Page 5 of Her Christmas White Knight

Chapter Three

“Oh, Mistress—we shall dine well on this.” Hal’s dirty face glowed with pleasure.

Julia frowned. “Unless we keep it for the eggs. Alas, I cannot tell whether ’tis a goose or a gander.”

“Then we’ll have to find someone who knows, and if ’tis a gander, we’ll exchange it for a goose.”

Then there’d be questions asked about how they’d come by the bird, and they’d be thrown into the Bridewell or some other noisome prison. Julia knew how vile such places were—she’d visited one in rural Suffolk, and that had been bad enough. She’d heard far worse of the London houses of correction.

How simple the world could seem in a child’s mind! It was almost a shame to educate their innocence away. She smiled fondly at Hal as she poured the watery stew into his bowl. In truth, she was far too indulgent toward him, but his company and loyalty were worth more to her than gold. Such a pity he would have to grow up and be sent off to find an apprenticeship.

Though warm, the stew contained a good deal of mutton fat and no meat at all. As she picked a stringy piece of pea pod out of her teeth, she lamented not having her own hearth over which to cook. Having to pay for hot food put such a dent in their meager reserves—but she mustn’t let Hal know how dire their circumstances were, or he’d go back to being a cut-purse.

She’d first met the boy when he’d tried to steal a loaf from her basket. Feeling the movement, she’d caught him by the ear, planning to march him to the nearest constable. Only—he’d been such a pitiful scrap of a thing that she couldn’t do it. The child was an oddity, with sore red patches where once his eyebrows had been, and when he’d told her the heartbreaking story of how he’d lost all his family in a fire, she’d taken him to the nearest tavern and bought him a mug of small beer. He’d stayed under her protection ever since, but she’d never managed to get much of his story out of him. She’d always sensed tears near the surface, so had given up questioning him. Like her, he didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost.

It made her cringe to think how easily she’d parted with her coin all those months ago. She’d sold her jewels on arrival in London, and thought herself rich. But then she’d had to budget and plan, to learn how much things cost, to work out how much needed to be set aside for rent and necessities. Her capital wouldn’t permit her to live in idleness.

Her initial scheme to use her skill at sewing and become a seamstress had earned her naught but derision from those who ran the workshops. London, it seemed, was full of disgraced gentlewomen like herself, none of whom had skills to offer other than their abilities with a needle. She’d soon given up and decided to go into business for herself.

Swallowing down a last greasy mouthful of stew, she smiled at Hal. “As soon as we’ve finished eating, I must wash my decorations, or the dirt will dry hard on them, and I’ll never get it out.” She wasn’t looking forward to dipping her hands in freezing water—they were red and cracked enough as it was. But no one was going to buy a holly wreath with a soiled silk ribbon, or an ivy crown that was mired in filth.

Hal made no offer to help, but he dutifully went outside to swill their bowls clean with well water. She winced at the sight of him limping along in shoes that were too small for him, but at least he had shoes. Not all of the London street urchins did. He also needed a decent pair of hose and a doublet that actually fit. She groaned softly to herself—there was so much for which she needed coin, yet she despaired of ever having enough. Should she take a risk, and try selling the goose?

Hal came back in and stacked the bowls on their shelf. It wasn’t much of a shelf, just a plank raised off the ground on bricks, not enough to keep the vermin out. But at least it kept their precious few possessions comparatively clean.

“Shall I take the stew pot back to Goody Clopton?” he offered.

“Aye, off you go.” She settled herself to the task of sorting her wares, separating out those she might be able to sell without having to clean them.

A shadow passed the window and, the next instant, there was a knock on the door.

She froze. Surely, the rent wasn’t yet due?

“There’s no point pretending you’re out or pushing furniture against the door. I mean to talk to you, whether you will or no.”

Her knees shook. Myall! She glanced at the goose, where it slumbered on a sack in the corner. She’d spent an hour that morning picking up spilled grain from amongst the cobbles in the marketplace to feed it—surely, she wasn’t about to lose it after all that uncomfortable effort?

She listened but could hear no other footsteps or voices. It didn’t sound as if Myall had brought a constable with him.

“You may as well let me in, Julia. I assume you don’t want to cause a scene.”

He was right. The other lodgers loved entertainment of the domestic kind, having no funds for other things—a miracle play on the top of a wagon was the most they could hope for. So, if a husband and wife, or a pair of lovers, embarked on some dispute in public, it was like a festival for the local people.

She opened the door, and Myall strode in. Alone, thank heaven.

He’d changed his ink-stained shirt for a clean one and wore a smart-looking cloak flung across one shoulder. He was carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle beneath his arm.

“Good morrow. I see my goose is well settled.”

“Best not wake it up, or it’ll chase you all the way from here to London Bridge.”

He nodded soberly. “I appreciate that. I haven’t come for the bird—I came to talk to you.”

Why? She had no desire to speak with him—he belonged to the past. Her new world was so far beneath his that there was no bridging the gap between them.

He held up a hand. “Before you say me nay, I bring offerings. Nothing fine, as we’ve little to spare. But you can’t have a goose without trimmings.”

He glanced around the room. “I see you have no fire. Where did you propose to cook the bird?”