On several occasions, she had even asked Marcus to visit the house and its inhabitants, but he had never found the time. Even so, Marcus had not only donated money for the cause, but employed one of the women who had found refuge there. In hindsight, Marcus felt guilty, as he had offered Clarice the position as his wife’s maid to ensure the maid’s gratitude towards him. She would willingly tell him anything, he had thought, what his wife was up to behind his back. But now he not only felt tender sentiments towards Annabelle, he also felt embarrassed to have been so ruthless. Marcus had not even chosen Clarice for this role but had left the choice to Finch amongst the many needy women.
Something about this chain of thought unsettled Marcus. He had been walking for a while, not paying attention to his surroundings, and he realised that he had found himself in the very area he had just thought about: Whitechapel. He was able to smell the river from here – its mugginess mixed with the stench of poverty clung to Marcus’s clothes.
He glanced around. Not only were the streets and buildings bathed in a uniform colour somewhere between grey and brown, but even the people who were roving about were hardly distinguishable from one another. Most of them kept their heads down, avoiding every look, every possible contact, except for the few doxies who, even at this early morning hour, had not yet given up hope of earning a few pennies. He thought of the horrendous sleeping arrangements. On benches and crammed into each other, tied with ropes, so that they did not fall off during their sleep – it was for many the only way to overnight in the safety of a house. Always assuming they had the money to pay for the accommodation and had made it through the day without succumbing to the temptation of alcohol. The tendency to cheap drink was not surprising either, since the children of the unfortunate women, all too often as babies, were many times kept quiet with a teaspoon of gin.
With that in mind, the outrage of the countess was understandable, and her charitable works commendable; and, in a way, this was even true of Madeline, who, despite her noble heritage and the fact that both her parents had literally lost their heads, dreamt of a better, fairer world. Fundamentally, the two women were not so very different – apart from their provenance and temperament. The Countess of York was British through and through. She was reserved, that is, unless the discussion was about subjects that were dear to her heart, such as the fight against poverty and the status of women in society. Madeline… Marcus stopped.
A thought ran through his mind, so absurd that it took his breath away. He remembered Annabelle’s words when she had tried to explain to him what an ideal marriage was. She wanted to be valued as a person, not just as an ornament on the arm of a man, or the equivalent of an upscale servant who ran the household. At least, that was how he had parsed her words at the time.
He had made a capital mistake in his thinking, he now saw, and not just once but twice. He forced himself to keep walking while putting his new, breath-taking theory through its paces. Was it possible that he had finally discovered the truth?
The figure hiding in the shadows was the Countess of York. She was the owner of this house. She knew Madeline, she had known Greywood. Through her late husband she had gained the knowledge about his, St. John’s, activities as a spy. And, last but not least, she had the most powerful motive to wish him dead: he was responsible for Matilda’s death. Of course, he had not lain hands upon her himself, but she would still be alive if he had not courted her and won her heart.
However, fate had cruelly tricked the countess. She had used Greywood thereafter to make St. John’s life hell, and thereby using the exact person who had killed her goddaughter.
The thousand different pictures fell into one and what Marcus saw finally made sense. He had been so blind! To make sure that he was not mistaken, he had to find Madeline. She was the weakest link in the chain of events – and now, he knew exactly where to find her.
A boy, hardly older than eight or nine years old, stumbled against him. The movement was too slick to be an accident, and when Marcus’s fingers closed around the tiny wrist, the little man squeaked pitifully. Marcus took his money pouch back from him and was just about to send him home with a few harsh words, when he decided otherwise.
“Do you know where I can find Buck’s Row?” A timid nod was the answer. “Do know the house where the unfortunate women live their new lives?”
“Wha’? Wha’ do ya mean? There ain’t no nunnery in Buck’s Row, Sir. I can bring ya to one – if ya want.”
Marcus shook his head. The eyes of the boy were firmly focussed on the coin in his hand.
“I mean the house where women of the street learn a new trade.”
“Oh, tha’.” The voice of the boy was filled with unexpectedly world-weary disdain for one so young. Marcus did not have to ask what the boy thought of honest work. “A’ right, a’ right. That’s where ya wanna go? I can lead ya there.” He quickly grabbed for the coin, and this time Marcus allowed the bony fingers to achieve their target.
“If you can get me in unseen, I will double your pay,” Marcus promised. He had no more time to waste, and he needed to act quickly while remaining unnoticed.
Annabelle… his heart skipped a beat before he regained his composure. Marcus pushed aside the insane worries he felt, together with all his feelings, and he hid them in the back of his mind before concentrating on the street urchin again. The dirty face of the little man lit up as he grinned from one ear to the other.
Marcus had found a new ally.
Chapter 18
The journey to the countess’s country manor would have been entertaining if Annabelle had not kept thinking about Hawthorne. It was not so much the question of how he knew about her and Marcus’s supposed separation, but it was the mysterious command “from above” that distracted her from the conversation with the countess and her sister. It meant that someone was still holding a protective hand over Marcus, even though he was no longer in the service of the crown. He was an outcast, someone who had exited his service with an explosion instead of leaving discreetly with the highest honours. Annabelle was under the impression that even his former superior preferred to see Marcus dead rather than alive, given all the secrets he had learned during the course of his action.
“We are almost there, my dear,” the voice of the countess interrupted her thoughts. “Perhaps it would be best if you go straight to your room and rest when we arrive. I have sent my major-domo ahead to have everything ready for us.”
“Please excuse my absent-mindedness,” Annabelle said, rubbing her temples. “I am not a good companion presently, I am afraid.”
“Do not worry, my dear,” the countess replied with a smile. “I am certain you will feel much better once a few hours of rest have made good for the strains of the journey.” She opened the curtain at her side and peeked out of the small opening. “We are already in Holywood-Saint-Marys,” she exclaimed and then graciously closed the curtain again, shielding them from the unusually bright rays of the autumn sunshine. “A good half hour, and we will be home and dry.”
“I believe it has less to do with the journey than the visit of this gentleman,” Annabelle’s sister interjected. She was still very much a child despite everything she had been through. Annabelle was not sure whether it was a blessing or a curse that Felicity had recovered so quickly to her former ingenuousness. She could not shake the vague suspicion that her suddenly cheerful mood had something to do with a certain Bow Street Runner. It was so typical of her sister to fall from one extreme to the next. For weeks and months, she had held an unhealthy affection for a vicious criminal, and now her senses swam and swooned over an investigator.
“Was the gentleman’s visit at least one of the pleasant kind?” the Countess of York enquired, and winked at Annabelle mischievously. Even before she could answer, Felicity chattered on.
“Mr Hawthorne is a Bow Street Runner,” she explained.
“He believes that I shot Marcus with malicious intent,” Annabelle chipped in quickly, before Felici
ty said too much and revealed something she should not. Annabelle looked at her with a sharp gaze. She knew exactly what Felicity was trying to do. Since Annabelle had provided her sister with only scant information regarding Hawthorne’s visit, she now tried to satisfy her curiosity in this way. There had been no time left before departing, as she had written a letter to Marcus informing him about Hawthorne’s showing up. So, she told the carefully shortened version of the lie that she had already told the Bow Street Runner. Felicity’s eyes grew large and round, and she even put her hand in front of her mouth.
The countess, in contrast, leaned back and winked once more at Annabelle, letting her know that she was not hoaxed so easily. “Surely this Mr Hawthorne came by to tell you that the investigation has come to a close, did he not?” she remarked lightly when Annabelle’s words seemed to have dried up. The carriage slowed, and Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief.
They had arrived. With a bit of luck, Felicity and she would have separate rooms, and she had at least half an hour to get some peace. The manor of the Countess of York was smaller than Annabelle had expected. Strictly speaking, it was not much more than a better cottage, however, what the house lacked in size, it more than made up for with its cosy furnishings. Unfortunately, there were only two bed chambers. The countess offered Annabelle one of the rooms for herself. She suggested that she would share the larger of the two with Felicity, but Annabelle politely declined the offer. “That is very generous of you, but I cannot accept. My sister and I have shared a room for many years. It will bring back happy memories for us,” she said, attempting a smile.
“Of course,” the countess agreed with a smile. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
Contrary to her expectations, the evening turned out to be pleasant. Felicity had noticed Annabelle’s uneasiness and apologised as soon as they were alone unpacking their things. Clarice, who had travelled sitting on the coach box, was in a surprisingly good mood. A glance at her rosy face, and the smile she had shared with the coach driver, had been enough. Annabelle had told her to take the rest of the day off. It was nice to see that somewhere inside her maid there was a completely normal, fun-loving young woman hiding, and Annabelle thought that she deserved at least one night without chores before she slept in the small attic room that served as the servants’ sleeping quarters.
“It is somewhat peculiar,” Felicity tried to explain as she threw herself onto the bed. “Just a few days ago, I thought I would never laugh again or look forward to anything. And now that he is dead, it almost feels as if he had never existed. Or as if it had been a different Felicity who…” She sighed and left her sentence unfinished. She did not have to anyway. Annabelle sat down next to her and pulled her sister into a tight embrace.
“I understand,” she said, “but you will have to promise me one thing. Be more careful with the next man you give your heart t0, agreed?”
Felicity laughed with tear-filled eyes. “I will never fall in love again, I assure you. Men do not interest me anymore. I want to do other things, Bella. Travel. Draw. Explore the world. And I am not just talking about England. I would love to travel to Italy and see their statues and museums…” Her voice faded.
“Perhaps one day, you can come on a voyage with Marcus and me.” It was the best that Annabelle could think of, but her sister released herself from the embrace and looked at her partially piqued, partially lovingly.
“So that I have to watch you two all day whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears? Thank you, but no, thank you. Furthermore, I want to travel alone. Without a chaperone.” She stretched out her chin and looked at Annabelle defiantly.
A knock on the door saved her from answering. It was the cook, who was telling them that dinner was served.
Dinner was a simple yet delicious concoction of tasty ingredients. Vegetables and cheese, a loaf of freshly baked bread, eggs and milk. At the end of their meal their hostess conjured a bottle of sherry from its hiding place in the craft basket and poured them each a thimble full. “To freedom,” she said, raising her glass.
Annabelle, who for a long time had not felt as free as she did here in the modest house and in the company of two women, joined in – as did her sister. After dinner they played cards, which was not an easy task with just three players, until Felicity excused herself and disappeared into their shared bed chamber. She was tired from the journey and might have enjoyed a little too much of the sherry, but Annabelle had said nothing. After all, Felicity had been through a great deal and if she longed to forget for a while, then so be it.
The countess refilled her glass with the delicious sherry and sat down in an armchair by the fire. “I am glad that you and your sister are here,” she began and absentmindedly stared into the flames. Then she shook her head. “It has been a long time since I have invited anyone into this house,” she sighed. A stern crease appeared between her eyebrows. The greyish-blue eyes of the older woman had a forlorn expression when she turned towards Annabelle. “I came here often with John, my late husband.”
“You must miss him very much,” Annabelle said, unable to imagine what it felt like to lose someone so dear.
“In all honesty, not particularly,” the countess said. Annabelle’s head shot up. The older woman was still smiling, but it was more a smile full of bitter memories rather than sweet ones. “He was a good Englishman, full of upstanding pride for his home country, and he would have done anything the Prince Regent demanded of him. Everything else came in second place. In that regard, Marcus and John are very similar.” She shrugged her shoulders. What was an elegant and vigorous gesture on Marcus, looked entirely different on her – strange and somehow detached from her face and the rest of her body.
Annabelle wiped her forehead, where tiny pearls of sweat had formed. It was hot in the room, as the fire burned strongly, and the room was not large.
“I would never stand between my husband and his duties,” Annabelle said.
“Is that so?” The countess leaned closer to the fire. For the first time, Annabelle saw how fragile she was. Behind the upright, almost rigid posture of hers, one did not usually realise how delicately she was built. “You are still young and in love. Once he has been away from home for weeks on end and only comes home to share the bed with you, you will also start to wonder if that is all there is to it.”
She wanted to reply that she felt sorry, but the countess continued. “And after that, when you realise that your womb stays empty, and that he can’t even give you a child to fill the emptiness in your heart, that is when you know that you will have to change things. But by then it is too late. At least, it was too late for me, back then. For you, my dearest Annabelle, there is still hope.”
“What are you trying to say?” Dizzy, Annabelle shook her head. Why was she unable to think clearly? She tried to get up in order to open one of the windows so she could breathe in the cool night air, but the countess guessed her movement and held Annabelle by the wrist.
“Free yourself, my dear. Free yourself from the restraints of a marriage. Free yourself from what we consider love, which is nothing but slavery in silk bindings. Have you never had the desire to be measured as a person in your own right and not just as an ornament on a man’s arm? Certainly, you have dreams and wishes outside of marriage. Tell me, what do you dream about when you are alone, Annabelle?”
Much like a wave, all of her secret longings swelled up in front of Annabelle’s eyes. Her ability to read other people, which she would never be able to use to its full potential. Her forsaken dreams of becoming an actress. If she was a man, like Marcus, she could make an excellent spy.
But she was no man.
“Let me tell you about my godchild,” the countess continued. She was still holding Annabelle, no longer by her wrist, but by her fingers, which she stroked absentmindedly in a rhythmic motion. “Matilda was…” She fell silent, pain washing over her face, distorting it into a mask of sorrow. “Matilda was the light of my life. She was the daugh
ter I never had. When they took her from me, my world ended.”
Annabelle’s throat was dry. She felt her own pulse all the way up to her collarbone and her dress was completely soaked at the back. What had been an initial sense of warmth, had turned into discomfort. What exactly was the Countess of York getting at? Hearing her talk about Marcus’s great love was painful for Annabelle, but it was nothing compared to the emotions that she sensed in the Countess of York.
The older woman raised her head and looked directly at Annabelle. Goosebumps covered Annabelle’s arms. The air between them seemed charged, similar to the seconds before thunderstorm stroke.
Whatever the countess told her next, Annabelle knew that her world would never be the same again.
Not only had Marcus amply rewarded the boy, but he had also given him the task of delivering a message to Finch. There had not been enough time for anything in writing, which is why he had inculcated the boy exactly with what to say. “You ask for Mr Finch, and tell the man who opens the door that the Earl of Grandover has sent you. Can you remember the name?”
The tiny crusty mouth pouted. “Of course.” After a brief pause, while Marcus was observed and gauged as thoroughly as seldom before, the urchin asked: “Ya’re really a’ earl? Or is this a trap?”
“I really am an earl, and why would I want to lure you into a trap?”
“Not me, but the other guy, Finch,” the boy explained, his impatience barely restrained. Marcus was satisfied. The little one had remembered Finch’s name, which was definitely a good sign. He did not go into to the speculation of a trap but instead knelt in front of the boy until they were at eye level. “Listen carefully. It is very important that you tell Finch exactly what I am telling you right now. I have the French lady,” he did not want to name too many names, in particular not any names that could sound foreign to the boy’s ears, “and I will ask her a few questions. Then, I will travel out into the country and visit my wife. Finch is to leave right off to meet me there. He should not wait for me but leave on the spot.”
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 18
