London, 1813
“You oughta go back to Mayfair, where you come from!”
The words, expertly dropped by one of the seven children before her, cut through Miss Jane Grant like a headman’s axe. All of them were dressed in what looked like rags, their dirty skin showing through the rips and holes. They fidgeted behind their school desks, ripping the precious paper she’d carefully chosen and ordered months ago in preparation for the opening of her school. Chairs and desks scraped against freshly laid wooden floor as the four boys and three girls threw pens and paper balls, pushed each other, yelled, and cackled.
Her dog, Hercules, an English foxhound with large brown and gray spots on his white body, sat at attention next to the door, his ears perked, giving cautious barks. Reuben, a tall and large man in his forties with a shaggy beard, stood in the opposite corner of the room with his massive arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene with a concerned frown. He was one of her brother Thorne’s most trusted men and often accompanied Jane around Whitechapel as her bodyguard and chaperone.
“Back to Mayfair,” red-haired Alfie echoed, his steely blue eyes locked on her, before spitting out, “princess…”
How did the boy know exactly what would hurt her? She supposed it was as clear as the light of day she didn’t belong here. Jane blinked against the burn of tears building behind her eyes. She was their teacher; she couldn’t give up in the first few minutes of her little school’s fragile existence.
She drew in a quick breath and plastered a brave smile on her face.
“Children!” Jane cried, trying to yell above the cacophony. “Please, be quiet! If you let me speak for a minute…”
As the noise in the classroom swelled, she caught Reuben’s eye. He slowly shook his head, a deep frown of uneasiness mixed with empathy etched onto his features. Jane knew he wanted to help.
He made his way through the row of simple oak desks and chairs she had ordered a year ago from the local Whitechapel carpenter. The man had salvaged the wood from broken furniture and was so grateful for the large order, he’d had tears in his eyes.
A quill pen crunched under Reuben’s feet as he walked. Sunlight streamed through three small windows, illuminating the blackboard hanging at the front of the room. Fresh maps she had managed to buy at a cartographer in Cheapside, and educational posters with the alphabet, numbers, and the arithmetic table she’d painted herself adorned white-paneled walls.
The building used to be the abandoned kitchens at the back of her brother’s exclusive gentleman’s club, Elysium. Over a year ago, Thorne had hired unemployed local men to renovate it for Jane’s school, and the room still smelled of fresh wood, paint, and faintly of chalk.
As Reuben stood next to her, his eyebrows like two small storm clouds over his eyes, Jane felt a flutter of gratitude. She knew his presence was not just out of duty to Thorne but out of a bond they’d formed during storytelling and shared meals.
Reuben glowered at the children and boomed, “Shut up, you rascals!”
The silence that fell over the classroom was absolute. Hercules gave a final, approving bark, and settled into his dog bed, his head still high as he threw warning glances at the boys and girls. The children stilled and turned to face Jane and Reuben, their eyes wide, eyebrows knit, shallow faces somber. Jane let out a small breath of relief. She would have liked to get the children to behave by herself, but she had to admit, Reuben’s tactic was more effective. Reuben turned to her and gave her a small, conspiratorial wink, then scowled at the children once again.
“Yer a bunch of ungrateful brats,” grumbled Reuben. “Miss Grant, she’s been toilin’ over a year to make this school for you. Got all these books, pens, and paper on her own. And now look…”
He walked to the first of the desks, picked up a turned-over inkwell, and returned it to its place, then wiped his black-smeared fingers against his brown coat. The pool of ink dripped down from the desk and onto the fresh floor. Would Ruby, her maid and housekeeper, even be able to get rid of the stain?
“Ink spilled,” Reuben continued, “quills broken, paper wasted…”
Jane chuckled nervously. “It’s all right, children. I have more supplies. All that matters is you’re here.”
“Why are we here?” questioned Lily, a girl of eight. “Should be at the mill, earnin’ me keep.”
“You wanna get yer hands mangled by the machine, workin’ for a measly penny?” demanded Reuben.
“Sometimes that penny means a crumb or two for me little sis.”
Jane’s skin crawled. She had walked door to door in the neighborhood for weeks, talking to the parents, inviting them to send their children to her school.
“And I should be helpin’ me uncle,” stated Alfie.
“Out on the streets, Alfie?” Reuben barked. “Liftin’ wallets, that’s yer best talent, eh?”
Alfie threw a scowl at him. “We were gonna do me first big job. Ma is six months late with rent.”
“The lady’s just eatin’ up our time,” grumbled nine-year-old Peter, a lad with a mop of black hair.
She knew how she must seem to them. During the five years since she’d moved to Whitechapel from her father’s house in Mayfair, she’d seemed so strange to the inhabitants. Her clothes were simple but clean and tidy. Her hair was always meticulously done by Ruby, not a hair out of place. Her hands and face were clean. Her spectacles must have told them volumes about who she was—someone educated. She didn’t talk like them, didn’t dress like them, and didn’t look like them. She didn’t have to worry where her next meal came from. Thorne made sure of that. And despite living in the criminal district of London, she felt quite safe with Thorne’s men guarding her like their princess...
