“Aye, you look poorly, pet, but Mrs. Phillips says she’ll fatten you up.” Sophie was not particularly pleased with his blunt assessment of her physique or with the notion that he planned to turn over responsibility for her rehabilitation to the apothecary next door. “In you get,” he said, matter-of-factly reaching for the bedcover she’d wrapped around herself.
Embarrassed more by his impersonal demeanor than if he had absorbed her nakedness with an appreciative stare, Sophie scrambled into the tub, grateful for the masses of rose petals and herbs that floated in profusion in the water lapping her neck. She’d never felt so flat-chested in her life. Her bosom’s budding roundness seemed to have all but disappeared after the dietary deprivation she’d suffered at Bedlam.
“That’s a good lass… now have yourself a fair scrub.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, halting his progress toward the door.
Hunter turned around, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Bozzy arranged my introduction to some friends of his who may smooth the way for me at Covent Garden. I’ve promised to pay a few calls to these fellows, informing them of Jamie’s departure and extending his deepest regrets for having left their company, and so forth. Can I be bringing you something upon my return, pet?” he asked solicitously.
“I said I’d introduce you to
Garrick,”
she declared, aware she sounded more than a bit mulish. “And don’t call me
pet!
I’m not six years old.”
“A mere seventeen.” He smiled, attempting to humor her. “And I’m most appreciative of all you can do for me at Drury Lane.”
“I’m
eighteen!”
she protested. “I’ll be
nineteen
in five months time!”
“Sink me, madam,” he said with a mocking bow. “I most humbly beg your pardon. ’Tis just you play the street urchin to perfection!”
Sophie sank deeper beneath the water, cursing for the hundredth time her small stature and, now, her state of emaciation.
“How did you find me?” she asked, more apprehensive than she was willing to admit about being left on her own. “How did you meet Mrs. Phillips?”
“Now there’s a story,” Hunter said chuckling. “I’ll tell you when we dine.”
“No! Now!” Sophie cried, and was ashamed how plaintive her words sounded. “Tell me now, for I will never forget what you’ve done for me, Hunter.
Never!
I thought surely I would die… and at times, I wanted to. ’Twas a miracle to see you standing there in that grand sitting room.”
Hunter walked over to one of the chairs facing the hearth and turned it toward the tub.
“Well…” he began, warming to his story. “Last spring, I considered what you’d said in your letter about meeting David Garrick, and as my grandfather had passed away, there was really nothing to keep me in Edinburgh.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I was always meaning to write you, Soph—but with my lack of talent with the quill and the Canongate season ending—”
“What about your mum, Jean?” Sophie interjected, still dissatisfied with his excuses for not answering her letters. “Had you no regrets taking leave of her?”
“Jean Robertson will always make her way in the world,” he said, tight-lipped.
“And what of Gwen Reardon?” Sophie parried. “Surely you must have grieved at parting from such a dear friend.”
Hunter glanced at her sharply and then shrugged.
“I doubt either of us were plunged into mourning when I took my leave.”
He settled deeper into the chair and stretched out his long legs and the black leather boots that extended to his knees. “So,” he continued in better humor, “over the summer, I sang and strolled my way to London town. I called on you as soon as I arrived, only to find the address you’d provided on your letter locked up tight. Mrs. Phillips filled in the rest of your story.”
“But how did you get them to
release
me?” she persisted.
“’Twas Bozzy’s idea, really. He knew that people visited Bedlam for a bit of sport… so as soon as we could, we sauntered through that hellish place, pretending ’twas a rare rip.”
He gazed down at her with a look of genuine distress. “I thought I saw you that day, but I couldn’t be sure,” he said softly.
“I saw
you
and I thought I’d gone completely mad,” she whispered, feeling tears well in her eyes.
“Remember, now… our Boswell is familiar with the way certain matters are handled among the authorities with whom his august father deals as judge,” Hunter continued briskly, as if he dreaded her tears. “Bozzy suggested we simply
bribe
the director! Dr. Monro, wasn’t it? Old Boz hadn’t the siller to spare, and neither had I, or not near enough to do the trick, so we asked Mrs. Phillips if we could open up your book shop and try to sell enough merchandise to ransom you.”
Sophie was so touched she couldn’t speak.
“Mrs. Phillips scoffed at that idea. ‘The lass sells two books a week, if she’s lucky,’ she said. But then she told us of your uncle’s… collection of bawdry.”
Sophie sat upright in the tub, inadvertently exposing her small breasts. Quickly she slid back down in the water, flushing to the roots of her auburn hair.
“I locked that rubbish away!” she declared angrily to cover her embarrassment. “’Tis not for sale—at any price.”
“I’m afraid ’tis
already
sold,” Hunter explained, looking apologetic. “I broke the trunk’s lock and Mrs. Phillips sold the goods off to a fellow named Jacob Renner… some dealer in titillation near here. Got a fair price, she said. Enough to purchase your release, at any rate.” He shrugged. “Mrs. Phillips handled that part of the affair.”
Sophie wondered if the canny Mrs. Phillips hadn’t turned a modest profit for herself on the transaction. As Hunter stood looking at her sympathetically, Sophie suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. She leaned the back of her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. Hunter slid off the seat of his chair and knelt beside the tub, enfolding her moist hand in his.
“You’ve had much to tax you, my poor poppet. ’Tis your penchant for defending the defenseless, I fear.”
Sophie’s eyes flew open and she glared at him.
“’Twas my
family
I was defending,” she said heatedly. “My father and my poor aunt.”
“Aye… but you battle
more
than that, pet… you fight the world sometimes.”
“And
you
don’t care that such foul places as Bedlam and the Tolbooth exist?” she demanded, tears once again clouding her eyes.
“I care that you don’t call down
worse
misery on your head,” he retorted with exasperation. “Remember those broadsides you tacked up all over Edinburgh? Well, my dear Sophie, Bozzy’s father would have had you jailed—or worse,” he added sternly.
“I know enough now not to put my
name
on such placards,” she replied defensively, “but in
London,
you should know, carping clergymen don’t hold such sway, thank heavens! Folks print all manner of chapbooks and broadsides with strong opinions!”
“And some of them are arrested by the King’s Men and sent to the Tower for libel or sedition, aren’t they now?” Hunter demanded. “Clergy or King Geordie’s toadies… ’tis all the same, and ’tis folly of you to think the likes of you or I can put them in their place by printing a few pamphlets!”
“’Tis not the same in London, I tell you,” Sophie said stubbornly.
Hunter looked at her narrowly.
“You’re not about to treat us to a repeat performance—plastering broadsides condemning Bedlam all over London, are you now?” he demanded. “Because, if you are, I may not always be there to rescue you.”
“Not a broadside,” Sophie replied. The idea of placing an anonymous article about the evils of the asylum in
The Public Advertiser
had sprung to mind as she lay in her bed these last days. She had several acquaintances at the publication who might assist her.
“What then, if not a broadside?” he asked suspiciously. When she refused to answer, he said severely, “Sophie, I know you’ve had a shock—a series of terrible shocks, actually—but you must cease plotting revenge against forces that you cannot overcome.” He chucked her playfully under the chin. “Besides, you’re altogether too earnest for my tastes these days. Where’s the scamp rumored to have dressed in men’s clothing and sneaked into Sheridan’s lectures?”
“If I am too earnest,” she replied hotly, ignoring the thrust of his remark, “you, laddie, are too… too…
frivolous!”
Splashing water out of the tub, she crossed her arms over her naked chest, looking at him indignantly. “Life isn’t just a masquerade ball, Hunter, where you can cavort like some imbecilic court jester with nary a thought for the suffering of the less fortunate! Life is
hard…
life is—”
“Life is
short!”
Hunter interrupted testily. “And since neither of us have much faith in a Divine Being or a promised Afterlife… I say we’d better enjoy as much of it as we can.” He forced her eyes to meet his. “I beg of you, as your friend and rescuer…
don’t
even
consider
writing any diatribes about Bedlam. That Dr. Monro has much influence, I’m told, and he particularly demanded no recriminations when he allowed you to go free. Do you promise?” he persisted.
Sophie glowered across the metal tub, her anger with Hunter boiling in the pit of her stomach for reasons she didn’t actually comprehend. Here he was, her
rescuer,
and yet she wished to slap him across his handsome features for not understanding why she had no
choice
but to try to help her father and aunt… why she had to try to help
others
who suffered such unfair and inhumane incarceration. Hunter had experienced tragedy in his life.
Why
didn’t he understand?
She broke away from his riveting glance and stared down at the water in an attempt to calm her raging emotions. She saw that streaks of Bedlam’s grime still clung to her skin.
“Now, scrub up,” Hunter said more gently, accepting her silence as assent to his plea. He pulled himself to his feet. His voice had assumed a more cheerful tone. “And, pray, delouse yourself, pet, so I may find you fit company for supper, come evening.”
He saluted jauntily and was gone.
***
Hunter’s relentless brotherly treatment during the next days began to grate on Sophie’s nerves. He seemed to be deliberately ignoring the care she took to bring her hair back to its auburn glory, and her attempts to gain back the weight she had lost. Each night he saw that she was safely tucked in her bedstead before departing to sample the sights and pleasures London had to offer a handsome refugee from Edinburgh. Boswell, before departing for France, Italy, and Holland, had apparently introduced Hunter to his wide circle of Scottish friends and acquaintances residing in the capital.
“How have you the blunt for all this merriment?” she asked one evening while they broke bread together at the Half Moon Tavern.
“Blunt?” he asked, puzzled.
“Blunt, siller,
money
!” she repeated impatiently.
“Ah…
blunt…
what a Londoner you’ve become,” he mocked her.
“How can you afford to play the dandy?” she persisted.
“I can’t really,” he grinned, talking with his mouth full. “But with such inexpensive lodgings as I’ve enjoyed with
you,
and the generosity of Bozzy’s friends here, I’ve enough for another few weeks until I find employment.”
“We
must
introduce you to Garrick this week,” Sophie offered, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Lorna Blount had returned from her summer engagement at Sadler’s Wells and was already rehearsing the musical entertainments scheduled for the opening week. “’Tis a bit late for the new fall season,” Sophie admitted, “but Garrick often hires on extras when some actors don’t return to Drury Lane as planned.”
“Are you well enough for such an outing?” Hunter questioned.
“I am perfectly
fine,
” she snapped, “not that
you’ve
noticed!”
“My, my… in a bit of a temper, are we?” he teased. “You
must
be much improved. How dull of me not to realize it.” He took another sip of ale and smiled at her across the tavern table. “Well, poppet… let us get you tucked in your bed so you’ll be fit to take me to your Great God Garrick on the morrow.”
“And where will you be off to?” she demanded.
“’Tis not fit for your tender ears what plans my mates and I have devised to keep us entertained,” he jested.