"Huh?"
His top lip curled again and he circled me slowly. He didn't lean on his stick, and I wondered why he carried it. It was part of his nobleman's image, I supposed, like the accent and sneer. "Fitzroy is too lenient this time," he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. "I do not pretend to understand why, when a good beating ought to produce answers. He rarely shows mercy, so why start now?"
I gulped. "Where is Mr. Fitzroy?"
"I will ask the questions. Where are you from? Who are your parents?"
I swiveled to keep him in my sights.
His face turned pink then a mottled red, and his lips quivered. "Answer me!"
I clenched my jaw and held the man's gaze with my own. I would not let him intimidate me. He might be a lord, but he wasn't my master. "Buckingham Palace, and her majesty the queen. I call her Mum."
The walking stick smacked across my back. I arched forward and gasped as hot pain bloomed. I gathered my nerves and steadied my breathing to control the agony. If I let it rule me, I would give in, and I didn't want to give in to this man. I went to stand, but he shoved me so hard with his boot that I fell onto my side. I scrambled away, but he followed me, stick raised. Glacial eyes pinned me to the carpet as thoroughly as his boot did.
"I'll ask again," he snarled. "Where are you from and who are your parents?"
I hesitated, trying to think of the ramifications if I told him the truth about my Tufnell Park home and Father. But I couldn't think. The fierce pumping of blood through my veins and the knot of anxiety in my stomach were playing havoc with my mind.
He raised the stick again and I braced myself. It cracked across my shoulder with bruising force. He raised it again and I scampered further, only to hit the wall. Gillingham stalked toward me like a hunter tracking his prey. With a gleam in his eye, he brought the cane down on me again. And again. And again.
I endured each blow, managing to protect my face, but my left arm, shoulder, side and leg took the full force of his strikes.
And then they suddenly stopped.
"What the blazes are you doing, Fitzroy?"
I peeked through my fingers to see Fitzroy holding the stick and glaring at Gillingham like he wanted to smash him with it. I hadn't heard him enter. Over by the door, Gus and Seth stared like simpletons at the lord and their master, their lips apart, their eyes wide.
I wiped my tears and snot on my sleeve to remove the evidence of my fear and pain. But I couldn't stop the shaking.
"Don't touch him," Fitzroy said in a low voice that I had to strain to hear.
Gillingham tugged on his jacket lapels and tilted his chin even further. "The ministry hasn't become what it is today without laying a corrective hand or two on little rats like him."
"He is a child." Fitzroy spoke through a jaw so tight that it barely moved.
Gillingham wrinkled his nose at me. "Children are capable of duplicitous thoughts and behavior, just as adults are. Children like that one are vermin, not fit for the comforts you offered him. Of course he won't tell you anything useful. Look at that." He nodded at the clothes still folded on the bed, untouched. "He doesn't want to help himself. Filthy creatures like him are a scab on a decent, God-fearing society. He even threw up the food you provided, the ungrateful little wretch."
The angles on Fitzroy's face sharpened. His eyes narrowed to pinpoints. The air in the room stretched thin, taut. I held my breath, waiting for his temper to explode. "I am in charge of the ministry now, and I say how we treat our informants." Fitzroy's voice was cool and ominously quiet.
Either Gillingham didn't fear his temper, or he wasn't terribly observant, because he didn't back out of the room as I would have done if I were him. He straightened and squared his shoulders. "You are only in charge because the committee put you there. And the committee do as
I
say, Fitzroy."
"No."
"No?" Gillingham spluttered a humorless laugh. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you need to get out of Lichfield Towers before I turn your stick on you."
Gillingham did take a step back then. His gaze flicked from the stick to Fitzroy's menacing face, where it settled with renewed determination. "You get above yourself again,
Fitzroy
. Do not forget who I am, and do not forget what I know. I can crush you."
"Seth," Fitzroy said.
Seth stood to attention. "Yes, sir?"
"See that Lord Gillingham finds his way safely to his coach."
"Certainly, sir." Seth didn't bat an eyelid at the tense exchange, but Gus, just behind him, gawped openly as Gillingham and Fitzroy glared daggers at one another.
Seth cleared his throat. "My lord, the, er, stairs are this way."
Gillingham pushed past the men without a backward glance at me. "The committee will hear of this!" His heavy footsteps echoed for some time until they muted into nothing.
The tension in the bedroom relaxed somewhat, but a sense of awkwardness lingered. Or perhaps it was me who felt awkward, as all eyes focused on me now. I wished they would ignore me. I preferred to go undetected, blending in with the other boys when I could, or simply vanishing altogether when I could not. This attention was far too unnerving.
"He forgot his stick," Gus said with a nod at the cane still in Fitzroy's hand. "Not that he needed it. Bloody toff walked out of here without a limp."
Fitzroy had been watching me from beneath lowered lids, but now he grasped the stick with both hands and snapped it over his knee. He opened the window and threw both pieces out.
Someone below cursed loudly. I hoped it was Gillingham.
Fitzroy shut the window. "Help him out of his shirt."
"Don't come near me," I snarled at Gus and Seth.
Seth frowned, but Gus approached. He reached for the top button on my shirt. I slapped his hand away.
"I'm only trying to help!"
"Don't come near me," I said again.
"I ain't going to hurt you, Half Pint," Gus said. "Just get your shirt off and let us look at your sores." He reached for me again and this time I grabbed his hand and bit it.
He yelped and went to slap me. I jerked away and he made no connection. It was just an empty threat.
"Leave him," Fitzroy said.
"I weren't going to hit him," Gus grumbled. "Just scare him into doing as he's told."
"Fetch clean water, a salve and bandages."
Seth hurried out of the room. Gus regarded me with hands on hips. "Saying we get him to take his own shirt off, do you think he'll let you tend his wounds, sir? I wish Lady Harcourt were here," he added before Fitzroy answered. "She'd know how to get the lad to trust us."
A lady? That was all I needed—another bloody toff. I'd only met one, but that had proved to be enough for me to thoroughly dislike the lot of them. "I can tend my own wounds," I said before one of them got ideas that they would do it.
"You cannot
see
all your wounds," Fitzroy said.
"I don't need to."
Fitzroy's eyes narrowed. "Help him stand."
Gus came forward, but I put my hand up. "I don't need help."
To prove my point, I got to my knees. Pain spiked through my body and made my head spin. I put a hand to the wall and concentrated on controlling my breathing. Everything hurt, but I couldn't let the men know, or Fitzroy would insist on inspecting my wounds.
The breathing helped and although the pain didn't lessen, I could endure it. I got to my feet and raised my brows in triumph at Fitzroy.
"Sit on the bed," was all he said.
I eyed the bed. "I have lice."
Gus pulled a face and scratched his head.
"That's why you were given clean clothes," Fitzroy said. "Remove your rags and throw them in the fireplace. We'll shave your head. Gus—"
"No!" I inched away from both men. "I'll change into them clothes myself when you're not looking. And you're not touching my hair." I'd had beautiful hair as a child. Long golden curls had reached down to my lower back. Now it was above my shoulders, with a long fringe, and it was light brown. Shaving it off meant losing a little bit more of the real me, as well as losing the veil it provided.
"Why d'you care?" Gus said with a shrug. "It's just hair."
"Can you walk?" Fitzroy asked. I nodded. "Then come with me. Gus, fetch salt from the pantry. Lots of it. And kerosene."
"Cook won't like me taking his salt, sir."
Fitzroy picked up the pile of fresh clothes from the bed then stood by the door. Gus slumped out and I followed at a slower pace that still made me wince as I put pressure on my leg. At least no bones had been broken, but it damn well hurt. Gus trotted down the stairs ahead of us.
"What's the salt for?" I asked Fitzroy.
"Your bath."
"But that'll hurt!"
"And heal."
I stopped and folded my arms, but that only made the bruises down my left side ache more. "I'm not having no salt bath."
"Then you can succumb to either Gus or Seth rubbing salve into your wounds."
"It's just some bruises. Salt won't do much for them."
"There's blood on your back and shoulder."
I tugged the shirt at my shoulder to get a better look at it. There wasn't a lot of blood, but even small cuts could fester.
"You have a choice," Fitzroy said. "A salt bath or Gus will play doctor." He continued down the stairs without watching to see if I followed. "You cannot reach the cuts yourself."
With a sigh, I trailed after him. He was right, and my wounds needed tending, but I couldn't let anyone see my body. "And the kerosene? I ain't putting that on my sores."
"For the lice."
It was what my mother had used on my hair the one time I'd picked up head lice. "I'll need a narrow toothed comb too."
I followed Fitzroy down two flights of stairs and along a corridor. We passed no one, and I heard no sounds of life coming from elsewhere in the house. Gus had mentioned a cook, and the absent Lady Harcourt perhaps lived there, but what about other servants? A house on the scale of Lichfield Towers ought to have footmen and maids, a housekeeper and butler. Perhaps their duties were done for the day and they were downstairs in the service area with the cook. I didn't know the routine of grand households.
In the bathroom, Fitzroy opened the taps and the cast iron tub began to fill with hot and cold water. My father's house didn't have indoor plumbing, and the ease with which the bath was drawn amazed me. I dipped my hand in and suppressed a smile. The water felt wonderfully warm.
Seth arrived with the salve, then Gus brought in a bag of salt and a bottle of kerosene. He added the entire bag to the bathtub as Seth poured the kerosene into the washbasin and added some water. He pulled a comb out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the washstand.
Fitzroy ushered them out. "You will not be disturbed. A guard will remain outside and that window needs a key to unlock it. We are also two floors up with no means of climbing down. There is no escape." With his unspoken warning hanging in the air, he left.
I slid the lock home and stared at the door, half expecting someone to bang on it and order me to open up. Nobody did. Seth and Gus's voices rumbled in conversation as they quietly discussed Gillingham's behavior and Fitzroy's cold ire. I understood that to mean Fitzroy had left.
I washed the hair on my head and nether regions first. The diluted kerosene burned my skin, but I knew it ought to kill any of the crawlies. I didn't rush combing my hair, even though I wanted to climb into the bath. My mother had told me the lice would return if the eggs weren't completely removed. It wasn't easy to de-louse my own hair, even with the mirror, but I was as thorough as possible. I tried not to think about being around lice-infested bedding and children again after I escaped Lichfield. At least I would be itch-free for a few days.
Finally I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the bath. The salt bit into the cuts, but the thought of being clean again was so alluring that I bore down on the pain and plunged in. I gasped as my body burned. It felt like thousands of pins were being stabbed into the cuts. The urge to leap out of the bath was overwhelming, but I resisted. The salt would heal me faster, and I needed to be healed for when I returned to the filthy, germ infested streets.
After a long few minutes, the agony subsided until my cuts merely stung. I embraced it, welcoming the salt into my skin, and closed my eyes. For a long time I simply soaked. My earlier wash in the tower bedroom had taken much of the filth off, but immersing myself in the bath seemed more thorough. I could
feel
years of dirt leaching out of me. I used the exotic smelling soap on my skin and hair until the odor of salt and kerosene no longer filled my nostrils, and then I washed myself again with it.
Earlier, I'd thought bathing would make me too comfortable at Lichfield Towers, but now I wished I hadn't resisted. Surely one bath and a little food didn't mean I would give up my secrets. There was no reason I couldn't enjoy the comforts until I found a way to escape.
I remained in the bath even when the water cooled. Getting out meant returning to the tower room and being questioned by Fitzroy. While he hadn't hurt me, I didn't trust him not to snap when my refusal to answer stretched his patience too thin. I would need to watch him carefully for signs that his hard exterior was about to crack. Keeping my life and my identity safe had meant learning to read even the subtlest of cues given by those around me. Fitzroy, however, was more difficult. He seemed to have few expressions and held himself with stillness. A machine, Gus had called him. I could well see why.
The banging on the door startled me. "Oi!" Gus called. "You drowned or what?"
"Go away!"
"We can't stand round here all day. It's almost dinner time."
Was it that late already? The water was getting cold anyway so I climbed out and dried myself off. I dabbed some of the salve on the cuts I could reach, then finally dressed in the clean clothes. I left my old ones in a puddle in the corner. They were fit only for burning.
I went to adjust my long fringe over my face in front of the mirror, then paused. My skin was no longer dirty and my hair was already drying into waves. I brushed it back with my fingers and stared at the woman in the reflection. There was no way I could fool anyone now that I was clean. My features were too fine and feminine, the plumpness of the thirteen year-old gone. I had changed so much that I hardly recognized myself.
I dipped into an awkward curtsy and smiled at an imaginary gentleman come to ask me to dance. "Why, thank you, sir," I whispered. "My hair is my crowning glory, so everyone says."
I sounded ridiculous. I looked it too with the short ends of my hair sticking out between my fingers. With a sigh, I let it fall back to cover my eyes, cheeks and nose.
"Farewell, Charlotte," I whispered, biting back tears. "It was a pleasure to see you again."
I unlocked the door and held my breath as both Seth and Gus looked me over.
Gus sniffed. "You smell better."
"The clothes are a little big," Seth said. "At least they're clean." He chuckled and ruffled my hair.
I smacked his hand away, but I was relieved that they still saw me as a boy.
"Come on, back to the tower room with you." Gus prodded one of my new bruises and I hissed in pain. "Sorry, Half Pint. Forgot."
They marched me up the stairs and led me back into the tower room. I eyed the bed, this time allowing myself to imagine what it would be like to sink into the mattress.
"Sure you don't want me to check you over, make sure nothing's broken?" Seth asked.
"I'm sure."
"Suit yourself. I'll bring you some dinner soon."
"What d'you think's wrong with him?" I heard Gus whisper to Seth as they left. "Deformed pizzle? Only one plum? Third nipple?"