LITMIR.BIZ

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frowned. It was a lad. But the sound of that particular fiddle, and the dancing, jigging tune seemed familiar. He looked more closely at the lad.

      A mere stripling, barely breeched from the look of him, he wore an ill-fitting shabby coat and a cap hid his hair. A pale cheek was tucked lovingly against the mellow timber of the instrument as he stroked magic from it. Another cap lay at his feet. As James watched several people tossed in coins. Another, smaller boy hovered nearby.

      Dodging between the traffic, James crossed to the south side of the street. He felt in his pocket and found a coin. Not seeming so much as to glance at the fiddler and his companion, James dropped the coin in the cap as he passed.

      * * *

      Lucy watched Mr Remington go as she continued to play. Her stomach had tied itself in knots. Why, she had no idea. It was no bread and butter of his if she kept herself from starving by playing in the street. Although, since he already owed Papa money, she supposed he might be annoyed if he’d realised whose cap he’d dropped money into. She glanced down and her playing faltered. A crown gleamed fatly amongst the pennies and farthings—more than she’d earn in a week.

      ‘Fitch—’

      He was already scooping it up. It disappeared safely into some fastness in his clothing. Sometimes people would pretend to lean down to put money in, but actually take money out. Fitch’s watchful eye prevented that, for which she gave him a share of the take. The crown meant money for the rent and a hearty meal for both of them tonight.

      ‘Generous cove,’ he said.

      ‘He’s the one I told you about.’ Lucy kept playing.

      ‘Right.’ He stepped back, leaning against the wall again.

      Lucy changed the tune, sliding into a sentimental ballad she’d heard someone singing the week before. She played with the melody, embellishing it here, tweaking it there. A few people stopped to listen and more coins tinkled in the open case. She smiled, nodding thanks as they moved on, and slipped back into a dance tune.

      ‘Bloke’s comin’ back,’ Fitch muttered.

      Her breath caught as she played, watching from the corner of her eye as Mr Remington passed on the other side of the street. This time he didn’t glance their way and the twisting knot in her belly loosened. Clearly he’d gone to her lodgings, found her not there and left.

      She played on, smiling as people left coins, keeping a watchful eye on the weather, trying not to think about Mr Remington. He meant nothing to her. She had to think of important things—such as how to climb out of the hole her father was digging for them.

       You could write to Uncle Bertram—Aunt Caroline might write you a reference. She might know someone who needs a governess, or a companion.

      Four years ago, after Grandmama died, they had forced Papa to take her away, since they had not wished to house her. A reference would not cost them anything. Except of course they would probably refuse to pay for the letter she sent them.

      A chilly breeze skittered along the pavement, fluttering skirts and awnings, bringing with it the steely scent of rain. Thunder rumbled a warning in the distance. She looked up at the sky; heavy clouds threatened.

      ‘Reckon it’s time to pack up.’ Fitch was watching the sky, too. ‘No folks’ll be willing to part with a groat if ’n it comes on to rain like it’s makin’ to.’

      Lucy was already loosening her violin strings. She wouldn’t risk a drenching for her elderly instrument. She slid the violin and bow back into the case propped against the wall behind her and fastened the hinged end.

      She looked at Fitch. ‘Are you hungry? I am.’ A slight understatement, that. She was starving. Last night’s dinner had been scanty and there’d been nothing for breakfast either this morning or yesterday.

      ‘Yeah.’ Fitch scooped up the day’s take.

      ‘Well,’ Lucy said, ‘we could break that crown buying dinner and split the remainder.’

      The boy nodded. ‘No one won’t notice you in them clothes if we go to the Maid an’ Magpie. Not if you don’t speak too much.’

      Lucy’s stomach flipped. No one ever seemed to notice that the ‘lad’ playing fiddle was in fact a lass, but she’d never gone into a tavern.

      ‘Walk into the Maid in yer own clothes an’ you’ll get yer bum pinched or worse,’ Fitch said. ‘An’ if you do go back an’ change there’ll be more folks in there. Come on,’ he urged. ‘Be raining frogs in a coupla minutes.’

      She dragged in a deep breath. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

      He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see. The Maid does a bang-up steak-an’-kidney pie.’

      * * *

      The bang-up steak-and-kidney pie warmed Lucy as she hurried home along the rain-slicked street. As well as her fiddle, she had more food tucked under her arm. She had taken off her coat and swathed the violin case in it and she broke into a run as the tunnel leading into Frenchman’s Yard came in view. In addition to the bread and cheese she had bought for breakfast, and the treat of a bag of jellied eels for supper, there was a whole shilling left over for the rent. Tomorrow she could earn more money, although she couldn’t hope for such luck as had favoured her today.

      She ducked into the shelter of the tunnel and eased back to a walk, catching her breath. For once no one was snoring off a pint of gin in the putrid passageway. She held her breath and hurried through, coming out blinking into the relatively fresh air of the yard.

      Although the rain had eased, the wind had turned bitter, slicing to the bone, and she dashed across the yard and into the lodging house. Her landlady did not look out from the kitchen door at the back of the dingy hall and Lucy hurried up the stairs, ignoring the ominous creaks.

      She dug into the pocket of her breeches for the key and pulled it out, juggling her fiddle and the package of food. Her cold fingers fumbled the key into the lock and turned it. Lord, she’d be glad to get out of these icy, sodden clothes. Perhaps when she gave Mrs Beattie the extra shilling, the woman would let her dry them, or even herself, by the kitchen fire. Sometimes Mrs Beattie could be obliging about things like that. And sometimes not. Although an extra shilling was an excellent sweetener for the woman’s uncertain moods.

      Closing the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Such as it was. With a shilling and supper.

      ‘A profitable day, Miss Hensleigh?’

      Her breath jerked in on a startled gasp as she dropped the key and whipped around, bobbling her belongings. Somehow she saved the violin, grabbing it frantically as it slipped, but the food scattered on the floor.

      Back pressed to the door, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she saw Mr Remington rise frowning from the chair by the empty grate. Sick fear swooped through her with understanding. He’d recognised her. Known she was out and deliberately let her see him leave. Then he’d circled around to wait, realising that she’d never come home alone knowing he was here.

      She found her voice through the choking fright. ‘Mrs Beattie will come up if I scream.’ She hoped. Mrs Beattie ought not to have let him in.

      Mr Remington’s frown deepened as he came towards her. ‘Why would you scream now, if you didn’t when I startled you?’

      Was he an idiot? Or simply so arrogant he thought she’d welcome his attentions? She reached behind her for the door knob just as he bent to pick up the fallen loaf of bread. She stared.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was barely a squeak.

      ‘Picking up your—ah, bread.’ He straightened. ‘Where should I throw this?’

      ‘Throw it? Just put it on the table, please.’

      He stared at her. ‘It’s been on the floor! Surely you aren’t—’

      ‘I

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