Chapter Eight
Past
“You’re… you’re really leaving, Andrew?”
Primrose stood in the doorway of his shabby room in yet another shabby inn. In one hand, she gripped the rag doll he’d bought her months ago at the fair. She and the doll were rarely parted, and both were bedraggled from weeks on the flit. Primrose’s blond hair hung in limp, unwashed plaits, the doll’s yarn locks similarly dulled by dirt. Threads unraveled from both of them.
The trembling in Primrose’s voice, coupled with the brightness of her eyes, constricted his chest. But he’d made his decision; after the fight with Kitty last night, there was no turning back.
“It’s for the best,” he said.
He continued packing his possessions into a battered valise. There wasn’t much. Not after the fiasco of Kitty’s plan had taken the rest of his savings and nearly both their lives. As it turned out, those who dealt in pleasure in the countryside were as lethal as their city counterparts. The local brothel owners had made it clear that no upstart bawd from London was going to poach on their territory.
Now, after months of selling himself to countrified matrons and traveling ladies in search of a night’s companionship, he had no money and no prospects.
Primrose came closer. “But why?”
Because I’m a whore. I can’t take care of you. I can barely take care of myself.
“Kitty and I are parting ways,” he said.
“Because of me?”
Unable to bear the pain shimmering in her wide eyes, he crouched. Tipped her little chin up. “No, little chick. It is a grown-up matter that has naught to do with you.”
“Kitty says I’m too…”—her cherubic features tensed in concentration—“’spensive.”
The ache in his chest intensified into a burn. Parting with Kitty wasn’t easy—their history was a long and knotty rope—but leaving Primrose to an uncertain fate was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. This was the demon he wrestled with. The one that crawled beneath his skin by day and injected venom into his dreams by night. The one that had delayed the inevitable dissolution of his partnership with Kitty.
“It’s not you, Primrose,” he said firmly.
She grabbed his hand just as he was pulling back. “Then take me with you. Please. I don’t want to stay with Kitty; I want to go with you!”
Her plea lashed him like a cat-o’-nine-tails. He stood abruptly. “I can’t take you.”
“Wh-why?”
“Because… I just can’t.”
If you take Primrose, I’ll send the constables after you. Kitty’s enraged vow rang in his head. Imagine what that will look like—a male whore stealing a young girl. You’ll be strung up by the mob before they get you to the gallows. I’m her guardian, and I’ve got the papers to prove it. I decide her fate—not you. If you don’t like the fact that I’m going to find her a nice home with some rich nobs, then take your bloody arse off. I don’t give a damn. But just try to take Primrose—and I’ll guarantee that’s the last thing you do.
He knew Kitty meant every word—and that she was right. He had no legal standing to take Primrose. Not only that, he had no money, no means to look after a little girl.
“I won’t be any trouble. I promise, Andrew! Please.”
His hands curled in helpless frustration; he wanted to punch something.
“I know you won’t. But where I’m going…”—he refused to dwell on his own grim future—“it’s no place for little girls.”
“I don’t care! I don’t want to be with Kitty. I hate her, I hate her!”
Primrose flung herself at his knees, sobbing. She’d never before voiced her feelings about her guardian. Or, indeed, said a negative word or showed any sign of temper. She was always a biddable, sunny child, and now he realized that she’d been too afraid to be anything else.
The recognition ravaged him, but what could he do?
Kitty has papers. And she’s right: you’re just a whore. His teeth ground together. What authority will entrust Primrose to you, even if you could take care of her?
He placed a hand on the weeping girl’s head and managed a soothing tone. “There now. It won’t be so bad. You’ll miss me a bit, and then you’ll meet new friends.”
As he said the words, fear shadowed his heart. He didn’t know for certain what lay in Primrose’s future. Kitty was steadfast in her resolution to sell the girl. The bawd had claimed that she would find a good home for Primrose, one where she would be well cared for.
But he knew Kitty, knew that she was moved by money more than sentiment. And he feared that she would sell Primrose to the highest bidder rather than the one best for the child’s welfare. While he would give anything to believe that some rich, childless couple would end up adopting Primrose, he couldn’t ignore the grim possibilities. The ones who hunted in the streets of the Seven Dials, using sweets and coins to coax crossing sweeps and flower girls into dark alleys. The ones who he, himself, had learned to evade as a boy.
Looking into Primrose’s upturned face, he was haunted by the possibilities. His gut twisted with guilt, rage, and hopeless despair. Yet what choice did he have? He could make a run for it with Primrose… but even if he could somehow evade the authorities, what sort of life could he offer her? One filled with pimps and whores, lechers and degenerates. She wouldn’t be any safer. And who’d take care of her while he was off fucking just to keep some leaky, crumbling roof over their heads?
At least with Kitty’s plan, Primrose had a chance at a happy ending.
“I don’t want new fr-friends. I want you,” Primrose said tearfully.
He let out a breath and cupped one of her cheeks, its wetness soaking his palm. “You’re a bantling yet, and you’ll forget me in time,” he said. “But I will always remember you. And I’d prefer to remember our parting as one of smiles rather than tears.”
“I’m not going to smile!” Primrose stamped her foot, flung the doll at him. “I h-hate you, and I’m glad I won’t ever see you again!”
She raced out of the room.
Slowly, he bent to pick up the grubby toy. He traced a fingertip over the dye-drawn smile, already fading. He thought of leaving it for Primrose—but she’d be better off without reminders of him.
He tucked the doll on top of his belongings, closed the case, and made his way out.