We Could Get By

xxix.

While it was true that Nellie had, however briefly, considered getting Toby a boat for Christmas, both she and Sweeney had agreed that it was anything but practical. That had been just about the only thing the two had agreed on all day, in fact.

“He's got no place to keep a boat! Can't even sail, poor dear, an’ I ain't sendin’ no boy of mine off into open water!” Sweeney had lifted his eyes to look at her over the hard cover of his book. “Besides that we ain't got any money for a boat.”

Here, he had nodded and crossed his legs, slipping back into the black and white world printed on the pages. His grey face had a scrubbed freshness to it, and it was all she could do to keep herself from stroking his cheek or peppering him in a delicate smattering of kisses. Nellie took a noisy slurp of her tea and let the heat coming through the glazed mug warm her fingers.

She missed coffee. She missed wine and gin and rum. When she poured Sweeney his nightly tumbler of gin, Nellie had to feign disinterest and stash the bottle away in the cupboard before she made any poor choices and got herself a glass. She picked up her knitting and resumed work on a pair of navy mittens. Nellie cast a sideways glance at Sweeney's hands, trying to envision them alongside the mitten she held. He would protest, she knew, when he discovered at length whom they were for. “I don't get cold,” he would tell her, lips pursed tightly, and accept them anyway. He would wear them often but shove his hands deep into the pockets in a weak attempt to keep her from noticing. She would still notice.

“Nellie.”

“Hm?”

“I think I left my glass by the piano.”

She sighed heavily and struggled up out of the armchair, her hand clasped over her stomach as though she was trying to keep herself balanced.

Leftover bits of that afternoon’s petty argument still clung to her like thorns, bristling and spiky. “Honestly, Mister T, I dunno why in the world ya don't jus’ go get it yaself! It better not be on the piano- I swear, if I see one stain-”

She stopped short at the sight of the small rectangular package perched neatly atop the piano where the sheet music should have been. On the bench, there was a much thicker one, some sort of box, by the looks of it. Nellie turned to gape at Sweeney, but she caught him looking sheepishly away. “What is this?”

“Are you telling me you forgot your own birthday?” He lifted an eyebrow at her, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“My- Ah, well, I…” Nellie trailed off, lifting the package from the bench first and untying the plain string. The stiff brown paper fell open on a fancy box of assorted chocolates. “Oh! Mister T, how much did ya pay for these?”

He allowed himself a tiny sliver of a smile.

“And where's me lad gone off to?” Nellie asked, suddenly quite aware of the wiry boy's absence. She had been so busy, she had just assumed he was off with a friend or hanging about in town! And here she had forgotten her very own birthday. Mrs. Lovett had always been a bit absentminded, but she had never been the type to forget any birthday, least of all her own.

“I sent him off.”

“For what?” Even as the words left her mouth, sounding a bit more indignant than she intended, Nellie felt her face flush red. He looked at her, his deep gaze unwavering even from across the room. Oh.

“You might have noticed that I am not a baker.”

“Ya didn't have to buy me a cake, love!” She felt very foolish, girlish and naïve at how quickly her mind had jumped to the thought of his hands beneath her dress, and flushed further. Nellie smoothed her skirt in nervous display of demureness.