Pickpocket's Apprentice (6 page)

“John Pickett, have you never kissed a girl before?” she scolded with a mixture of annoyance and affection. She took his face in her hands and tilted his head in one direction, her own in the other. His second attempt was more successful, and Pickett decided the sacrifice of his moustache was really a very small price to pay.

* * *

The month that followed was unlike any other in John Pickett’s sixteen years of existence. In some ways, his life went on very much as before: he still arose before dawn, filled the sacks with the coal that arrived every day from Newcastle, and poured the black chunks of fuel into the insatiable maws of London’s coal vaults. But every now and then—perhaps once a week, certainly no more than twice within a se’ennight—his return to Cecil Street would be followed by a light scratching at his door, and Sophy would be there, waiting to welcome him home with stolen kisses. Even their Sunday afternoon chess games were affected, for at some point during play Sophy would arise from the table and softly close the parlour door, whereupon they would lose all interest in rooks and bishops, knights and pawns.

Their trysts never progressed beyond frenzied kisses, but even these were heady stuff to a young man of Pickett’s background. Most of the girls his age living in the environs of Covent Garden belonged to that sisterhood known (quite inaccurately) as vestal virgins, and he had never possessed the wherewithal to pay for their services, even if he had been inclined to put his ignorance on display before them. But Sophy . . . Sophy was the first respectable girl he had ever known, and the very idea that such an exalted creature could love him—
him
, a pickpocket and the son of a convicted felon—seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Not that any words of love had been spoken between them. Pickett’s intentions toward Sophy were entirely honourable, but he had the wisdom, even at sixteen, to know that he could not act on these until he had fulfilled his obligation to her father and was free to seek the sort of employment that would enable him to support a wife. And since it seemed unfair to ask her to wait for him for five long years, he was determined to treasure what they had now, without pressing her for more.

He was never to know how much, or even if, Elias Granger knew about the clandestine romance between his daughter and his apprentice. Pickett was not there to witness the laundry maid’s discovery of a light film of black dust soiling the once-pristine muslin of Miss Granger’s gown. Nor was he present at the consultation when the washerwoman brought this peculiar circumstance to the attention of Mrs. Granger (along with her unequivocally stated opinion that housing That Boy beneath the same roof as Miss Sophy could only lead to trouble, ma’am, trouble in the form of a light-fingered grandchild by Whitsuntide, mark my words), or the subsequent, and quite heated, discussion between husband and wife when Sophy’s fate was decided. He only knew that he returned to Cecil Street one evening to find Sophy even more animated than usual, her eyes sparkling and her face wreathed in smiles.

“Oh, John! The most wonderful news!” she cried, flinging her arms about him. “No more governesses for me! I am to go to school! Papa had a letter today from Miss Mitchum’s Select Academy for Young Ladies, saying that I have been accepted there as a student.”

Even then, he did not realize what it meant. He knew only that she had got the thing she had wanted so desperately. He was not quite certain why going to school was so important to her—she had never struck him as being of a particularly scholarly turn of mind—but he was pleased that she would not be obliged to wait out the next five years in idleness. He gave her a congratulatory kiss, then asked when her classes would begin.

“The first of September,” was her reply. “But Papa means to take me next week, so that I may have time to settle in, and buy new clothes, and books, and—oh, a thousand things!”

“Means to take you where?” asked Pickett, all at sea.

“To Miss Mitchum’s school, silly! It’s in Bath, you know, so it will take us two days to get there.”

In fact, he had
not
known, being unacquainted with the sort of establishment favoured by wealthy merchants looking to see their daughters marry into the aristocratic class whose doors were closed to themselves. Enlightenment dawned, however, and Pickett’s face fell. “Then—you’ll be going away.”

“Of course! Didn’t I just say so?” Seeing his stricken expression, she added, “It isn’t as if you’ll never see me again. I’ll come home for Christmas, and next summer, too. Who knows? By that time, I might even be able to beat you at chess,” she said, dimpling mischievously up at him.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he replied, giving her a rather forced smile in return. He could not spoil her happiness by letting her see how much he dreaded the lonely weeks and months that lay ahead.

She departed for Bath a week later, setting out with her father in the wee hours of the morning. Pickett, already up and dressed for work, stood on the stairs where she’d once presented him with a book from her father’s library, listening to her cheerful chatter as she climbed into the post chaise, and, finally, watching through the wrought iron railings as vehicle clattered up Cecil Street and disappeared into the Strand.

John Pickett In Love

When Pickett made his delivery in Bow Street later that morning, his whole demeanor was indicative of the deepest desolation. Mr. Colquhoun, observing his entrance, had no need to wonder as to the source of his misery, for a chance encounter with Elias Granger at the bank the previous week had yielded the information that Miss Sophy Granger was to be sent to school. Mr. Colquhoun might have assured his young protégé that the girl was not worth breaking his heart over—he had not raised three daughters of his own without learning to recognize a baggage when he saw one—but he knew the boy would not believe it any more than he himself would have done at sixteen. So he greeted young Pickett just as he always did, inquired into his master’s health, and, at the conclusion of the brief interview, tossed the lad a shilling for his pains, resisting the sentimental urge to make it half a crown.

Had he known what a salutary effect this would have on the boy’s frame of mind, he would have been reluctant to part with so much as a farthing in such a cause. Far from serving to ease the loss of Sophy’s presence, this addition to his stockpile of riches caused Pickett to wonder, for the first time, just how much would be required to purchase his freedom from the contract he’d made with Mr. Granger two years previously. When he returned to his room that night, he lifted the corner of his mattress, removed his hidden wealth from its hiding place, and counted it carefully. Twelve shillings sixpence, and most of it—well, all of it, really, except for those two gleaming silver coins—in pennies. But pennies could be spent just as well as pound notes, he reminded himself, provided there were enough of them. In any case, there was plenty of time to acquire more, as he could not realistically expect Sophy to marry him until she had finished school. But at least he had a plan now, and so he worked, and waited, and added pennies one by one to his little hoard.

And then, one Sunday afternoon in the middle of December, Mr. Granger sent for him. Pickett, eager to accommodate the man who already figured in his imagination as his father-in-law, hurried to obey the summons, and found his master seated before the chessboard, the black and white chessmen already in position.

“Ah, there you are!” was Mr. Granger’s greeting. “I wonder if you might give me a game, John. I seem to remember you’re a dab hand at it.”

“I’ll try, sir, but I’m a bit out of practice,” Pickett confessed. “I haven’t played since—since September,” he concluded lamely. Mr. Granger had not mentioned Sophy by name, and some instinct for self-preservation urged Pickett to follow suit.

“I’m sure it will come back to you,” Mr. Granger said with a smile, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

Pickett sat down, and battle was joined. As his master had predicted, the moves and the strategy governing them came back quickly—or perhaps they had never really left —and twenty minutes into the game, Pickett had a tidy collection of Mr. Granger’s ivory chessmen at his elbow, having yielded only four of his own ebony ones.

“I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning,” his master said, sliding his one remaining bishop diagonally across the board to put Pickett’s king in check. “I’m going to fetch Miss Granger home from school for her Christmas holiday.”

Pickett had been studying the chessboard, but at this announcement his head came up, his brown eyes alight with a mixture of hope and fear: hope because he was finally, after three long months, to see Sophy again, and fear because Mr. Granger had never before referred to his daughter as “Miss Granger,” and Pickett could not help wondering if his unaccustomed formality held a hidden message. Looking into coal-black eyes that, while technically the same colour as Sophy’s, held none of her sparkle, Pickett was sure of it.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, John,” his master continued. “I’d hate to see you spoil it by going and doing something stupid.”

Pickett looked down at his endangered king, and thought he knew exactly how it felt. “Y-Yes, sir,” he stammered. “That is, I’ll try not to. Do anything stupid, I mean.”

Mr. Granger nodded, and the game continued with no further reference to Sophy’s imminent return.

For Pickett, however, the week that followed was the longest of his life. Finally, Friday arrived, and he hurried back to Cecil Street at the end of the day, sped along by the knowledge that Sophy must have returned by now, and they would be reunited at last. As he ate his dinner in the servants’ hall, Pickett learned from the chambermaid that Miss Sophy had arrived that afternoon, and that that fancy school had done nothing to improve her, as she’d hardly even taken off her cloak before she began finding fault with everything from the way her bed was made to the bowl of flowers on her bedside table. Pickett took no part in the ensuing conversation, privately reasoning that his poor love was probably exhausted from the long journey, and besides, the chambermaid had always been a spiteful cat anyway. He finished his dinner, making a concentrated effort not to wolf it down, lest the suspicions of the household staff be roused, and then returned to his room and made straight for the washstand. He scrubbed the coal dust from his person until his skin was raw, then settled down to await the familiar scratching on the door that would herald her arrival.

He awoke some time later to find himself in the dark, stretched out fully clothed on his cot, and the tallow candle on the rickety bedside table burned out. She had not come. It was her first night at home, he told himself, painfully aware of a trace of desperation colouring his reasoning. Her parents had missed her just as much as he had—if such a thing were possible—and must have kept her talking to them until late into the night. She knew, too, that he would have to get up early in the morning for work, and was too considerate to deprive him of much-needed sleep. Yes, that was it. Having convinced himself that her absence was an indication of the nobility of her character rather than any lack of affection for him, he rolled over and fell asleep, to dream of his love lying asleep two floors above him and to wonder if perhaps she were thinking of him.

When she did not come to him on Saturday night either, he began to suspect that her mother had warned her against keeping company with him, just as her father had cautioned him against taking some unspecified yet stupid action. He could only assume that Mr. Granger believed his daughter stood in danger of seduction; if so, Pickett thought, it only proved that Sophy’s parents did not understand the purity of his love for her. Still, it was unsettling that she made no attempt to see him at all, and he feared that Mrs. Granger (who, according to Sophy, had not wanted him there in the first place) had somehow poisoned her mind against him.

Not until Sunday were his fears finally put to rest, when, halfway through divine services, the rector called upon his flock to bow their heads in prayer. Sophy did so, but not before glancing in Pickett’s direction and winking at him over the lowered heads of her parents. Pickett’s spirits soared. Even the rector’s text, the Genesis account describing how Jacob worked for seven years in order to marry Rachel, seemed to be a divine message just for him. When Sophy returned to Bath a few days later, having not had a single moment alone with him, Pickett recalled that wink, and resolved to wait in patience until his apprenticeship was complete—or until he had accumulated a sufficient store of coins to purchase his freedom, whichever came first—at which point he could, finally, claim her for his bride.

On such meager crumbs does hope subsist.

* * *

On a beautiful spring day in May, Sophy returned from school. After two weeks without any acknowledgement from her at all, Pickett, now seventeen years old, had resigned himself to a longer version of the previous Christmas holiday. Great, therefore, was his surprise when he returned from work one evening and heard a familiar scratching on his door. He turned and saw Sophy framed in the doorway, twisting one dark curl around her finger.

“You can kiss me if you like,” she whispered, smiling coyly at him.

“Sophy!”

Two steps brought him to her side. He pulled her into the room and closed the door behind her, then would have taken her in his arms, had she not ducked away.

“Not in that nasty thing, you don’t!” She gestured toward his shirt, permeated, as always, with black dust. “That nosey washerwoman, Tess, noticed coal dust on my dress last summer, you know.”

In fact, Pickett had
not
known, and his eyes widened as the implication became clear. “So
that’s
how—”

“Yes, that’s how Mama found out, and if word should get back to her again, there would be the devil to pay. Now, are you going to remove that shirt, or shall I go back upstairs?”