A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(4)
Sarah looked a little shocked at her cynicism, but his Lordship—and John Watson—both nodded. “I won’t pretend that doesn’t enter into our calculations,” said John. “Because it certainly does. I’d like to be able to claim it is easy to persuade the more lofty members of the White Lodge to undertake unglamorous, dirty, or . . . ‘common’ tasks for the love of Queen and Country, but—” He shrugged. “And there isn’t even a commission and a fine uniform to go with the service. I’m fortunate that during my tenure I’ve been able to bring in members who do not mind getting their boots and hands dirty, and it has been in no small part because of such rescues.”
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t,” Nan agreed. “If nothing else, rescuing someone from one of those places that doesn’t belong there is surely a task on the side of the angels.”
At this point, Suki tried in vain to smother a yawn. “Beg pardon,” she said, a little shamefaced.
“Not at all, Suki,” Lord Alderscroft said with a smile. “It’s definitely time for us to call an end to our evening. I confess I have an engagement I should be getting ready for. It is just that it will not be nearly as enjoyable as this afternoon was, and I have been putting it off.” He rang for the butler, who appeared as quickly as Aladdin’s Djinni had.
“The coach is already waiting, my Lord,” the butler said, before Lord Alderscroft could say anything. “By the time your guests are ready to leave, it will be standing at the door.”
“Thank you, Graves,” Alderscroft said. “Very well done. Ladies? John?”
And indeed, within a very little time, they were all packed back into the carriage with the snow coming down out of the darkness and hot bricks at their feet. At this unfashionable hour—when most people in this neighborhood were beginning their dinners—the street was very nearly deserted.
There was a rapping at the little door in the ceiling of the carriage used to communicate with the coachman, and that worthy peeked down at them. “Beg pardon, ladies, sir—m’lord give me th’ usual load of blankets an’ ’taties for a night like this un—hev you got any objection to a stop or two along the way?”
“Good lord, man, no,” John replied immediately. “In fact, when you spot an urchin, just let me pop out and you toss the goods down. That way you don’t need to get off the box.”
“Thenkee Doctor, that’d suit right well,” the coachman replied, and closed the hatch. Nan heard him cluck to the horses, and off they went.
“Blankets? Taties?” she asked.
“Alderscroft has the cook bake potatoes on nights like this if he’s having the coach go out of the neighborhood, and loads the top behind Brendan with blankets and a full basket. If Brendan sees a child or a woman out begging or trying to sell something in this weather, he’s got orders to give out a hot potato and a blanket each,” Mary Watson said warmly. “Perhaps it’s a small thing—”
“But it might be the difference between keeping life in the body and freezing to death!” Sarah exclaimed.
“At the very least, it’s the difference between going to bed hungry and cold, and going to bed warmer and with a full belly,” Nan agreed, thinking that there had been many nights in her past where she would have greeted the gift of a hot potato and a blanket as if they were being granted by a ministering angel.
The coach made at least four stops to distribute comfort before they reached Nan and Sarah’s lodgings. Twice it was for children, one trying to sell paper flowers, another a little match girl. Both those times, John came back with all they’d had to sell, as well. Once it was for a woman begging with two small children. Once it wasn’t for a woman at all, but for a man, dressed in an old, worn Army uniform; he was particularly noteworthy for being out in the snow with a wooden leg and a crutch. That time when John got back into the coach, Mary gave him an inquiring look.
“Africa,” John said shortly. “He’s a pukka soldier, all right, not some faker. I gave him the address of someone that can put him on to a job. If he stays sober, this should be his last night of begging in the streets.”
The coachman let Nan, Sarah and Suki down first, in their unfashionable, working-class neighborhood. Their landlady Mrs. Horace had probably just finished her own dinner and settled down to some mending or knitting before going to a virtuously early bed. The snow was calf-deep in front of their door, and to save Suki’s precious boots, John Watson bravely carried her the few steps to the doorway, setting her down just inside, and was rewarded with a kiss. Nan and Sarah simply held their skirts up and waded through it, stamping their feet to clean them on the step before going inside.
“You are too good to us, John Watson,” Sarah declared. The Doctor chuckled, and shooed them inside, turning to plow his way back to the carriage. They were not loath to follow his direction.
As Nan had more than half expected, Mrs. Horace popped her head out of her own door as they closed the outer one. “Well, you’re in good time! How was the Panto?”
“Wunnerful!” Suki exclaimed, and looked ready to tell their landlady all about it right there on the spot.
But Mrs. Horace smiled with approval and forestalled her. “Then you can tell me all about it, ducks, while we make gingerbread and paper chains to decorate the Christmas trees with tomorrow.”