Without a word, I left Felicity and Nance and pushed my own way through the market. With my longer stride and more forceful nature, I managed to move in front of the young woman and halt directly in her path.
Gabriella was sobbing. Her red face ran with tears, and her eyes were screwed shut. She tried to push past me, but I remained solidly in front of her, and she had to open her eyes and see who was in her way.
"No, not you," she cried. "I do not want to see you."
"Gabriella." I caught her elbow as she tried to sway away from me. "You cannot run pell-mell through Covent Garden market. Come with me. I will find you coffee."
"I do not want to go with you."
Her vehemence drew attention. Fortunately, I was well-known in the market, and no one made to dash off for the Watch.
"Stop," I said sternly. "Do not make a scene. Come with me and tell me what is the matter."
She seemed to realize she could not fight me, not in the crowd. She jerked from my grasp, but allowed me to lead her to Russel Street, and from there, while she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, to the bakery below my rooms in Grimpen Lane.
Mrs. Beltan raised her brows high when I pulled Gabriella inside, her hair straggling and her face swollen with weeping. I handed Gabriella my handkerchief, sat her down at on a bench in the empty shop, and asked Mrs. Beltan for coffee.
She brought it, still staring curiously at Gabriella. But Gabriella could not be mistaken for anything but a respectable miss, and Mrs. Beltan said nothing.
"What has happened?" I asked gently, once Mrs. Beltan and her assistant had returned to the kitchen.
Gabriella glared at me with red-rimmed eyes. I pushed the mug of coffee toward her, but she ignored it. "My mother told me that you were my father," she said, her words filled with rage.
I drew a long breath. "Oh."
"She did not mean to tell me. She and my father . . ." Gabriella faltered on the word, tears welling from her eyes and running silently down her face.
I sat still, wondering how to proceed. I wanted her to know the truth, but truth was a delicate thing. One wrong word, and I could shatter anything I wanted to build with her. "I spoke with your mother and Major Auberge this morning," I said. "Were they discussing that?"
"Yes." She bit off the word. "They did not know that I could hear them. But I wanted to hear them. I asked them what they meant about divorce and you wanting me with you. And so they explained." Gabriella balled her hands and stared at me in fury. "It is a lie. It must be a lie."
"I married your mother twenty-one years ago," I said slowly. "You were born four years later, in India. Carlotta Lacey is still married to me."
"That cannot be." Gabrielle stared at me as though she'd hoped I'd laugh and agree that her parents and I had decided to play a cruel trick on her.
"I regret that she never told you," I said. "I regret so many things, believe me, Gabriella."
"Stop calling me by my Christian name."
"You were named for me."
Fresh tears ran down her face. "Stop. Please."
I closed my mouth, mostly because I had no idea what to say. I wanted Gabriella back, I wanted her to know about me, but it hurt me to watch her hurting. My anger grew at Carlotta, and also Auberge, for keeping the truth from her too long.
Gabriella cried silently for a time, and then sat still, as though too exhausted to rise and leave the shop. The coffee cooled, untouched between us.
Two customers came in, plump matrons in mobcaps with a maid listlessly trailing them. Mrs. Beltan bustled out to serve them. I leaned to Gabriella. "Come upstairs and talk to me."
She nodded, not because she wanted to particularly, but because the two ladies and Mrs. Beltan were throwing curious glances at her. She pushed her loosened hair out of her face and followed me out, her breathing uneven.
I opened the door next to the bakery and took Gabriella up the stairs to my rooms. I wished I could take her to better accommodation, but she did not seem to notice the faded paint and the shabby surroundings.
Bartholomew was sprawled on the straight-backed chair in my sitting room, polishing a boot and reading a newspaper spread on my writing table at the same time. He glanced up when I came in, closed the paper, and jumped to his feet. "Afternoon, sir." He caught sight of Gabriella and stopped in surprise.
"Bartholomew, go and fetch us some dinner. Not from the Gull, bring us some good bread and perhaps fruit and a decent cut of beef. And wine, not ale."
"Right you are, sir." Bartholomew set the boots by my bedchamber door and departed. Gabriella remained in the middle of the room, staring about her as though she did not know what to do. I suspected she did not yet want to return to her parents, but at the same time, she did not wish to remain with me.
"Some food in you will help." I gestured to the wing chair. "Please, sit down."
Gabriella might have been furious and confused, but she was still a gently bred miss, trained to obey her elders. She sat gingerly on the chair, resting her hands in her lap.
I wet a handkerchief in the basin in my bedroom and brought it to her. "Wipe your face."
Sniffling, Gabriella took the cloth and dabbed her eyes. Then she unfolded it, pressed it to her face, and inhaled a long breath.
"I am truly sorry you had to find out like this," I said. "You were born after your mother and I tried to have a child several times. Nothing happened for the first few years, and then at last, we had you. I was pleased and proud of you; you were such a lovely thing. A year later, the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons, my regiment, left India for England. We were to train in Sussex, in case we were needed in the war with France, which was heating up on the seas. Then came the peace of Amiens, and we went to France with the Brandons, ostensibly as part of the party negotiating the peace between France and England." I smiled. "Really, I think Louisa and your mother had a hankering to see Paris and insisted we go. Colonel Brandon and I obliged. There, your mother met Major Auberge and eloped with him. I had not seen you nor your mother from that day until yesterday morning, when I came upon you in Covent Garden. We never properly divorced, and your mother and Auberge never properly married."
Gabriella did not move during this lecture, breathing deeply behind the handkerchief, shaking once in a while as her body wound down. Quiet filled the room, punctuated only by the slam of a door below and the shrill voices of the matrons as they left the shop, one snapping at the maid to stop lagging.
At last, Gabriella lowered the handkerchief. She delicately wiped the hollows under her eyes, her eyelashes still wet. "So he is not really my father."
I realized that she was grieving. She was losing the man she'd always believed had sired her, the man who'd raised her and looked after her, who'd kissed her goodnight and paid her dressmaker's bills when she grew older and bought her little gifts when the whim took him.
Auberge had done all the things I should have done. "No," I said. "Do you love him?"
She gave me a fierce look. "Of course. He is my papa."
"I never want to take that away from you, I promise you, Gabriella."
"Then what do you want? You sent for us. Mama said so."
"Not exactly. Mr. Denis did, although I did not tell him to do so. He knew I wanted to find you, and he brought you here."
"Why?" Gabriella balled the handkerchief in her hands, her anger erasing her compliance. "If you are my father, why have I not seen you all these years? Why did you let me grow up believing I was French, believing that my papa was my papa, that they were married to one another? Why did you never write me a letter?" She met my gaze with a furious one. "Why did you never come for me if you are truly my father?"
"I never had the chance," I said as patiently as I could. "I did not have the income to make a thorough search for you, and for much of the time, England was at war with France. I spent years on the Peninsula, up to my neck in mud and dust, fighting. When it was over, I was still too poor to try to find you, and I had thought it hopeless."
<
br /> "You ought to have tried."
"I know." I looked at her limply. "I know, Gabriella. It hurt me so much when Carlotta took you away from me. I have never recovered from it. You do not know how much it hurt to lose you."
"That was a long time ago. I am not a child any longer."
"You are the same." I studied her mussed golden brown hair, her soft dark eyes, the nose and cheekbones that were pure Lacey. "You used to hug my boot, and I'd walk with you clinging to it, and make you laugh. You kissed me good night when your mother put you to bed. You used to sit on my lap and pull at the braid on my uniform." I touched the silver cords that crisscrossed my deep blue jacket. "When you were ill or restless, I carried you about all night so you would not cry."
Her hands tightened. "I do not remember."
"I know. But I remember."
Gabriella drew a breath. "It is not the same thing. You know nothing about me."
"I want to know about you." I leaned forward, put my hand on her clenched ones. "I want to learn all about you. I want you to learn all about me. You are my daughter."
"I do not want to be your daughter."
Her answer cut me to the heart, but I did not give up hope. She was upset now, but when she grew used to the idea, she would accept the situation.
Deep down, I knew I was being a bloody fool, but I so wanted her that I would make myself believe anything.
"But I want to be your father," I said. "I wish you to stay here with me for a time, so that we can learn about each other. I want to show you London, take you to Egyptian house and the theatre and the menagerie at Exeter 'Change. I have a friend who has traveled the world, and his house is filled with amazing curiosities. He would be happy to show them off to you. He likes an audience."
I tried to smile, but Gabriella gave me an appalled stare. "Stay with you?"
"Not here, of course." I glanced at the arched ceiling, from which flakes of plaster were wont to fall if the door was slammed too hard. "I will look for larger rooms in a better house. You would need a chamber of your own in any case."
"I will not stay with you," she said quickly. "I am returning to France with my mother and father."
I shifted. "I'd like you to remain here. Not for long, a few months only. The summer perhaps. I have another friend, a viscountess, who has invited me to her country estate this summer. I imagine it is quite fine. Apparently people come for miles to pay a shilling to see the gardens."
I hoped she would smile, but she only sat silently, digesting the information. I had seen the same look on the faces of soldiers on the Peninsula upon learning that the surgeon would have to saw off one of their limbs.
"I do not want to stay," she said.
I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my patience. What had I expected, that Gabriella would brighten with joy and eagerly drag me out to look for rooms of our own? She was angry and confused, and she had decided to direct the anger at me.
"Gabriella, losing you nearly killed me. It left an emptiness in me that has never gone away. Please, let me know you."
A flicker of surprise crossed her features. In her anger, she probably had not realized that the situation caused me pain as well.
She spoke haltingly, as though choosing her words with care. "I have always been obedient as a daughter. I have always done what my mama and papa have asked me." She hesitated, her eyes darting sideways, and I almost wanted to smile. If Gabriella was anything like me, she'd have learned how to evade obeying when it suited her. "Will they ask me to do this as well?"
I had to shake my head. "Carlotta does not want you even to speak to me. I am sure Auberge does not either."
"But you will ask it."
I could force Carlotta to let me have her if I wished, but I hardly thought Gabriella wanted to hear that I could do that. "I do ask it."
"I must say no."
I fell silent. I did not want to tell her that I could simply not let her make the choice. In any case, she would be in London for a time while I sorted out what to do about divorcing Carlotta. I could use the time to persuade her to stay with me. As much as I chafed, I sensed that forcing her now would do me no good.
Bartholomew opened the door and came in briskly, not looking at us. I wondered whether he'd waited outside the door for our voices to die down before interrupting. He banged a tray to the writing table.
"Best bread I could find, sir, courtesy of Mrs. Beltan, and sweet butter to go with it. Roast from the Pony and some potatoes Mrs. Tolliver said were best of the barrel today."
So saying, he clattered the plates onto the table and forks and a sharp knife beside each one, all borrowed from the Rearing Pony. At the smell of the roasted meat and fresh-baked bread, Gabriella lifted her head and gazed at the repast with the hunger of a young girl.
"Eat until you feel better," I said. "And then I'll take you back to King Street."
Gabriella reached for the hunk of bread Bartholomew had dropped on her plate and lifted the knife to smear it with butter. "No need," she said. "I will go by myself."
"Best not, miss," Bartholomew broke in. "Covent Garden's not the place for a lone young lady. Pickpockets at best. Robbers and procuresses at worst. Very unscrupulous ladies and gentlemen they are."
Gabriella nodded, as though heeding his wisdom, and began chewing the bread. Bartholomew poured a glass of wine for me and lemonade he'd brought from Mrs. Tolliver for Gabriella.
I, too, was hungry after our emotion and fell to eating. The two of us dropped the subject while we consumed the beef and bread and potatoes, and Bartholomew bustled about cleaning the place, humming a buzzing tune in his throat.
"By the bye, sir," he said presently. "Mr. Grenville sent word around with my brother asking would you please call on him. If it is not too inconvenient, he says, and if you can bother to remember."
Bartholomew's neutral tone betrayed none of Grenville's sarcasm, but I knew it had been there.
"Mr. Grenville is not gifted with patience," I said.
"No, sir. But he's interested in this new problem." Bartholomew grinned at Gabriella. "The captain solves crimes, miss. Him and Mr. Grenville. Better than Bow Street Runners."
Gabriella eyed Bartholomew in curiosity, her eyes still red with weeping. "What is a Bow Street Runner?"
"Only the best in crime investigators in England," Bartholomew answered. "But Mr. Grenville and Captain Lacey, they've uncovered criminals when the Runners and the magistrates were baffled. They've solved murders and kidnappings and fraudulent activities. I was shot once."
He spoke proudly. Whether he was trying to bolster my standing in front of Gabriella or boast of his own accomplishments, I could not tell.
"Were you?" Gabriella asked with flattering interest.
"There." Bartholomew pointed to his thick leg. "And there," pointing to his left biceps. "Laid me low a long time. But we got the murderer. Crazy devil, he was."
She flicked her gaze back to me, as though reassessing me. "Why do you catch criminals?"
"To help people," I said, sawing at my beefsteak. "Most were crimes that the magistrates ignored or did not know about."
"Bow Street's calling him in now, to help them," Bartholomew said.
"Oh?"
"Some young--ah--ladies have gone missing from Covent Garden," he went on. "That's why it ain't a good place to go walking alone."
"I see." Gabriella looked at me again. "How will you find them?"
I shrugged, relieved we'd found a neutral topic, one not charged with drama. "I am speaking to others who knew them. Once I know their daily habits, I will follow what they did until I find more people who saw them. Then I will simply look everywhere."
Gabriella sipped her lemonade and carefully set the glass back on the table. "Why should you? I mean, why should you dash about London, when you have an injury, to find these young ladies? They are not respectable ladies, are they?" She'd been intelligent enough to discern that.
"They do not deserve to be hurt or lost," I said. "I
dislike seeing anyone abused."
"He is a friend to the downtrodden," Bartholomew put in.
"All right, Bartholomew. You may cease now."
Bartholomew grinned. "He is that humble; he don't like to be praised."
"Enough," I said.
Bartholomew subsided, but his grin did not diminish. Gabriella, on the other hand, continued to study me as she finished her food, as though I'd suddenly become a human being, much to her surprise. She ate with good manners, using the knife in the French way to push things onto her fork.
She finished quietly and seemed to wait for my direction. She was not happy, but she was resigned and likely tired from her outburst.
Leaving the remains of our repast, I took Gabriella back downstairs, out along Grimpen Lane, and through Covent Garden toward King Street.
Evening was approaching, although with summer, daylight could linger until well past ten o'clock. Stalls were closing, and maids and cooks hurried to buy the last vegetables for supper. Flower sellers, their posies wilting, lingered, determined to make as many pennies as they could before returning home. The square was littered with lettuce leaves, squashed cherries and strawberries, fowl droppings, and newspapers torn from wrapping flowers, fish, and greens.
I headed across the market with Gabriella to the base of King Street at the right side of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Bartholomew had accompanied us, declaring he needed to purchase some last-minute provender for tomorrow. We left him browsing while I escorted Gabriella halfway down King Street. I stopped a few houses away from her boardinghouse and let her traverse the rest of the street alone. I saw her square her shoulders, preparing to confront her mother and Auberge.
Just before Gabriella reached the boardinghouse, the door flew open, and Carlotta herself dashed from it. She flung her arms around Gabriella, holding her a moment, then she took a step back and began to scold.
Gabriella's stance remained tall and straight; she would not wilt. She said something to her mother and pointed back at me. Carlotta followed her outstretched finger, saw me, and gave me a look of outrage that I could feel where I stood three houses away.
A Covent Garden Mystery Page 9
