The Under Broker: Part Eight

When the poison wore off, Portia woke to find a worried-looking butler fussing over her. She smiled.

“Lady Portia,” Amos was beside himself, barely maintaining his calm demeanor, “good heavens, I thought you—”

“Relax, Amos. I’ve not fallen to such a low point as to leave this world.” Portia balked at the idea that Amos would think her capable of accidentally dying.

“But, my lady, you imbibed a poison; what other conclusion is a butler to jump to?”

Portia chuckled, “I’ve not seen you jump for any reason, Amos, let alone to conclusions.”

“Why… I’ll have you know,” Amos adjusted his spectacles and straightened his back, “I was quite the spry young lad in my day.”

Portia, still a touch delirious from her near-death experience and poison that hadn’t quite worn off, in her altered mental state, she perhaps, if only for a second, was able to picture the elderly man running around in a field; a gosling in each hand, perhaps imagining them in flight. A smile started to spread across her face.

Portia shook her head vigorously; Amos would never endanger his precious flock, especially for reasons so fanciful as children’s frolic. She was being near-delusional; this wasn’t an appropriate mental state to make decisions in.

“How long was I out for?” Portia snapped at Amos a bit too harshly.

“Nearly a full day, my lady.” Amos ignored the bite in her voice.

Portia grumbled, trying to get off the cot she found herself on.

“Please, Lady Portia. Just rest a bit, don’t get up.” The butler spoke as though he wasn’t keeping her in bed, but warning against the more devious plans he knew she was concocting.

“I have work to do.” Portia stood, wobbled, grabbed Amos’ shoulder, then sat back down. “I suppose I can rest, for a short time, though.” She looked sullen. “Do we have any tea?”

“Right away, my lady.” Amos gave her a curt bow and hurried off down the stairs.

Portia leaned back on her elbows and let out a long, road-weary sigh. She scanned the dark, cobweb-strewn upper floor of the bakery. Its emptiness mirrored what she felt in her heart.

“Gooth.”

The small, slurred voice nearly sent Portia’s heart into palpitations.

Not in any state to fight or defend herself, Portia still reached for her hair, where Jasper, her trusty stiletto, was nowhere to be found.

She looked around, fancying for a moment she had imagined the sound, then it came again.

“Gooth.”

The voice didn’t sound hostile; had she overdone things with the poison, she thought, unsure if she was now hallucinating.

Then a small glimmer of light from her solitary candle reflected off something.

“Hello?” Portia said into the void, squinting to see what the light was trying to show her.

“Gooth,” the voice came a third time, followed by the tiny, slender form of a young girl.

“Emily, is that you?” Portia heaved out a great breath, the tension calming somewhat inside her.

“I see you’re getting on with the whole speaking thing well enough.”

Emily walked toward Portia, clutching a tiny glass goose.

Portia recognized it as Samantha, a goose with a navy-blue body and a stark-white collar around its neck; it was supposed to be modeled after a Charity Sister—those who would go out and tend to the sick and needy in the city’s slums.

Emily was holding Samantha in a way that endeared both the goose and the girl a bit more to Portia.

“I see Amos has been teaching you words. I trust it’s going well?”

Emily blushed, then smiled, nodding vigorously.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it; just give it time,” Portia replied, fondly petting the little girl’s head. “And your brother, Spoon, is he awake yet?”

Emily’s face fell, sadness sweeping over it.

Portia regretted bringing the girl’s attention back to her bedridden brother the moment the words left her lips. She was about as good at giving cheer-up talks as a weevil was at carving a turkey.

“Don’t worry, or, I mean, well—” Portia patted the girl’s head more mechanically now. “Spoon’s tough; he’ll pull through.”

A shambling sound came from the staircase, and Amos emerged at the top, a steaming cup of tea in hand.

“Ah, young Emily, I see you’re showing Lady Portia your prized possession.”

“Mantha!” Emily shouted, holding up the goose inches away from Portia’s face.

“Quite—quite lovely, indeed.” Portia blinked, surprised to be nearly poked in the eye by the goose’s beak.

“Isn’t it?” Amos beamed like a proud parent.

Portia smirked at the butler, raising her eyebrow.

Amos cleared his throat. “Run along now, Emily; Lady Portia must rest.”

Emily turned to leave, halting as Amos raised both eyebrows at her expectantly. The young girl stopped, turned, and gave Portia something akin to a curtsey, saying rather daintily, “Lady Portia.” Then she was off in a flurry down the stairs.

Portia couldn’t contain the laughter. “Christ, Amos, I asked you to teach the girl to speak, not mould her into a pint-sized goose-loving-butler.”

Amos set the teacup down on the side table and straightened his vest. “Decorum and the passionate pursuit of a hobby are both things to be fostered in the young.”

As Amos turned to leave, Portia didn’t miss the faint smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Amos nearly spit his tea out as Portia explained her plan; his god-given sense of dignity was the only thing keeping the liquid in.

It was a few hours past noon, and sunlight crept through the front window, casting a gentle yellow tint on the dust-caked floor. Portia and Amos sat at a back table on the bakery’s first floor; Emily sat off to the side, trying to sound out the words Amos had written down for her to practice.

“I must not have heard the lady,” Amos said, setting down his cup and saucer shakily.

“Oh, come off it, Amos. You heard me.” Portia rolled her eyes at the butler’s melodramatic flair. “I’m headed off to my sisters. She will disguise me as,” Portia twirled her hand in the air, not wanting to hear Amos’ huff of disdain at the word “prostitute” again, “One of the working girls. After which I will accompany the half dozen or so other women to the warehouse. My sister tells me she sends them there like clockwork every Friday night. At which point, I will, with any luck, murder all those responsible for this farce, hide any trace that I had been there, and if all goes well, be back Saturday morning in time for tea.”

A tense void filled the space between Butler and Broker. One firmly resolved to do what had to be done to make the world a better place. The other was fretful and concerned that if the other’s way to make the world a better place was through murder and violence, they might soon find themselves in the very group of people which they sought to rid Birmingham of in the first place.

“I understand,” Amos finally said, his eyes unfocused as he looked toward the corner of the bakery where Emily sat.

“Knew you would, Amos,” Portia said, standing to make ready to leave.

A thud came from upstairs, and the three of them fell silent.

“Spoon!” Emily yelled with perfect pronunciation and barreled up the stairs to see her brother.

Portia and Amos exchanged a glance; Portia sighed, and the two followed the girl to the second story.

Emily was next to her brother, a spilt cup of water on the ground.

“Spoon,” she was repeating enthusiastically as she clutched at her older brother’s sleeve.

Spoon was in a state of stupor, blinking away his near-death through still swollen eyes.

“Emily,” Spoon asked more than said his sister’s name.

“Spoon!” Emily shrieked with glee, tears running down her face.

“Emily,” Spoon repeated, his eyes growing wide with surprise, “you can speak!”

Spoon opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He reached out towards his sister, eyes growing wet with emotion. His hand moved closer to his sister’s shoulder, slowly yet deliberately; there was a hesitancy in his movement. He seemed afraid that touching her would reveal the miracle to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a cruel trick of the mind.

Spoon’s hand came to rest gently on his sister’s shoulder.

“Spoon,” Emily repeated again, enunciating the word surprisingly well.

“Emily, you can speak…” Spoon bit back a choking cough. He and his sister gripped each other in a tight embrace.

Portia watched on, standing next to Amos, who was wiping tears away with a handkerchief while he blubbered like a baby. She thought how much these two children must have been through, what life would have been like for them, the harsh realities of growing up on the streets. Portia didn’t know what happened to their parents; she didn’t really want to ask. She couldn’t help but have a bit more admiration for the boy, who had protected his younger sister, and when trouble had taken her from the orphanage, he had recruited Portia to aid him in rescuing the girl.

Portia smiled before walking over.

She knelt down next to the two gleeful children. “Spoon, I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

Spoon wiped tears from his face. “Did you ever doubt I’d wake up?”

Portia smiled at the boy. “Yes. Children are frail, sensitive and weak; it’s no small wonder you made it.”

Spoon coughed out a laugh; even Portia chuckled a bit.

“I have to leave now,” she told the two children, “Amos will take care of you.” Portia looked back over her shoulder for confirmation from the butler.

“Y—Yes, of course,” Amos managed to get the words out past his sobbing.

Portia thought to chide the butler that sobbing, even in moments of joy, wasn’t the most butlerly of actions, but this time, she thought, it was best not to ruin the moment and let the three have their happiness.

“Where are you going,” Spoon tried to sit up, wincing in pain.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Portia was already walking to the door, “just a loose end to take care of. I’ll be back before morning.” She turned and gave the boy a half smile.

“But—” Spoon started; however, Portia was already halfway down the stairs.

Portia reflected on just exactly why she was so desperate to take down Damien. She cursed, wishing she could just let the matter drop; that’s what Emmet would have wanted. She sighed, looking out the carriage window as it made its way to The Gilded Sapphire.

Something about that last look Spoon had given her, something in the boy’s eyes, was making her uneasy. Like he was trying to tell her something that might have been important.

“Almost there, and don’t you worry! Old Bigsby is going to take care of you.”

Portia shook her head.

She knew that voice; it sounded familiar.

Portia craned her neck out the window, peering up to the driver’s seat.

Sat there, grinning down at her with a smile worth its weight in gold, was the short, rather chubby, little driver that had taken her to her family’s estate—then back again when she had somewhat accidentally poisoned herself.

The man waved enthusiastically.

Portia half-smiled back, “Uh, thanks for saving me,” she started. Then, pointing at the wagon full of cabbage they were about to barrel into, she politely, with absolutely no profanity, requested the driver keep his eyes on the road.

Portia exited the Gilded Sapphire in the midst of several other women. Her hair was in a half-up style, curled locks falling down to frame her face; she wore a beautiful lavender colored dress with a plunging neckline. This was mostly fine by Portia, save for the excessive gaudy jewelry her sister had forced upon her; luckily, she still had Jasper tucked away in the bodice of the dress.

Two carriages awaited on the street, and the employees of the Gilded Sapphire and their largely unwelcome tag-along stepped in one by one. Portia couldn’t help but feel that something about this plan felt off; granted, she thought that about most of her plans, as at least one thing, but usually more, did in fact go wrong.

No, Portia thought to herself, she had too much riding on this. To finally take revenge on the bastard that killed her husband, that killed her father, she would see this through to the end. No matter the cost.

Back at the derelict bakery, Amos had two emotions warring inside him. The first was overwhelming pride and joy. He hadn’t had the opportunity to instruct such an eager youth in some time. Emily was an absolute joy to work with, not to mention the boy, Spoon. Both the children listened to the history of glass blowing, how it had evolved, and were captivated by the detail in the geese, bringing Amos no end of joy.

Emily was diligently practicing her words; Spoon did what he could to assist, still on the mend as he was.

Due to the Tegeré family’s nature, they tried to hire as few outside staff as possible, and vet those they did hire most thoroughly. So it was that more years ago than Amos cared to remember, he had been tasked with tutoring one Portia De Tegeré. Amos winced at the recollection.

What seemed to be an outwardly pleasant young girl had turned out to be the most obstinate, frustrating, rage-inducing and impossible-to-deal-with person he had ever come across.

Portia disliked being tutored in most subjects, etiquette, horseback riding, maths, natural sciences, and the subjects she did like, Amos wasn’t particularly well versed in.

To either prolong her archery practice or delay the start of whatever lesson she dreaded next, Portia would squirrel away one of Amos’ geese. The man being the way he was, meant that he couldn’t focus on teaching the girl until the fowl in question had been safely recovered, checked for damage, and returned to the flock.

The first time a particularly dashing gosling had gone missing, Amos had fretted endlessly, thinking that he had somehow misplaced it, or perhaps it had been stolen.

The second time one went missing, right before he and Portia were set to go over trigonometry, the dots connected in his head.

This, however, did not provide relief to the problem, as Portia would insist that the geese were so lovely and smart that they must be moving around the house of their own accord.

The second emotion that Amos felt stirring inside him was a creeping dread. He loathed the risks Lady Portia would take, and he always wished she would take a bit more caution with things.

He was pacing back and forth as the children were resting upstairs when he saw a figure approaching the bakery from the corner of his eye.

Amos’s hand went to the pistol Portia had insisted he carry while she was gone.

The figure kept walking toward the bakery. Amos began to draw the pistol; it was untenable that any harm should come to the children, and he resolved himself to protect them at any cost until Portia returned.

As the stranger drew close to the door, he removed his hat and started to scrunch it nervously in his hands. Seeming to peer through the window, the man smiled then waved upon seeing Amos.

Amos stood fixed to the spot, puzzled for a moment, then recognizing the man.

It was the carriage driver who had dropped Portia off safely after she had nearly killed herself with poison.

“If this chap thinks he’s getting another pence out of me, by jove he’s mistaken,” Amos muttered, somewhat annoyed, as he turned the lock and opened the door a crack, one hand still on the pistol behind his back.

“Yes?”

“I—I—Well, that is to say, the…” The man was looking around nervously.

“Out with it, man.” Amos didn’t like having to be indecorous, but he needed to ensure the safety of the children, and he wasn’t about to get caught unawares.

“I dropped the lady off where she was headed, but, well, you see…” he continued to twist his hat, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. “The thing is, when she was sick, I brought her here, right? Thing is, she was muttering something, like, like she was having a bad dream. Something about the warehouse, and revenge.”

Amos narrowed his eyes and pulled the pistol into view.

The man let out a small squeal, waving his hands frantically in front of him, “No, no, nothing like that!”

Amos gave him a judgmental look.

The man drew a breath. “It’s just that when I dropped her off, I noticed some other coachmen there, not the kind I like to associate myself with; they work for a bad type of fella, and something about it just made me, well…. I stayed outside for a bit, and those other coaches, the ones waiting, the ladies all got in, so I followed ’em to where they were going.”

Amos pointed the pistol at the man, not raising his hand up from his hip, “and did what?”

The man now appeared to be on the verge of tears, “My name is Reginald Bigsby the Fourth, I’m a man of my honor, me Pa was a man of honor, and so was his Pa before him. I brought the lady here when she was all ill like, and she gave me enough coin so that I’ve not had to worry ’bout me kids getting enough to eat, times being hard as they are.” He looked down at his feet. “I followed them cause I was worried about the lady, and they took her to a bar, not the kind of bar anyone except those into bad things should be going to. I couldn’t warn the lady, seeing as how she was already out of my carriage and into the bar, but I wanted to come tell you folks, since you seem nice people that care for her and being as one good favor deserves two, after all… I think.”

Amos squinted. “That’s not—never mind.” he let out a sigh and appraised the man for a time longer. Amos thought the man to be earnest, and if what he said was true, then Portia was walking into a trap. Amos couldn’t abandon the children, and he certainly couldn’t leave them here unattended.

“You swear this to be the truth?”

“I swear on the Bigsby name.” The man put a hand solemnly over his heart and stood up straight.

“Very well, thank you for coming to me. If you will wait here a moment.”

Amos went inside, found pen and paper and hurriedly scratched out a note to the men the Tegeré family kept on retainer as muscle. He returned, pressed the note into the man’s hand, along with two one-pound coins.