A Disappearance in Drury Lane

  “There you are, Gabriel,” she said without looking up. “Do you always rise so painfully early?”

  “Always.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  She looked at me then, her brows drawing together. “What has happened? You look worried. Tell me. Perhaps I can help.”

  I sat down next to her where she made room for me on the couch and rested my hand on her slim ankle. My first wife had never been the remotest bit interested in anything I did. It was refreshing to pour out the events of the morning while Donata listened and made comments with her usual perceptiveness, smoke from the cigarillo slowly curling about the two of us.

  “I do not like the sound of this Spendlove fellow,” she said when I’d finished. “He must not be encouraged to believe he can simply step into your life and cause you trouble. I have solicitors, you know, who are now at your disposal.”

  Well I knew. The Breckenridges and Pembrokes both had plenty of solicitors and men of business to deal with their properties, financial holdings, and other legal matters. I’d already faced a barrage of them over the marriage settlements that ensured I didn’t rob Donata of all she had.

  “I dislike to employ them to keep me out of Newgate,” I said.

  “Well, I do not dislike it. I went to much trouble and patience to get you to propose to me, and I’ll not lose you to a trumped-up Watchman.”

  I tried a smile. “You contrived to make me propose?”

  “Of course I did. You sparked my interest during that billiards game at Astley Close, when you were so disgusted with me. I at first wanted to punish you for your rudeness, and then I began to like you and wanted you to like me.”

  “Then my falling in love with you was according to your plan?”

  “Indeed.”

  Her feigned nonchalance warmed my heart. “Perhaps your schemes worked too well. Now you have a husband who is excellent at tweaking the noses of those in authority, and who is always perilously close to trouble.”

  Donata took a pull from her cigarillo and let smoke trickle out with her words. “I know you are. You cannot help being the man you are, which is why I have such affection for you. But I will not have my husband spending the night locked away in Bow Street for trying to help people. You will find Mrs. Collins and get Mr. Perry arrested for what he has done to you, and to the devil with Mr. Spendlove.”

  Now we came to why I had such affection for her. Her spiritedness, her caring, her interest in life beyond her own circle. I caressed her ankle. “I was not prepared to drop my search, in any case.”

  “Good.” The word was delivered with emphasis. “How will you commence? The best thing would be to ascertain Mrs. Collins’ safety. If she is in someone’s clutches, we must get her out of them.”

  “I do intend to find her,” I said. “And keep her safe if I can.”

  “I have been thinking this through while you were out. A journey to Bath might be the thing—we can look for Mrs. Collins and plan for your daughter’s future at the same time. She must learn a little polish, but that will be simple, as she has an unspoiled, natural manner. Bath is a bit plebian, but Gabriella will enjoy it. She will meet the right sort of young men there, which might bring us luck when I bring her out later in the Season.”

  My worry about Perry, Spendlove, and Mrs. Collins evaporated on a wash of confused emotions. “She’s a girl still. Why are you so quick to marry her off?” I must have sounded resentful, because Donata gave me a look of surprise.

  “Gabriella is nearly eighteen. Better for her to settle soon into a match—the engagement can last as long as anybody wishes. A betrothal to a good gentleman prevents her eloping with a slippery-tongued blackguard or accepting an offer in desperation from an old French farmer who needs a nursemaid.”

  All good arguments, but we were talking about my little girl. “You had an early marriage,” I pointed out, making my voice gentle. “Arranged by your family.”

  “If you mean I should give up looking for a good match for Gabriella because my first marriage was a disaster, you will fail to convince me. The match was perfectly fine, as a matter of fact. My parents and I were much deceived in Breckenridge’s character, is all. But my widow’s portion is more than adequate, I have use of this house for my lifetime and a place at the Hampshire estate until my son marries, the dower house after that. And Peter’s future is assured.”

  True, Breckenridge at least had not kept his wife in penury, but he’d been crude, disgusting, and openly promiscuous.

  Donata continued, not in the least bothered by Breckenridge now. “A perfect excuse all around to allow you to look for your missing actress. We’ll let Gabriella enjoy London for a few days—I do need to get her fitted for a wardrobe—and then be off to see the sights. Bath first, then we’ll take Gabriella to Brighton to see the Pavilion. Grenville might even finagle an invitation inside.” It was just like Lady Breckenridge to sit, unflappable, and propose a solution, planned to the last detail.

  “Won’t leaving London upset your schedule for the Season?” I asked. Donata was famous for her musicales and soirees, which were attended by everyone who was anyone.

  “Not at all. The height of the Season isn’t for a few months, and the more important balls and events won’t happen until then. An unexpected journey is just the thing to keep life from becoming tedious. I will send a message to my man of business and tell him to hire a house for us in Bath.”

  “In which we will share a bedchamber,” I said firmly.

  “Of course,” Donata answered without blinking. “Bath’s townhouses are tiresomely small.”

  Chapter Nine

  Marianne was still not pleased I hadn’t produced Mrs. Collins out of the air in the few days I’d been inquiring about her, but she was happy she would accompany us to Bath. Grenville had promised to set her up in a fine house with plenty to do, and Marianne almost softened to me.

  We took Peter and his nanny as well, though his tutors tried most stringently to persuade Donata to leave the lad behind, so he would have no break in his education. Donata denied all requests. His tutors could join us on our sojourn if they wished, or she could hire new tutors once she arrived in Bath. The tutors, when given this ultimatum, went quiet and complied.

  “They like an easy life in London,” Donata said as she directed her maids in packing her trunk. “But they do not want to risk me severing their connection to Peter completely. I learned very early on how gentlemen would attempt to ingratiate themselves to my son, so they might be rewarded when he comes into his majority. I must be very careful about who is around him. The manner in which gentlemen try to exploit a six-year-old is rather disgusting.”

  I found it so too, and knew that many speculated I’d married Donata in order to have influence over the very young, very rich viscount. The fact that Donata did not share their opinion was gratifying.

  The Auberges chose to stay in London, in Donata’s house, when offered the opportunity, the fiftyish couple a bit tired from all the traveling they’d been doing. Now that Lady Breckenridge and I were safely married, they considered us adequate chaperones for Gabriella, and, after all, I was her true father. By law, Gabriella was mine, and mine alone. I’d agreed she could continue living with her mother only because of my compassion for Gabriella. I’d decided after painful contemplation that I wanted her to be happy more than I wanted to possess her.

  The final travel arrangements were a bit awkward. Marianne would ride alone in a chaise provided by Grenville, while Donata, Gabriella, Peter and his nanny, and I would cram together in a hired landau. None but me and Gabriella were surprised by this. Donata explained patiently that, in the eyes of the world, Grenville’s actress-mistress was hardly fitting company for a young miss like Gabriella. We had to pretend Marianne was not part of our party, which I thought absurd, but Marianne surprisingly agreed.

  “I’ll not have it put about that Gabriella was ruined because of me,” she said. “The newspapers can print whatever drivel they wish o
f Grenville and his second-rate actress, but Gabriella will not be a part of that, not if I can help it.”

  And so it was decided. We set off for Bath the next morning, planning to break the journey at Reading and again at Chippenham. Had I been alone, I would have pushed through in a very long day, but my lady wife was not inclined to arrive in Bath winded and exhausted like a post horse, as she put it. Grenville, who staved off his motion sickness by riding horseback again, would need to change horses often as well.

  Our journey took us through the heart of Berkshire, a cold land in this season, but the weather continued crisp and clear. As we neared Hungerford, Grenville informed us that Marianne wanted to stop for a time.

  I understood why, and acquiesced. Donata was not adverse to stopping either—a quiet meal in the parlor of an inn was just the thing, and Peter could have a nap.

  The innkeeper in the high street in Hungerford gave us his best rooms. He remembered me from my brief stay at the nearby Sudbury School, but was a bit more deferential to me now that I’d arrived with such a grand party. Donata retired with Gabriella and Peter to the upstairs parlor, and Marianne informed Grenville and me, in the common room below, that she was setting off on her visit.

  “I want Lacey to go with me,” Marianne announced as she tied her bonnet. “Not you, please,” she said to Grenville.

  Grenville drew a breath but let it out again. In another circumstance, he might grow angry, but I saw him rein in his temper. “Why not me?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Because he’s not afraid of Lacey,” Marianne said.

  Grenville flushed but again I watched him dampen his anger. He understood, even if he didn’t like it.

  “Very well,” he said, trying to make his tone light as we entered the hall. “I and the new Mrs. Lacey will sit upstairs, peer out of windows, and laugh at the quaint customs of the natives.”

  “Why would you do that, Mr. Grenville?” my daughter asked, walking down the stairs. She’d been instructed to stay at Donata’s side, but I’d discovered she was not one to blindly obey. “Laugh at the villagers, I mean? I live in a village.”

  Grenville’s cheeks reddened. “I beg your pardon, my dear. I said it in jest. I am a dandy. It is a requirement that I wear the best clothes, squint at people through my quizzing glass, and make rude remarks.”

  “Why?” Gabriella asked in perfect candor.

  Marianne laughed. “She sounds like you, Lacey. Shall we go?”

  “Might I come with you?” Gabriella asked. “I feel cramped from the carriage. I’d love a good stretch.”

  “It is a long way,” I said. “Another five or so miles. And Mrs. Lacey likes your company.”

  “I am robust,” Gabriella said, looking stubborn. “And she and Mr. Grenville get on well. They talk about things I don’t understand, such as how it is correct to be rude to people.”

  Grenville looked half amused, half discomfited. I enjoyed my daughter’s company, but I hesitated. Marianne’s errand was highly private, and it was not my business to say who could learn her secrets.

  Marianne herself answered. “Of course you may come, Gabriella. But no more than you and Lacey.”

  I agreed, and we prepared to set off. I went upstairs to explain to Donata, who was already settling in with newspapers, coffee, and cigarillos, that Gabriella would accompany us. Grenville joined Donata, pretending to be so weary from the journey he had to sink into a chair and not move for several hours.

  I hired riding horses for us. Gabriella might call herself robust, but I had no wish for her to walk five miles out and five miles back in this cold. We had to go by horseback rather than the coach, as the last mile or so was off any good road. I was happy to see that Gabriella rode competently—Major Auberge clearly had taught her well.

  The Kennet and Avon canal, which ran alongside the town of Hungerford, was icy though not frozen over. Ice and snow clung to the canal’s banks, and the air was frosty. We traveled along the towpath, trees cutting the rather sharp breeze that blew across the fields. After Froxfield, we left the canal and rode across country to the small house Marianne had led me to once before, nearly a year ago.

  I noticed changes in the cottage immediately. The roof had been repaired. The woodwork looked more sturdy, and the stone walls had been refreshed with whitewash. While the garden was now covered with snow, I saw vegetable beds readied for spring. Smoke rose from the wide chimney, and the front door was firmly closed.

  When Marianne had revealed her secret to me, I’d realized why she’d been stealing my candles and the remains of my suppers—she’d sent as much money as she could to this place, and filching from me let her provide even more coin. Grenville, once he’d learned about the house, had proved his generosity, as the repairs indicated. He gave Marianne as much money as she demanded, and Marianne, to her credit, sent it all here.

  The door opened as we dismounted, the plump woman I’d been introduced to only as Maddie looking out at us.

  “Oh, miss, I’m glad you’ve finally come. He’s been in such a state, wondering if you’d ever arrive, saying you’d been killed on the road.”

  “Not at all,” Marianne said, speaking loudly so her voice could be heard inside. “It’s a bit snowy, and the horses had to go slowly. But we’re here now.”

  Marianne went inside. I paused in the doorway, indicating Gabriella should wait as well.

  “Marianne’s son,” I said in a quiet voice to Gabriella. “He is . . .”

  I couldn’t finish, because I did not know what to say about David. Different? Unusual? Perhaps mad?

  Marianne called back to us. “You may come in now.”

  I ushered Gabriella into the house. The ground floor was a wide kitchen, warm against the winter day, a stair in the corner leading above. The flagstones were clean, the fire high, signs of dinner preparations on the long table. Marianne sat on the wooden settle near the hearth, her son David on her lap.

  David was about eight, but he clung to Marianne as a much younger boy might. His body was plump, his legs long, his chubby face emphasizing his too-close eyes, large forehead, and slack mouth. He said, “Mummy,” again and again as Marianne rocked him.

  Gabriella’s first surprise when she saw him turned to understanding. She moved to Marianne, unafraid, and sat down next to her. “Poor boy,” she said.

  David, hearing a new voice, looked up, his face red and tear-streaked. Gabriella smiled at him. “I’m Gabriella. How do you do?”

  David wiped his nose with his hand, smearing mucus on his faintly dirty face, and did not answer.

  “This is David,” Marianne said. “My son.” She spoke fiercely, as though daring anyone to debate the fact.

  “How is he?” I asked Maddie, who was his caretaker.

  “Oh, full of mischief most days, but we rub along. Don’t we, Davy? He’s been asking and asking about his mum. He don’t like to be too much without her.”

  “I come as often as I can,” Marianne said in a hard voice. “And I send the money.”

  “Bless you, child, I know that,” Maddie said. “We’re ever so grateful. I bought Davy new boots. He wore right through the others.”

  “Where is his father?” Gabriella asked Marianne in a gentle voice.

  “Dead and gone,” Marianne said without inflection. She’d never told me who David’s father had been, only that he was dead.

  “So you have taken care of him?” Gabriella said. “That was awfully good of you. And Maddie too.”

  “Not much choice, was there?” Marianne asked, her tone still sharp.

  Gabriella shrugged. “You could have left him in a hospital, given him to another family, abandoned him in the street. People do, you know.”

  Marianne gave her a startled look then transferred her gaze to me. “Lacey, your daughter is a mite too worldly for her young age.”

  “Things happen, even in the provinces,” Gabriella said. “One of my cousins was born like David. We look after him. Some of the villagers say he w
as cursed by God, but that’s nonsense. He’s a sweet boy. No, it happens when the child is growing in the womb, doctors say. No one knows quite what or why, but it’s to do with anatomy, not curses.”

  Marianne pulled David close. “I tried to keep him with me. But others said stupid things, like he was bad luck, and they threatened to sling me out. So I found a home for him with Maddie. She was an actress in my company, but tired of it all.”

  “Ready to put up me feet,” Maddie said good-naturedly. She’d returned to the table and began shelling peas into a bowl. “Marianne said I could have a house and allowance and look after David. Restful out here in the country.”

  “Did you know Abigail Collins?” I asked her.

  “Abby? Of course, I did. Everyone knows Abby. What a talent she has. I gather she’s done well for herself at Drury Lane.”

  “She’s gone missing,” Marianne said.

  Maddie’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye? How can she be missing? Season hasn’t started yet, has it? She always goes to the seaside and Bath, don’t she?”

  “Perhaps not this time,” Marianne said then quickly told Maddie the tale of Abigail’s fright and departure.

  “Do you know who would be cruel enough to try to harm her?” I asked Maddie.

  Maddie went on shelling the peas, her movements slowing while she considered. “It’s been a long while since I had a conversation with anyone in the theatre. I left the traveling players—never went to London. There were those who were jealous of her, of course. Abby had talent, she did. But that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t know who would have it in for her now.”

  “What about a place she’d hide if need be?” I asked. “A special place she liked to go?”

  “Well, now, these days she’d have plenty of blunt to go anywhere she liked. Paris even. But in the old days, she had a couple of places. A little boardinghouse in Bath, in a passage called Cook’s Lane near the Old Bridge. She could put her feet up and watch the world go by, she said, and no one would know. Also in Brighton, in Hove, actually, in a little house. She wouldn’t tell no one where that was, not even me, and we were such mates. Now that she’s famous, she can afford a nice townhouse in Bath and likely one in Brighton itself. But I ain’t seen her in years.”