Chapter 43：THE MYSTERIOUS CHILD {II}

It was hard to tell who the child looked like. His skin was blackened with soot, which seemed ground into its very pores. His features were twisted as he grimaced with pain at unnatural angle at which his arm was being held. His face was topped with a stock of badly cropped hair, so darkened by the ash of his profession that it was impossible now to tell its original colour.

"I bought 'im. Bought 'im fair and square, and then 'e up and runned away. I got a legal right to beat 'im for that."

He probably had, Annie realized. She wasn't sure about the letter of the law regarding the punishment of apprentices, but young children were forced to backbreaking labour in factories and mines all over England. And chimney sweeps like this poor boy undoubtedly had the very worst of those conditions.

" 'e burns me," the boy said, speaking directly to Annie.

His blue eyes, the only part of him that had not been affected by his covering of soot, looked up into hers hopefully.

"Burns you?" she repeated, not perfectly sure she had understood the words, given the thick dialect in which he spoke.

"Burns me feet to make me climb the shafts," he said.

Annie's stomach churned. She glanced down involuntarily. The child's feet, as filthy as his hands, arms and face, were bare. Even so, she realized she had no desire to see evidence of his claim. The image his words had produced, of the sweep applying a torch to the soles of those little bare feet to make the boy shinny farther up a narrow flue, was quite vivid enough without any demonstration.

She could tell by the way the man's eyes skated away from hers that he wasn't any surer of the parameters of the law governing child labour than she was.

However accepted by the general populace was the practice the child had just described, it might not be equally condoned by a magistrate.

Pressing her advantage, Annie dropped the strop and took hold of the boy's arm instead. Surprised, either by her boldness or by the fact that such a finely dressed lady was foolishly willing to ruin her gloves by contact with the child, the master didn't resist as she pulled the boy away from him.

"Save me, miss," the child begged again, emboldened enough by her defence to lock his filthy hands in the material of Annie's skirt. "'E'll beat me something fierce, 'e will." he said, looking fearfully over his shoulder at his master. "'E will kill me now for sure."

"As soon as I get my hands on you," the man threatened, reaching for the child.

Annie backed away, putting her hand on the back of the boys head and holding him against her protectively. "What's going on here?" asked a deep voice at her elbow.

Annie turned to find her guardian standing beside her. He looked solidly masculine and incredibly competent to deal with the child's wizened master and even with the spectators to what had turned into a near spectacle.

"He was beating this boy," she answered. "I think because he had run away. We have to take him with us."

"Don't let 'im kill me," the boy wailed.

"No one will hurt you," Annie said. "I promise you that."

No matter what Ian said she should do, she knew she could never give the boy back to his master to be beaten again. Not even if that was law. It seemed, however, that the master has suddenly decided he wasn't willing to wait and see whether Ian agreed with her or not. He grabbed the boy's arm, just above the elbow, and attempted to drag him away.

"Don't no not run from Bob Thackett. I bought this one fair and square and paid more than 'is scurvy hide is worth. I got the 'prentice papers to prove it."

The child clung so tightly to Annie's skirt that she, too, was pulled forward. Quickly Ian stepped between them, breaking the man's hold on the boy's arm and pushing him away. He then positioned himself between Annie, to whom the sobbing child was still clinging, and the sweep.

Infuriated, the man tried to reach around Ian and take hold of the child again. There were any number men who had served under Major The Honourable Ian Sinclair who could have thought the sweep what a dangerous move that would be. Unfortunately for the boy's master, none of them were at hand.

As he reached for the boy, Ian's fingers closed around the lapels of the rough coat he wore. He held the smaller man away from him at arm's length.

"Leave him alone," he warned, his voice loud enough to carry above the hooting encouragement of the spectators.

"He's my property," the sweep said, twisting and turning as he tried to free himself from those iron fingers wrapped in the material of his coat.

"That's a matter for the magistrate to decide. As are any injuries that might find on the boys body."

The sweep ceased to struggle, apparently considering the merits of that implied threat.