Page 50 of Guardian
He stepped back to allow it. The room was warm with the heat from the black stove in the corner, and I removed the other glove, holding them both in one hand and lifting them toward him.
“Thank you for these. They’re lovely.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked somewhat perplexed, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of my visit.
Indeed, now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what to make of it myself.
I stuffed the gloves in the pocket and undid my cloak. He hung it on a wooden rack by the door. I stood with my hands on the top rail of a wooden chair, my thumb tapping lightly, uncertain where to begin.
His hands were quiet at his sides. “Is something the matter?”
I thought of everything Sarah and Emma had told me about James, not least about how he’d had my name stitched on his heart for years. Now, studying his expression, I could see it: kindness, to be sure, even curiosity. And a faint smile, almost rueful.
“You’re looking at me like that again,” he said. “Like I’m running a con.”
I allowed a laugh, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, and drew a breath.
He’d asked me if I trusted him for the important things. Well, I would try, and I’d see where it took us.
“Do you remember the night you warned me to be careful about Maggie?” I asked.
“O’ course.”
“Well, she wants something from me.”
He drew two chairs toward the stove, but I stood, my fingers pleating the gathers in my skirt, and so he remained standing as well, his fingertips on the top rail of the wooden chair.
“She has a dodge in mind,” I said. “It’s difficult, near impossible even, and likely dangerous, although my cut could make it worth doing. But I want to know what you think.”
His brow furrowed. “Well, I’ll help you if I can, but I can’t do much without you giving me some particulars.”
“I can tell you what I know,” I said. “But you can’t tell anyone. Not even Emma.”
“I won’t.”
I remained silent a moment, considering where to begin.
“Not everything is a game with me, you know.” His tone was subdued, tentative.
His words startled me out of my thoughts. “What?”
“You said that,” he reminded me, “the night at the inn.”
I winced, ashamed of myself. “I shouldn’t have. It’s not true. I know that.”
There was a long silence.
He pointed to the chair he’d drawn for me. “Sit down, Kit. I need to tell you something.”
As I came around to the front of the chair, he pulled the other chair to face me straight on and sat, his elbows on the chair arms, one hand on his thigh, one rubbing his chin. “What do you know about my time in prison?”
That wasn’t what I expected.
“Well,” I began slowly. “I heard you were caught by a Yard man and sentenced to a year for smuggling.” I hesitated, but the glint in his eyes told me to go on. “You were let out early, and there was a rumor that you ratted on someone—not that I believed it.”
The skin around his eyes tightened briefly, in a way that drew an old memory from whatever murky ditch it occupied in my brain. It was how he’d looked when he told me he couldn’t run our badger scheme one night because his mother was sick.
It was a tell of the more unusual kind. One that pointed toward truth instead of a lie.
