Of course she could – and Harkness's realization made her feel sick. Mary Quinn read fluently, but "Mark" Quinn wouldn't read or write; he'd be fortunate to sign his own name. And she, of all people, ought to have known that. But she'd been so busy kicking herself for the first mistake that she'd compounded it with a second – perhaps even greater – error. Her pulse thudded and her cheeks were flushed. She was furious with herself, yet terrified of making a third and even greater faux pas. What was wrong with her? No wonder the labourers nearby stared at her.
Harkness fixed her with another shrewd look. "I ask you again: why are you here as an errand boy?"
There was nothing to do but to brazen it out. "Sir?"
"You make a bad job of playing the fool, Quinn."
He was right. But she'd try, nevertheless. Mary thrust her hands into her pockets and stared at the ground. "I can't do anything else, sir. There's no money for school fees or to buy an apprenticeship."
Harkness folded his arms and looked interested for the first time. "For a bright boy like you?"
"No, sir."
"No Christian charity willing to educate you?"
"No, sir."
"Hm."
There was a long pause, during which Mary concentrated hard on the toes of her new-but-old boots. Her responses to this personal line of questioning wouldn't stand up for long. The last thing she needed was for a kindly employer to research her story. Finally, she looked up. Her face was warm with tension, but Harkness must have seen what he was looking for.
"Never be ashamed to admit want, if it is not your fault," he said quietly.
Mary nodded slightly. "Yes, sir." Where was this conversation leading?
"I have nothing better for you at the moment, Quinn."
Mary frowned. "Nothing better…?"
"Than a post as general errand boy. Not right now."
"That's all I want, sir," she stammered, trying to salvage her role. "I just need…"
But Harkness was shaking his head. "I don't know when something more suited to your abilities will come along. But do your best and prove yourself, and we'll see. He shall provide."
"'He', Mr Harkness?"
"The Lord, child."
"Of course, the Lord." She ought to have guessed.
"You'll work under the bricklayers, assisting with any tasks they set you. Their foreman's named Keenan. You'll also be in charge of making tea in time for elevenses. One of the other boys, Jenkins, will show you the routine. Mine is a teetotal building site, Quinn, so if the men send you for spirits, you're not to oblige. Hot tea is all that's required to sustain the soul, not the offerings of the public house."
Mary nodded. She wasn't sure about souls, but she now had a good idea about Harkness's popularity among the men.
"And – er – since you are better educated than the average errand boy, Quinn, you may find that the others – well, they may not take to you as quickly as they might to someone of their own class. In those instances, remember, child, to turn the other cheek, and also that from those to whom much is given…" Harkness paused expectantly.
"Much is expected," mumbled Mary. The look of gratification on Harkness's face was familiar. "May I go, sir?"
Twitch. "Yes, yes, run along."
She was only too relieved to flee. Three minutes and two colossal mistakes. At this rate, she'd not last the hour. After all that work – cutting her hair, Felicity's coaching – she had failed the very first challenge. Even more humiliating, the role of a poor working child was not unfamiliar to her: after her mother's death, she had indeed been poor, uneducated and desperate. She'd been homeless, at times. She'd gone hungry. She'd passed as a boy to avoid rape. But today's abysmal performance showed how deeply she'd lost touch with that part of her childhood. It came as a profound and unwelcome shock. Five
Mary circled the building site, looking for a stack of bricks and men with trowels. It was a good opportunity to walk the site and explore its corners. It was a cramped, untidy place to work, with a great number of labourers moving awkwardly about the large tower at its centre. St Stephen's Tower was the last element of the Palace to be built. With the Houses of Parliament in daily use and densely built-up streets all around, there was little space to store building materials and equipment except in the construction zone. Wherever the workers stood, the Palace loomed over them, making a pinched space feel even smaller.
All the same, Mary wondered if there might be a more efficient way of doing things. She felt her ignorance here. If she knew more about building practices, she'd be better able to assess Harkness's efficiency as an engineer in charge. Not for the first time since accepting this assignment, she thought of James Easton. She would have given much for his assessment of the site, and the job. But this was an entirely theoretical temptation: James was in India, and she'd never see him again.
Eventually, she noticed a fair-haired man, whistling as he slapped some mortar onto a mortar board. "'Scuse me – you Mr Keenan?" Mary kept her diction indistinct, a little reluctant. She could try to blur her accent a bit more, but the fact remained that she'd already set herself apart. It was too late to change things.
The man looked up. His good humour seemed at odds with his face, which bore the souvenirs of a fist-fight: one eye puffy and discoloured, lip split. "What's that?"
"Mr Harkness sent me to help out."
"Ah. You want Keenan – dark chap over there." He pointed to a tall, thickset man a little way off. He was scowling, but even without the surly expression Mary would have recognized him as the man who'd snarled at her not half an hour before.
She sighed inwardly. Of course the bad-tempered bricklayer would be the foreman. Still, perhaps that was relevant to Wick's death, too. She approached him reluctantly, as he was clearly preoccupied.
"You're awful small," he said in response to her explanation.
"I'm stronger than I look."
"Aye? I hope so." Something happened when he spoke which made words sound like threats, even when they were simple instructions. He wasn't generous with them, either: he simply nodded at a pole lying on the ground. "You're Reid's hod-carrier today." Then he strode away.
Mary struggled to make sense of the contraption, a long stick topped by three wooden planks that together formed three sides of a box. Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do with it, or whom to ask for assistance. The cheerful young man, perhaps? But when she looked around, he'd disappeared with his trowel and mortar board.
When Keenan came back to her a few minutes later, his face was flushed with temper. "Still mucking about? I told you to get moving."
"I'm sorry. I don't know how to use this."
His face darkened some more. "Useless brat. Never seen a hod before?"
"N-no, sir."
"Then what you doing working on a building site?"
"I want to learn, sir."
Keenan cursed. "Not with me for a bloody nursemaid, you won't. I got bleedin' work to do." He looked about for a moment, then bellowed, "Stubbs!"
Another youngish man, with curly ginger hair and an astounding number of freckles, appeared. "Mr Keenan?"
"Show this brat what's what."
Once Keenan was at a safe distance, Stubbs looked at Mary. "What's he want you to do?"
"Be Reid's hod-carrier." Mary spoke the strange words tentatively. "This is the hod?" She hefted the pole and box.