one hand on the shoulder of the small boy at her side. Her eyes just now were the colour of wet slate, her normally generous mouth pulled tight in an expression of disgust.
‘You will go and you will leave Ned with me,’ she said, her voice strong and fearless despite the knots tying themselves in her stomach as she faced the great brute of a man she had caught beating his climbing boy. ‘You are lucky that I do not call the magistrate and have you arrested for cruelty. This child is too ill to do his work.’
‘Lazy ingrate that’s what he be,’ the sweep muttered. His hands were ingrained with soot, his face streaked with it. He had a fearful scar on one cheek and he squinted with his left eye. He was scowling so fiercely that Helene’s courage might have deserted her had she not seen the scars on a previous climbing-boy’s back. Jeb had died of his injuries. She was determined that it would not happen to Ned. ‘I bought the brat from the workhouse. He belongs to me—and that’s the law. You can’t take him from me, miss.’
‘What did you pay for him?’ Helene was haughty as she faced her much larger opponent across the kitchen of her uncle’s home. She knew that the sweep could fell her with a blow of his huge fist, but she refused to feel afraid. ‘Tell me and you shall be paid.’
‘I paid ten gold guineas for him,’ the sweep growled.
Helene knew that he was lying. No one paid so much for a boy from the workhouse. However, she understood that she must pay the price if she wished to take the child from him.
‘Very well, you shall be paid,’ she promised. ‘You may go. I will send the money to your wife tomorrow.’
The sweep scowled at her, anger flashing in his eyes. ‘If you don’t send the money—all of it!—I shall come and take him back,’ he muttered and went off, stomping out of the kitchen in a temper.
‘You’ve landed yourself in a pickle again, miss.’ Bessie stared at her. ‘Where will you find ten guineas to pay him? And what are we to do with the lad now we have him?’
Helene felt the lad tremble beneath her hand. ‘Don’t send me back to Mr Beazor, miss,’ he said, sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his nose and then on his disreputable breeches, smearing more soot on his face in the process. ‘He’ll kill me sure as hell is full of the devil.’
‘You watch your language,’ Bessie warned him sharply. ‘Speak respectful to Miss Henderson. She just saved you from a terrible beating.’
‘Please do not scold him, Bessie,’ Helene said and smiled at the maid she thought of as her best friend. Bessie was her mama’s only servant and had helped Helene out of scrapes many times when she was a girl. ‘I think he needs a bath and something to eat.’
‘He could certainly do with a bath,’ Bessie agreed. ‘He doesn’t smell too sweet.’
‘What’s a bath?’ Ned eyed them suspiciously. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Lord bless him!’ Bessie laughed. ‘We’re going to put you in a tub of hot water and wash all the soot and grime off you, lad.’
‘Nah…don’t fancy that…’ Ned backed away from them nervously.
‘I promise you it won’t hurt,’ Helene told him. ‘Afterwards, I shall put some ointment on your back and then you can eat your meal.’
‘What’s to eat?’ Ned looked round hopefully, a sign of interest in his eyes now.
‘You shall have a hot meat pie and some cake,’ Bessie said, seeing the gleam and smiling inwardly. ‘But you’ve got to be clean. I can’t have dirty boys in my kitchen.’
‘Are you certain it don’t hurt?’ Ned’s nose twitched as the smell of pies baking reached his nostrils.
‘I promise,’ Helene said and turned as one of the other servants entered the kitchen. ‘Jethro, will you fetch the tub from the scullery, please? We are going to give this lad a bath.’
Jethro nodded. ‘I saw Beazor looking like thunder. He’s a bad man, miss. He’s already done for two workhouse lads. He’s been warned that if it happens again he won’t get another.’
‘Is that all they can think of to threaten him with?’ Helene’s eyes flashed. ‘In my opinion, a beating is the least he deserves. He has killed boys and no one does anything to stop him.’
‘Yes, miss, a few of us were thinking the same,’ Jethro said, his expression grim. ‘I’ll fetch the tub and give you a hand with him, Bessie. Your uncle was looking for you, Miss Henderson.’
‘Yes, I know he wished to speak with me,’ Helene said. ‘I shall have to ask him what we should do with Ned.’
‘You can leave him to me, miss,’ Jethro said. ‘I need a lad to help out in the yard. He’ll do with me. No need to bother Mr Barnes.’
‘No, I would rather not…’ Helene thanked him, told Ned to be good and hurried away to keep her appointment with her uncle. Edgar Barnes was a fair-minded man. He had taken his sister and her child in when Helene’s father died from a fever after a fall from his horse. However, he was not a wealthy man. He had promised to do something for her, and she knew that he had summoned her to his library to talk about her dowry that morning. She had been offered a Season in town by a good friend of her mother’s. Her uncle had already given her fifty pounds towards her spending money in town, but the dowry would need to be a more substantial sum if she were to stand a chance of making a good match. Especially in view of what some might see as her unfortunate background.
Helene could ill afford to give Beazor the ten guineas she had promised him, but she must do it. Her mother had spoken of Miss Royston being very generous, but Helene was not perfectly sure what that meant, though she knew they were to be guests at Miss Amelia Royston’s town house. Neither her uncle nor her mother could have afforded to give her a London Season and she felt very grateful to the lady she remembered only vaguely. It was very kind of Miss Royston to send such an invitation.
Helene hesitated outside her uncle’s door, then took a deep breath, knocked and opened the door. He was writing at his desk, but looked up as she entered and smiled.
‘Ah, Helene, my dear. I am pleased to see you. Come in, niece, and sit down. I want to talk to you about your visit to town.’
‘Yes, Uncle. I am sorry I am a little late, sir.’
‘No matter…’ He waved his hand in a dismissive manner. ‘I am sure you understand your great good fortune and the opportunity this visit affords you?’
‘Yes, Uncle. I am very grateful to Miss Royston for inviting us.’
‘You must make the most of it,’ Uncle Edgar told her, his fingers touching as he placed his hands in the steeple position and looked serious. ‘I have two sons to see through college and I must do something to secure the future of my younger boy. Matthew wants a set of colours and that is an expense I can scarcely bear. I had thought I might give you fifty pounds a year, but some of my investments have failed miserably and I am no longer able to make the commitment.’
‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ Helene told him, her heart sinking. Without a dowry she would stand little chance of making an advantageous match. The fact of her maternal grandfather having been in trade was a disadvantage in itself, though Helene herself
