“No one will harass a widow like me.” She forced a grin and handed the girl several coins. “Have breakfast. Order whatever you like. You’re on holiday!”
Cadi’s eyes widened at the sight of the coins, and Jane pointed out the menu board, which the girl instantly began to peruse. She was glad the maid could read. Not all could. On her way out, she stopped the innkeeper’s wife and asked her to keep an eye on her young friend while she ran a brief errand. After Jane assured the woman Cadi would be ordering and ordering well, the woman agreed.
Following the porter’s directions, Jane walked up the High Street. Reaching the tobacconists, she turned right down a narrower lane. At its end she found a surprisingly well-kept, half-timbered building with a small, discreet sign in far better repair than The Bell’s.
The Gilded Lily.
Jane took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Inside she found a parlour richly furnished with upholstered chaise longues and velvet sofas, red draperies on the windows, thick carpets on the floors, and a grand curving stairway leading to the upper floors. Near the bottom of the stairs, at a large gilded desk, sat a stout, heavily rouged woman, bent over a page of fashion prints in a ladies’ magazine. Behind the chair, newspapers and magazines were stacked four feet high.
Jane took a deep breath and said, “Pardon me. I was hoping to see Hetty Piper?”
“You and a dozen gents, love.”
“Excuse me?”
The blowsy woman glanced up, and looked again, regarding Jane with a frown line between her penciled brows. “Who are you?”
“A . . . friend from home,” Jane lied with a feeble smile. Lord, forgive me.
The woman stared at her a moment longer, then jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “She’s up there, cleaning rooms. Or she should be. If you find her lollygagging, tell her Goldie says get to work, silly baggage.”
Jane nodded and started up the stairs, lifting her hem to avoid tripping. Reaching the landing, she walked slowly down the corridor, the smells of pipe smoke, French perfume, and body odor heavy in the air.
At an open door, she stopped and peered warily through the threshold. Inside the room, an aproned figure bent low with a carpet broom, housemaid’s box nearby. Jane spied several strands of red hair peeping out from under her cap.
“Hetty?” she called quietly, hoping not to startle her.
Without pausing, the woman muttered, “Who’s asking?”
“Mrs. Bell.”
The carpet broom stilled, and the maid’s capped head looked sharply over her shoulder, mouth O’d. Then she straightened and turned to face her.
The young woman pressed a hand to her significant bosom. “’Bout scared the stuffing right out of me. For a moment I thought you meant Thora Bell.” She sighed in relief.
It wasn’t the reaction Jane would have expected. She asked, “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I do. I saw you now and again across the yard or out with your flowers. Though I am surprised you knew who I was—greeted with just that view of my backside.” She chuckled.
Jane didn’t respond to that, guessing several men would easily identify that view.
Hetty asked, “What are you doing here? In a place like this?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
The young woman shrugged. “Thora Bell sent me away without a character reference. None of the respectable places would take me. I am only a maid here—don’t worry—not a doxy. Not for lack of requests, mind, but I refused in no uncertain terms. In the end, old Wigglebottom decided to hire me anyway, just to clean. Likes to have me sweep the walk and polish the front windows just about opening time. Lure the gents in and then hand over one of the other girls. Poor things. Better them than me. I know that’s terrible to say, but . . . well, there it is.”
The girl hesitated, looking Jane over again, head to toe, as if just noticing her black attire. “Someone die?”
Jane stiffened. “As a matter of fact, yes. My husband.”
The girl stared at her, mouth ajar. “What? Mr. John—dead? It can’t be.”
Was she grieving someone she had cared about, Jane wondered, or just shocked?
Hetty sank onto the made bed. “Knock me down with a feather, I’m blowed. When was this?”
“Last May, on the very day he was to meet you—at least, according to this letter.” Jane lifted it from her reticule to show her proof. Would the girl try to deny it? Offer some alternate explanation for the meeting, hopefully a plausible one?
Hetty gently took it from her and glanced at the direction. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it among John’s things.”
“Mr. John kept it?” Slowly shaking her head, Hetty unfolded the letter and read its contents, reminding herself of what she had written.
“So that’s why he never showed up that day.”
“Had he . . . come to see you before?”
“No. I had not laid eyes on him since I left Ivy Hill.”
Suddenly the girl sucked in a breath, eyes wide. “Was he the man who was struck by a runaway carriage that day?”
Jane nodded.
“Ohhh . . . I am sorry, ma’am. I heard a man was killed but never guessed it could be Mr. Bell.”
Jane steeled herself, then forced out the question. “Were you with child, Hetty? Is that why you needed John’s help?”
Jane stood there, every muscle tense, dreading the answer.
Hetty stepped to the door, looked both ways down the corridor, and then closed it, whispering, “Goldie doesn’t allow talk of children here.” She turned back toward Jane, lowering her eyes, the first sign of shame Jane had seen her display. “Yes, I was.”
She looked up. “And you will think me greedy, I suppose, but I welcomed any help Mr. Bell saw fit to offer me. Stuck here as I am.”
“Where is the child now?”
Hetty ducked her head, hands clasped. “I had to give it up, didn’t I? I had to work. Especially when Mr. Bell didn’t help me after all—though now I know why.”
Jane drew in a shaky breath. “Mr. Bell was . . . responsible?”
“He wrote that he felt responsible.” The girl waved a vague gesture. “Especially after his mother sent me away like that, without a shilling or a character.”
Jane thought she might be ill but swallowed bile and asked, “Did you . . . love each other?”
“Me and Mr. Bell? Naw. But he was terribly good looking and so devilish charming, you have to admit.”
“I . . .” Jane should think her own husband charming, she supposed. How awkward and humiliating to discuss his appeal with another woman, and his lover in the bargain. Hetty, however, seemed not to feel any qualms about it. Jane faltered, “John was always . . . very . . . good to me, yes.” Or so I thought.
Suddenly, Hetty’s animated face fell slack and her bow lips parted. “Bless me! You didn’t think I was talking about Mr. John, did you? Heavens, no! Not that Mr. Bell. Patrick Bell.” She stepped nearer. “Mr. John replied to my letter and told me his brother had left the country but that he felt responsible and wanted to offer some recompense in Patrick’s stead.”
She gripped Jane’s hand. “Glory be! No wonder you looked so pale and pinched. No, ma’am. Mr. John might have felt duty bound to help, but he was not the man who put me in that predicament in the first place!”
“Oh . . .” Jane exhaled deeply, relief quickly followed by embarrassment. “How foolish you must think me.”
“Not at all. Looking at this letter now, I can see how you might have thought that. But it wasn’t Mr. John, I swear it! He was about the only man who didn’t ogle me like that. Well, him and Mr. Talbot.”
Jane’s relief was soured by this disappointing revelation about Patrick’s character. Is that why he’d left the inn—and the country—around that time? “I feel I should apologize on my brother-in-law’s behalf.”
“Oh . . .” Hetty hesitated.
“It wasn’t his fault. Not really.”
“He must share the blame at least, even if he shirked the responsibility.” Jane considered, then made up her mind. “I will write you a character reference myself, Hetty. And give you what money I have with me, though I’m afraid it isn’t much. Or . . . why don’t you come back with me? I shall give you a place at The Bell.”
Hetty nibbled her lower lip. “Is Thora Bell still there?”
“Yes. But I am the landlady since John’s death.”
“And Patrick?”
“He has recently returned.”
Hetty shivered theatrically. “I could face the old lioness again if I had to. Working for Goldie has toughened me up. But I don’t know that I dare put myself in Patrick’s path again. He hasn’t gained several stone and lost his teeth, has he?”
Jane shook her head.
“Just as devilishly handsome and charming as ever?”
“I’m afraid so.” Though less charming in Jane’s estimation after learning of his behavior with someone in their employ.
Hetty said, “Then I had better take my chances with a character reference here.”
“Very well. But if you are not able to find a decent situation, promise me you will come to the inn. Write, and I will send the fare myself.”
“You are very good, Mrs. Bell.”
“I wish I deserved that praise. My husband intended to help you on the last day of his life. How could I do any less?”
A short while later, when Jane stepped out of the Gilded Lily, she paused, disconcerted to see a man loitering on the street, leaning against a lamppost.
He was looking down at his pocket watch, his hat brim shadowing his face. A prospective customer this early? He was well dressed, but that might be a ruse. He could be a footpad. Whatever else he was, he was probably up to no good, especially in front of this particular establishment. She felt embarrassed to be seen leaving the place, and hoped no one thought her associated with what went on there. She raised her chin and determined to look ladylike and unconcerned.
The man glanced up, and she saw his face. His familiar face.
Gabriel Locke.
She stopped where she was and scowled at him.
He was better dressed than she usually saw him, with trousers, coat, neckcloth, and beaver hat. He might have looked handsome, were he not scowling back.
He shut his pocket watch with a snap. “In one more minute, I was coming in after you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here? I suppose you followed me—how did you get here so quickly?”
“I left earlier than planned.”
“And not by stagecoach, apparently.”
He made no answer.
She said, “I told you I didn’t need you to chaperone me, Mr. Locke. I am a grown woman.”
“Yes. One who has grown up in a protected nest and has little concept of the dangers of a town like this, teeming with gamblers and rakes.”
“Actually, I thought you were a footpad when I first saw you. Though a well-dressed one, to be sure. Are those your Sunday best?”
“Something like that, yes. Makes little sense to wear good clothes while shoeing horses and mucking out stables.”
“This must be a nice diversion for you, then, spying on your employer.”
“Did you learn what you came for?”
“I did. And then some.”
He stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I will say only that John was not involved romantically with Hetty Piper.”
“I am glad to hear it. Then, may I ask why he offered to help her? Was it only kindness to a former employee? Or for some . . . mistreatment while she worked at The Bell?”
She mimicked his vague reply, “Something like that, yes.” She saw no reason to disparage Patrick’s reputation further when Mr. Locke already esteemed him so little.
“And you, Mr. Locke? Have you talked to your associate about a horse for the gig?”
“Not yet. I’ll see him later. First, I plan to spend some time with my friend at the coaching inn—after I escort you back there.”
“Very well.”
He gestured down the street and fell into step beside her.
Struck by a sudden thought, Jane turned and gripped his sleeve. “Since you are here, show me where it happened.”
He held her gaze, his dark eyes wary and sharp, but did not need to ask what she referred to. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Please.”
He nodded, and when they reached the High Street, he turned right instead of left toward the inn.
As they walked, she said, “I know you told me some things when you first came to Ivy Hill with the news. But I confess, it’s a bit of a blur. The shock, the disbelief. I was almost . . . angry with you, I recall.” She gave a self-mocking chuckle. “Ready to shoot the messenger, as though it were your fault somehow.”
“I felt as though it were my fault. At least in part.”
She felt her brows rise. “Did you?”
“I was with John when it happened. I felt responsible.”
“You were not driving the coach that struck him,” she reminded him.
“No. Thank God for that. Or I would never be able to live with myself.”
He paused in front of a newsagent’s shop. “We were walking along here. The streets were very crowded that day—the races had just let out. I looked up and saw a carriage careening toward us. John stumbled, or was nudged by the jostling crowd . . . I don’t know. Someone nearby must have seen the carriage a second before I did and pulled me out of the way. But not John. I tried to shout, but it was all over in a flash.”
“Did they never find the driver?”
“No. He sped off without stopping.”
Jane sighed. “I still feel guilty.”
“You? Why?”
“Because I wasn’t here with him when he died. I’ve wondered so many times . . . Might I have prevented it somehow? Insisted on traveling with him? I try not to, but I find myself imagining the scene. I vacillate between hoping he died quickly—with little time to feel pain or fear—and hoping he had a few moments to prepare to meet his Maker. I believe you told me he said he loved me. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Locke, please tell me everything again. Everything you remember. You stayed with him, right to the end. He wasn’t alone . . .”
“He wasn’t alone.” Gabriel Locke looked down at his gloved hands. “He wasn’t in great pain. I think he was numb with shock. John lived for several minutes. I called for someone to find a doctor, a surgeon, anyone. And the newsagent went running. But I stayed, knelt beside him, and held his hand.”
“What did he say?”
Mr. Locke’s voice grew hoarse. “He said, ‘Tell Jane I’m sorry. Sorry about leaving her alone so much.’” He hesitated. “‘And . . . may God forgive the rest. But I love her. I do. Tell her.’”
“The rest? I don’t recall that part. Do you think he meant the loan?”
“I don’t know.”
Tears filled Jane’s eyes and her throat tightened. “I loved him too. The last year or two . . . things were not good between us. It’s such a relief to hear he still loved me.”
Gabriel nodded. “He did. Your name was first and last on his lips.”
Jane reviewed his words in her mind. “I’m glad John asked for forgiveness. I would like to think he’d grown closer to God toward the end of his life. What a comfort that would be.”
Gabriel hesitated. “I would like to think so too.”
When they returned to the Marquis and entered the coffee room, Jane saw a man seated across from Cadi. A soldier. So much for the innkeeper’s wife agreeing to watch over her.
Jane marched forward, but before she reached the table, the officer rose and turned to Jane. “I was only keeping your fair companion company. Someone needed to.” He winked at Cadi, bowed, and strode smartly away.
Cadi waved good-bye, dimples blazing. Then
she looked back at Jane. “Oh, don’t look daggers at him, ma’am, he was only being friendly. Saved me from boredom, I can tell you. Oh! Mr. Locke. I did not expect to see you.”
“I came to town earlier than planned and ran into Mrs. Bell on the street. Thought I would escort her back.”
“I’m glad of it. She would not let me go with her.” She asked Jane, “How was the place? As scandalous as the porter let on?”
“Not . . . too bad. The point is I’ve done what I came for and we can go home.”
“Will you be joining us for the return journey, Mr. Locke?” Cadi asked, a speculative gleam in her eye as she looked from him to Jane.
“No, I still have business to attend to here, and another few errands to complete. But I shall see you both soon.”
He gave them a brief bow and took his leave.
Cadi watched him go, eyes still twinkling. “What a coincidence that you should meet someone from The Bell here in Epsom.”
But Jane knew it was no coincidence at all.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
On her way to the office, Thora passed by the hall mirror—placed there so arriving gentlemen and ladies might tidy their windblown hair—and paused at the sight of her own reflection. She wasn’t upset about anything, and yet, a slight frown creased her face. She stepped nearer and looked again, and the frown only deepened. Her husband had described her as handsome, and Charlie often complimented her looks. But that was not what she saw.
The “neutral” expression she wore as she went about her day-to-day activities was . . . grim, Thora realized. She lived, it seemed to her, in expectation of disappointment. Her eyes guarded, her mouth slightly downturned at the corners. It was her penchant for efficiency, she told herself. No need for her face to transform from one extreme expression to the next. She was ready to frown at all times. Life had taught her to expect little else.
Thora could think of a few women who went around with equally forbidding expressions who, in her view, had little right to wear them. Lady Brockwell came to mind. And she’d caught her daughter-in-law wearing a similar expression. Yes, she had lost her husband. But not a son. Thora had lost both. And more.