Summary: Gil, a pickpocket in Regency London, is taken under the wing of Richard, who paints portraits for the wealthy of the Ton. Richard sees Gil as the son he never had, but what will happen when an old romance resurfaces, and how will they find out who Gil's parents are?

Gil's Story

Chapter 1

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The policeman strolled to the end of the street and turned the corner, drawn by a faint rustling and clanking noise. A little way down the alley a trashcan was half-hidden behind a set of stone steps. A shadowy figure stood between the can and the wall, reaching inside it and fishing for food. The policeman hurried forward and raised his truncheon.

“Here, you! Git out o’ ther’!” The boy looked up and froze momentarily, then scurried around the corner of the building, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand. The policeman followed, but the boy was nowhere in sight and he was faced with a tall fence. He coughed and returned to his watch, soon forgetting the unremarkable child; there were many such on the streets in these times, and so long as they did not cause trouble, he reasoned, he was sure he didn’t care.

Gil crouched next to the fence and listened to the bobby’s footsteps on the pavement turn the corner and die away. Then he stood up, and, holding onto the beams of the fence, scrambled over it again. He sat on the stone steps and looked around furtively, then pulled the biscuit out of his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth, licking every crumb from his dirty fingers. He wiped his nose off with his sleeve and reset his cap at a jaunty angle over his sandy, though dirty, hair, finally springing from the steps. He ran to the end of the street and searched its length carefully for the bobby, then turned and sauntered toward the market.

The market was famous through the city, though by no means the largest, as the one with the choicest shops and stalls. Gil and his fellows were well aware that plenty of those with well-lined pockets frequented this market, and had made it their business to become familiar with those fortunate individuals – or, rather, with the customary contents of their pockets. Mid-afternoon was one of the better times of the day; Gil hoped to get a few fine bits today, possibly enough to last him for the week. Monday had been rainy, as well as Tuesday; the market remained virtually empty through Wednesday, as the shoppers were wary of being caught in another shower.

Gil entered the market by a side street and smiled to himself, rubbing his hands. The market was thronged with people, at least half of them gentry–at least, to Gil’s eyes, they were. He walked casually into the centre of the crowd, plucked an apple from a crate and inspected it, hunching over it as if to see it better, and slipped it into his pocket.

Directly in front of him was a youngish man in a long black coat; an oily red smudge on the sleeve pronounced him a painter. Gil was disappointed, as artists tended to be less well off, but he was desperate for food–or money, and the apple would not go far on his empty stomach. The man was discussing bread with a vendor, so Gil edged around him until he stood almost under the man’s right elbow. He peered at the man’s pocket, where he detected the faint outline of his wallet. So, very slowly, he sneaked his fingers into the pocket and closed them on the edge of the wallet. Darting a look up at the painter’s face, he saw that the man was still looking at the baker, and apparently had no idea of Gil’s activity. Gil pulled the wallet from the man’s pocket, and was congratulating himself on gaining such a fine leather one, when the man’s hand closed on his arm. Gil quickly dropped the wallet from his imprisoned hand to the other one and hid it in his pocket, glancing sullenly at the painter. The man looked sternly at the boy and pulled him after him to the end of the broad street.

“Come along, my lad. You look hungry.” Gil dragged his feet as the man led him away, hoping that the painter would give up and let him go, but no such luck was to be his. The painter turned into a narrow lane and walked down it, unlocking a door of a small house. His grip loosened for a moment, and Gil tried to twist out of his grasp, but the man pushed him inside before he could. Past a narrow set of stairs, through a dim hallway, and into a brightly lit back room the painter led Gil.

A large woman stood at a small stove against the wall, stirring the contents of a pot between periodically checking something in the oven. A large table stood in the centre of the room, and around it were a few mismatched chairs. The woman brushed her hair back from her forehead and turned as they entered, exclaiming at sight of Gil.

“Oh, sir! What manner o’ creetur ‘ev ye got ther’?”

“No creature, Sal. Only a boy,” the painter replied soothingly. He ran a hand through his disorderly brown locks and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, boy. Sal, would you please serve tea now? And you might put something filling in. And I’ll get water…” he added as he left the room. Sal muttered to herself as she hastened to prepare tea more than an hour in advance, and all for a filthy urchin! Soon the painter returned carrying a steaming basin and a cloth. He set the basin down in front of Gil and sat in the chair next to him. Dipping the cloth in the water, he leaned toward the boy. “Take off your cap, please.” Gil clutched at it, his arms wrapped around his head.

“Nay!”

“Yes!” the painter snatched the cap from Gil’s head and held him by the back of the neck to keep him from escaping. With a determined look he put the dripping cloth to Gil’s face and rubbed it around. Gil yelped, his cry muffled by the cloth over his mouth. Sal stood by and watched, a satisfied expression on her face, and her fists propped on her hips. Gil endured this torture pressed against the back of the chair, a constant stream of words issuing from behind the cloth; most of them made Sal frown ferociously at the struggling figure.

Finally the painter finished scrubbing Gil’s face and ears and pulled away the cloth, which was almost black with the dirt from Gil’s face. He grimaced and hurriedly rinsed the cloth in the water.

“Hands,” he said. Gil promptly sat on them and shook his head adamantly.

“Uh-uh.”

“Come on. You’ll only get tea if you let me wash your hands first,” he said coaxingly, but Gil was obdurate. Everyone knew hot water was unhealthy!

“Don’ wan’ tea,” he said. Actually, he had no idea what it was. The painter went over to the counter next to the stove and lifted a plate from it, showing the abundance of bread and jam to Gil. Gil’s mouth watered; he grudgingly pulled out his hands and held them toward the bowl. The painter put down the plate and sank back into the chair, grabbing Gil’s grubby paws and giving them a thorough cleansing. When he was fully satisfied with the state of Gil’s hands and forearms, he pushed the basin and cloth aside and stuck out his hand. Gil scowled at him, knowing perfectly well what he meant by it, but pretending he did not.

“Ye sed wot oi c’d ‘ave th’ food!” he whined.

“Not yet. Hand it over.” The painter wiggled his fingers and waited patiently as Gil slowly pulled the wallet from the depths of his pocket, wiped off the dirt, cast a longing glance at it, and put it in the painter’s hand. “Thank-you. Now, Sal, the Tea!”

Gil stared at the array of delights on the table, his eyes as wide as saucers. In addition to the bread-and-jam were a bowl of pudding, a raspberry tart, and a small dish of strawberries. The painter watched in amusement as Gil heaped as much as he could onto his plate, meanwhile pouring a mug of milk for Gil and a cup of tea for himself. After eating a piece of bread and a few strawberries, he sipped his tea and watched as Gil scarfed down the contents of his plate and gulped his milk.

“How much have you had to eat today, lad?”

“ ‘arf a biskit,” Gil said through his mouthful. He felt unusually generous from the feast he was being permitted to share, so he added, “ an’ oi’ve got a h’apple. Sir.” The painter was appalled, and said as much. Gil shrugged and stuffed the rest of the slice of bread in his mouth. “ ‘s ‘nuff fer me. ‘Eah, wotcher lookin’ et?” The painter had stopped with his teacup halfway to his mouth, an array of emotions chasing across his face.

“You–you remind me of someone I knew–someone very dear to me. Who are your parents, boy?” Gil shrugged again and tipped his mug upside down over his open mouth to get the last drops of milk.

“ ‘Aven’ go’ enny. I’s brung up boi ‘n ol’ gentry mort, bu’ she kick’d et a coople o’ yeahs beck. She sed ‘er maid foun’ me onna doorstip, an’ as oi wuz so purty, she thort the leddy ‘ud take a fancy t’ me. Sa she took pity o’ me.” The man leaned forward across the table, hurriedly setting down his cup; his face was intense with interest.

“A doorstep where? On what street?”

“Dunno. A noice place, she sid. Th’ maid wuz on’y takin’ a cut’ ome–sumweh loike Cuzzon Street, I giss. This plaice is noice enuff. You wouldn’ ‘appen to ‘ave enny spare lolly ‘bout th’ plaice, wouldjer, cap’n?” Gil stood up, and his eyes darted around the kitchen, searching for any likely hiding places. The painter steered Gil toward the door.

“No–but you may come back any time you’re hungry. I’ll tell Sal to let you in. Can you read, boy?” Gil looked suspiciously at the man and tried to pry his fingers from his shoulders.

“Bit. Whoi?”

“Because this house is number 4, George Street. You can remember that?”

“Cor, cap’n, oi don’ need nummers t’ ‘amember this ‘ouse. Whotcher think oi em?” Gil retorted indignantly.

“Good. Off you go, then.” Gil jumped off the side of the steps and ran like a hare to the end of the street, vanishing into the crowd. The painter smiled; a funny smile, one side higher than the other, and closed the front door. He was on the first step of the staircase when he remembered his promise. “Sal? We may be seeing more of him.” He heard what sounded remarkably like ‘Heaven preserve us’ issuing from the kitchen, and ran up the stairs to his studio.