The king looked at Meg with his eyebrow cocked. “I think that all I have learned is how to lose a bird.”
“Is it?” she asked. “What do you feel?”
The king frowned. “Loss. Emptiness.”…
—from King Lockedheart
“Then you think we can do it?” Mrs. Dews leaned forward, her face bright, her extraordinary brown eyes eager.
St. John nodded, amazed by her vitality. How could he not be? She was in such extreme contrast to Clara’s still form upstairs.
He shoved the awful thought aside and focused on answering her instead. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve already had my secretary send out the invitations to view the foundling home.”
Mrs. Dews bit her lip. “How many did you invite?”
“A little over a hundred people.”
“Oh!” She sat very still, her eyes wide, but her hand crept out to seize the wrist of her maidservant, a woman named Nell.
St. John had been taken aback by the presence of the maid on this, Mrs. Dews’s second visit to his house. On the first, she’d arrived alone and nearly vibrating with the excitement of her idea: to open the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children for viewing in the hopes of catching the interest of a prospective patron for the home. It was a daring scheme, but one that was shrewd as well. Viewing the unfortunate, whether at prisons, hospitals, or houses for the hopelessly mad, was fashionable in London at the moment. Most came merely to stare and titter at the antics of those poor souls, but many would also pledge monies to the charities they viewed.
“That’s quite a lot of people,” Mrs. Dews said, letting go of her maid.
“Yes, but they are all of the best families—ones to whom charity is now in fashion.” St. John arched a significant eyebrow.
“Quite. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Dews smoothed her black skirts with one hand. It trembled slightly, and St. John had a wild urge to cross the room and comfort her.
“Do you think you’ll be ready in time?” he inquired, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I believe so,” she said, looking a bit relieved at the change of subject. “We’ve already scrubbed the walls and floors, Winter has been listening to the children recite various poems by heart, and Nell has been busy mending the children’s clothes.”
“Good, good. I’ll have my cook make a quantity of punch and some gingerbread the day before to be delivered quite early on the set morning.”
“Oh, but you’ve done so much already,” Mrs. Dews exclaimed. “I don’t wish you to go to the expense on my account.”
“It’s for the children,” St. John reminded her gently. “I’d feel quite the lackwit if I didn’t contribute to our little plan. Please, don’t mention it.”
“In that case…” She smiled shyly at him, her eyes so alive.
How Caire could’ve let this woman slip through his hands was beyond him. He turned quickly, pretending to study the china clock on his mantelpiece. “If that is all today?”
“Oh! Oh, of course,” she said from behind him, sounding a little hurt. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Mr. St. John. You have been of such great help to me and our home.”
He clenched his jaw to prevent himself from stuttering apologies. Instead he bowed a bit stiffly. “Good day, Mrs. Dews.”
She left then, after a graceful curtsy, and only the maid shot him a curious look over her shoulder. He waited until the door to his library shut before walking to the window that overlooked the street below. He watched as she crossed the street, her stride light and graceful, one hand on her bonnet, for it was a windy day. The maid walked by her side instead of behind, and they seemed to be conversing. Her black-clad figure grew small, and in another moment she’d disappeared into the London crowd.
St. John let the curtain fall from his fingers.
He looked about his library, but despite the books and news sheets and clutter, it seemed barren and lonely after her visit. He left the room and mounted the stairs, climbing two floors up. He didn’t visit Clara often at this hour; she usually slept in after what was invariably a restless night. But today he found himself unable to keep away. In the back of his mind, he knew that there would come a day—perhaps soon—when he would no longer be able to climb the stairs and see her.
St. John tapped at her door and then cracked it open. The old maid who was Clara’s constant companion looked up from her chair by the bed, then rose and crossed to tend the fire.
He approached the bed and looked down. Clara must’ve just had her hair washed, for it was spread, a bright banner, over her white pillow. The locks were a deep brown with bits of red in them, now streaked with strands of gray. He found himself stroking her hair. She’d once told him it was her best feature, and he’d been amazed that ladies categorized their person thusly. Amazed and fondly amused.
“Godric,” she whispered.
He looked down and saw her brown eyes watching him. Once they had been as beautiful as Mrs. Dews’s. Now they were always pain-filled.
He bent and brushed a careful kiss across her wide forehead. “Clara.”
She smiled, her pale lips curving just slightly. “To what do I owe this visit?”
He whispered in her ear, “A deep and abiding longing to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She laughed, as he’d intended, but then the gentle sound turned to a hacking cough that shook her frame. The nurse hurried over.
St. John stepped back, watching with painful patience as Clara’s spasm gradually subsided. When it was over, sweat had dampened her hair and her face was more pale than her pillow, but she looked at him and smiled.
He swallowed past the constriction in his throat. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I merely wanted you to know that I love you.”
She held a shaking hand out to him.
He took it and watched as she mouthed, “I know.”
St. John made himself smile before turning and leaving his wife’s bedroom.
IT WAS LATE afternoon nearly a week later when Temperance knocked on Polly’s door. Now that Winter was recovered, she and Mary Whitsun had been running errands in preparation for the home’s viewing, but it was important that she stop by Polly’s rooms today.
Polly answered the door with a sleeping Mary Hope in her arms and a shawl thrown over her shoulder. “Come in, Mrs. Dews, Mary Whitsun. It’s that glad I am to see you.”
“Is Mary Hope any better?” Temperance whispered the question as she stepped into the crowded little room. A glance showed her Polly’s own babies sleeping together on the bed. Mary Whitsun tiptoed over to replace the blanket one of the children had kicked off.
“Aye, she is.” The wet nurse beamed as she looked down at the baby. “The fever’s left and she’s sucking strong. I think she might just live, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank God.” Temperance closed her eyes in relief. The babies died so often. It was a welcome surprise to find one who struggled through fever so young.
Not that Mary Hope was entirely out of the woods yet. “And your own babies?”
“They never got the fever, thank the Lord,” Polly replied. “Healthy as young puppies, they are.”
“Thank you, Polly.” Temperance made a mental note to reward the wet nurse.
“Will you hold her?” Polly asked. “She’s just now fallen to sleep, and I haven’t had a moment to put myself to rights.”
She held out the babe, and Temperance remembered Lazarus’s words—that he’d seen her refuse to touch the baby. She hesitated only a second before taking the warm little bundle into her arms. Mary Whitsun peered over her arm, and they both looked down with wonder at the tiny delicate fingers that splayed against one pink cheek. Temperance’s eyes stung with tears.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Polly asked with concern as she tucked her shawl into her bodice.
“Yes,” Temperance murmured as she wiped her cheek against her shoulder. “It’s just that it was so close.”
“That it was,” the
wet nurse said comfortably, taking back the baby.
“There’s no use not loving them, is there?” Temperance whispered. She glanced at Mary Whitsun, who was still enthralled by the baby’s tiny face.
“Aye, I’m afraid ’tis silly to even bother,” Polly replied. “One look in their wee faces and we’re all lost, aren’t we?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Temperance bid Polly good night and closed the door to her room gently behind her. When she looked up, she saw Mary Whitsun watching her.
“Will the baby live, ma’am?”
Temperance smiled. “I think so, Mary.”
“I’m very glad,” Mary said somberly.
They clattered down the rickety stairs and out the front door of Polly’s rooming house. Temperance glanced uneasily at the sky. The sun was beginning to set. “We need to hurry home before dark.”
Mary hurried beside her. “Is it true that the Ghost of St. Giles comes out after dark and hunts girls?”
“Where did you hear that?”
Mary ducked her head. “The butcher’s boy. Is it true?”
Temperance frowned. “Some girls have been hurt, yes. But you needn’t worry so long as you stay at the school, especially at night.”
“Will you stay home?”
Temperance glanced at Mary. The girl had her eyes fixed on the ground as they walked. “I need to do errands, naturally—”
“But if another baby needs help at night?” Mary was biting her lip.
“My job is to help orphaned babies in St. Giles,” Temperance said gently. “Where would Mary Hope be if I hadn’t gone after her?”
Mary said nothing.
“But I hardly ever have to make trips after dark,” Temperance said briskly. “Really, there’s no need to worry.”
Mary nodded, but she still looked troubled.
Temperance sighed, wishing she could set Mary’s mind at ease, but as long as the murderer was loose, that would be hard to do.
When they reached the home, yet more work waited and Temperance sent Mary Whitsun to supervise the littler girls in washing the hall walls.
By the time Temperance climbed the stairs to her room that night, it was quite late. The preparations for opening the home for viewing were exhausting. Every time she thought they were nearly done, another job would rear its head and she’d have to somehow see to it.
She turned the corner on the rickety stairs, examining the banister. It was in need of a polish, but would making it look better merely persuade any potential patron that the home wasn’t really in need of funds? This was the dilemma with all the decisions she made to neaten and clean the home. Every decision she second-guessed, even when Winter told her in his quiet voice that she was doing a fine job and not to worry so much. And beneath all her worries was a nagging sadness. Put simply, she missed Caire. She found herself wondering what he’d think of her decisions, wanting to discuss her problems and small joys with him. She wanted to be with him.
But she’d pretty well fouled those waters, hadn’t she? Her shoulders slumped at the thought as she rounded the final twist in the old staircase, coming at last to the uppermost floor of the home. He thought she’d wanted him only for a crass sexual relationship, and while she certainly longed to embrace him again, there was so much more to her emotions.
She halted, there at the top of the stairs, a single candle wavering in her hand to give her light, as she finally acknowledged what she’d known all along. She felt much more for Caire than lust.
A sob caught in her throat before she could stifle it. She’d been so lonely before he’d come into her life. His absence now only highlighted just how alone she was. Oh, she had her brothers and sisters, the children and Nell, but even with her own family, she was apart. Only with Caire was she herself, flaws and all. He saw her sexual need, her sometimes un-Christian urges and emotions and, wonder of wonders, liked her just the same. Wanted her just the same. It was so freeing, simply being with him! Knowing that she could be herself—all of herself—and he would not turn away.
She looked about the dim, squalid hallway. Alone. She was so alone.
IT WASN’T UNTIL half an hour into the viewing that Temperance decided that the event was going quite well, all things considered.
They’d had a rather rocky start when their first visitors—a lady with an enormous plume in her hair accompanied by a stout gentleman in a full-bottomed wig, improbably dyed an inky black above his elderly face—arrived a bit early at just before five of the clock. Joseph Tinbox had been the only one to hear the knock at the door, and when he’d answered it, had at first refused them entry on the grounds that they were “too early and ought to go away and come back at the proper time.”
Fortunately, Nell had gone looking for Joseph Tinbox at that moment and found him about to shoo their visitors away. Profuse apologies, and the application of two cups of Mr. St. John’s punch, had done much to soothe the couple’s indignation. After that, a steady stream of gentlepersons had arrived. So many, in fact, that at one point their grand carriages had clogged the end of Maiden Lane, much to the interest of the usual inhabitants. Some had, in fact, taken out chairs and sat along the street to watch the parade of nobility go by.
Yes, all was going quite well, and if the punch held out and she could keep Winter from engaging in a political discussion with a rather loud young gentleman in an atrocious yellow coat who insisted on saying the most idiotic things, they might actually live through this day.
Temperance smiled and shook the hand of a vivacious lady in a plum-colored dress as the lady exclaimed about the “poor little wretches.” She was leaving and, despite her rather unfortunate choice of words, seemed genuinely moved by the orphanage.
“Who is that?” Nell muttered behind Temperance.
“I don’t know, but she’s quite enthusiastic,” Temperance whispered back.
“No, not her. Her.”
Temperance looked over their guest’s head to see Lady Caire picking her way across the cobblestones, her mouth twisted in distaste. She wore an entirely inappropriate gold and blue brocade dress and held the hand of a gentleman in a ginger wig and lavender coat. The Maiden Lane spectators were quite taken with her, many elbowing their neighbor as she passed. Fortunately, Mr. St. John had seen her approaching and intercepted her, apparently pointing out the home’s rather sad architecture. He couldn’t hold her off forever, though.
“Oh, no!” Temperance groaned.
“What? What?” Nell hissed, all agog.
“It’s Lady Caire,” Temperance murmured. “She’s quite horrible.”
A muffled giggle came from behind them.
Temperance turned and to her horror saw that they weren’t alone. Lady Hero, in a striking silvery-blue dress, had somehow entered the little hallway and, what was worse, had obviously heard her.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Temperance muttered, beginning a curtsy and then changing her mind halfway down and popping back up too fast. “I didn’t mean… that is… uh…”
“She is rather horrible,” Lady Hero said, smiling faintly. “But if you will credit it I’ve heard her discuss the plight of poor children before.”
“Really?” Temperance asked faintly. She darted another look at the street. Lady Caire had stopped to argue about something with her escort. She turned back to Lady Hero. “So she might actually be interested in our home?”
“I think so, yes. As am I,” Lady Hero said almost diffidently. “I was orphaned at the age of eight, you know.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t.”
Lady Hero waved aside her apology. “It was a long time ago now. But there are any number of ladies who are interested to one degree or another with the welfare of poor infants.”
“Oh,” was Temperance’s not very eloquent reply. It hadn’t occurred to her to seek a patroness. Somehow she had been thinking all along about a patron who would be like Sir Stanley Gilpin—older, wealthy, and male—when perhaps she should’ve been focusing merely on t
he wealthy bit. She smiled at Lady Hero. “How wonderful!”
Lady Hero smiled. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to show me about your home.”
“Of course,” Temperance said, but Winter descended the stairs at that moment.
“Sister, have you seen Mary Whitsun?” Winter had a line between his brows.
“Not since this morning.” She turned to look at Nell.
The maidservant shrugged. “Shall I look for her?”
“If you don’t mind, Nell,” Winter said.
Nell hurried up the stairs.
“You must be Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Hero said.
“This is Lady Hero Batten, Winter,” Temperance said.
“An honor to meet you, ma’am.” Winter bowed.
“I was just telling Mrs. Dews—” the lady began, but Nell came rushing back in the room again. She held Joseph Tinbox by one arm.
“Tell her what you’ve told me,” Nell demanded of Joseph. “Tell her where Mary Whitsun went!”
“She left,” Joseph said succinctly. His brown eyes were wide, his face so pale the freckles stood out. “She said it was all right. She said everyone was too busy.”
Temperance felt ice form in her breast. “Too busy for what?”
“A woman came and said there was a babe what needed fetching,” Joseph said. “Mary went with her.”
Temperance glanced out the door. The sky had already begun to darken, night slinking into St. Giles like an alley cat.
Dear God. Mary Whitsun was out in St. Giles at night with a mad killer on the loose.
LAZARUS DRIFTED THROUGH the late afternoon streets of St. Giles. The sun was beginning to set, the feeble rays withdrawing swiftly from tall buildings, overhanging eaves, and a myriad of swinging signs. Lazarus leapt over the corpse of a cat in the gutter and continued on his way.
He was close, very close, to finding Marie’s murderer. Again and again he’d come back to St. Giles, and this trip he felt might very well be the last one—for better or worse. Danger was lurking here, sharpening its claws, waiting for him to make a false move.
Danger or not, something deep inside him felt it only right to balance the scales. He needed to see that Marie’s murderer was punished before he could move on with Temperance. And he needed to see Temperance again. Badly. He had no doubt that the breath would stop in his chest if he could no longer touch her, speak to her, and watch those amazing golden-flecked eyes reflect her true emotions.