Chapter Fifteen

“Albert, lad, fill up that bucket again—nice clean water, mind.”

Cat groaned inwardly and straightened her aching back. Three days had passed at Roselyn’s boarding house, and it had been nothing but work, work, work from sunup to sundown. Astonishing, the sheer amount of labor it took to run such a place, at least the way Roselyn Murphy wanted it run. Tasks seemed endless, and the scrubbing never quite got finished.

Moreover, Roselyn proved to be an equal-opportunity slave driver. She didn’t so much assign lads’ and lasses’ duties as share the pain around. So far Cat had polished furniture, scrubbed every floor in the place, and begun learning to cook.

Ruefully, she cast a glance at her hands, which had once been white and well-kept. Now red and almost as rough as Roselyn’s, they stung when she immersed them in water.

How many buckets had she hauled since she came here? Far too many. But she could fairly say Roselyn worked herself twice as hard as she worked anyone else.

And Cat sincerely did like the woman. She liked Dottie, too, who seemed to possess limitless energy and loved to chatter while she worked, very much like a bird. Cat had already heard all about Dottie’s past, far more horrific than Cat’s; at the age of four, Dottie had been sold by her father as a runner for a man who owned a weaving factory—shuttling bobbins from place to place on the floor. After enduring two years of that life, she’d been injured when a bolt of fabric fell on her, and tossed out on her ear. Taken in by a charity run by the wives of German immigrants on the east side, she’d gone out to work again at the age of eight, laboring for a grocer. When the man became abusive, she eventually saw a doctor, who directed her to Roselyn’s door.

Now, at only fourteen, she worked tirelessly all day and confided to Cat early on, “I’d stay here and work for Miss Murphy for free if I had to. She’s kind enough, though, to pay me a little bit of wage in addition to my keep. I was able to save up and buy these boots, see?”

She pointed a little toe from beneath the edge of her worn but clean dress. Cat thought of the many pairs of shoes and slippers she’d gone through in her life, tossed aside casually, and marveled that this girl could be excited over a pair of plain brown boots. But she nodded respectfully.

“So, Albert,” Dottie concluded sweetly, “you just keep working hard, and maybe you can earn yourself some decent clothes.”

Cat had followed that advice and continued working hard. Her arms protested hauling the heavy buckets and—because it seemed like a task for a lad—she learned to wield an axe and split kindling in the tiny kitchen yard. She carried endless bowls and platters to the table—the men who lodged with Roselyn had seemingly bottomless stomachs—and helped with mountains of dishes. At night she slept like the dead, too weary to dream.

But now, now… She paused beside the kitchen window and looked out, wishing James—or Jamie, as she called him in her own mind—would come. Not only did she crave news of Boyd’s condition—surely the villain must be dead by now if he meant to die—but she missed the big, gentle man.

As if her wishing had conjured him, she saw someone enter the kitchen yard—wide shoulders, long legs, auburn hair tumbling across one side of his face. She caught her breath in delight.

“It’s Jamie!”

Roselyn shot Dottie a quick look. “Mr. Kilter to you, lad. Didn’t he bring you here to safety?”

Roselyn had told Dottie that Kilter had rescued Albert from an abusive master, an excuse to keep her close to the boarding house.

Now Roselyn nudged Dottie. “Be an angel, lass, and run upstairs. Make sure all the beds are made tidy. Then you take a break; out with you into that sunshine.”

Happily, Dottie went, but not before Roselyn dug in her pocket and gave her a penny. “Buy some of that candy you like so well.”

“Oh, thanks, Miss Murphy!” Dottie’s smile lit her face.

Cat knew how she felt. She couldn’t keep a smile from her face as she opened the kitchen door to Kilter.

“Well, hello!”

“Hello, there.” He paused in the doorway and examined her carefully. She tried not to mind that she stood clad in boys’ shabby clothing, or that dirt smudged her hands and face. A smile quirked the good side of his mouth. “Working hard, are we?”

“You have no idea.” Cat widened her eyes at him. “Do you have news about…about—”

“Hush,” Roselyn said quickly, and hurried to shut the door behind Kilter after shooing him in. “Don’t speak any names here.”

Cat bit her lip, then went and closed the wooden door that led to the long, narrow dining room. When she turned back, she caught Roselyn and Kilter exchanging glances.

“Do you have word?” Roselyn asked.

“Yes. Tate sent me.”

“Then sit down, lad. I’ll put the kettle on. Albert, you sit too.” Roselyn moved as she spoke, her hands already busy with the kettle. “How dire are things?”

Kilter sat, and Cat took the place opposite, where she could look into his face. His gaze touched hers before he said, “There’s some good news and some bad. Tate wanted me to let you know he’s sent a messenger up to Toronto and your family.”

Roselyn leaned against the table. “That’s the good news, I’m thinking.”

“Yes. We haven’t had word back yet, but he’s told the man to offer your mother and sister sanctuary if they’re willing to come away with him.”

“That’s very kind,” Cat said. Tate Murphy barely knew her, yet he went to such lengths on her behalf.

“That’s my big, soft-headed brother for you,” Roselyn half joked.

“Please thank him for me.” Cat searched Kilter’s face again. “And the rest of it?”

“We’ve had word Boyd’s likely to recover. He’s in a nursing facility on Elmwood Avenue and said to be angry. Very, very angry.”

Cat flinched inwardly. “How do you know?”

“A friend of Tate’s is walking out with one of the nurses there. She says he’s vowed to find Miss Delaney no matter what it takes. He’s already authorized a squad of men to move through the city and hired a small airship to search from above.”

Roselyn grunted. “Criminal waste of brass, that is. Only imagine having such money to toss around.”

Cat fought the feelings of panic and terror rising inside. “I haven’t a chance, then. I’ll have to leave here, Miss Murphy.”

Roselyn and Kilter both looked alarmed. “Are you mad?” Roselyn asked.

“I’ll not bring trouble to your door,” Cat vowed, “not when you’ve been so good to me.” Perhaps she’d be better off just turning herself over to Boyd now, before she brought harm down on the heads of her friends.

What would Boyd do to Roselyn if he discovered she’d been sheltering Cat? To Kilter? Cat shivered at the thought of disaster befalling him because of her.

Kilter’s blue eyes, so bright in his half-ruined face, became worried. “I don’t think there’s any need for that. I’ve come only to warn you about staying close and keeping to your disguise, nothing more. As many resources as Boyd may have, Tate and I know hiding places in this city.” He made room on his knee for the little brown dog, whose name Cat had learned was Blossom, and the mutt cuddled into him trustingly.

Lucky mutt, Cat thought ruefully. How she’d like to shelter in his arms. Instead, she said, “You have no reason to place yourselves in jeopardy by helping me. Boyd could ruin Mr. Murphy’s business, all he’s worked to build. I hate to think what he could do to you.”

Kilter shrugged. “So far, he has no reason to suspect we’re helping you or that you’re hidden here. The instant he does, we’ll move you.” He gave Cat an intent look. “Neither of us is the man to abandon someone in need.”

Cat drew a deep breath that tasted of reassurance. “Thank you, that’s very good to know. Please thank Mr. Murphy also, for all the trouble he’s taking.”

Kilter nodded, and the auburn hair tumbled over the good side of his face. Cat wondered how he might have looked had he never been burned; she suspected he would have been devastatingly attractive, with those high cheekbones and long lashes.

Her heart clenched at the very thought. How terrible it must be for him. Yet right now he represented the largest part of her security, and she watched his big, scarred hand move over Blossom’s brown head with increased envy.

The kettle began to sing, and Roselyn reached down two cups and saucers. It had been so long since Cat had been waited on, she nearly leaped up. But Roselyn forestalled her by putting a plate of shortbread on the table.

“There, James, lad, your favorite.” She shot a look at Cat. “You can take the Scotsman out of Scotland, but can’t take the Scotland out of him—or the love of shortbread. First time I met him, he cleaned a plate.”

“Nobody makes shortbread like you, Roselyn,” Kilter said appreciatively.

“And here’s your tea. The two of you sit and talk; I’ve tasks elsewhere in the house.”

What tasks? Cat wondered. It seemed they’d already taken care of everything. But she craved a few minutes alone with Kilter, even if they spoke only of frightening possibilities.

Roselyn went out, quietly shutting the door to the dining room behind herself. Cat considered all the things she wanted to say and chose one.

“Too bad Boyd didn’t die and do the world a favor.”

Kilter looked startled. For an instant his fingers paused on Blossom’s fur before resuming their gentle motion. “True. Of course you’d be in worse trouble than you are.”

“Is there worse trouble? Not only has Boyd sworn vengeance against me—for that’s what he’s done—but I’ve dragged people into it with me. I mean it. I’d be better off giving myself up now.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said quickly. “We haven’t begun to exhaust our resources. Trust me.”

“I do trust you.” Completely, implicitly. “I just don’t want to bring trouble down upon you.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “Not as if I haven’t been in deep trouble before. Just look at me.” The corner of his mouth quirked again. “Or, rather, spare yourself and don’t.”

It took Cat an instant to grasp his meaning. When she did, she flushed with annoyance. “I think, James,” she used his given name deliberately, “you over exaggerate the effect your appearance has on me.”

That made his gaze leap to hers once more, startled. She could see the emotions race through his eyes: denial, embarrassment, disbelief. Ah, then, he didn’t think she could look at him and see anything but a monster. She would have to convince him.

“Oh, I know people like that awful Charlie Crowter sneer and beat you over the head with it,” she said quickly before he could speak, “and I can’t imagine going on so. But please, at least accept that it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Doesn’t matter?” he repeated, a man stunned. “How could it not matter?”

“Because that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

“By God, what do you see?”

“A kind man, a gentle man. A good man. My friend, I hope. Are we friends?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“Then,” she said with a flash of fire, “don’t you dare try and tell me how I should or should not feel about you!”

He shook his head, and his gaze momentarily fell to rest on the dog’s head. Cat could see—could feel—he still didn’t believe. But when his eyes lifted to hers again they held fervor equal to hers.

“And I will do everything I can, Catherine, to keep you safe. That I do promise.”

Impulsively, she reached across the table, her hand a silent demand for his. In response, he lifted his scarred fingers from the dog’s head and placed them in hers.

“Friends, then,” she said devoutly.

“Friends,” he agreed, and she squeezed his fingers as if she’d never let go.