“It’s better than picking pockets and ending up dancing at the end of a rope,” retorted Mr. Granger, bristling at this insult to his commercial enterprise. “At least, that’s what you thought five years ago.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Mr. Colquhoun shrugged dismissively, determined not to overplay his hand. “Tell me about that girl of yours—how old is she now?”
It was a lucky gambit, for the merchant fairly beamed with paternal pride. “Not quite nineteen.”
“Very nearly the same age as John Pickett, in fact,” remarked the magistrate, his voice carefully neutral.
“Why yes, I suppose so.” Mr. Granger blinked at the sudden
non sequitur
.
“And what are Miss Granger’s future plans?”
“She’s just home from school today, and she’ll be going to her aunt in Tunbridge Wells next month. My wife’s sister lives there, you know, and she’s married to a knight. She’s going to take Sophy to a few assemblies, introduce her to the local gentry. Put her in the way of making an advantageous match, as the saying goes.”
Mr. Colquhoun considered these rosy plans for Sophy’s future in silence for a long moment. He felt a twinge of something that might have been guilt at the prospect of betraying the boy, but consoled himself with the possibility that John Pickett’s sentiments might well have changed in the twelvemonth since he had come to the magistrate asking for a loan. And even if they had not, Mr. Granger had made it very clear that his plans for his daughter did not include marriage to an apprentice, be he never so skillful a chess player. “With her pretty face, she might well do so,” he agreed, then asked with studied nonchalance, “Do you think it’s wise, then, housing a personable young man beneath the same roof as your marriageable daughter?”
“Oh, but she’ll be going to her aunt in a month,” Mr. Granger said hastily, leading the magistrate to wonder if he were not trying to convince himself. “So they won’t be beneath the same roof for long.”
Mr. Colquhoun gave a short bark of laughter. “I wasn’t aware that it took long, if two young people are ripe for fancying themselves in love. Ah
,
well, I’m glad my three girls are grown and married. I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the tea in China.”
The conversation turned to more neutral topics, but the subject was clearly not forgotten, for when Mr. Colquhoun rose to take his leave (having resolved to broach the topic at a later date, after Mr. Granger had had time to consider the prospect of having a pickpocket’s child as his grandson), Mr. Granger inquired in an offhand manner, “What exactly is your interest in the boy, should I decide to release him early?”
Without being so indiscreet as to name names, Mr. Colquhoun recounted the story of the emeralds and the rôle the collier’s apprentice had played in their recovery. When he had finished, the merchant remarked, “I suppose it would be a shame to hold the boy back. Mind you, I would hate to lose him.”
Mr. Colquhoun interpreted this remark (quite correctly, as it transpired) to mean that the price of Pickett’s release had risen considerably from the twenty pounds he had originally offered. He sat back down and prepared to haggle in earnest.
In Which John Pickett’s Life
Takes Another Unexpected Turn
Of course, John Pickett knew nothing of the battle being waged over his future. He only knew that Sophy had come back
,
to him and after returning to Cecil Street when the last of the day’s deliveries were made, he went to his room to wash up as best he might, in the hopes of hearing her scratch on the door.
He had not long to wait. The family had scarcely completed their dinner upstairs (as evidenced by the renewed flurry of activity in the kitchen, as dirty dishes were fetched from the dining room and the task of washing up was begun) when Sophy took advantage of the confusion to slip down the stairs and into Pickett’s room, clearly bursting with news.
She gave him the most perfunctory of kisses before demanding, “Oh, John, have you heard? I’m going to Tunbridge Wells!”
He had heard rumours, of course, but he had hoped they were unfounded. His heart sank at the prospect of losing her again so soon, just when he’d thought she was finally home for good. “What’s in Tunbridge Wells?” he asked, trying to sound happy for her sake.
“Everything, silly!” She slipped out of his arms and took three or four lilting steps across the room and back again, which was as much as the small space allowed. “Assemblies, and dances, and balls, and—oh, everything!”
“But—but don’t they have those things in London?”
“Of course they do—only I don’t get invited to them, because everyone knows Papa is in Trade. But my aunt, Lady Whidmore, lives in Tunbridge Wells—her husband is Sir Edward Whidmore, you know—and she says they are less particular about such things there.” She threw a provocative glance at him over her shoulder. “She’s going to introduce me to the local society, in the hope that I will attach an eligible
parti
.”
Having no French at his command, Pickett was not quite certain what a
parti
was, but he was able to form a very accurate guess. “But—but—I thought you were going to marry me!”
She paused in her dancing long enough to regard him with a look of detached interest. “Did you? Stupid boy! Whatever can have given you such an idea?”
“Stop it, Sophy!” He crossed the room in two strides, and seized her by the shoulders. “I know you are only teasing me, but I wish you wouldn’t. It isn’t kind, not when I love you so much. I’ve been waiting for three years to ask you to marry me!”
“
Three years?
” she echoed incredulously. “You might have told me, you know!”
“How could I, when I had nothing to offer you?”
“You still have nothing,” she pointed out with brutal candor.
“No, but—I’m nineteen years old, Sophy.” His voice rose on a note of desperation. “I have two more years of apprenticeship to your father, and then I’ll ask him—beg him, if necessary—to take me on as a partner. Please, Sophy, promise me you’ll wait for me!”
She stared up at him in stunned disbelief. “Wait
two years?
Why, by that time I’ll be twenty-one, and practically on the shelf! Besides, why should I settle for a collier’s apprentice, when I might marry a gentleman? Aunt Whidmore says that between my face and my fortune, I might even catch a lord!”
In anticipation of this happy prospect, she slipped out of his grasp and took a couple of dancing steps across the room, only to be brought up short when he caught her wrist. “But Sophy, what good is having a lord for a husband if you don’t love him?”
“Really, John, how can you ask such a question? I should think the answer would be obvious!” Her eyes grew round as a new and entirely unexpected thought occurred. “Surely you didn’t think I loved
you!
I’m sure I never said any such thing!”
“Not in so many words, no, but you were willing to—to—” He made a vague gesture in the direction of the narrow cot.
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I love you! Some of the girls at school warned me that if I wanted a title, I might have to make certain compromises, like marrying a man who is old, or fat, or ugly. So I decided I might as well amuse myself first with someone my own age.”
“Your parents are putting you up to this, aren’t they?” he demanded, grasping at straws. “You don’t have to—we’ll talk to them, tell them—”
“Tell them what? That I’d rather marry you than become a great lady? They would think I’d gone mad, and rightfully so! Why, look at yourself, John—you’re covered in coal dust six days out of the seven! The only reason I let you kiss me in the first place was in the hope that Mama and Papa would find out, and send me off to school so I could become friends with all the gentlemen’s daughters. And,” she added, giving a final twist to the knife she’d plunged into his heart, “if I’d known how tiresome you were going to be about the whole thing, I would have set my cap for the footman instead!”
With this Parthian shot, she exited the little room with a final toss of her black curls. Left alone in his misery, Pickett sank down onto his cot and clutched his pillow to his chest as if trying to stanch the flow of blood from a wound he already knew to be mortal. Everything he had worked toward and waited for was gone. She would not come to him again; she’d made that abundantly plain. He was nothing to her, had been nothing all along except a plaything with which to amuse herself, a toy that was fool enough to think itself a man. Worse, he was a means to an end, a thing to be used and then discarded when it had served its purpose.
The babble of distant voices and the scraping of chairs in the servants’ hall informed him that the staff was assembling for its own dinner, now that the family had been fed, but Pickett had no appetite. He sat dumbly on his cot, hearing all over again Sophy’s mocking laughter, seeing again her lovely and unfeeling countenance.
He was still sitting there some time later—minutes or hours, he could not have said which—when a sharp rap on the door jolted him out of his reverie. The wild hope that Sophy had returned after all, had been teasing all along, was banished when the door opened and the footman stuck his head in.
“You’re wanted upstairs,” he said brusquely, clearly considering it beneath his dignity to act as messenger to a mere apprentice.
Pickett’s misery settled into a solid lump in the pit of his stomach. Not satisfied with humiliating him in private, Sophy had no doubt told her father of his ambitions. He could almost hear the laughter in her voice:
Can you believe it, Papa? He actually thought I would marry him! Why, he’s covered in coal dust six days out of the seven.
Mr. Granger, Pickett suspected, would find very little humour in the situation. Would he be cast into the street for his impudence, Pickett wondered, or would his master content himself with finding ways to make his last two years of apprenticeship a living hell?
One thing was certain: being slow to answer the summons would do nothing to improve his position. He rose stiffly from the cot, took a deep breath, and left the room, climbing the stairs with all the eagerness of a convicted criminal mounting the steps to the gallows. He must not try to shift the blame onto Sophy for encouraging his advances, no matter how tempting (and how accurate) such an argument might be, he reminded himself despondently. For one thing, it was unlikely that Mr. Granger would believe anything against his adored daughter; for another, Pickett had known all along that it was nothing short of miraculous that Sophy could love him. He should not be surprised to discover that no such miracle had occurred, after all.
All too soon, he reached the half-open door of the back parlour. He paused and took a deep breath, then pushed the door wide. Just as he had expected, his master was not alone. He was considerably startled, however, to find not the mocking and mischievous Sophy, but the magistrate, Mr. Colquhoun, seated before the fire in the chair adjacent to Mr. Granger’s.
“Come in, come in,” the merchant urged him, beckoning him forward. “We were just talking about you.”
“Sir?” Pickett’s blinking gaze shifted from merchant to magistrate, and back again.
“I’ll say no more on that head, but leave you two to talk privately,” Mr. Granger said, heaving himself to his feet. “As always, Colquhoun, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
To Pickett’s considerable astonishment, Mr. Granger paused by the door to shake him warmly by the hand before quitting the room, leaving him alone with the magistrate.
“Come here, my boy, and shut the door behind you,” Mr. Colquhoun said.
Pickett did so, and sank somewhat dazedly into the chair his master had just vacated.
“It was—it was
you
who wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.
Mr. Colquhoun inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I did, indeed. I have a business proposition to put to you. I wonder if you would be willing to leave Mr. Granger’s employ, and come to me in Bow Street.”
Pickett shook his head, albeit not without a pang of regret for the contract that tied him to the scene of his humiliation for two more years. “It’s kind of you, sir, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but I’m bound to Mr. Granger until I’m twenty-one.”
“No, you’re not, for I just bought your contract. And a pretty penny it cost me,” he added.
“You—you paid Mr. Granger
twenty pounds
to release me from my apprenticeship?” Pickett asked, dumbfounded. “But
why
?”
“Actually, I paid him thirty-five, but let’s not quibble over trivialities,” the magistrate said. “As to why, it’s as I said: I want you to come work for me at Bow Street. Mind, if you don’t wish to, I’ll do what I can to help you find a position elsewhere or, if you prefer it, I’ll speak to Mr. Granger about taking you back at regular wages.”
Unsurprisingly, Pickett had no inclination to remain in Mr. Granger’s employ, much less under his roof, but he was not quite certain what his new position might entail. “You want me to feed coal into the fires at the Bow Street office?” He had not been aware that such a task justified an employee dedicated exclusively to its performance.
“Good God, no! I want you on the foot patrol!”
“
Me?
” Pickett had the sudden suspicion that he was the victim of a particularly elaborate practical joke, beginning with Sophy’s rejection and ending with . . . this, whatever the purpose behind it might be.
“Yes, you,” said the magistrate. “You were quite right about Mrs. Cranston-Parks’s emeralds, you know.” Mr. Colquhoun went on to explain the results of his own investigation into the matter, sparked by Pickett’s observation.
“But—but that was the merest coincidence,” Pickett protested, determined to bring the magistrate to some recognition of his own unworthiness. “Blind luck, really.”
“On the contrary, it demonstrates a keen eye for detail, to say nothing of the ability to put two and two together,” Mr. Colquhoun pointed out. “Now, I can start you off at half a crown
per diem
—”