The Damnation Affair

Chapter 10

Cat rubbed delicately at the skin about her eyes. It was drowsy-hot, especially in the schoolroom, and the scratching on the board was enough to set even a saint’s teeth on edge. Cecily Dalrymple was writing out I will not throw ink, her fair blonde face set in mutinous agony. The rest of the children, temporarily chastened, bent over their slates, and Cat took a deep breath. “Once more,” she said, patiently, and little Patrick Gibbons almost stuttered as he recited.

“A…B…C…”

“Very good,” she encouraged, ignoring the fidgets. The youngest students chorused with Patrick, raggedly but enthusiastically. They made their way through the alphabet, and Cat’s warm glow of entirely justified (in her opinion) satisfaction was marred only by the back row’s restlessness.

Miss Bowdler’s books were very useful, but Cat had learned more applicable skills following her mother about on the endless round of charity work a Barrowe-Browne was obliged to undertake. Not to mention the example of one of her governesses—a certain Miss Ayre, quiet and plain but with a steely tone that had made even Robbie sit up and take notice on those few occasions her patience had worn thin.

It was Miss Ayre’s example she found herself drawing on most frequently, especially as every child in the schoolroom was dismally untaught. Ignorance and undirected energy conspired to make them fractious, but they were on the whole more than willing to work, and work hard, once she gave them a direction. Perhaps it was the novelty of her presence.

Still, there were troubles. The Dalrymple girls, for one. Turning those two hoydens into respectable damsels was perhaps beyond Cat’s power, but she had an inkling of a plan. The older girl’s longing glances at the sad, shrouded pianoforte had not passed unnoticed, and Cat suspected that with the offer of lessons she would have a valuable carrot to dangle before the haughty creature.

“That is quite enough,” she said sternly. Mancy sparked on her fingers, and there was a crackle. Little Tommy Beaufort let out a garbled sound and thumped back into his seat. “Mr. Beaufort, since you are so eager, stand and recite your alphabet instead of tossing rubbish at your classmates. Begin.”

“A…B…C…”

Hoofbeats outside. That explained the restlessness of the back rows—they had heard the noise before she did. Was it Mr. Gabriel again? Whoever it was seemed in quite a hurry, but she held Tommy to his recitation, nodding slightly.

The horse did not pass the schoolhouse. Who could that be? But she stayed where she was, standing beside her desk, and when Tommy finished she gave him a tight smile. “Very good. Now, first form, take your slates out and begin copying from the top line on the board—A fox is quick. Second form—”

Thundering bootsteps, and the door was flung open. Cat blinked.

It was Mr. Tilson, the owner of the Lucky Star. She had seen him in church just yesterday, nodding along to Mr. Vancey the cartwright’s stumbling reading of the Book. Mr. Gabriel had sat next to her, his hands on his knees and his face as dull and unresponsive as she had ever seen it.

Mr. Tilson was sweating, and had obviously ridden hard. Foam and dust hung on him in spatters, and his suit coat was sadly rumpled. He was red-faced, too, and Cat stared at him curiously. His hat was cocked sideways, and the slicked-down strands of his dark hair were dangerously disarranged.

“You!” He pointed at Cat, and spat the word. “You. I’ve words for you, Miss.”

What on earth? She drew herself up. The children had frozen, including Cecily Dalrymple at the board. Their eyes were wide and round, and quite justifiable irritation flashed under Cat’s skin. “Mr. Tilson. You shall not shout indoors, sir. It sets a bad example.”

That brought him up short. The redness of his cheeks and the ugly flush on his neck was not merely from the heat. It was also, Cat suspected, pure choler.

He actually spluttered a little, and her fingers found the yardstick laid across her desk. “Step outside, sir. I shall deal with you in a moment, once I have finished giving the second and third forms their lessons. Miss Dalrymple, you may return to your seat; that is quite enough.”

“I ain’t gonna be put off—” Mr. Tilson started, and Cat searched for her mother’s voice. It came easily, for once.

“Sir.” Every speck of dust in the room flashed under her tone. “You shall not disturb my students further. Step outside. And do close the door properly, the wind and heat are very bad today.”

His jaw worked, but he seemed to finally realize the eyes of every child in the room were upon him. He backed up a single step, his gaze purely venomous, and whirled, banging the door shut.

Cat’s knuckles ached, gripping the wooden yardstick. Her heart pounded. She tilted her chin slightly, an ache beginning between her shoulder blades.

I can handle a whorehouse manager, Mr. Gabriel had said. Surely a Barrowe-Browne could do no less. At least it was not a shambling corpse at the door.

That was an entirely unwelcome thought, and she did her best to put it a ct t between hway. “Second form, take your slates and solve the row of sums under first form’s line. Third form—” All three of you, who can puzzle out a word or two. “Take out your primers and occupy yourselves with page six.”

“Yes ma’am,” no few of them chorused, and Cecily Dalrymple actually sat down without flouncing, for once. Cat suspected she might regret showing leniency, but there was nothing for it.

She passed down the aisle, stepping over the cleansed patch where the corpse had landed—there was no evidence of it on the floorboards, but she still disliked setting her feet in that vicinity—and braced herself for whatever unpleasantness was about to ensue.

“You.” Tilson pointed a stubby finger at her. “What are you playing at? Them whores don’t need to read!”

So that’s it. Her mother’s voice still served her well—the exact tone Frances Barrowe-Browne would use in dealing with an overeager gentleman, or a brute of a salesman who sought to engage her custom. “You will adopt a civilized tone in speaking to me, sir.” Cat drew in a sharp soundless breath. Dust whirled along the dry track serving as a road, and the horse Tilson had arrived on hung its head near the trough, its sides lathered. “And your horse requires some care.”

“Goddamn the horse, and God damn you, too! Civilized tone my ass. What’n hell you think you’re doing, teaching whores to read? I won’t have it!”

She still held the yardstick, and the image of cracking him across the knuckles with it was satisfying in its own way. Cat gazed at him for a few long moments, her face set, one eyebrow arched in imitation of her mother’s fearsome You Are Not In Good Form expression.

When she was certain she had his attention, and further certain that he was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous, she tapped the yardstick against the schoolhouse’s ramshackle porch. The shade here was most welcome, though she quailed a bit inwardly at the thought of the afternoon walk back to her little cottage. “The next moment you use such language, sir, this conversation is over. Now, am I to understand you have an objection to some of my students?”

“Your—” He visibly checked himself. “They ain’t gonna read! You just tell them that!”

“I was engaged to see to the education of those in this town.” Dangerously quiet, and Cat’s back ached. “Those in your employ are not heathen slaves, sir; they are members of this town and, as such, are entitled to my services. Additionally”—she overrode the beginning of his bluster, and it was Miss Ayre’s example she drew upon now—“I am a charter-free Christian woman, sir, and you do not have any leave or right to speak to me in this manner. You may remove yourself from my schoolhouse immediately. If you do not, I shall be forced to seek a remedy against you by applying to the forces of law and justice in this town.”

“What, Gabe? He ain’t mixed up in this. You mark my word, you little bitch—”

“Good day, sir.” She turned on her heel.

Tilson took a step forward, and his broad, callused hand closed around her arm, squeezing brutally. “I am talkin’ to you, you little—”

The yardstick snapped up, its tip crackling and spitting sparks. She meant to merely startle him into dropping her arm, and heard Robbie’s voice inside her head. Don’t let them manhandle you, little sister. That’s what a Practicality’s for.

Instead, it cracked across Mr. Tilson’s face as he sought to shake her, pulling her toward the three rude stairs leading off the porch. The mancy popped, and blood spattered. She recoiled, his hand falling away from her aching arm, and it was as if Robbie were next to her. The image of the locket in the pawnshop window rose, glittering coldly, and she realized that in this town, she could perhaps sally into such a place without worrying overmuch about such a thing as Reputation.

Still, she was alone with this man, with only a group of children inside, and Reputation was thin tissue indeed to shield her from violence.

Perhaps she should have been more…discreet? Passive? What was the proper word?

The saloon owner tripped, tumbled down the steps, and landed sprawled in the dust. Cat found words, harsh and rude as a lady’s must never be. Still, they fell out of her mouth before she could halt them.

“Do not dare to lay hands upon me in such a manner, you foulmouthed brute!” She hit a pitch just under “fishwife’s scream” and for once, did not wish to writhe in embarrassment. The yardstick fizzed with sparks, and she held it in both hands, much in the manner of a sword.

He scrambled to his feet, dust rising in puffs and golden veils. Cat’s heart thundered, her palms sweating, and a curl had fallen in her face. The children had probably heard her. Gossip would run through the town, and—

You’re here to find Robbie. Or find what has happened to him. This brute does not matter one whit.

And yet Miss Tiergale had been very frightened. Almost trembling. If she lived with this man, Cat could see why.

And the knowledge made her sick all the way through. Another session of heaving off the school’s porch could not be borne either, so she merely set her jaw and swallowed the bitterness.

Mr. Tilson pointed one thick, trembling finger. “I’ll get you. So help me, I’ll get you.”

“Your threats are as ugly as your character.” She pointed the yardstick, a single star of light hurtfully bright at its tip. The wood was scorched, and Tilson’s face was bleeding, one eye already puffed shut. The blood was shockingly bright in all the dun and dust. “Do not ever come near me again, sir. Or I shall hand you more of the same.”

He blundered back for his horse, and Cat stood watching as he spurred the beast unmercifully. She tried to tell herself it was because she wished to make certain he would not return and possibly make another scene in front of her students.

In reality, however, it was because she was trembling, and her stomach cramped. She watched the man on the horse recede into the distance toward the smoke-smudge of the bulk of Damnation, and her mouth was full of thick, foul fear.

If I were not such a lady, I would spit. A lady did not smash a man in the face with mancy and a yardstick, however.

I would do it again, she realized. Most assuredly I would.

I would even enjoy it.