Read Online Pickpocket's Apprentice by Sheri Cobb South - Free Book Online Page B

knock, and although Pickett fancied the butler looked askance at him, he was shown in at once; apparently Mr. Colquhoun remembered that he was to call, and had given instructions that he was to be admitted. Much heartened by this realization, Pickett let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and followed the butler inside.
    Mr. Colquhoun received him in the study, a well-appointed room that smelled vaguely of old leather. Granted, the furnishings were not so new as those in Mr. Granger’s house, and the bindings of some of the books in the shelves lining the walls were rubbed from repeated reading, but Pickett decided he liked the magistrate’s house better than that of his master; though less grand, it looked more comfortable somehow, more lived in. He shook himself, reminding himself sternly that he had not come for the purpose of inspecting the furniture. He returned Mr. Colquhoun’s proffered handshake and, at the magistrate’s invitation, sank into the nail-studded chair facing the large mahogany desk.
    “Now, Mr. Pickett, what can I do for you?”
    It was now or never. Resisting the urge to squirm in his seat, Pickett took a deep breath. “I wonder, sir, if you would be willing to—to make me a loan.”
    Mr. Colquhoun’s bushy eyebrows, more salt than pepper now, lowered. Pickett did not consider this a good sign.
    “I see,” the magistrate said, and Pickett had the uncomfortable feeling that he did. “Just how much were you hoping to borrow?”
    In for a penny, in for a pound, Pickett reasoned, and threw caution to the wind. “Thirty pounds.”
    The eyebrows shot up so high, they all but disappeared into the magistrate’s hairline. “And what, pray, do you intend to do with such a sum?”
    “I would like to buy out the remaining three years of my apprenticeship.”
    “Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Colquhoun. “But why, boy? Are you being mistreated?”
    “No, sir, but as you know, Mr. Granger gives me only room and board. I need to find a job that pays regular wages.” Seeing the magistrate appeared unmoved, Pickett added, “I need to be able to support a wife.”
    Mr. Colquhoun scowled fiercely. “Got some girl in the family way, have you?”
    “No, sir!” exclaimed Pickett, very much on his dignity.
    The magistrate regarded him in silence for a long moment, drumming his fingers on his desk in a way that made Pickett very nervous. “How old are you, John?”
    “Eighteen, sir.”
    “A bit young to be thinking of marriage, aren’t you?”
    “But I must! If I don’t—that is, it’s her parents. They want her to marry—well, never mind that. I have to marry her now, and there’s an end on it.”
    Mr. Colquhoun sighed. “It’s Sophy Granger, isn’t it?”
    “Well—yes, sir.” The magistrate made no response, and Pickett stiffened. “I see what it is! You don’t think I’m good enough for her.”
    In fact, it occurred to Mr. Colquhoun, regarding the earnest young man seated on the other side of the mahogany desk, that perhaps it was Sophy Granger who was not good enough for John Pickett. But he knew her parents would not see it that way, and no amount of persuasion would convince them, were he to lend the boy ten times thirty pounds. And, in the meantime, young Pickett would have thrown away his best chance at making an honest living, all for misplaced adoration of a silly little flibbertigibbet who would no more marry him than she would plight her troth to the man in the moon. Unfortunately, there were no words with which to present this argument that would not come across as, at best, patronizing, and at worst, insulting.
    “Your being good enough has nothing to say to the matter,” Mr. Colquhoun said, sacrificing truth to diplomacy. “The fact is, you are much too young to be thinking of getting married. Even if I were to lend you the sum you require, there would still be the matter of finding a paying position, you know, one that would allow you to support