Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Expecting? No. Hoping, perhaps.”
“Hope’s the great thing, miss. Will you require anything today?”
Miss Tolerance bespoke a pot of coffee and made her way upstairs to the first floor and the Ladies’ Salon. In one corner of this spacious chamber she observed a game of whist played with quiet ferocity by a quartet of lady-essayists. In another, two very expensive females sat with their heads close together, likely exchanging trade secrets. Miss Tolerance took a chair by a window, turned it to face the door, and opened the Times before her.
She finished her coffee and read both the Times and the Post over the next two hours. There was nothing left to read within reach, and Miss Tolerance was thinking that if she must rise to seek some other reading material she might as well return home, when Cordon appeared beside her and murmured that a lady was inquiring for her.
“What sort of lady?” She would see her visitor regardless, but often found the porter’s impressions useful.
“A real lady, miss. A bit anxious about the eyes.”
A real lady in a state of anxiety bode well for business and thus for Miss Tolerance’s pocket-book. She directed Corton to bring the visitor up.
She was a pretty woman, several years younger than Miss Tolerance and several inches shorter, dressed with elegance in a walking suit of snuff-colored twill. The curls visible under her deep-poked bonnet were a soft golden-brown, and her eyes were large, brown and, as Corton had said, anxious. Miss Tolerance had the impression of a gentlewoman with money, taste, and a problem.
She rose and curtsied. Her visitor curtsied likewise, and looked around the room.
“This is very pleasant,” she said, as though she had not expected to find it so.
“It is, ma’am. Now, no one here pays the least attention to anyone else, but if you would prefer to take your business to a more private place—”
“Is that what is done?” The woman looked around again. The nearest persons were seated a dozen paces away and appeared absorbed in their own conversation. “You will know best, of course, but if you are comfortable I beg we will not move for my sake.”
Miss Tolerance rarely encountered such a degree of consideration from prospective clients; the woman was very anxious indeed.
“Let us sit here, then. May I offer you some wine? Tea, then?” Miss Tolerance took her chair again and gestured to her visitor to sit. She took a moment to order tea, then turned back to her visitor.
“Now, how am I to help you, ma’am? Perhaps we may begin with what you would like me to call you.” Miss Tolerance placed a mental wager that the lady would not give her real name.
“I am Mrs. Brown.” The name did not roll from her tongue.
A point to me, Miss Tolerance thought. “How may I help you, Mrs. Brown?”
“I was told by—by a mutual acquaintance—that you are able to find things. People.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Is this acquaintance a former client of mine, ma’am?” Mrs. Brown nodded. “I hope you will convey to her—or him—my gratitude for this confidence. And you have lost…someone?”
Mrs. Brown nodded. A fuller reply was delayed by the arrival of the tea tray and the pleasant ritual by which the drink was dispensed. When Miss Tolerance had poured her own tea and moved the plate of biscuits closer to her guest, Mrs. Brown began again.
“Can you find a lost girl?”
Miss Tolerance had been expecting to hear of a husband lost to the fleshpots or a brother on the run from the bailiffs. Little girls of good family were not allowed to stray.
“How old is the child? Where was she lost?”
Mrs. Brown blushed. “I misspoke. She is not a child but a young lady. She is sixteen.”
Miss Tolerance was briefly relieved. A child lost for more than a few hours suggested kidnapping, ransom, death. A missing young lady of sixteen was a wholly different matter, and generally a problem more sordid than sinister.
“She has eloped?” Miss Tolerance was gentle.
Mrs. Brown nodded.
“Can you tell me the circumstances? Are you acquainted with the man?”
“I don’t believe so.” The woman looked down at her hands. “I have not been so much in my sister’s confidence since I married. But I should never have thought—”
No one does. “Of course not. Perhaps you will tell me how you learned of the elopement?”
“She left a note. It was—” Mrs. Brown flushed. “She had quarreled with our father that morning, and the note was very…severe.”
“May I see it?”
“The note? Oh.” The woman looked distressed. “Oh, dear. I do not have it.”
Miss Tolerance suppressed a sigh. “Do you recall what the note said, Mrs. Brown?”
“Oh, yes.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “It said that she could not longer remain in the house under my father’s harsh rule—that was the phrase she used—and that she knew her own best happiness would be secured with someone who loves her. She apologized to my brothers and to me for any pain her elopement would cause. I believe that was the whole of it.”
“Your memory is excellent. Can you tell me if her writing appeared hurried or forced?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t see the note.” Mrs.Brown’s brows drew together. “My father was in a great rage; he read the letter aloud to us, then crumpled it up, shoved it into his pocket, and locked himself in the office.”
Father is given to melodrama. Miss Tolerance felt a stir of anger on behalf of Mrs. Brown’s vanished sister. “Perhaps, ma’am, if you can tell me the exact sequence of events which led to that moment? Start with the beginning of the day.”
“Sir—my husband and I are visiting in my father’s house. He—my husband—went out very early. I did not leave my room until about ten that morning; my sister had taken her breakfast downstairs with my father, as was usual. By the time I came downstairs Father was closeted in his office. I had to go to my hat maker’s, and called to Evie—my sister’s name is Evadne—to see if she wished to come with me; she came out from the schoolroom to say no, and that is the last I saw of her. I went out, and when I came back Evie was gone.”
“You knew that at once?”
“At once? No.” Mrs. Brown tilted her head. “I had a little headache and went upstairs to rest. Later I went up to the schoolroom to show Evie the hat I had bought. She was not there, but I was not much concerned; her governess and I thought she must be in the garden, or in the kitchen teasing ginger knots from the cook.”
“I take it she was in neither place?” Miss Tolerance tried to imagine a girl who begged sweets in the kitchen one moment and eloped in the next.
“No, but we didn’t learn that until—but I am ahead of my story. I had some letters to write, and went down to the little parlor I use when I visit. I had been there perhaps a half hour when my father came from his office in a great state, calling us to him and waving the letter.”
“Your father read the letter to you,” Miss Tolerance suggested.
Mrs. Brown nodded. “When we had gathered to hear him, yes.”
“The letter said nothing about marriage?”
“Not specifically, but it is my hope—” Mrs. Brown looked very troubled. “Miss Tolerance, I am sure you hear such stories every day, and I know I have said I have not been much in my sister’s confidence in the five years since I married. But Evie is not a light-minded girl, and I should have said that her principles were strong.”
“Even the strongest-minded girl may find the combination of fancied love and an argument with a parent powerful enough to outweigh her principles—for a time.” Miss Tolerance was brisk. “A few questions, if you please. You say your father called out. To whom?”
“To me, of course. And my older brother, and Miss—the governess. Father waited until we had gathered around him in the hall outside his office and then he read the letter.”
“That seems a peculiarly public place to read so delicate a letter.”
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br /> “My father was beside himself, Miss Tolerance. I am sure he had no thought for where he was or—”
“Perhaps so,” Miss Tolerance said. “Well, then. Is there any man for whom your sister might have fancied affection? A dancing master or art teacher? A childhood beau or the brother of a friend?” To each of these Mrs. Brown shook her head. “The governess knows of none?”
Again Mrs. Brown looked stricken. “My father turned Miss Nottingale off—”
“—in a rage,” Miss Tolerance finished. “He was very thorough, your father. Mrs. Brown, I mean no criticism, but are you certain that your father wants your sister returned to you?”
“I am certain he does not,” Mrs. Brown said sadly. “He has refused to have her returned. When he heard of what happened my brother John wished to go after her and bring her back—”
“Your brother John is not the brother who was there to hear the reading of the letter?”
Mrs. Brown was momentarily confused by the question. “No, that was—I am sorry, Miss Tolerance. I am not used to thinking out a story to tell it straight. It was my older brother Henry who was there; my brother John does not live in my father’s house. As I say, John wanted to go after Evie, but my father forbade it in the strongest possible terms. He threatened to cut my brother off if he did so! Miss Tolerance, this does not paint my father in an amiable light, I know, but—”
“It is an attitude more common than flattering,” Miss Tolerance said. “And one quite familiar to me. You take a risk, then, in seeking your sister.”
Mrs. Brown looked at Miss Tolerance without confusion or fluttering. “I am married. My father no longer controls what I do. What sort of sister would I be if I allowed Evie to go into the world unprotected, liable to insult and danger?”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “You are clearly of a better sort than that, ma’am. I honor you for your concern, and will do my best to help you.”
“You can find her?”
“I can try. Now, Mrs. Brown, I understand that you do not wish to give your real name—” Miss Tolerance waved away the other woman’s protest. “‘Tis quite a common thing. For now, I will not require you to divulge it, but you should know that secrecy hampers my ability to interview persons who might be of use to us—the servants in your father’s house, for example. This will likely result in a higher cost to you.”
“The cost is not important,” Mrs. Brown said at once. “But I have risked as much as I dare in coming to you.”
“I understand, ma’am. Can you at least tell me the neighborhood in which your father’s house is located? There are dozens of coaching inns in London, and I must have some way to narrow their number. And I shall need a description of your sister. I do wish you knew the name of her lover—” Mrs. Brown flinched at the word—”but we will do what we may with what we have.”
“My father’s house is in Duke of York Street. As for a description—” Mrs. Brown reached into her reticule and brought out a small package wrapped in linen which she offered to Miss Tolerance. “Will this help? It was done a year ago, as a present from my father; the likeness is thought to be rather good.”
The package contained a small painting in a porcelain frame, the sort suited for display on a table or shelf. Miss Tolerance examined the portrait. It showed two young women, both fair-haired and rosy, one blue-eyed, the other brown. They were dressed alike in white muslin gowns, and each wore a gold locket on a chain. Mrs. Brown was the shorter and more delicate of feature; she looked directly at the artist with a demure smile. Her sister was considerably younger, and apparently several inches taller; her hair was more golden, and she was rounder of chin and more ebullient of nature. The artist had depicted her laughing, one hand upon her sister’s shoulder in a graceful expression of affection.
“Who painted this, ma’am?”
“Mr. Hoppner. T’was painted only a sixmonth before he died. Evie would hardly sit still, but you see he caught her very nicely.”
“It is a lovely portrait. May I borrow it for a few days? I will undertake to return it to you as soon as I may, but it will be useful to be able to show it when I am inquiring for your sister.”
Mrs. Brown nodded. “That is why I brought it.”
Miss Tolerance looked again at the pretty, laughing girl in the portrait. “She is charming looking.” She reflected that it might take very little time for the girl’s looks and high spirits to be ruined along with her name. “How long has she been gone?”
“Ten days.” Mrs. Brown looked down. “Miss Tolerance, you said you honored me for my concern, but I must tell you it took me several days to summon the resolve to come to you. I am not proud of it, but I love my father, and the habit of obedience is strong.”
Miss Tolerance, dismayed that so long a time had been permitted to elapse, sighed. “I understand those habits, ma’am. You need not reproach yourself, but from now on I hope you will tell me anything you learn more timely. Now, the day is half gone, and I should probably be out upon your business while I may. A few things first.” When she outlined her fees her opinion of Mrs. Brown’s station was confirmed. The woman agreed without hesitation to three guineas a day, plus expenses.
“And how shall I contact you, when I have news to report?”
Mrs. Brown’s face fell. She had clearly not considered this consequence of anonymity. Miss Tolerance was moved to contrive a solution.
“If you wish to call here, or to have a servant do so every day or so, I will leave any messages addressed for you with the porter.”
Mrs. Brown nodded. The expression of anxiety which she had worn at the beginning of their meeting had been replaced with one of confidence. Miss Tolerance would have found that touching had she been more certain of her ability to find, in a city of more than a million, one gently-reared girl of sixteen years.
Chapter Two
Miss Tolerance was by nature inclined to occupation. It was only a few hours past noon, and while she had an engagement that evening, she was thriftily aware of how much of Mrs. Brown’s business might be accomplished before that time. It was regrettable that Mrs. Brown knew so little and had been unwilling to reveal all of what she knew; the girl’s family name would likely have been a help, and information from the household staff might have resolved the matter instantly. Dismissing the governess was a fine way to encourage the servants to silence; perhaps that had been the aim of the girl’s choleric father. Finding a dismissed governess was likely to be as protracted a task as finding the girl herself.
Lacking recourse to the servants, Miss Tolerance’s first chore, and it was like to be a lengthy one, was to inquire at coaching inns. For the purpose she invented a pretty story of a country cousin alit at the wrong inn, with herself in the role of anxious relative. She walked briskly toward Picadilly, where she inquired first at the White Bear and the White Horse. They were closest to Duke of York Street, and while she felt that it was a chancy thing to elope from an inn so close to the bride’s home, she did not know that Miss Evadne and her seducer would have felt the same caution. She showed the portrait round at each inn but had no satisfaction, and asked an ostler to hire a chair to take her to the more distant precincts of Aldgate (the Saracen’s Head) and Fleet Street (the Bolt and Tun), where east-bound carriers were found. Again she showed the portrait in the stables and taproom, asking for word of “my poor sweet cousin Evie.” She did not specify why she was seeking the girl in the picture; a liberal application of silver generally served to divert attention from any holes in her story. The tapsters and stableboys in both houses disclaimed any knowledge of the girl, nor did inquiry yield any suggestion more than that she should ask any of the old women who who sat in the taproom with the attitude of habitués. Miss Tolerance reminded each of the persons she spoke to that she could be reached through Tarsio’s Club on Henry Street, and hinted broadly at a significant reward
Then she took herself to Ludgate Hill and the Bell Savage, where she had an acquaintance with the owner. Mrs. Wallace ran a sm
all empire from her office above the coffee room. The inn was an enormous structure built around a courtyard where coaches arrived and departed on the quarter-hour. The stables took up one full wall of the courtyard, with a hurly-burly of ostlers, drivers and passengers milling about the yard. Miss Tolerance made her way through the throng and into the coffee room, where several dozen persons—travelers just off the stage, or waiting for the next departure—took their meals with one eye upon the door, waiting for the announcement that the coach was leaving. As she had expected, neither the barman nor the maid would tell her a thing until they had Mrs. Wallace’s leave to do so.
Miss Tolerance was pointed to the narrow staircase just behind the bar, and found herself in the hall outside Mrs. Wallace’s office, in time to see the lady scolding one of her maids.
“…and if I iver catch you doing such a thing again, Sukey Pitt, it’s oot on the road you’ll be, sa fast t’will make your arse burn. It makes me nae mind what your uncle did in his taproom—this is the Bell Savage, and we doon’t water the whisky. Na, fetch up a bottle of wine for me and my guest and be smart aboot it!” Casually, Mrs. Wallace boxed the girl’s ear before she sent her off down the hallway.
Mrs. Wallace waved Miss Tolerance into the room. “Ye’ll have some wine, I hope? Na that idiot child has gone off to fetch it for us?”
“Thank you, ma’am. I shall.” Miss Tolerance took the seat she was offered. The office was a narrow rectangle, its windows facing into the busy courtyard. Two tables were both stacked high with papers, ledgers, and strong-boxes. The smell of coffee and ale mingled, not unpleasantly, with the earthy smells of the stables below, and with Mrs. Wallace’s lingering scent of lavender. The hosteliere was a short, bony woman of advancing years with a ruddy complexion. She had a fondness for turbans which hid her thin, graying hair, and wore today’s turban with a dress of purple bombazine.
“Na, to what d’I ooe the honor?”
The Sleeping Partner Page 2
