Chapter Text
You felt the bed dip as Mother gently climbed out of it, doing her best to keep her movements quiet. It was still dark out, and as much as every part of you screamed to stay under the covers in the warmth, you gingerly sat up to follow her. The spot that usually held Timothy was already empty; he would have been up nearly two hours before, off to hawk papers through the streets. That left two sleeping girls in the bed, and you wanted to keep it that way. Bessie would sleep through anything, but little Rose would wake at the lightest jostle, and the last thing you needed was a cranky four-year-old on your hands right at the start of the day.
There was a slight hiss as Mother lit a candle- one would have to be enough, they were just so expensive. You dressed in silence, accepting Mother’s help to lace up the strings of your corset, bracing but not too tight. With nimble movements, you started and stoked the fire in the little stove, hands darting quickly out so as not to get burned when the coals finally took hold. It wasn’t much, but it would provide warmth and be enough to toast some bread.
Mother stopped to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before she left, little bag of oiled cloth holding her bread and cheese. “Thank you, dear. I’ll see if I can’t bring home some bones from the butcher’s tonight- we’ll make some broth, won’t that be nice?”
You gave her the brightest smile you could muster. Even as her hand swept a strand of hair out of your face, you couldn’t help but notice how scabbed and red it was, her shifts at the laundry clearly taking their toll. It wasn’t enough that it was long, backbreaking work- it had to take one of her loveliest features as well, scalding them day in and day out.
Growing up, you remembered her slender fingers moving over the pianoforte, sewing tiny stitches into handkerchiefs. But that was before the flu had moved in and settled in Father’s lungs, sapping his strength, taking every penny for medicine until it finally took him as well. That was before dismal cramped rooms and watered down milk, before stockings that had been darned so many times that they were almost more stitching than fabric, lumpy against your feet.
As she left, you leaned out of the doorway of the building, whispering so as not to disturb the other families in the adjoining rooms. “Bring home a paper as well? I want to look at the ads again.”
She sighed. “Darling, we’ve talked about this. There’s no sense in your pouring over the advertisements- I’m sure you’d make a fine maid, but someone needs to watch the others yet.”
“Bessie is almost old enough—”
“But nowhere near responsible enough.” That look meant it was the end of the discussion. “We’ll manage. It will be fine.”
It was an uncommonly clear day, the fog barely covering the streets. Rose was tottering around, swinging her doll, humming quietly to herself. You and Bessie were both leaning over some shirts, carefully sewing the torn seams, little ha’penny repairs that helped to stretch the budget of the house along.
The first sign of something wrong was a clatter in the hallway. You ignored it; as often as not, it was just a drunkard returning home, unsteady on his feet. But the thumping stopped at your own door, and when Timothy staggered in, the hand cupped to his ear was dripping with blood.
“Tim!” You leapt to your feet, shocked and reaching for him. “What on earth—”
“Help,” he muttered weakly, staggering along. He wasn’t a big lad- barely to your chin- but you still sagged when he collapsed against you, his limbs going weak.
“Bess,” you started, trying to support him to a chair. “Bess, quickly, take the sheet, tear some strips off the end. And then take Rose in the next room? Please, hurry.” As Beth went off like a shot, you turned to your brother, trying to assess the damage. From what you could see under his hand, some of his ear seemed to be missing. You couldn’t understand it; other than the occasional scrap with another paper boy, Timothy had never gotten into any trouble. “How in the world did you—”
“Big fellows in red coats,” he moaned, “God, it hurts, I’m gonna die—”
“You’re not going to die,” you snapped, accepting the long scraps of cloth that Bess came running back with. “Hold his hand, Bess.”
To his credit, Timothy didn’t make too much of a fuss as you quickly wrapped the makeshift bandages around his head, binding up the wound as best you could. “Why would men in red coats attack you?”
He was silent. When you finally secured the bandage and tipped his face up, he wouldn’t meet your gaze, glumly staring at the floor.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Timothy. Why would they attack you?”
You’d never seen him look so guilty. “I… I was doing some scouting.”
“Scouting? What fo—”
“For the Rooks.”
For a moment, you were seized by the urge to lean forward and shake some sense into him. “You joined a gang?! What were you thinking? You know how dangerous it is, do you have any idea what Mother—”
“I just wanted to make some money. Mother works so hard and it’s never enough, and I wanted to help.”
Almost all of your anger wilted away in a moment, taking in his tiny and defeated shoulders. “Yes, but that isn’t the answer. Why would they even let you join? You’re still a child!”
His chest puffed out. “I’m eleven!”
“That’s exactly what I mean— what are they doing, putting an eleven year old in danger? Did any of them come to help you? Are they going to pay for a doctor?”
His lowered eyes said it all.
Clenching your fists and gritting your teeth, you stood, determined to put this right. “You need to keep an eye on Bess and Rose. I’m going out.”
The first pub had no answers. The second was the same. The third was able to direct you to the local haunt of some Rooks, and by the time you found a crowd wearing the distinctive green coats, your feet were starting to ache.
“Excuse me,” you started, trying to get the attention of the closed circle of men and women. “Excuse me!”
One of the young women finally looked around. “Yes, love?”
You squared your shoulders. “I need to speak to the leader of the Rooks.” It occurred to you a bit belatedly that you didn’t even have a name. It was… F-something, if you remembered correctly. Forsythe? Fergus?
“That’s… Why?” Her brow was furrowed. “Has he done something again?”
That didn’t exactly bode well. “Just please tell me where he lives?”
She shrugged and pointed in a vague direction. “Number 14 off Longside. Blue door.” She gave you a critical eye. “I wouldn’t expect a lot of sense out of him, whatever he’s done.”
“What?”
“Boss is a good man, but he’s never repentant.” With that, she turned back to her friends, and the conversation was over.
Eventually, after two more stops for directions, you found the place. It was a nice neighbourhood, much more solidly middle class than you had predicted. A letter still stuck in the slot was helpfully addressed to Jacob Frye, finally giving you the right name. Frye, of course— you’d heard it muttered in hushed tones around Whitechapel often enough, at least since you were a girl of twelve. He had cropped up around then- as had the Rooks- almost seven or eight years ago, and they had been a fixture ever since.
Heart beating unnaturally loudly in your ears, you steadied yourself and lifted the knocker, bringing it down against the door a few times.
There were a few seconds of silence, and then, a sound grew from inside the house. It look a few moments for you to recognize it as a panicked and shrill wailing, like someone was in pain. It got louder and louder, and you were almost about to bolt in fear and give up on this whole idea when the door swung open.
Jacob Frye stood on the threshold. It couldn’t be anyone else. He was a broad shouldered man, simply dressed in shirtsleeves and a vest with plain trousers, his hair standing up every which way. The source of the noise- a shrieking child- was cradled in his arms.
You both blinked at each other for a moment.
“Um,” he started, adjusting the boy to his hip, “this isn’t exactly a good time—”
When you switched your attention to the child and squinted, you could see the ruddy and angry cheeks underneath all the crying, his face puckered in tears. You had enough siblings to immediately recognize the signs of teething. Almost without thinking about it, you held your arms out to take the child; in a similarly automatic motion, Mr. Frye tilted forward and handed the boy over without a moment’s hesitation. Jiggling the child softly, you reached forward and gently hooked his mouth open with a finger, putting a soft pressure on his gums.
The child gasped out a few more hysterical breaths before calming with a shudder, curling against you and sniffling as you cooed a soft noise at him. Poor thing was just sore and had no other way to communicate, there was nothing fun about that.
It took a few more moments, but he finally grew quiet enough to think. When you looked up, Mr. Frye was staring at you with an open mouth. “How… I mean, what… How did you…”
“His teeth are coming in,” you said simply, “and pressure helps. If you have a cool cloth, that can help a lot as well.”
“Uh…” He shook his head like a man drunk. “Come in?”
He led you to a sitting room, simply but pleasantly furnished. When he gestured to a seat, you settled gently, shifting the boy to your lap so you could pull out your handkerchief and clean up his little damp face and soggy nose. It seemed he’d been crying for a while.
Mr. Frye stayed on his feet, shifting his balance back and forth, apparently at a bit of a loss. “So, er… How can I help you?”
You stiffened as you suddenly remembered the original reason for your visit, temporarily banished from your mind by the commotion. “You recruited my brother, who is still a child, and he’s been injured.” You were distantly aware that this man was the head of a powerful group, one that had taken hundreds of lives, and you probably ought to be more afraid— but it was hard to reconcile that with the dishevelled figure in front of you. “I’m hoping that you will take pity and assist us with funds for a doctor.”
“A child?” Mr. Frye’s tone was sharp. “How old?”
“Eleven.”
When you looked up, his eyes had darkened, and it was suddenly not so difficult to see the dangerous man that people whispered about. “We don’t recruit that young.”
“Well, you recruited him, and he’s lost half an ear for it.” You tried to keep the anger out of your voice, aware that berating him couldn’t help. “We don’t have money for his care.”
He was remarkably ready to believe you, which you hadn't expected. “Yes, of course, I’ll send someone along— and I’ll have to have a word with— where did you say you lived?” You gave him the address along with your name, and he jotted it down with a frown. “I think that’s Bartlett’s district. I’ll have a word with him, this is… Unacceptable.” The way that he said it made you think that it wouldn’t be a gentle reprimand. “We don’t work with children like that.”
The boy in your lap chose that moment to gurgle happily, gumming down on your finger again. It was impossible not to grin at his cheeky eyes; when you gave him a little tickle on his stomach, he pealed with laughter, tears finally completely dry.
Mr. Frye was staring with wide eyes again. “He likes you,” he said, tone verging on wonder.
“He’s lovely.”
“No, you don’t understand. Emmett doesn’t like anyone.”
You couldn’t think of a diplomatic way to ask. “Is his Mother not about?”
Mr. Frye’s shoulders tensed a bit. You had obviously hit upon a sore spot. “No.”
“Nursemaid?”
The wariness immediately shifted to total despair. “We’ve been through five in the past month. I don’t understand what the problem is— I mean, yes, I keep odd hours, and there’s the occasional, well— commotion— and I don’t know, yes, sometimes things can get a little hectic, but everyone the agency sends leaves in about a week and I’m running out of agencies—” His eyes suddenly sharpened. “Say, where do you work? Whatever you’re making, I’ll pay double.”
Did he always make decisions this quickly? “I— beg your pardon?”
He was getting brighter by the moment. “Yes. He likes you. You need money. I’ll still pay for a doctor, but I can promise a good wage. You come work for me, everyone wins.” He suddenly looked a lot younger, the weight on his shoulders lifted in an instant.
For a wild moment, you considered it. Someone would need to stay with your siblings, so you would have to make more than Mother so she could stay home. She was making two to three shillings a day. Timothy had been scraping out somewhere between six and ten pence a day. To replace them, and also add some of your own income, would be nearly impossible—
“Please.” Mr. Frye’s tone turned wheedling, cajoling, as if he could see your hesitation. His face was a mix between a surprisingly handsome smile that made your heart jump and a desperation that you couldn’t help but feel sorry for. “I promise, I’m not terrible to work for, just— unconventional. I’m dying here. Name your price.”
Emmett had shifted up and was now clinging to your neck, one hand flat against your cheek, trying to get your attention. The boy was awfully sweet. “I- I want 15 shillings 6 pence a week,” you said, mouth dry. This was madness. You didn’t even know him. You shouldn’t be considering this. He would never agree to that much, in any case. “And I want a month in advance.”
“Done,” he replied, sounding immensely relieved instead of appalled in the face of such a sum. With a new spring in his step, he walked to the nearest desk and dug out a coin purse, rifling through it. He returned to you and gently took your hand by the wrist, turning it up so he could place three heavy gold sovereigns and a half-groat into your outstretched palm. It was all you could do not to gape; it was easily more money than you’d ever physically held in your entire life. When you looked up, Mr. Frye was beaming. “Bring your things tomorrow, let’s say eight? Oh, I’ll expect you to live-in, of course. There’s a bed and a dresser in the nursery, past nursemaids have been there and it’s worked out all right. I have a cook as well. I’m not around a lot, but she’ll help you settle in.” This was all rattled off at top speed, as if it was all settled. “So, eight?”
“Eight,” you repeated, feeling a bit faint. You had to— you had to get back, check on Timothy, process what on earth had just happened. With a heft of your hip, you stood and passed Emmett back to him, half in a daze; the boy immediately began to wail as soon as he was passed over, a pitiful sound.
Frantically jiggling his son, Mr. Frye pivoted on his feet, calling after you as hurried to the front door. “On second thought, I’d appreciate it if we could make it seven!”