"I said I would." "People say many things when they are desperate," Henry murmured, leaning his forearms on the top rail. He wore a heavy charcoal topcoat, the collar turned up against the wind. "50 guineas is enough to buy passage to America, or at least enough to keep you drunk and fed in London for a year." "And when the year is up?" Basia asked, her voice raspy. She unclipped the line from Ruin's halter and let him wander to the water trough.
"I end up right back where I started. 50 guineas delays starvation, Your Grace. A steady wage prevents it." Henry studied her. The bruising on her cheek had faded to an ugly mottled yellow.
You are remarkably pragmatic for a woman who chooses to sit on dynamite for a living. I don't have the luxury of being anything else. Basia walked to the fence stopping a few feet from him. She was acutely aware of the contrast between them.
He smelled of wealth, clean soap, sharp cologne, rich tobacco. She smelled like a barn. Is there a reason you're down here, or did you just come to critique my financial planning? A faint genuine smile touched the corners of Henry's mouth.
It changed his entire face erasing the cynical lines around his eyes. I brought you something. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small heavy glass jar with a metal lid. He set it on the flat top of the fence post.
Arnica and camphor, Henry said. My grandmother's recipe. It smells vile, but it pulls the bruising out of deep muscle. Basia stared at the jar.
She didn't reach for it. Her stomach gave a strange tight flutter that had nothing to do with fear. It was an uncomfortable sensation. She was used to men offering her insults, pity, or threats.