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Page 5 of Pads, Purses, and Plum Pudding (A Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #2)

CHAPTER 4

D ottie 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 speaking 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 when 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 treat, 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 a 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 of Tom 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.

“Are you happy here, sweeting?” she asked the child.

Violet nodded, her smile slipping as fear crept into her brown eyes.

“No, I haven’t any intention of sending you away. You are welcome as long as you’re happy.” She put her mending on her lap. “Do you know if you have any other family?”

The girl shook her head.

“You had a brother. And a father. Did you know your mother?”

A quick nod of her head, and the child quickly looked back at the book.

Dottie realized it was probably a sad tale. “Well if you do want to stay, you’ll have to begin lessons.”

Violet gave her a questioning look.

“There are printed words on those pages that you could read. They will tell you the story better than the illustrations and add to the meaning of the pictures. Some of them are songs we could sing together.”

Understanding lit up Violet’s eyes, and she nodded.

“Without speech, it will be more difficult, but we’ll manage. I was a teacher before I married.” She sighed and smiled down on her daught?—

She’s not your child.

Dottie watched Violet, her flaxen locks trailing the pages, her eyes searching between the illustrations and the words with renewed interest.

But she could be.

Dottie had become attached to the child in such a short time. Fate had crossed their paths for a reason. She believed that with all her heart. Perhaps even the horror of Robert had led her to this purpose. Dottie spoke her mind, said her thoughts out loud now because someone was there to listen. She also began singing again while she worked and had been silently thrilled when Violet had hummed along this morning.

The pair had quickly fallen into an evening routine. First, they would finish chores with Mrs. Clatterly in the kitchen, then retire to their room. There, they would count the money she’d made that day—Violet separated the coins into piles by size while Dottie counted, then added the total to her ledger. When there was a large enough pile, Mrs. Clatterly would take the silver and copper to the bank for larger coins. Finally, they ate a light supper together before sitting in front of the small stove. Dottie had always ended her evenings before a hearth. The stove was not lit, of course, since they had no need of heat this time of year. But the habit gave her a feeling of security, going through the motions of a schedule she’d followed for so many years. She hoped it would do the same for Violet.

“We’ll start with your name. Everyone should be able to sign their own name,” she told Violet.

The next day was Sunday. Mrs. Clatterly came into the kitchen as Dottie wrapped the pastries for St. James’s. “Oh, ma’am, I wanted to thank you for Violet’s shoes. I hoped to get her a new pair next week. I’ll settle up with you when I return this evening.”

The landlady waved a hand at her. “Absolutely not. The lass has been working hard, and we ain’t no workhouse here. She’s earning those shoes, she is.”

Dottie’s eyes burned with emotion. “You are too kind, ma’am. I appreciate it. We both do!”

“Now be gone or you won’t get a good spot. The heat’s finally let up, so them highborn folks won’t all be flockin’ to Gunter’s or Farrance’s for ices today.” Mrs. Clatterly smiled at Violet. “Well, my girl, let’s get Mr. Clatterly something to eat. He’s grumpy as a bear when his stomach is empty.”

Humming a bawdy tune she’d heard the other night in the tavern, Dottie made her way along Friday Street, wrinkling her nose at the briny scent of fish, and turned left onto Cheap Street. It was a beautiful sunny day with a slight breeze, and she made the walk in less than an hour. It was early for anyone to be on the promenade yet, but she’d wanted to be close to the main entrance. She settled on her stool and began to read the book she’d brought along, but her mind kept wandering to the gentleman she’d met last week.

Dr. Sampson Brooks. A physician.

“Good day, Mrs. Brown,” a deep male voice said, interrupting her daydreaming.

She looked up to see the man of her thoughts smiling at her and inspecting her pastries. “Good day to you, Dr. Brooks,” she replied with a warm smile.

“You remember my name? I’m impressed.”

“As you remembered mine. I, too, am impressed.” Her cheeks heated, and she silently scolded herself. She was too old to be acting like a young miss. Love and romance were in the past for her.

“I’ve a party to go to this evening and thought to bring some of your delicious goods with me. What have we today?” He looked very handsome in his beaver hat, deep-blue riding coat, and shining Hoby boots. As he moved his head to look at the pastries, the sun brought out golden streaks in his brown hair.

“No tarts today, I’m sorry to say. But I have Shrewsbury biscuits and rout cakes,” she said, pointing and realizing she still had the book in her hand.

At Dr. Brooks’s look of surprise, she quickly set it on her stool. “The currants in the rout cakes are fresh and plump.”

He shook his head. “What are you reading?”

“The Romance of the Forest by?—”

“Ann Radcliffe. Yes, I’ve read about the mysterious de la Motte family.” There was a question in his gaze, and she knew he wondered how a costermonger would happen to have a novel. “Do you enjoy reading?”

“I do. I was an instructor at the Darlington School for Girls before I married.” His hazel eyes, brimming with curiosity, had more gold flecks than she remembered. “I’m surprised you would have read such a novel.”

“Gothic? As a boy, I read anything. I still would if I had the time. What subjects did you teach?” He crossed his arms, giving her his full attention. The sleeves of his riding coat stretched across muscled arms.

She directed her gaze back to his face. His very handsome face. “French?—”

“French?”

His astonished tone irked her just a bit. “Yes, French and the pianoforte, and skills for running a household. Budgets and meal planning.” She sniffed. “You’re surprised.”

“Stunned as a matter of fact.” He grinned, showing his dimples. “Beautiful and intelligent. A rare combination.”

“Especially pushing a pastry cart?” She grinned back. His jocular mood was infectious. Who was she to take umbrage? The widow of a criminal, no less.

“Exactly! Pardon my shock, although now you’ll have to put up with a discussion of the novel when you finish it.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

She shrugged. “Some. And you?”

“Despise it,” he said in mock horror. “I remember trying to write a poem for a girl that I was arsey varsey over. The rhyming was absolutely horrid.”

Dottie laughed. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen and very, very awkward.”

“I can’t imagine you as awkward, sir.” She bit her lip as she realized he was flirting with her—and she was reciprocating. While flattered, she didn’t have the time or inclination for coquetry. Dottie was determined never to succumb again to a man’s sweet-talk. A hard lesson learned in her short life.

“My fourteen-year-old self thanks you.” He chuckled and returned his attention to her cart. “Let’s see, there will be…” His fingers flicked as he mentally counted. “I suppose there might be as many as a dozen. Since I’m not sure what everyone would prefer, why don’t I take a dozen of each?”

Dottie gasped. That would be over half her inventory for the day. She could be home early, perhaps take Violet out for tea. “My goodness. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I don’t want to be responsible for someone not getting their favorite. It’s a birthday party, after all.” He fished in his pocket for some coins.

“Someone special, I assume?” She wanted to know if he was married—no, she didn’t. Yes, she did. Dottie told herself it was only so she would know if he was being kind or hoping for something in return for such generosity.

“I’d say very special. The couple saved me from freezing to death in the street and put me through school. It’s her celebration.” He watched her for a reaction.

“You’re an orphan?” This was a surprise.

“No, well, yes.” He shook his head. “Both my parents are dead, yes, but they were alive when I was a child. Still, the O’Briens helped raise me into the man I am today.” The softness in his hazel eyes told her how much he cared for this couple. “They saved me from a life I was ill-suited for.”

“It sounds like an interesting tale.” He had piqued her curiosity.

“And one for another day when I have more time.” He handed her several coins, waved away her protestations, and collected his treats wrapped in newspaper and tied with a string. “Enjoy this lovely day, Mrs. Brown.”

So he meant to stop again? Heat spread up her neck. He tipped his hat and picked up the bundle, dipping a finger under the string. His dimples deepened, causing butterflies to swarm in her stomach. With such a reaction every time she saw the man, Dottie wasn’t sure if she hoped he returned or stayed away. Goodness, she felt like a schoolgirl.

“Enjoy your party, Dr. Brooks,” she called out belatedly, watching him walk away to collect his horse from the boy holding his reins. The lad’s eyes opened wide at the coin given him. It seemed the physician was a charitable man, along with having good looks and a fine profession.

But the worst of men could appear to be the best of men.