All About Seduction(115)

“You’re making a mistake,” said Jack.

“Do you need money to get back home?”

“Don’t insult me. I earn my way,” Jack said in a low voice. He should have taken the money, but he grabbed his crutches again and headed outside before he said words he truly would regret. Did that bastard only see a beggar when he looked at a man with only one good leg?

He was so much more, and he wouldn’t let this turn him into a charity case. He couldn’t. As an indigent, he had no chance of ever having a future with Caroline.

He left the building and gripped his crutches so tight the wood bruised his palms. The panes of the window begged for him to knock the wood right through, but he resisted the destructive urge.

Crutching down the walkway, he stared at the brick facades of the buildings and tried to take stock of his prospects. He could design machinery and build it; he knew he could.

If he’d had the money that was stolen from him, he could have spent a few days looking into other machine shops, but as it was, he didn’t have enough for even a meal, let alone lodging. He didn’t want to face another prospective employer who would only look at his plaster cast. He was so tired and wretched after the walk from the train station, he likely wouldn’t be believed.

Every uneven paving stone threatened to pitch him to the ground, and the afternoon rain turned the byways slick and treacherous. Jack leaned against his crutches and breathed. The sooty London air offered him no relief. The bustle of the city, instead of invigorating him, made him leery of his leg being jostled. The knifing pain in his back began anew.

Why had he ever thought he could make a better life for himself?

Ahead, a tavern sign creaked. He made his way toward the pub and then spent the last of his money on a pint. He couldn’t even afford to get drunk, though that wasn’t a solution and would only temporarily ease the ache of failure. It wasn’t so much that he wanted a beer, but he needed to rest and he needed something in his stomach.

Jack sat in the corner booth of a tavern and slowly nursed the tankard until the buzz of conversation turned into a pleasant sound like the babble of a brook or the relentless waves of the ocean. He folded his arms and leaned into the wall.

The barkeep roused him in the wee hours of the morning to tell him the tavern was closing. Jack blinked, looking around at the empty room. The roaring fire was nothing more than gray ashes now.

He slid to the edge of the bench and started to stand, before he realized he’d left his crutches under the table hooked onto the seat. He scooted back, gathered his crutches, then slid out from behind the table. Without money to afford lodging or cab fare, he figured he’d crutch through the city at his own pace in the early morning hours. After all, he had miles to go and no more excitement and anticipation to fuel him. Perhaps he could make it to King’s Cross Station before the train left for Manchester.

A clerk job in the Broadhurst mill, even if it only lasted a few weeks, was better than no job at all. Once his leg healed enough to remove the plaster splint, he’d come back. He needed to regroup, and then marshal his resources. When he was fully healed and had a few pounds to his name, he would try again.

Surely other places would welcome his ideas and his abilities. Perhaps in Manchester he could find work and opportunity.

“What happened to your leg?” The stout barkeep dropped a wet rag on the tabletop and wiped his hands on a dirty towel slung over his shoulder. Wet swipes in lazy s’s marked the haphazard cleaning job the man was doing.

“Mill accident,” responded Jack.

“I ain’t seen you around here before.” The barkeep seemed more inclined to chat than do his cleanup.

“I’m from a village in Lancashire.”

“That where the mill was?”

Jack nodded.

“Why you in London?”

“I was offered a job.” Jack’s shoulders lifted, revealing what he didn’t want to say.

“Your accident was recent like?” said the man. “You don’t quite seem used to getting around.”

“Four weeks ago,” answered Jack.

“I take it the job didn’t work out.” The man cocked his head to the side. “You got anywhere to sleep?”

Jack shook his head.

“Tell you what, you wash up all them tankards, glasses, and the tables, then sweep the floor, you can sleep on a bench here.” The man’s face crinkled. “Can you manage that?”

“I’ll manage,” said Jack. “Thank you.”