Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  Grace was tearful when it was time for me to depart, but she went upstairs with the Millburns’ children to do more studies. I heard them laughing and exclaiming as Grace told them about my funny stories, their boisterousness pleasant to hear.

  The sky was darkening, and I needed to return to Mount Street and prepare another repast for the Rankin household. As much as I wanted to linger, I had to say farewell until my half day out on Monday.

  As I began to gather my things in the foyer, Joanna came to me. “May we speak to you a moment, Kat?” she asked in a subdued voice.

  I felt a qualm but hung my coat and hat back on hooks on the hall tree, the hat’s feathers fluttering. My chest tightened with worry as I followed Joanna into the sitting room, which had been cleared of our tea by Joanna’s maid-of-all-work. Samuel Millburn was already there, standing up when we entered and giving his wife a grave glance.

  I fully expected them to tell me something had happened to Grace—she’d been hurt or ill—although she’d seemed quite healthy. Or that they could no longer keep her. I did not at all like the seriousness on their faces.

  “Gracious,” I said, my throat dry. “You both look as cheerful as a churchyard.”

  Joanna flushed, and Samuel’s expression held guilt. “Do not worry,” Joanna said quickly. “This is good news. At least—we hope so.”

  “What?” I folded my hands to keep them from fluttering. “Are you expecting again?” I moved my gaze to Joanna’s belly, but it seemed flat enough under her plain green frock and white pinafore.

  “Good heavens, no.” Joanna’s usual verve returned. “I’m far too old for that now. No—Kat—dear . . .”

  She bade me sit down on the sofa, then she sank next to me and took my hands. Samuel lowered himself into a nearby chair and watched us closely, a concerned look on his plain face.

  “What we wanted to say to you, Kat,” Joanna said, “is that we wish to adopt Grace.” She finished in a rush. “To take her in as ours. To have her become our daughter in truth.”

  13

  They gazed at me, did my friends, their faces set with hope, eagerness, and anxiousness about my response—Joanna with her faded brown hair in a tight bun, the prettiness of her girlhood still on her face and in her brown eyes; Sam with his black hair combed flat and a thick mustache that couldn’t hide the gentle lines about his mouth.

  I sat so still I believe my heart ceased beating. I couldn’t draw a breath, my lungs not understanding how to work.

  I said nothing for so long that Joanna cast a worried glance at Samuel.

  “We already think of Grace as our own,” Sam said into the silence. “She is like a sister to our brood. She and our oldest, Jane, have become quite close.”

  “The little ones adore her,” Joanna put in. “Sam tells me that adoption will not be much of a problem in the legal sense. Your husband died penniless with no provision for her, no will stating his wishes for her, no one in his family willing to take her in, so you have said.”

  I made myself nod to her question. There was no will. My false husband had taken ship from Gravesend ten years ago, when I’d been carrying Grace, and never returned. The ship in question had gone down with all hands, no survivors. When I’d begun inquiring about a will, it came to light that he’d had another wife in Bristol, a woman he’d married before he’d met me, with whom he’d sired two children. Thus I learned that his perfidy had made me a fallen woman and my daughter illegitimate. I desperately hid this fact from the world, but my actions did not erase the truth.

  I knew nothing about my husband’s family, and in any case, I’d never tried to find them. Grace was mine. That was all.

  Now my friends smiled at me and offered to relieve me of my burden.

  I cleared my throat, but when I spoke, my voice was choked and unlike my own. “The expense,” I managed. “I must provide . . .”

  Joanna’s hopeful smile widened. “That is more good news. Sam has been given a rise in wages and a better position. That is why we waited to approach you. We would have done so long ago, but we’ve been poor as church mice, as you know.”

  I did know. I sent a good part of my wages to Joanna and Sam to buy my daughter clothing, food, and fuel to warm her.

  “Now you will not have to provide for her,” Sam went on.

  Joanna at last seemed to sense some of my distress. She put a comforting arm around me. “Goodness, we sprang this on you too quickly. Of course, you must think it over. But do let us help you, dearest Kat. You have endured enough.”

  My neck hurt as I bent it in a nod. “Yes. I will think on it.” I drew in a long breath, looking both of them over. “You are good, good people,” I said, meaning the words. “But I must . . .”

  I shook off Joanna’s hold and rose to my feet, my hands so numb I dropped my reticule. Sam quickly fetched it as he sprang up and gave it back to me.

  He was a kind man. I saw it in his eyes. He was a fine husband to Joanna and loved his children. He’d care for Grace as much as he did his own daughters—he was that sort of person.

  I took myself out of the parlor, fetched my coat and hat from the foyer, and managed to don them unassisted, although I have no idea how. I pulled on my gloves as Joanna came to see me off, my face so fixed I thought it would crack.

  “Good-bye, dear Kat.” Joanna kissed my cheek and held the door open for me. She whispered, “We want what’s best for Grace. Please believe that.”

  I did believe it. I’d known they’d care for Grace, which was why I’d left her here weeks after she was born while I went out and found a post that would pay me as well as I could expect.

  The door closed behind me. I moved my feet from doorstep to road, automatically pointing myself to Cheapside, with St. Paul’s looming above the rooftops.

  After that, I have no idea where I went. Cheapside becomes Newgate Street, which leads alongside the gray, forbidding bulk of the prison. I’d once spent a terrible day inside that prison, certain I’d never leave it, but at the same time relieved my daughter had been safe with the Millburns not far away.

  I had vowed never to pass that place again, but here I was walking by. The walls did not reach out to engulf me; indeed, I barely noticed the miasma of fear and despair as I passed.

  The road became the Holborn Viaduct, taking me up and over the railway and other roads, and dropping down again into a circus, from which several streets radiated.

  I should have continued on the wide lane of High Holborn, but it was so choked with carriages and carts, horses and people, that I automatically turned aside, seeking a less-crowded path. I came to myself in a little court in a maze of tiny streets, with no idea how I’d come there or which little passageway would take me out again. I wandered about lanes that contained what I supposed were law offices—the houses were uniform, respectable, faceless, uncaring.

  At last a kindly black-gowned pupil took pity on me and escorted me through the warren until we came out on Fleet Street. He chattered at me in the way of the young, though I had no idea of one word he said. He lifted his hat to me when we emerged, and I believe I thanked him for his assistance.

  At Temple Bar I realized my feet ached, and that I had a long way to go before I reached Mayfair. Ahead of me was the bulk of St. Clement Danes, the curve of street around it packed with vehicles and people.

  I ought to have found an omnibus or a hansom, but I pushed my way through, mindlessly walking, though I wasn’t certain where anymore. I passed the slender elegance of St. Mary le Strand without stopping to admire it as I usually did. The only significance it held for me was that it told me I was near Somerset House and Waterloo Bridge.

  At Southampton Street I came out of my daze. I stood at the corner and looked up its length toward Covent Garden and the chaos of its market at the end.

  People bumped me as they hastened by, men in dark suits that would hide the grime o
f London’s coal smoke. Women with baskets moved briskly past, some shooting me irritated and disapproving looks. Whatever was my business, I’d best get about it, their gazes told me.

  I turned and walked up Southampton Street, but I halted long before I neared Covent Garden. I stood in front of the house that held Daniel’s lodgings, though I knew he would not be there. He was at the house on Mount Street, running errands for Mr. Davis, trying to investigate Sinead’s death, and keeping a close eye on Lord Rankin.

  It was not the thing for a lady to stop uninvited at a gentleman’s lodgings, but my thoughts were anything but clear at the moment. Perhaps Mrs. Williams would let me into her parlor and give me a cup of tea, which might fortify me long enough to get home.

  If I ever went back to Lord Rankin’s, that was.

  The house’s front door, next to the pawnbrokers, was unlocked, but no one was about. I heard a swishing noise in the back of the hall when I went inside, where another door led out into a tiny yard, but it was only a maid on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. She didn’t look up, never noticing me.

  I took the empty stairs to Daniel’s floor—no sound came from Mrs. Williams’s rooms as I passed them. I was not certain why I wanted to go stand at Daniel’s door, but something drew me there.

  I rested my hand on the door handle, an old-fashioned thing shaped like a bird’s wing. To my surprise, the handle turned and the door opened.

  I stepped quickly into the front room and shut myself inside. As I did, my strength rushed out of me, and I found myself sitting down on the nearest chair, the plainest one, my legs no longer able to hold me. My corset cut into my side and up under my arms, but I could not move to make myself more comfortable.

  I sat, unable to think, unable to do anything but struggle to breathe, struggle to understand what I was feeling.

  The entire reason I rose in the small hours of the morning and dragged myself into a kitchen to cook for people who mostly didn’t notice what they ate was because of Grace. Everything I did, everything I endured was to make sure Grace was well, healthy, fed, clothed, cared for.

  I was an arrogant woman, telling others about the moral virtue of hard work, when I only performed it for one end—the well-being of my daughter. Without that to drive me, what I did was empty. Drudgery. The pride I took in creating praiseworthy meals was meaningless.

  My friends were offering me a way to see that Grace was kept well for life. Mr. Millburn was a respectable man in a respectable position—he could ensure that Grace moved in such circles herself, which would enable her to marry well when the time came. Also, she would have a father, Sam, the only man she’d ever known as such.

  I should want that for her. I loved Grace—I should want her to have a happy home, a good future, people who would care for her. After all, that was why I had asked my friend Joanna to take her in while I worked.

  They could give her what I couldn’t—what I was struggling to work toward. A home, a name, a comfortable life.

  And yet, the selfish soul in me couldn’t bear to let her go. I found my arms closing around myself, hugging tightly, as though I held Grace in my embrace. I closed my eyes, rocking back and forth, images of the night the midwife had put her into my arms taking over my thoughts. The midwife had advised me to give Grace to a foundling hospital, since my husband was gone and I had nothing. The woman had stood over me, hands outstretched, and told me to give her the babe—she’d take her away quickly, best thing.

  I’d held Grace and defied the midwife, sending her off with harsh words. Grace was mine. My daughter, my only love, my life.

  People adopted children all the time, I tried to reason with myself. Nephews, nieces, grandchildren, children of friends. It was common for families to raise not only their immediate offspring but those who’d found their way into their homes for whatever reason. The Millburns were offering nothing people hadn’t been doing for hundreds of years. Could I deny Grace that?

  And yet . . .

  The door banged open. I jerked up my head and opened my eyes, but I knew even before I saw the man who’d entered that he wasn’t Daniel. Daniel charged the air in a room, sent the very dust motes crackling.

  The man who peered at me, squinting a little and stooping forward as though nearsighted, had thick dark hair that swept back from his forehead and a young face, though I could see he was past his first youth, perhaps in his early thirties. His clothes were well tailored, his watch chain gold, and he held a hat and walking stick that had likely come from expensive shops. In short, he wore the same sort of clothing as Daniel did when he dressed as the City gent, and I wondered dimly if Daniel didn’t copy this man’s ensemble.

  “I beg your pardon,” the man said to me in a cultured baritone. “The door was open.”

  I rose slowly to my feet with a creak of corset, my usual robustness absent. “If you are seeking Mr. McAdam, he is not here,” I said, my voice tired.

  The gentleman looked me up and down, the squint deepening, as though he had no idea what to make of me. A woman being found alone in a man’s lodgings could mean she was a harlot, but I saw him puzzling that I didn’t appear to be so. I might therefore be some sort of relation, but if this man knew Daniel even slightly, he would know that Daniel never, ever spoke of family other than his son, James.

  “Oh,” the man answered at last. “I am not seeking him.” He gave me another look up and down then flushed as though realizing how rudely he was assessing me. “I am seeking a parcel, possibly in that desk over there.” He pointed to the small table with a drawer in the shadowy corner.

  “Possibly?” I repeated. Some of my daze receded as I realized I ought to be more on my guard. This was a stranger, invading Daniel’s rooms, looking for something in Daniel’s absence. “May I ask who you are, sir?”

  He looked taken aback at my tone, no doubt wondering why I had invaded Daniel’s empty rooms.

  “I am Thanos,” he announced. When I blinked at this declaration, delivered in stentorian tones, his flush deepened. “That is to say, my name is Mr. Elgin Thanos . . . Hang on, I have a card here somewhere.” He began patting his pockets, looking more puzzled as his hands tapped his chest, sides, thighs. “Blast it, I’m always losing the dratted things. Oh, beg pardon for my language, Miss . . . Er.”

  “Mrs.,” I said crisply. “Mrs. Holloway.”

  Mr. Thanos’s face lit, and he stopped beating his coat. “Ah, Mrs. Holloway. You’re the cook. So delighted to meet you, so very delighted.” He came at me, hand extended.

  Bewildered, I took it and was rewarded by a warm, firm grip in a smooth kid glove. “Thank you,” I said neutrally, not certain whether to curtsy. I decided to keep my knees straight and greet him as a mutual acquaintance rather than a potential employer.

  Mr. Thanos wrung my hand once more then released me. “He has not said one word about me to you, has he?” The man shook his head. “That is our Mr. McAdam. Secretive man—but he raves on about you and your cleverness. And the wonderful meals you cook. Cruel of him—most nights I manage to survive on a biscuit and tea, and in he comes waxing eloquent about your leek and mushroom soup, beef so tender it makes you weep, and vanilla soufflé light as a cloud, the bloody man. Oh, beg pardon again. My tongue, it speaks long before I have thought out what it is supposed to say.”

  I listened in fascination, but I still had no idea who he was. Thanos was a foreign-sounding name, Greek perhaps, but he looked and sounded perfectly English—though I supposed his hair was a shade blacker than most Englishmen’s. With his squint, I could not tell what color his eyes were, but he had a pale face, the wan complexion of a man who rarely went out into the sun.

  Mr. Thanos regarded me genially a moment longer before he walked quickly to the desk, opened the drawer, and extracted a bulky brown envelope, the sort a solicitor might use. Without worry, he untied the strings that held it closed and pulled out a sheaf of pape
r.

  Curiosity trickling through my confusion, I moved to where I could see the precise black writing on the very white paper.

  It meant nothing at all to me. Columns of numbers divided by thin red lines marched across the page, notes in spidery handwriting filling the margins. I was familiar with accounts, as I had to keep record of what I bought for the kitchen, but there were so many lines of numbers on this page that they began to whirl before my eyes.

  Mr. Thanos peered at the figures in the same disconcertion, then he sighed and pulled a silk pouch from his pocket, from which he extracted a pair of spectacles.

  He put these on, looping them around his ears, and blinked once, twice, as though adjusting to them. His squint went away, and he turned upon me a pair of eyes that were very wide and black behind a set of thick lenses. “Excellent,” he said. “Now I have something to work with.”

  My miasma of emotion cleared a bit, and I understood finally who he was. “You are the man helping Daniel—Mr. McAdam, I mean—understand the finances.”

  Mr. Thanos started from his rapt concentration on the numbers. “Eh? Oh yes. I am indeed.” He gave me a pleased bow. “Didn’t I tell you? I know I have a card somewhere.” He absently patted his pocket again before his eyes swiveled back to the pages. “I say, these are beautifully done.”

  He turned the papers around to me as though showing me a prize painting.

  “I am afraid I don’t know anything about figures,” I answered. To me, Mr. Thanos with his odd name and cheerful mannerisms was far more interesting than a pile of ledger sheets.

  Mr. Thanos looked surprised, but he nodded. “I suppose I would be as thoroughly lost if you put bags of produce in front of me and told me to combine them into a meal. I’m certain I would turn out something disgusting. We all have our strengths, eh? My father liked to say that, rest his soul.” He beamed at me, holding up the pages again. “These, dear lady, will lead us to dire criminals who fund those who like to blow things up.” He shook his head, sorrow quickly entering his expression. “Nasty bastards. But we’ll get them.”