When You're Desired by Tamara Lejeune

Codlins’?”
    He started it for her, but Eliza quickly joined in, very loudly and off-key, making Celia wince.

    â€œThere was a little woman, as I’ve been told,
Who was not very young, nor yet very old;
Now this little woman, ’er living she got
By selling codlins, ’ot, ’ot, ’ot!”

    â€œNow I’ll be thinking of them ’ot codlins all night,” Eliza complained, rubbing her rumbling stomach. “Well?” she asked them brightly. “What did you think?”
    They had arrived in Curzon Street. At that moment, the hackney carriage rolled to a stop and the jarvey gave a shout. Fitzclarence quickly opened the door and climbed out.
    â€œThat was extremely interesting , Miss Eliza,” Celia told her. Opening her reticule, she took out a card. It was pale pink with her name printed in gold. “Come to the theatre tomorrow, and we’ll find something for you to do.”
    Eliza cradled the card in her cupped hands. “Oh, Miss St. Lys!”
    Taking Fitzclarence’s hand, Celia climbed out of the hack.
    â€œWhat the devil am I supposed to do with her?” he wanted to know.
    â€œWell, she can’t stay with me ,” Celia replied. “I have my reputation to think of. Get her a room somewhere, and something to eat. Some hot codlins, perhaps.”
    â€œWell, she did sing for her supper,” he said grudgingly, as Celia took out her purse and handed him a single gold sovereign. He kept his palm open until she gave two more. During the silent negotiation, Fitzclarence had become aware that they were being observed.
    â€œDon’t look now,” he said as he escorted her up the steps to her door, “but there’s that nosy neighbor of yours. What’s his name, Dickory? That spaniel of his must have a bladder the size of a pea. He always seems to be out walking it in the middle of the night.”
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Dickson,” Celia called out pleasantly.
    The gentleman with the spaniel whirled around, apparently startled at the sound of her voice, even though he must have heard the hackney arriving. A middle-aged man with a pleasant, if bland face, he squinted at them through thick spectacles in the flickering light provided by the street lamps. “Miss St. Lys! Is that you? I—I was just walking Queenie.”
    â€œHello, Queenie!” Celia called out sweetly. The spaniel instantly broke free of its master and bounded toward her.
    Fitzclarence recoiled in disgust as Queenie sniffed his boots. “For God’s sake, why do you indulge these people?” he muttered angrily to Celia.
    â€œ These people have made me rich,” she replied softly. “An actress is nothing without the affection of her public.” Bending down, she patted the spaniel’s head. “What a good doggie! You must be so proud of her, Mr. Dickson.”
    For a moment, Mr. Dickson stared at the beautiful actress, but then he seemed to gather his courage. “You shall have a puppy from the next litter, Miss St. Lys!” he blurted out.
    â€œOh,” said Celia, a little taken aback. “That is very good of you, Mr. Dickson, but I—I am so seldom at home. It wouldn’t be fair—to the puppy, I mean.”
    Behind her, the door of her house opened, and the huge hulk of Tonecho, her Spanish manservant, filled the doorway, a branch of candles in his fist. Formerly a sparring partner to Mendoza, the famed boxer, Tonecho clearly was not a man to be trifled with. “Good evening, Doña Celia,” he growled.
    Mr. Dickson shrank noticeably. Braver than her master, Queenie gave a low, warning growl.
    â€œIt’s all right, Queenie,” Celia assured the spaniel. “That’s only Tonecho. His bark is worse than his bite.”
    â€œCome, Celia,” Fitzclarence commanded. Quite out of patience with her insipid conversation with this nobody and his dog, he caught her by the elbow.