Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

9: Blame Home Stowaway

Vincent was not sick. However, he did spend the entirety of the next day feeling like he might be. As he was in class, head in hands and squinting at the words that blurred on his pages, Thomas returned to the factory. More prepared this time, he brought with him food, water, blankets, and a few fresh skirts he obtained from a very confused dressmaker. The women, with the exception of Lupe, still watched him with apprehension, but they accepted his gifts easily enough.

He sat with the younger girl whilst the others doled out the food, leaning against the stone wall until the cold had well and truly leached through his coat. As he watched them work, talk, and occasionally throw him a sceptical look, he realised he didn't understand. They had been taken from their homes and were clearly scared of the men who held them. They did not speak English, were clearly mistreated... they were all but slaves! Why did they stay? Why not run away or ask someone for help?

Why not ask him?

"Lupe?" She turned towards him with a waiting smile, her large brown eyes blinking calmly. She was very pretty, Thomas could admit, and perhaps that was why Vincent had asked if he had designs. But though she could grow up to be beautiful, she still had to grow up. Thomas was not a saint, but he was no cradle-robber! And even if he were... those weren't the feelings she stoked in him. He felt protective, like he supposed an older brother might feel. "Why do you all stay here? Why don't you leave?"

Lupe's pretty smile turned confused. "¿Cómo? How?"

He frowned back at her. "Run away, ask someone for help, show them how you're being treated – I'll help you, Vincent will help you!"

"No, no." She shook her head firmly, grip tightening on the pocket watch she hadn't put down overnight. "Bad. No safe. Insegura."

After a few minutes where Thomas suggested all manner of ways to get them help and out of there situation, only to be met with Lupe's staunch rejection, he leant back with a sigh and watched her move off to get food. It was clear she was scared, and he wanted to blame her refusal on that; fear that if they ran, the men who took them would come after them. And maybe that's all he would have seen before he knew Vincent. Now, though, he could see behind the argument; they had no income, no family or connections here to support them, they didn't know the language... what would they do if they were suddenly free? Probably starve on the streets. Sudden, impulsive action would do them no good.

Thomas sighed again; his life had gotten endlessly complicated since knowing Vincent Humphrey.

Which brought him to another complication he was trying to avoid; Vincent himself. There was something about the man that drew Thomas in. He coughed, trying to clear the thought from his mind. The Humphreys had been more than good to Thomas. Despite his unorthodox entry into their lives, they had welcomed him with open – if somewhat surprised – arms, and it was beginning to feel like... well, family. He could not entertain risking that just for... for what? For nothing!

He managed to avoid Vincent for another day, not that the other man noticed over the pounding in his head. In truth, Vincent was quite embarrassed, not only that he'd consumed so much liquor but that his reaction was so poor. He was from the same stock as Matthew – surely he should be able to imbibe without consequence!

Neither man was prepared when they all but collided in the corridor of the Speckled Hen in the early evening. Vincent was returning from class, his satchel looped over his shoulder and threatening to spill papers in his wake, and he was clearly tired. His hair was a ruffled mess – he'd still not had time to find a barber – and the bags beneath his eyes were darkened on one side by a streak of ink across his skin.

Having ignored barbs from his classmates, Vincent was all too aware of how he looked, and was grateful none of them had cause to see him in comparison to Thomas. He was in a deep blue, not-quite-navy coat that echoed the rich tones of his skin, and although his hair was damp, perhaps having just bathed, it was already beginning to curl across his forehead. His chin was down as he rounded the corner, but he jerked up with an apology of his lips as the tips of Vincent's boots entered his periphery.