A piece of stationery dropped out of the envelope. Simon opened it to find Quinn's bold handwriting glaring accusingly at him:
March 28, 1835
I hereby resign from my association with Copeland and Peale and renounce all claims I have on that company.
Quinn Christopher Copeland
London, England
Simon stared at the short letter in stunned disbelief and then reread it. Its terseness and impersonal tone revealed more than the words themselves. He knew with an unshakable certainty that Quinn was absolving himself not only of his association with the company, but also of any association with his father. He was walking out of Simon's life as he had done once before. Except this time he was leaving something behind.
Simon looked at Noelle and noticed that her chest was trembling slightly. She had turned so that the glare from the window no longer fell directly on her face, and Simon saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. Why, she was not much more than a child! She seemed so defenseless, her grief all the more pitiful because it was silent.
His logical mind took over, and he stuffed the pound notes back into the envelope. She was undoubtedly upset about her earlier angry outburst and afraid that she would now not be paid. His voice was calm but cold.
"There's really no need for you to cry. Here is the money you were promised. I suggest you use it wisely. This is a God-given opportunity for you to better yourself, to improve your station in life." Even to himself, he sounded pompous.
The girl regarded him directly, as though she were assessing him. She made no attempt to conceal her tears, nor did she move to take the envelope he proffered. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, as though she had looked inside him and found him lacking. Placing the envelope on the edge of the desk nearest her, he stood.
"Come now, miss, it's your money. Take it and leave. I'll have my butler show you out."
He crossed to the tapestry bellpull in the corner, but before he could touch it, her voice hissed at him. It was laden with contempt, all traces of the accent of the street erased.
"I don't want that money. I don't want anything from you or your son."
Simon's expression betrayed his surprise.
"You weren't expecting me to refuse, were you? You're both alike, the two of you." Once again the tears spilled over her lashes. "It doesn't even occur to you that there might be a human being with feelings standing in front of you. It doesn't occur to you that things aren't always what they seem. Keep your money. I don't need it."
With those words, she straightened her shoulders and walked proudly toward the library door.
Simon watched the girl's straight back as she crossed the room. Her honesty and dignity moved him, her diction puzzled him; he felt a strange reluctance to let her go. As she reached the door his voice rang out, abrupt and commanding.
"Stay right there. I want to talk to you."
She ignored him; her hand stretched out for the knob.
"Please." The word was out before Simon knew it.
She turned to him. For the first time he could see a questioning in her eyes, an unsureness.
"Please," he repeated, crossing to her, "I apologize for my rudeness. I would appreciate it if you would stay for a few moments and talk with me."
Noelle hesitated briefly and then nodded her consent.
"Please sit down. Over here by the fire so we can be comfortable." He escorted her to a thickly cushioned sofa. "Tea?"
She paused a moment and then said, "Yes, thank you." Sitting gracefully, her back straight, she eyed him warily. He reminded her of his son. They had the same arrogant profile.
Simon strode to the bellpull, gave a firm yank, and returned to Noelle, settling himself in a chair opposite her. He took a moment to study her more closely. It was hard to imagine, but perhaps, with proper food and decent clothing, she might look less absurd.
"I didn't hear your name," he began tentatively.
"My name is Noelle Dorian." She spoke softly but watched him intently as though his reaction were a test of some kind.
"Pretty." For the first time, he saw a flicker of a smile cross her face. "Were your parents French?"
"No. My mother was English, but she loved everything French. She died seven years ago."
"Seven years ago! You couldn't have been much more than a baby. What about your father? Is he still living?"
"I expect so. At least, if all Daisy's stories were true."
"Daisy?"
"My mother. She was an actress when she was young. She used to tell me how my father was rich and handsome, one of the nobility." Suddenly Noelle was embarrassed. Why was she telling him all this? "But then, you don't want to hear me go on. Besides, Daisy wasn't above telling a few clankers. It probably wasn't true at all."
Simon wondered. Was it really so unlikely that a girl like this could have been fathered by an aristocrat? There was a certain dignity about her.
"Who took care of you after your mother's death?"
She looked genuinely bewildered. "Why, I took care of myself. Who else would?"
"But you were only a child."
"I wasn't all that young. I was ten."
"You rang for me, sir?" The butler's voice startled Noelle. She had not heard him enter.
"Yes, Tomkins. The young lady would like some tea. Serve it in here." Simon dismissed him and turned back to Noelle, as if there had been no interruption.
"So you're seventeen now."
"Almost eighteen."
"And you've been on your own since you were ten?" He shook his head in puzzlement and spoke almost to himself. "The English are a truly incredible people. They believe they are the only ones fit to govern the rest of the world, but they can't even tend to the injustices on their own doorstep."
"Here, now," Noelle cried, lifting her small chin. "Don't you say anything bad about the English, especially since you're an American."
"Oh, and what's wrong with being an American?" Simon was amused by her patriotic indignation.
"Why, they're savages," she sniffed haughtily. "Walking around practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces."
Simon chuckled. "Noelle, I think you picked an unfortunate example."
"What do you mean by that?" she questioned suspiciously.
Simon did not respond. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked her hollow cheek, showing her his scarlet-stained fingers. Then his eyes traveled briefly to her décolletage. "Practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces?"
Noelle looked in his eyes and saw them twinkling humorously. An angry retort sprang to her lips, but something in his face stopped her. Just as she had earlier judged him, she saw that he was now waiting for her reaction, testing her. He had made a joke at her expense, but she sensed instinctively that he was not mocking her. Her anger left her as abruptly as it had come, and she suddenly laughed, producing a merry tinkling sound that delighted Simon.
The American businessman and the English pickpocket smiled companionably at each other for several moments before Noelle realized she had carelessly let down her guard. Chiding herself, she quickly dropped her gaze and studied a ragged seam that formed an angry V in the skirt of her garment.
The silence lengthened, but she was determined she would not be the one to break it.
"Would you tell me how you've managed since you were ten?" Simon yearned to ask her how long she had been prostituting herself but couldn't think how to frame the words and did not want to challenge her stubborn pride.
"For the first few years I was a mudlark."
"Mudlark? What in God's name is that?"
"You don't know what a mudlark is?" Noelle was astonished that a man of Simon's wealth and station should be so ignorant.
"No, I'm afraid not." Simon smiled. "There are some gaps in my education. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to fill in this one."
"Why, the mudlarks go to the riverbanks and gather pieces of coal to sell in the streets. I was the only girl mudlark in London," Noelle boasted.