Sabine vowed to do better, no matter what happened. If the Courtlands would see her, she would make a point to be friendly after Stoker had gone.
“Here we are,” said Elisabeth, gesturing to an out-of-the-way door that led to a cramped stairwell. The sound of voices, clanging, wood chair legs on a stone floor rose from below.
“I assume Stoker has told you about my foundation?” Elisabeth asked, preceding her down the stairs.
Sabine nodded. “He said that you seek to rescue prostitutes and then retrain them for honest work?”
“Oh, very good, so you do know. And look at you, able to say the words without blushing. Stoker has done his duty by me. I never know if he spares us a thought when he is away.”
“Stoker regards you so very highly and he admires your work. You were one of the first people he mentioned when I—That is, when he regained consciousness.”
“He begged you not to bring him here, didn’t he?”
“Er . . .” Sabine missed a step. “I believe he did not wish for you to worry.”
“I worry anyway,” she said on a sigh.
They reached the bottom step and turned a corner into a bustling kitchen and scullery. Elisabeth led her to an unoccupied spot in a corner and began to point out servants diligently at work on tasks around the room, stirring pots, scrubbing dishes, kneading dough, carrying baskets heaped with vegetables. The fragrant smell of baking bread filled the room, and the idle chatter of the women rose and fell amid chopping knives and clanging copper pots.
“You put the rescued girls to work as your servants?” Sabine asked, trying not to sound a little alarmed.
Elisabeth laughed. “Ah, no. Not exactly. The brothel raids are not a means to staff my own kitchen, but wouldn’t that be handy? My foundation offices are across town, and it includes a boardinghouse where the girls live. They rest, receive medical care, and slowly, when they are ready, learn some trade. Some do become maids of kitchen staff—although rarely for me. Others become typists or store clerks. We do not encourage factory work, but sometimes the girls don’t feel suited for working in service. The foundation is staffed with caring older women who hold no contempt or judgment over the girls, but want only to help them discover some different life. I am there most days. It is a very demanding enterprise, but it gives my life meaning—that is, along with my family, of course.”
“Of course,” Sabine said. If Elisabeth Courtland meant to impress her, she had.
“The reason I am able to bring such direct help to so many girls,” Elisabeth went on, “is because Stoker came to me all those years ago and volunteered to begin physically rescuing young prostitutes from their situations. Without him, I would have been just another fund-raiser, raising money so that some man at a church or in government could decide how to spend it. He was . . . he was the perfect combination of daring, and capable, and willing to help. He was only a boy, but certainly no adult man would have consented to do it. And a boy of less courage or cunning would never have succeeded.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll never forget the first girls he brought to me. He and I had only discussed in theory what might be achieved by raiding a brothel. And then suddenly here he was, standing outside the kitchen door”—she pointed to the door across the room—“with three bedraggled women and a little girl.” She shook her head, remembering.
“I believe it is a cause about which he feels very strongly,” Sabine said, watching her face.
“Do you think so?” Elisabeth asked quietly. “Because I can never be certain. That is, I know he despises prostitution and I know he believes I’ve worked hard to improve many lives, but I never knew for certain whether he was fighting against prostitution or simply . . . fighting. Do you understand?”
Sabine smiled weakly and said nothing. She had no idea why Stoker fought. A man had tried to kill him a month ago, and he did not even seem particularly motivated to find him or seek vengeance.
Elisabeth said, “I worry that, at some point, a young man like Stoker might reach his capacity for witnessing so many horrible things. When he’s seen too much, he might simply stop believing that things can be made better. This has been my worry for Stoker, a loss of hope.”
Sabine spoke without thinking. “He has spoken to me about the horrible things he has known.”
“Has he? But does he seem to know the good he’s done? The lives he’s saved? I forced him to move on eventually. I made certain he obtained an education. He had honorable friends with ambition. Now I have teams of men who go into brothels on behalf of my foundation, but they follow his same basic methods. His legacy. Does he know this?”
“I—” Sabine began and then paused. She glanced at Elisabeth. “He is rather haunted, I believe, by his boyhood in general. I can say that you are the one bright spot in that part of his life. In every part.”
“You mean he struggles to . . . to—To do what? Sleep? Carry on? Find joy in the simple pleasures of life?”
“No—That is, I cannot say. Forgive me for speaking out of turn. He—”
“But it affects your marriage?” Elisabeth assumed. “I know the circumstances surrounding your wedding were . . . practical rather than romantic, but we were so encouraged by Joseph and Tessa’s relationship, and Cassin and Willow’s. And then to learn he’s been staying in your home for nearly a month? I was elated. I didn’t even care about his stab wound, as heartless as that sounds. I was so very grateful that he went to you to heal.”
“Yes, well, he came to me for convenience’s sake in the beginning, I’m afraid,” said Sabine. “And then he was too very ill to move. And now? Now we have settled into something like a congenial sort of . . . accord.”
This was a lie, she thought. He remains so I will not prowl the countryside, hunting smugglers.
“But your feelings are . . . warm, I hope?” asked Elisabeth. “I have lain awake at night for years, hoping for a girl who could make him feel warm.”
“Oh, I’m certain there are plenty of girls with warm feelings for Jon Stoker.”
Elisabeth laughed. “No, I mean true feelings. An authentic caring that embraces all of him, even the haunted parts, especially the haunted parts. A girl who sees beyond the dashing outer shell.”
“I am finding it difficult to broach the haunted parts,” Sabine said, looking away.
“Oh, but you mustn’t give up,” said Elisabeth breathlessly. “Please, Sabine, I’ve only just met you, but the moment I saw you standing by his side in the entryway—proud and confident but also . . . cautious—I knew you were a young woman who was up to the challenge of loving him. And then to see him follow you with his eyes, to hear him use discretion when he speaks of details that might bring you unease? His fondness is obvious. The only thing that matters to me is that Stoker finds someone to love him as he should be loved, and that he may love her back.
“Forgive me if I assume too much,” she went on. “I promise that I did not lure you to the scullery to . . . set upon you with my hopes for your marriage. It is not like me to prattle on,” she said, swiping a tear away. “No brother could be dearer to me than Stoker. And when I hear that he is haunted, I can but assume the worst and blame myself. In this, I am quite at your mercy. Please, Sabine, I implore you, stay the course if you can bear it. He has so much love to give.”
Sabine blinked at Elisabeth, entirely at a loss. “I do not intend to abandon him,” she heard herself say. “And I do not intend to be abandoned myself.”
Elisabeth laughed a tearful laugh. “Oh, I could not have put it better.” She reached out and squeezed Sabine’s hand. “But let me introduce you to someone. She is the reason I have dragged you to the scullery. Let me see, where is she? Ah, there she is.”
Elisabeth whispered to a passing hall boy who went to the giant worktable in the center of the kitchens and tapped on the shoulder of a tall woman. The boy jabbed a thumb in their direction, and the woman craned to see. She nodded and put aside her bowl, crossing to their corner as she wiped her hands on
her apron.
“Hello, ma’am,” the woman called to Elisabeth, smiling as she emerged from the bustle of the kitchens. The closer she got, the more clearly her face could be seen through the smoke and flour. At first glance, Sabine thought the woman had a large smear of batter or perhaps ash across one side of her face, but as she neared, Sabine could see that she had been, in fact, scarred, most likely by a terrible burn, from scalp to neck. Scar tissue pulled damaged skin tightly across her eye and cheek, and her mouth and ear had puckered into a disfigured sort of droop. Part of her hair had been burned away.
“Hello, Constance,” sang Elisabeth, smiling. “Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve someone I’d like you to meet. What are you making?”
“Tarts, ma’am,” said Constance, smiling her crooked smile. “Using the last of the raspberries.”
“Oh, the children will be thrilled, and I shall have dessert for breakfast for a week.” Elisabeth turned to Sabine. “Constance is responsible for all the pastries and pudding in our house, and how fortunate we are to have her. I’ve had foreign dignitaries, duchesses, members of court endeavor to hire her away. But I could never part with her, and she is loyal enough to remain in my meager kitchen.”
“Oh, you do go on, ma’am!” enthused Constance. “Weren’t nothing but a bit of sugar and flour.”
“And she’s as tight as a drum when it comes to her recipes, as you can see. I cannot complain. I quite like having the finest pudding in London.” Elisabeth turned back to the cook. “Constance, I thought you might like to meet our guest. She has been enjoying your currant buns with our tea, so your reputation precedes you. May I present the wife of Jon Stoker—” she held out an open palm “—Mrs. Sabine Stoker. He’s brought her home to meet us. At last.” Elisabeth beamed back and forth between the two women.
Constance made a sharp intake of breath and clapped her hands over her mouth, sending a puff of flour into the air. Her eyes filled with tears.
“How do you do?” said Sabine uncertainly.
The woman dropped her hands from her face and took up Sabine’s right hand, shaking it vigorously in both of her own. “I’m so thrilled to know you, ma’am, so very thrilled. Stoker . . . Stoker. . . .” She broke off, tears spilling down her damaged cheeks. She looked at Elisabeth miserably.
Elisabeth gave Constance a half hug. “Remember when I said that I don’t hire girls from my foundation in my own household? Well, that is not entirely true. Sometimes, on occasion, in special circumstances, someone from the charity does make her way into our lives here at Denby House. And Constance is an example of that—much to our delight, as I’ve said. She has been with us since just after Bryson and I married. Constance was rescued from a terrible situation in Cripplegate, and it was Stoker, then only fifteen or sixteen, who rescued her. Along with several others.”
Constance nodded tearfully along, looking between Elisabeth and Sabine. She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose. “I would have died if he’d not crashed in on the house where I was being held—and I tell you, I would have welcomed death. He wasn’t even a grown man. He came in through the window with two other boys. He worked quick like, locking doors and gathering us up. He took us out the window, the same way he’d come. We told him that he’d gotten us all, but when we were in the street, he went back and crawled in and out of every room. And did you know he came out with another girl? I’d been there nigh on two years, and I didn’t even know the whoreson who held us had someone else locked up. That girl didn’t make it, God love her, but she didn’t die in that hellhole, and that is a small blessing.” She shook her head as if to clear away painful memories, and smiled at Sabine again. “I’ve so much to be thankful for because of Stoker. And now he’s taken a wife!” She looked at Sabine up and down. “But how beautiful and proper. He always deserved the most beautiful and proper wife, didn’t he, ma’am?”
Sabine cut in, “I’m not sure about how proper I am. I can be demanding and stubborn, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Stoker won’t mind that. It’s the shrinking violet what would bore him to tears.”
“Well, I’m certainly not that,” Sabine joked. If Stoker knew she was in the basement claiming to be his actual, loving wife, God only knew how he would respond.
“But can you cook?” asked Constance, gesturing to the kitchen.
Sabine cringed. “I’m afraid not. I’m a cartographer by trade, actually. I make maps.”
“Has a trade, does she?” marveled Constance. “Stoker was right to wait for the correct girl, ma’am.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Elisabeth, beaming at Sabine.
They chatted a moment more before Constance excused herself to return to her dough. Elisabeth gave Sabine a grateful look and then led the way back to the parlor.
“I hope you didn’t expect us to discuss weather on this little tour,” she said, climbing the dim stairwell.
“I did not know what to expect, honestly,” said Sabine.
“Bryson will say that it was wrong of me to inundate you with this history, but I am not prudent in that way. When you witness matters of life and death on a daily basis, you lose patience with idle chatter.”
“Was the woman Constance injured . . . in the kitchens?” Sabine asked.
Elisabeth shook her head. “The man who held her captive in his brothel pressed a burning torch to her face each time she refused to accommodate customers. A terrible story. One of many, unfortunately. But she has done so well since. She has so much talent to give and she enjoys her work. I wasn’t exaggerating about her exploits in the kitchen. We are lucky to have her.” She climbed a few more steps. “We are lucky to have every girl. Some might consider the cost of helping them to be very high. Bryson takes my work in stride and loves me for my conviction, but it was never the life he envisioned. My children have always had to share me with my commitments to the foundation. And Stoker—Stoker has witnessed the worst of humanity firsthand. I see degradation and despair when the girls are delivered to me, but it is nothing compared to what Stoker had encountered when he entered these establishments to extract the girls. It could not but take its toll, especially on the way he views men and women and sex. He has so much love to give, of this I am certain, but there may be some . . . some memories to overcome.” She turned to Sabine and gave an apologetic smile. “Not to impose undue pressure.”
Sabine laughed. She felt more resolved to help Jon Stoker find love with every breath.
Elisabeth laughed, a clear, musical sound. They spilled from the stairwell into the great hall, wiping their eyes and fanning for fresh air.
The men were still in the parlor, their voices louder and more relaxed than the stiff, formal conversation of before. Elisabeth rushed in.
“Stoker, I must congratulate you on your wife,” she said, sitting on the arm of her husband’s chair. The men scrambled to stand. “Sabine has my wholehearted approval. I adore her.”
“This comes as no surprise,” Stoker said simply. Sabine drifted to his side. She wanted desperately to take his arm, to throw her arms around him, but she hovered instead.
Mr. Courtland said to Sabine, “Stoker tells me you wish to look in on the Portsmouth ship owner, Phineas Legg?” He retook his seat.
“Oh yes. Stoker said he might be of your acquaintance.”
“Well, I know of his family. The ships from my shipyard are beyond their means, I’m afraid, but he has inquired after retired equipment and even out-of-service boats that we sell at a reduced price.”
“When Stoker is well enough,” Sabine said, “I intend to travel to Portsmouth to look in on him. I’m not sure what Stoker has said, but I believe him to be working with my uncle at something not entirely legal. I am determined to have them reported.”
“Yes, Stoker has told me,” said Mr. Courtland. “But rather than travel to Portsmouth, why not bring Legg to London? As I mentioned, Elisabeth and I are hosting a ball next week. Most of maritime London will be invited, as well as mariners from other port citie
s. I had not included Legg on the guest list, but he would be an easy addition. The crowd will represent a step up from Legg’s usual acquaintances, if I had to guess. I cannot imagine he would turn the invitation down, even at last minute. It would allow you to get a look at him here in London before taking yourself off to Portsmouth. Would this be useful?”
Sabine was nodding before he finished. “Oh, but that would be a huge convenience and great benefit to us—er, to me. Thank you so much. Are you certain you don’t mind?”
Mr. Courtland looked at his wife. Elisabeth made a dismissive wave of her hand. “What’s another wealthy sailor staggering around the ballroom? You know I have no opinion about the ball, except to complain about having to attend it.”
Mr. Courtland turned back. “It’s all settled. I will invite Mr. Legg this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” breathed Sabine again, and now she did reach out to wrap her arm around Stoker’s biceps, clinging tightly. His muscle tensed under her hand, but she did not let go. She glanced at him. Stoker and Bryson were sharing a look. Sabine realized that perhaps the invitation to Mr. Legg had already been decided. The men had solved the problem of Portsmouth and dear Mr. Legg while she’d been in the cellar with Elisabeth. How clever they must feel, but two could play this game.
Sabine cleared her throat. “But Mr. Courtland?”
“Bryson, please,” the older man corrected.
“Bryson,” she continued. “Would it trouble you terribly to add just one more unexpected guest to the party? That is, if it really is a large affair and hangers-on won’t be noticed?”
“Not at all. How could we be of service?”
“Our research has also brushed up against an old aristocrat living in Chelsea—the Duke of Wrest? Do you know him?”
Sabine could feel Stoker tense beneath her arm.
“Wrest . . .” mused Mr. Courtland. “I cannot say that I do.”
“He’s rather old and not out of society,” said Sabine. She hurried to finish, “Even so, would you consider including him, as well?”
You May Kiss the Duke Page 18
