Unraveled (Turner #3)(39)

“Nothing, Old Blazer.” Jeremy spoke like a child repeating a lesson learned long before.

“Quite right. They did nothing. They hid in their homes like rabbits. Didn’t bother to muster the militia. Not even when the rioters broke open the gaol and let the criminals free. The whole thing went on for days. And then, because the bloody magistrates had let the whole thing explode beyond fixing, what had to happen?”

“They called in the dragoons,” Jeremy intoned dutifully.

Old Blazer’s eyes swept the room. “They called in the dragoons. Opened fire on innocent men. Killed quite a few. Including my son—your father.” By now, Old Blazer was practically spitting with rage. “So don’t talk to me about magistrates. Those useless bastards killed my boy.” He drew a deep breath, and then another.

“Blazer,” said a voice behind them, “are you fretting again?”

Miranda breathed a sigh of subtle relief as Mrs. Blasseur stepped out from the back room.

“You know it’s not good for you.” She took his arm and gently led him to the back.

Miranda could hear her humming, could hear Old Blazer’s raspy protests, muffled by the curtain. Finally, Mrs. Blasseur came back through.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Jeremy said.

“It’s my fault,” Miranda added. “I didn’t know it would set him off. Truly.”

Mrs. Blasseur simply shook her head. “He’s a strong man, Old Blazer. But the older he gets, the angrier he becomes. Sometimes, it simply can’t all be contained.”

“He’s not unwell, is he?”

As if in counterpoint, the smell of pipe smoke drifted into the room.

Mrs. Blasseur rolled her eyes. “No. He’ll be perfectly well in a few minutes. It’s just better that he not fuss at the customers while he’s in this state. He does take it personally.”

“But his son died.”

“My husband.” Mrs. Blasseur sighed. “Jeremy’s father. That’s the way these things go. Only lawlessness and chaos can be born out of lawlessness and chaos. No point getting angry when it happens, no matter whom you might lose. All you can do is try to make things better. Old Blazer has yet to learn that.” She reached for a pair of scissors, and began to cut up bits of foolscap with a vengeance. The little slips of paper would be adorned with prices, and pinned to goods.

“But so solemn a subject, and on such a gloomy day. Tell me, Miss Darling—what’s this I hear about Robbie and a shipyard?”

There were some details one divulged to one’s best friend’s mother. And then, there were some things one lied about. Doubly true when one’s friend’s mother wanted one to marry her son.

“A friend of my father’s was recently in town,” Miranda said smoothly. “My father left me a little bit of money after all. We’ve used it to apprentice Robbie to a shipwright.”

Mrs. Blasseur looked suitably impressed. “A lucky chance, there. Jeremy, isn’t that lovely?”

“Yes, Mama.” Jeremy didn’t sound so dutiful, though, whatever his words. “It’s wonderful for Robbie.”

“It’s so lovely that he’ll not be spending his afternoons with those wretched boys,” Mrs. Blasseur continued.

“Yes.”

Was that anger in his voice? Anger, from even-keeled Jeremy?

“I’m always happy when someone escapes Temple Parish,” Jeremy added stiffly. “This place kills.”

As if to underscore that, Mrs. Blasseur coughed twice. Jeremy met Miranda’s eyes, his gaze communicating what he did not need to say any longer.

Get out. Get out, if you can.

Chapter Eleven

AS IT TURNED OUT, Turner settled the details that very morning.

It was scarcely ten when a runner came by. Robbie was to report to the shipwright for his apprenticeship in a handful of hours. Miranda helped him pack his things, and hugged him good-bye. He harrumphed at this treatment, and pulled away. But before he left, he stopped in front of her.

“Miranda?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll still see you on Sundays, won’t I? You’ll want me to come over?” His voice had grown so deep that it almost disguised the querulous note to his inquiry.

“I’d be miserable if you didn’t,” Miranda told him.

He turned away. “Huh,” he said.

Miranda tugged on his elbow. “You know,” she said, “I love you. If ever you need anything…”

“Sure.” He shrugged, and then looked at her and straightened to the height of his not-quite-five-feet yet. “I’m going to be a shipwright. So, later, when you need something, I’ll be the one to provide it.”

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, as he took his satchel to the door. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t drink gin. Try not to do anything stupid.

Instead, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. “Here,” she said, handing it over. “You forgot to pack one.”

He rammed it into his pocket and then left with the courier. While she waited, Miranda piled her own things into the valise that the runner had brought. She finished packing before the courier returned; there wasn’t much to take. But a scant hour later, she left her garret room for good.