“Why would you do that?” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew the reason.
“I had a fondness for the teacher.”
“I confess I didn’t mind extra lessons with you.”
His gaze on her seemed to warm, and she looked down and took a hasty sip of her tea.
“What about your art?” he asked before the silence could become uncomfortable. “Do you still sketch?”
He really did remember everything about her. For so long, she’d thought she meant nothing to him. More and more, she believed he hadn’t wanted to leave without telling her. He’d had no choice.
“Ostensibly, I teach art at the academy. We don’t make public the skills like forgery and lockpicking we show the girls. We hope our students will never need them, but we also want them to be prepared for anything. This world is not always easy for females.”
“True enough.”
“I teach art as well as counterfeiting. When I have James back, I plan to advertise for a few private students to supplement my income.”
“That’s a clever idea. But when will you have time to create your own art?”
She frowned, perplexed. “I enjoy art, but I don’t think my pieces are good enough to sell. I certainly wouldn’t make enough to offset the cost of charcoals, pencils, and paper.”
He refilled their cups with tea. “I think you’re good enough, but regardless, I didn’t think you sketched for money. I thought you did it for joy.”
Bridget stared at him for a long moment. She hadn’t realized how well he understood her.
“Or perhaps I misunderstood,” he said when she merely stared at him.
“You didn’t misunderstand,” she said, feeling self-conscious. When was the last time anyone asked her about herself and what she might like? For years, her life had been about survival. When had she had time to think about joy? “But drawing for pleasure has not been something I’ve had the time or funds to do for the past few years.”
“Of course not. I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”
“Don’t. You’ve made me remember how it once was and how it could be again. I’d lost sight of that.”
“You’ve had other worries. It may not be safe for me to be part of James’s life, but you can be assured you both will be taken care of. I have some money saved—”
“Caleb, I don’t want your money. That isn’t why I asked for help finding him.”
“And what if I want to give you money for him? If that’s the only way I can be part of his life, at least it’s something. I left you to fend for yourself all those years ago. I was well paid for my service, and this is the least I can do.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He didn’t press her any further. Instead, he paid for the food and escorted her back to Mrs. Jacobs’s. At the corner, where they wouldn’t be spotted by the lady herself, he pulled Bridget aside. “I wish I could take you to a museum or Hyde Park.”
She looked up at the gray skies and the persistent drizzle. “The park? It’s raining.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I wish I could escort you anyway, but I’ve risked almost enough for one day.”
“Almost?”
“Take one more risk with me?”
Years ago, she would have said yes immediately. Now, she hesitated. “What is it?”
“Come to my room after supper tonight. I have something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Come to my room and find out.” He looked about, then back at her. “Go now. I’ll wait a quarter hour and come in after you.”
“You should go first.”
“I won’t have you standing on the street in the rain. Go now, so I can see that you return safely inside.”
Bridget nodded and started for the boarding house. She knew there was no point in arguing with Caleb. He was as stubborn as he was honorable. But if he normally took as many chances as he had today, it was a wonder he hadn’t been spotted. The city was full of men and women looking for easy money, and Caleb was probably worth more money than she would ever possess.
Bridget greeted Mrs. Jacobs when she entered and went straight to her room. She dropped a few more pieces of the small ration of coal she’d been allotted into the stove and huddled by it for warmth. Later in the summer, it would probably be uncomfortably hot in the room, but today, in her damp clothing, she was cold.
She stripped off her dress and hung it to dry, then did the same with her stays and chemise, wrapping herself in a blanket. She had another chemise that was clean and dry, but it was her best one—a fine lawn with delicate lavender ribbons. She didn’t like to wear it often. She took it out of its tissue paper for special occasions.
Did going to Caleb’s room qualify as a special occasion? Could she even risk going? It wasn’t a ploy to trap her in his chamber and take advantage of her. She knew him too well to ever expect such behavior from him. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him if she went. And if she kissed him, she did not know if she’d be able to stop. Or if she’d want him to stop.
Then she might be glad she’d worn her pretty chemise.
The very thought of Caleb seeing her in nothing but the chemise made her throat go dry. She wouldn’t decide now. It was still afternoon. She had plenty of time to decide. Instead, she crossed to her bed and pulled out a box from underneath. She opened the box and lifted out several sheets of paper. They were torn and stained from all the times she’d looked at them, all the times they’d been exposed to the elements in Fleet Prison. This was the only possession, other than the clothes on her back, she’d kept in prison.
She lifted the top sheet of paper and stared into the face she’d drawn there. The charcoal sketch depicted a baby smiling sweetly in repose. She remembered watching James sleep and sketching him in the morning light. She’d wondered what he dreamed about when his little brow furrowed or his pink bow of a mouth pursed. He’d been such a beautiful child with his wispy blond hair and large blue eyes, though as an infant, as he was in this sketch, he’d been bald and rosy-cheeked.
The next portrait captured those curls and the eyes. This one was watercolor, and looking at it now, she still didn’t think she’d captured the eye color correctly. She’d looked into those same eyes all morning, and paints could hardly do it justice. In the painting, the little boy was reaching for an apple and smiling. His stance was a bit ungainly, as though he might lose his balance and plop onto his bottom at any moment. She traced a hand over the plump cheeks and the dimple in his chin.
The last picture had been difficult to draw and still hurt to look at. She’d drawn it in prison with pencil. It depicted James’s head and shoulders as he was carried away from her. One hand reached back as though to grasp her. His face was the picture of misery and terror. Her heart ached when she thought of that day, to know that she’d failed him. Her choices had failed him. She’d thought marrying Robbie would give James a better life. Instead, it had doomed her to prison and sent James to an orphanage.
The room had grown dark, and she put the pictures back into the box and slid them under the bed. She could hear the scrape and click-clacking of silver against china below. Those who had paid for meals were eating downstairs.