrs. Jacobs hesitated, then began to shake her head.
“I will give you one shilling now.”
The landlady considered. She could continue to haggle, but then she risked the chance of having the room remain vacant. No tenant meant no blunt. She held out her hand. “I’ll agree, provided that Mrs. Brodie vouches for you.”
Bridget nodded, removed her glove, and placed the shilling in Mrs. Jacobs’s palm. It was gone in an instant.
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Brodie first thing in the morning. If she says you’re a good girl, you and the boy can move in tomorrow evening.”
“Very good. It will just be me for now.”
“Why is that? Where is the boy living?”
“It will take me time to send for him,” she said, keeping her answer vague.
Mrs. Jacobs nodded. “As long as he doesn’t cause trouble.”
“He won’t.” Of course, she couldn’t know that. She hadn’t seen James since he was barely three. She didn’t know what sort of boy he’d grown into in the intervening years. And yet, she was well-versed in dealing with unruly children. She could handle her own son, and she would.
She just had to find him first. She’d gone to the orphanage where she’d left James before she’d been sent to Fleet Prison with Robbie, but the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth had burned down, and no one seemed to know what had happened to the boys who’d lived there.
She hadn’t known how to go about discovering more. She considered hiring an investigator to look into the matter, but she feared the expense would be too dear.
Mrs. Jacobs, evidently convinced she’d shown the new tenant enough of the room, motioned her out and locked the door again. She began what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech about meals and noise and visitors as she led Bridget back down the stairs. Bridget made sounds of assent, but she was looking at the cracked paint on the walls and wondering what James would think of their new home. What would he think of her? Could he ever forgive her for abandoning him?
Finally at the front door, the two ladies said their goodbyes, and Mrs. Jacobs opened the door for Bridget just as a man was opening it from the outside.
“Pardon me, ladies,” he said when he saw that he had blocked their way.
Bridget began to say something along the lines of, It is nothing, sir, but then she looked up and into his face.
Those eyes. She knew of only two people in the world with that exact shade of blue. One was James and the other his father.
CALEB HARRIS FELT HIS smile fade. There had only ever been a few times in his life where he hadn’t known what to do. Seeing her again was one of those rare times. He’d known it might happen when he was sent back to England and then to London. He’d prepared several speeches in the unlikely event that he saw her.
But looking at her now, her golden-brown eyes riveted to his face, her expression like that of a person who had seen a ghost, he couldn’t think of a single word.
They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, though it was probably only a few seconds. It was long enough for Mrs. Jacobs to clear her throat conspicuously. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yes,” he said at the same time that she said, “No.”
Mrs. Jacobs looked from one to the other.
He was a bloody idiot. Why had he said yes? At least Bridget still had her wits about her. “I misspoke.” Caleb removed his hat politely. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of making this lady’s acquaintance.”
“Mrs. Lavery, this is Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, Mrs. Lavery.”
He nodded. “A pleasure, Mrs. Lavery.” She hadn’t been Bridget Lavery when he’d known her. Nor had she been married. Of course, he hadn’t been Smith back then either.
“Mr. Smith.” She nodded right back. He’d thought it impossible for her warm, golden eyes to ever look icy, but she managed it now. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He stepped quickly aside as she moved toward the door. Once in the doorway, she turned back to Mrs. Jacobs. “Thank you, madam. I will see you tomorrow.”
So she was returning? Could she be renting a room here? He watched as she walked away until that view was obscured when Mrs. Jacobs closed the door. The landlady turned to him, but before she could speak, he started for the stairs. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jacobs. No time to talk now.”
He took the steps two at a time, withdrew his key from his pocket, and had it ready at the door to his room. Once inside, he leaped over the traps he’d laid and made straight for the window. He pulled the curtains apart and looked out on the street. She was there, just now at the end of the lane. He could still catch her.
He yanked the window up, put one leg over, grasped a clothesline, and swung out. One hand on the clothesline, he reached for the drainpipe with the other, then shimmied down and ran to catch up with Bridget.
He shouldered past people, earning a few deserved curses, until he caught sight of her plain blue dress and white bonnet in the crowd. With a last burst of speed, he caught up to her, matching his pace to hers and walking beside her.
She looked over at him as though seeing him beside her, out of breath and hatless, did not surprise her at all.
“I thought you were dead,” she said.
“That was what everyone was made to think. It was the only way to ensure my survival across enemy lines.”
“The Foreign Office.” Her voice held enough contempt to fill a sea. “I should have known they lied. I expect that of them.” She glanced at him, her eyes still cold. “I didn’t expect it of you.”
“I couldn’t tell you.” He had to twist sideways to avoid bumping into two men walking side by side. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t even know I’d been reassigned until the day before I was to leave.”
“So you did have time to tell me.”
“I was ordered to tell no one.”
She stopped so suddenly that he walked on for two or three steps before he realized she wasn’t beside him. He turned and walked back to her.