“In that case, I accept,” Mr. Kenault said with alacrity.
“As do I,” Quentin agreed. “I just hope that neither of you gentlemen snore.”
They all had a good laugh over that, and if Smithers thought it odd, he did not comment.
Before long, they were all settled in comfortable beds in Percival’s spacious bedroom.
I can now rest easy. Tomorrow I will learn what Constable Brooks has found out about Tiffany. I cannot believe that she would hurt me. That she might have wished me harm hurts more than my head or shoulder ever could.
Chapter 42
Tiffany slowly approached the old woman who sat beside the cold fireplace in the burned-out shell of a building. Someone had kindly swept away the debris and spread a blanket over a log to which had been affixed a crude back. A stump had been turned up to act as a table.
Mrs. Bentley was wearing one of the shabby, shapeless gowns issued to people who lived in the poorhouse, but she held herself as if she were seated at a tea served upon porcelain in the finest of drawing rooms.
She looked up as Tiffany approached. “There you are!” Mrs. Bentley exclaimed. “I knew you’d come crawling back. Did you get tired of that thug you took up with?”
Tiffany heaved a weary sigh. “Would you like some tea? I’m afraid it is rather late.”
“I noticed that,” Mrs. Bentley commented. “If you’ve decided to condescend to do some work, I am more than ready for tea.”
“Right away, Mrs. Bentley,” Tiffany said, ignoring the malice directed toward her. She then looked around with some bewilderment, at a loss as to how she was to produce tea for the older lady.
Davy stepped from behind the chimney, carrying a large basket. It contained plain fare—some bread, cheese, and a bottle of cold tea. Tiffany set out the rudimentary meal, and poured some of the tea into an earthenware cup that had a chip out of one edge.
Mrs. Bentley took no notice of the quality of the cup. Instead, she took a sip of it and seemed to savor it on her tongue. “Cold. A little too sweet, but passable. When one is hungry, nearly anything tastes good. That’s what Henry used to say.”
“When did he say that?” Tiffany asked, fascinated by this nearly civil comment.
“Oh, it was in our first year of marriage. We were trying to make a success of the bakery, but the ovens were not the best. We ate a great deal of failed bread until Henry earned enough to have one of them rebuilt.”
“Before I was adopted, then?”
“Oh, long before. We were hoping for a baby of our own, but it just never happened.”
“Do you know why?”
“Childhood illnesses that neither of us had ever had. First, I caught measles. We thought nothing of it. I was miserably ill for a fortnight, but recovered nicely.”
“And then?” Tiffany asked, fascinated by this loquacious Mrs. Bentley.
“It was a long, cold winter. Henry started giving out some of the failed loaves to the neighborhood children. I told him it was dangerous to go about amongst the poor, but he just laughed. Then he caught mumps.”
“Oh, no,” Tiffany gasped, well aware of the implications for an adult gentleman.
“Oh, yes. And they went down on him, as you might expect. For a time, it was touch and go. The doctor was not even sure he would live.”
“But he did,” Tiffany prompted.
“He did. For a while we thought everything was fine with both of us. But there were no babies. Not ever.” Mrs. Bentley took a sip of her tea, and stared meditatively into the fire. “I’ve not thought about that for a long time. My little pipe took away all those memories and left me feeling happy.”
Tiffany could think of nothing to say. How was it that I didn’t know any of this? Or that she was taking opium?
Mrs. Bentley snapped her head up, and looked around sharply. “What was that? I heard a twig snap in the wood. Where are we? Why are we sitting beside this smoky fire instead of my warm parlor? You did this! You have stolen my home, you wretched street urchin. I told Henry that it would be no good taking you in.”
Tiffany leaped up, and flinched back from Mrs. Bentley’s sudden rage. “That’s right! Run away, it is all you are good for. Henry trained you up so you could run the bakery. But did you? No! You ran.” Mrs. Bentley raised her hand, as if to slap Tiffany.
Tiffany caught her hand, and realized as she did so that she had grown until she was several inches taller than Mrs. Bentley. “No,” Tiffany said firmly. “I will not let you strike me again. Do you remember the night I ran away? You beat me with your hair brush, then you locked me in Father Bentley’s office. You told me you would turn me over to the Watch in the morning for being a disobedient apprentice.”
