Page 152 of Rakes & Reticules
Lady Matilda’s eyes widened, as if surprised by her friend’s flirtatious manner, before turning to Sam. “We shall see you for dinner next week, Dr. Brooks?”
If you don’t invite any ladies searching for husbands.“Of course, unless some emergency claims my attention.” He walked his horse to the path and mounted, eager to be away. If the woman had been a widow, a dalliance may have been possible. But he wouldn’t entertain a young woman intent on marriage. Not yet. He was still building his practice, donating time to hospitals, and keeping ridiculous hours.
He made his way back to Cheapside, passing St. Mary’s Le Bow. It was said anyone born within hearing of its bells was considered a true Cockney.The thought brought to mind Mrs. Brown’s cultured speech. How had she ended up as a vendor? The woman was a conundrum.
Sam ambled along the busy thoroughfare in the bustling heart of London’s commerce and trade. One could buy anything from hats, cottons, silks, and timepieces to perfumes, stationery, and pianofortes. It was a convenient location for a residence too. The shops stood next to houses and apartments, and many affluent merchants made their homes here. From his bedroom window, he could see the Tower of London on a clear day.
When he reached the fork at Cornhill, he veered left toward Threadneedle Street and the Stock Exchange Coffee House. He often stopped there, for it was near his home, and the food was good at a reasonable price. He tossed his rein to a small boy and gave him a coin.
“A penny now, and another when I return to collect the horse. Understood?” he asked the open-mouthed boy, staring at the penny but nodding his head. “Good.” Another memory from his youth, of holding horses for men dressed to the nines and standing for hours for a ha’penny.
“Afternoon, Doc,” the proprietor said in a loud voice over the din of patrons. “Wanted to thank ye. The missus is doing much better.”
“Glad to hear it, George. Could you have Sally bring me a coffee, meat pie, and white soup if you still have it? If not, oyster is fine.” He perused the crowded house but didn’t find a familiar enough face, so he sat at the end of a long trestle. He grabbed the Sunday edition ofThe Recorderfrom the center of the table to occupy him while he waited for his meal.
“Well, if it ain’t the ‘andsome Dr. Brooks,” said a cheerful female from above. He tilted his head and smiled at Sally as she set down his coffee. “I saved ye the last bit ‘o white soup. It’s beef and kidney pie if that’s to yer likin’.”
“I would be forever grateful,” he answered with a wink.
“Aw, go on with ye,” she gushed. “I’ll be back in two jiffs.”
He returned to the newspaper, letting the din of the coffee house fade into a dull clamor. When the food arrived, he continued to read as he ate. Until a huge paw slapped him on the back.
“Spare a poor man a wee bit ‘o bread?” Patrick O’Brien loomed over him, his huge frame still as intimidating as it had been when Sam was ten. But now he knew better.
“Ho! Tis a beggar, is he now?” Sam rolled his eyes, hearing his own poor attempt at an Irish brogue.
“Only when needed, boyo,” Paddy said as he sat down with athump.“Figured I’d find ye here. Tis Margaret’s birthday Sunday next, and she wants all her boys ta be wit’ her. Since I can’t tell her no, I’m roundin’ all of ye up in advance.”
The “boys” were the misfits the Irishman had collected over the years. The O’Briens took them in, spending the time to find and develop each boy’s strength. As they grew, Paddy turned them into a unique team, creating a detective agency that had a reputation for never failing to solve a case or find their man. Sam had gone to medical school, and besides making a nice living as a physician, he also performed autopsies for the Peelers and London constabularies. In court, he was often an expert witness, testifying with medical opinions and the results of the autopsies he performed. On occasion, he went along with the detectives as an extra man and to treat injuries that may occur.
The agency included several detectives who had all put in time as Bow Street runners. The O’Briens had also raised a solicitor, whose law expertise helped prepare cases for court, and a woman who’d played so many different parts in Paddy’s investigations, she had become an actress. The only member of the team who hadn’t lived under the same roof was the barrister. He presented their cases pro bono once the evidence for a client had been collected and verified.
“I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day.” He lowered his voice. “Have we heard any more of The Vicar?”
Paddy shook his head and combed his thick fingers through his still vibrant red hair. His blue eyes narrowed in disgust. “The man’s like fog. He just dissipates ‘fore ye can catch him. Word has it he’s left Town for a while. But his time is comin’. I feel it in my bones.”
“Even the slipperiest of eels eventually make their way to the trap.” Sampson silently vowed it would be the next public hanging he attended.
CHAPTERFOUR
Dottie packed up her cart and headed home. It had been a long week, but having Violet waiting for her lightened her heart. She wasn’t talking yet, but Dottie had a hunch she would. The child had nodded when asked if she’d ever talked. So, something had happened? The girl’s brown eyes had shone with tears as she nodded again. They’d left the subject alone after that.
When she entered the kitchen, Violet looked up from the dishes she was scrubbing. She set down the pot and wiped her hands on the oversized apron that Mrs. Clatterly had given her, then ran to Dottie, and threw her arms around her.
“I missed you too, sweeting,” she said, kissing the top of the girl’s head. “Keeping busy?”
The girl nodded and pointed to the sink, going back to finish the pans.
Mrs. Clatterly bustled in. “She’s a little angel, she is. The darling snuck into the public room and began clearing dishes from the table. Didn’t ask her to do a thing, just wanted to help.” The older woman blew at a strand of brown hair streaked with gray, then tucked it under her mobcap. Her usual pink cheeks were red, and she dabbed at the sweat on her brow with her apron. “I’ll hate to see her leave. We’ve never been blessed with one of our own, and I enjoy having a young one under foot.”
That was a relief since Dottie wasn’t letting the girl go anywhere. Unless they actually found a family member, of course. “It’s a brutal heat today. I’ll unpack my cart and help you. I’ve got six pasties left.”
They had begun selling anything remaining on her cart to the patrons at the tavern, splitting the profit. The customers were happy with the occasional dessert, Dottie didn’t lose any money, and the Clatterlys had another reason to be satisfied with their arrangement.
“Mr. Wells will be happy to hear that. He’s disappointed when you sell out.” Mrs. Clatterly bustled out, calling over her shoulder, “If you can heat up more stew, I’d be thankful. Mr. Clatterly is doing better but still moving slow. It took him almost quarter of an hour to hobble down the stairs this morning. I can’t spend as much time in the kitchen as I’d like.”
Later that evening, Dottie and Violet sat in front of the small coal stove. Dottie rocked as she sewed, and Violet sprawled out on her stomach on the faded thick carpet. She turned the pages ofTom Thumb’s Pretty Song Book, Dottie’s cherished children’s book, giggling occasionally at the illustrations or pointing at something in a silent question to Dottie.
