Free Folly by Marthe Jocelyn

me being in a position that no girl likes a young man to find her in, backside to the street, skirts hooked up and sleeves rolled back to the elbow, in the unlikely chance of keeping the cuffs dry.
    He were there a moment before I turned around. A shadow paused and I thought nothing until it lingered. I looked around and Dammit! went right across my mind. Yes, it did, Dammit , me looking particular unsightly. But he didn't smirk or sneer or say any of the cheeky things that Bates would have said, did say usually.
    "Why do you start at the bottom and work up to the top?" he asked, seeming truly curious. "Why not the other way, so the dirty water drips onto the dirty stone instead of the clean?"
    "I ... I ... it were the way Eliza showed me," I said, finally. "We never had steps, at home. But your way makes more sense, I see that."
    He grinned and my ribs creaked in their effort to hold the heart's flutter. Oh Lordy no , I thought, don't go falling for a young man only on account of dark curls and blue eyes .
    I worried my face were blazing, what with bending over and having the sun on me and sweating and being
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    flustered all in the same minute. I bent back down, only then my bottom would be stuck up in his face, wouldn't it? So I had to kneel and the steps were wet and my skirt got sodden at once. I felt such a lummox, making a bad job worse.
    But he were gazing up at the house, instead of at me.
    "Neville Street." He were smooth as new butter. "I thought you'd said Neville, and here you are."
    Now the blush tore up my neck and across my cheeks like fire catching paper.
    "Number eleven." He grinned again, and the sun did shine a little hotter, I swear.
    "So," he said. "Now I know."
    "That you do," I said, scrambling not to be a stammery ninny. "And what'll you do with such valuable information?" Fancy me being so sassy!
    "I'll know how far a pretty girl might need to walk to meet someone Thursday next at half past seven by the main gate to Russell Square."
    Cheeky bugger!
    "Good day." And he sauntered off with me watching his back, not thinking of a single clever word to say.
    But then he stopped and spun around and caught me looking! If I were pink before, now I were the scarlet of a postman's uniform. I closely examined the scrubbing brush, as if it were misbehaving.
    But he weren't tricking me on purpose, to tease. He came back to ask, "Are you fond of peppermints?"
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    "I'm not ... I haven't ... I wouldn't know," I mumbled.
    "Well, that's a situation must be corrected this very day," he said, and winked! Leaving me to lean against the railing, waiting for breath to reenter my body.
    I won't pretend I didn't think about him every minute that whole day long. But it weren't until we'd served upstairs and were having our own supper that I knew I'd not been dreaming. Mrs. Wiggins sent Eliza to the cellar for a new jar of pickles, she being particular partial to having pickles with her mutton. There came a quick double rap on the kitchen door.
    Mrs. Wiggins clapped a hand to her bosom. "Whoever can that ...? At this hour?" She motioned Nut to answer. We all could see that no one were there, but Nut scooped something from the ground and came back with a little paper cone, twisted closed, that had a note on it.
    Bates leaned over. "It says Mary ." He plucked the packet out of Nut's fist and gave it a sniff.
    "Peppermint." He raised an eyebrow. "Or should I say, the scent of a young man lurking?"
    I knew already, not being a fool. Not being a fool, I didn't grab for it either. I raised up some quizzical eyebrows myself and managed a shrug, while my mouth were fighting to laugh and my feet were wishing to skip a bit of a reel.
    "Mr. Bates," scolded Mrs. Wiggins. "Not in my kitchen, if you please. And Mary? If you've got yourself a young man, you can get yourself rid of him as well. We've got rules here."
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    Bates laughed, likely thinking of breaking those rules with Eliza.
    "That'll be enough of that." Mrs. Wiggins were firm