any of his comforts for granted.
He settled Winnie into her chair and then sat in the one opposite her. He was grateful they were being served in the smaller dining room and that the table was a modest one that would sit only six. The family dining room.
White wine was poured and the first course was served: a soup that was more broth than substance, but he couldn’t fault its flavor.
“I feared you might not survive your encounter with Catherine,” he said, striving to keep his voice level so it didn’t reveal his curiosity regarding what might have been said after he left. Catherine might have cautioned her not to become involved with him, which would mean he’d have to work all the harder at seduction.
“She warned me away from you.”
“I’m not surprised. You see me as a man of goodness, but I assure you I am more scoundrel than saint. I became a physician because I had much to atone for.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing a lady needs to hear about, especially over dinner.”
Watching as she lifted the spoon to her lips, he found himself envious of a damned eating utensil. When she returned it to the bowl, she lifted her gaze to his, studied him for a moment. He wondered if she were able to see beneath the surface, to the part of him that he shared with no one.
“I know you grew up on the streets,” she said. “What was it like?”
While she’d been recovering, she hadn’t asked about his youth. He rather wished she hadn’t asked now. “Dirty. Harsh. But within Feagan’s den there was a sense of camaraderie.”
“Who is Feagan?”
“The kidsman who corralled us, taught us to steal and pilfer without getting caught.”
“What of your parents?”
He took a sip of his wine. “My mother washed clothes. What I remember most about her was how rough and raw her hands always looked.” How rough they felt when they grazed against his skin when she was in a rage and he served as the object upon which she could vent her anger. It was like being slapped with sandpaper. “My father earned his living digging graves in various cemeteries and pauper’s fields. And at night, he’d return to rob the graves. When I was big enough to hold a trowel, he took me with him.”
The bowl was removed and a plate of mutton was set before them but she hardly seemed to notice. “Weren’t you frightened, going into the graveyards at night?”
“What was there to dread?”
“The spirits of the dead. Don’t you believe they linger?”
As she had mentioned being haunted before, he didn’t laugh. “To haunt us?”
“Yes, quite.”
Pondering his answer, he took a bite of the tasty mutton. She was so earnest. Who was he to dissuade her from her beliefs? “I will admit that I have encountered phenomenon that is difficult to explain: A glow in the fog, a howling when there is no wind. And on occasion, the hairs on the back of my neck would rise. Sometimes I felt that I was being watched, but I assumed it was other grave robbers who were disappointed we beat them to the treasures.”
She glanced around and he knew she wanted to say more, perhaps even mention the strange occurrences she’d experienced of late, but she was hesitant to appear foolish in front of the servants, even if they weren’t supposed to be listening.
“So you’ve never actually seen a spirit wandering around the graves?” Before he could answer, her eyes widened. “Is that why your surname is Graves?”
He couldn’t help but smile. She looked as though she’d solved a difficult problem. “When Feagan took in a child, he always made him or her change their name. For most of us there is no record of our birth, no record of our existence. Unlike with the aristocracy where births and deaths are recorded steadfastly, in the rookeries names are changed on a whim or when someone is caught committing a crime.”
“It never occurred to me that one could go about changing his name so easily.”
“I suspect even some of your servants
He settled Winnie into her chair and then sat in the one opposite her. He was grateful they were being served in the smaller dining room and that the table was a modest one that would sit only six. The family dining room.
White wine was poured and the first course was served: a soup that was more broth than substance, but he couldn’t fault its flavor.
“I feared you might not survive your encounter with Catherine,” he said, striving to keep his voice level so it didn’t reveal his curiosity regarding what might have been said after he left. Catherine might have cautioned her not to become involved with him, which would mean he’d have to work all the harder at seduction.
“She warned me away from you.”
“I’m not surprised. You see me as a man of goodness, but I assure you I am more scoundrel than saint. I became a physician because I had much to atone for.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing a lady needs to hear about, especially over dinner.”
Watching as she lifted the spoon to her lips, he found himself envious of a damned eating utensil. When she returned it to the bowl, she lifted her gaze to his, studied him for a moment. He wondered if she were able to see beneath the surface, to the part of him that he shared with no one.
“I know you grew up on the streets,” she said. “What was it like?”
While she’d been recovering, she hadn’t asked about his youth. He rather wished she hadn’t asked now. “Dirty. Harsh. But within Feagan’s den there was a sense of camaraderie.”
“Who is Feagan?”
“The kidsman who corralled us, taught us to steal and pilfer without getting caught.”
“What of your parents?”
He took a sip of his wine. “My mother washed clothes. What I remember most about her was how rough and raw her hands always looked.” How rough they felt when they grazed against his skin when she was in a rage and he served as the object upon which she could vent her anger. It was like being slapped with sandpaper. “My father earned his living digging graves in various cemeteries and pauper’s fields. And at night, he’d return to rob the graves. When I was big enough to hold a trowel, he took me with him.”
The bowl was removed and a plate of mutton was set before them but she hardly seemed to notice. “Weren’t you frightened, going into the graveyards at night?”
“What was there to dread?”
“The spirits of the dead. Don’t you believe they linger?”
As she had mentioned being haunted before, he didn’t laugh. “To haunt us?”
“Yes, quite.”
Pondering his answer, he took a bite of the tasty mutton. She was so earnest. Who was he to dissuade her from her beliefs? “I will admit that I have encountered phenomenon that is difficult to explain: A glow in the fog, a howling when there is no wind. And on occasion, the hairs on the back of my neck would rise. Sometimes I felt that I was being watched, but I assumed it was other grave robbers who were disappointed we beat them to the treasures.”
She glanced around and he knew she wanted to say more, perhaps even mention the strange occurrences she’d experienced of late, but she was hesitant to appear foolish in front of the servants, even if they weren’t supposed to be listening.
“So you’ve never actually seen a spirit wandering around the graves?” Before he could answer, her eyes widened. “Is that why your surname is Graves?”
He couldn’t help but smile. She looked as though she’d solved a difficult problem. “When Feagan took in a child, he always made him or her change their name. For most of us there is no record of our birth, no record of our existence. Unlike with the aristocracy where births and deaths are recorded steadfastly, in the rookeries names are changed on a whim or when someone is caught committing a crime.”
“It never occurred to me that one could go about changing his name so easily.”
“I suspect even some of your servants
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