Free Perdita by Joan Smith

carriage door, looking after him, and patting his pocket in a satisfied way that suggested he had got money out of the scoundrel.
    When Brown was safely away, I went out to speak to Daugherty. “What happened? How did you get rid of him?”
    “Never underestimate the power of persuasion, Molly my girl. I talked him out of it.”
    “Yes, but how?”
    He put his head back and laughed. “I told him April will be a mother in half a year, and he was amazingly eager to forget her. His sort don’t want a by-blow around their necks. Why, ‘twould be enough to give a lad a bad name.”
    One becomes accustomed to even violent shocks after a while. I had learned so many strange, debauched things during the past days that my only reaction was amusement, even admiration at his quick thinking. “You are up to all the rigs, Mick. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
    “Because you are not up to snuff, Mol. Why, I begin to think you need a keeper yourself.”
    “I still don’t see how you got money out of him for telling him. Never mind trying to con me, Mick. I saw you patting your pocket. How much did you get? Enough to hire a room at the inn?”
    “Devil a bit of it. He gave me a guinea for recommending a female to him, one of my ex-girls who has set up trade in London.”
    “I hope he goes directly to her, and never darkens the door of our theater again.”
    "That's exactly what he plans. Don’t worry your pretty head he’ll be pestering April.”
    As he spoke, his arm went around my shoulders, his hand falling rather low on my chest. “Well, the night’s young, and the brat is tucked up safe in her bed. What do you say you and I . . ." He looked over his shoulder at the blue carriage, then back to me, with a wary half smile.
    I should have beat him, or kicked him, or at least expressed a decent Christian outrage. Perhaps it was my relief at his having got rid of Brown for us that mitigated my wrath. “I don’t think so, Mick,” was all I said. I tried to hold in my giggles till I got inside our own carriage, without quite succeeding. He hunched his shoulders philosophically, and reentered the Green Room to try his luck elsewhere, while Perdita and I finally undressed for the night. We curled up, one on each banquette of the carriage, with pillows behind us and a blanket on top. It was not so uncomfortable as you might imagine, though I was longing for a long soak in a tub, and some clean clothing.
     

Chapter Six
     
    The remainder of our stay with Tuck’s Traveling Theater was relatively uneventful, but only relatively so. Prior to leaving home, cooking over an open fire, singing on the stage, helping O’Reilly rob stores and being propositioned by provincial squires would have been something of an event in our quiet, respectable lives. It was the relief of having at last lost Mr. Brown that made our other activities seem tame in comparison. He was not on hand at Farnbrough nor at Woking, which deal Daugherty closed successfully.
    I began to see there was something in O’Reilly’s claim that the shopkeepers raised their prices for us. When we went to buy our food at Farnbrough, we had a female serve us, a rather handsome lady with an eye for O’Reilly. The two of them bantered and flirted while the purchases were made, but when she weighed our ham, her thumb came down heavy on the scales, while her flashing eyes diverted his attention. When I saw her tallying up seven and a half pounds for a piece of meat that weighed five without her help, I was not slow to scoop a handful of cigars up for my friend, and conceal them in my skirt pocket. He was too besotted with her eyes to do it for himself.
    “A handsome woman,” he said as we walked back to the hall.
    "As handsome a hussy as ever pushed her thumb on the scales,” I told him.
    “Did she now? Ah well, a body has to live, Mol,” he said leniently. “We all need to look out for ourselves—you and me and the shopkeepers. A man needs food, and love. The