The Anonymous Miss Addams

“Good morning, Master Holloway,” Pierre said quietly. “May I be so bold as to assume you are prepared to explain what you’re doing?”

“’Allo there, guv’nor!” Jeremy chirped brightly, his quick mind working feverishly for an explanation. “Givin’ a bit o’ polish ter the floor, Oi am. ’Artley, yer pantler, asked me ter, yer see, an’ Oi’m jist obligin’ ’im—doin’ ’im a bit of a favor, like. ’E’s been ever so kind ter me, yer understands.”

“Ah, yes, dearest Hartley. Wasn’t that kind of him—and kind of you. Kind and thoughtful—and utter rubbish. Tell me, Master Holloway. Was it enjoyable?”

Jeremy swallowed hard on the enormous lump in his throat and rolled his eyes as if attempting to discover the nearest exit. “Jist cuff me good an’ gets it over, guv’nor,” he said at last, as Pierre’s hands still held him firmly in place. “Oi can takes it.”

“He will do nothing of the sort!” Miss Penance exclaimed militantly from behind Pierre. “Mr. Standish, you will please release that poor child at once. Or have you rescued him from his terrible former life only to beat him yourself?”

Recognizing opportunity when it appeared, Jeremy immediately burst into noisy tears, wrenching himself free of Pierre and immediately burying his head against his latest savior’s waist. “Oi didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ’onest, miss. The floor wuz jist there—yer knows. So pretty, so shiny. Don’t let ’im beat me, miss, pleez! Ol’ man ’Awkins, ’e beat me all the time.”

“Don’t you worry, Jeremy. I won’t let him so much as lay a finger on you,” Miss Penance assured him, her arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy’s thin shoulders, her violet eyes glaring at the man she considered to be the bully of the piece. “You’re terrible with children, you know,” she told Pierre condescendingly.

Pierre, who was always appreciative of outstanding theatrical performances, showed his appreciation now, clapping most politely as he commended softly, “Bravo! Bravo! I tell you both, I am most deeply affected. I don’t know whether to toss roses at your feet or go off into the woods and fall on my sword. What a cad I am, what a cold, unfeeling monster! I should be horsewhipped.”

“I agree. I might only pray that I can be the one to wield the whip, sirrah!”

“My word, really? Such a Trojan you are, Miss Penance. Is that blood I see in your eyes?”

Jeremy pulled his face free from Miss Penance’s smothering embrace to see that the two adults had all but forgotten him as they stared at each other, his female protector with some heat, his male protector with barely suppressed amusement. Clearly his presence was no longer required, and he carefully disengaged his hands from Miss Penance’s waist and ran for the safety of the servant’s quarters, careful both to pick up his still new shoes and to refrain from sliding as he neared the door that led to the kitchens.

“Now here’s a dilemma,” Pierre said after a space, his gaze never leaving the shining violet glare that still bore into him. “It would appear, Miss Penance, that the object of our latest contretemps has succeeded in eluding both my cruel, animalistic wrath and your fierce, motherly protection. Do we continue to stand here, staring at each other until one of us crumbles under the strain, or do we agree to a cessation of hostilities—only until the next time, of course—so that I might continue toward the breakfast room without fear of feeling a shaft of cold steel plunge between my shoulder blades?”