‘I would almost say: try taking him home, Lady Alkmene. Give him a nice guest room with a big bed and clean, whole clothes and see how he turns them into a big mess in no time. How he takes the ball you give him to knock down your precious vases like it is a game in itself. This child has never had anything. He doesn’t understand any language but that of physical violence.’
‘And you accept that?’
Dubois’s jaw tightened. ‘I do not accept anything. But I am realistic enough to see I cannot change it overnight. Your sweet little gesture…’ his voice dripped acid ‘…has only served to push that drunk man into a rage. The boy will be beaten because of you. Because of some cookies and a horse and cart.’
Alkmene’s eyes burned. Her voice croaked as she said, ‘Please go back and make sure he does not beat him. Please.’
Dubois caught her shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her and scream at her some more about her ignorance and her disastrous good intentions.
But he just squeezed for a moment, then dropped his hands. ‘I can’t, Alkmene.’ His voice was soft and weary. ‘I cannot protect the boy.’
Alkmene wet her lips. ‘I am sorry for what I did. I only wanted to help them.’
Dubois nodded. ‘I know.’ His voice was even more bitter now than she had heard it before.
She looked up the steps. ‘Shall I go back and try to explain…’
‘Don’t you see that your presence has only made it worse?’ Dubois inhaled slowly. ‘Your kind of people are what caused all their misery to begin with. I can only hope for the boy that his father will collapse soon, to sleep off his haze, and that he won’t remember a thing when he comes to.’
He took her arm. ‘And now we leave.’
Alkmene did not resist.
‘I would sure like to know what happened to all of my soda,’ Cook said the next morning as she bustled into the breakfast room. When Father wasn’t home, she believed she had to look after ‘the young lady’ and scurried in and out with extra bacon or fresh apple sauce. Father would never allow a cook in his dining room, sticking to a strict order of Brookes serving and Cook not leaving the kitchen unless it was on fire.
But Alkmene actually enjoyed a little liveliness, plus Cook’s never-ending stream of gossip, gathered mainly via her laundering niece.
‘I needed soda to clean up something that had gotten stained by accident,’ Alkmene said, and when Cook gave her an incredulous look: ‘It wasn’t mine, you know, so I felt kind of responsible for the staining. But it is all solved now.’
She hoped that it was when she’d get to the men’s wear store later that day and see if the clerk had found her the perfect substitute.
Just as Cook was at the door, Alkmene said quickly, ‘I was wondering. The people who live in places like Tar Street, is there any form of help for them?’
‘My heart, Lady Alkmene, what would you want in a place like that?’ Cook gave her a suspicious look.
‘I happened to end up there, by coincidence really, and I saw this very sad little boy whose mother died and his father is drinking and beating him and… He doesn’t have any decent clothes or toys to play with.’
Cook sighed. ‘There are too many of those children all over the city, my lady. They are none of your business, I say.’
Alkmene sat up straight, her back pressed against the chair’s rigid wood. ‘If everybody says that, nothing will ever change.’
Cook sighed. ‘I suppose when you put it like that.’
Alkmene pushed her plate away, still half full with scrambled eggs. She couldn’t eat when her mind was so full of thoughts and plans. ‘Is there anybody doing anything to help them? Like the uh…sailors’ mission but then for the children?’
‘I suppose you could say Father Williams is doing that. But people say he is a conman, not a real priest. That he takes donations and doesn’t do nothing for the children. I would be careful around him if I were you. He might take your money and leave you in a bind.’
Cook crossed her thick bare arms over her chest. ‘Besides, your father would not be happy if he knew you are going around places like Tar Street.’
As Alkmene ignored the statement and got up, the woman said in a pleading tone, ‘Your father is on his travels too much, ignoring that you should have been married by now. He may not think about that, but I do. And when word about you gets around, running around among the drunks in Tar Street, men will be scared off.’
Alkmene laughed in spite of herself. Men were already scared off, or she would have been married by now. Conversation with the other sex had never come easy to her, probably because men considered her too sharp-tongued. Most must have thought it, though none had put it directly to her, but Dubois.
It didn’t even bother her. It was the way she was and if they didn’t like it, nobody forced them to be around her.
And nobody would force her to look for a husband, when all she wanted was her freedom and adventures.
Cook took her silence as remorse, a sudden flash of insight into the possibly disastrous consequences of her behaviour, and nodded solemnly. ‘You should sober at the thought. It is nothing for you to sit around here and wait on a father who is never there. Find your own household and have some children to keep you busy.’
Alkmene had to think of the little boy again and winced. She had really outdone herself there, making a mess she couldn’t clean up again. Adventures were fine, but when little children got caught in between… She had to find out more about this Father Williams and his mission. If he was a conman, she’d see right through that. He’d never get her money the easy way.
Alkmene walked out into the hallway and stared in surprise at the envelope on the shiny cherrywood side table. ‘I thought the post wasn’t due for another hour.’
Cook nodded. ‘This envelope was handed to me as I was cleaning the steps in front. I was just throwing the last water from my bucket over them when this street urchin ran up to me and handed it to me. A scruffy little boy in a too large coat. He said it was for the lady. I assume he meant you. It does say Lady Alkmene on the envelope, but there is no sender.’
Alkmene picked up the envelope. A street urchin could most likely not write, and this envelope had a strong adult hand on it. Masculine, she believed.
Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be from Dubois. He had mentioned in passing the other day that he had information about the murder, about how the old man’s dead body had been found and some financial complications. The unfortunate end to their visit to the watchmaker had prevented her from asking what those were. But now, after a good night’s sleep, she couldn’t wait to dive back into the investigation again.
But why would Dubois write to her? If he wanted her, he knew where she lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff.
In fact, he would probably enjoy
