by Kerryn Reid
Then there was the workhouse, and there were others who might know her—the innkeep and his staff, for instance. The churches, though, where he could count on discretion, would get the first chance at it. If Anna should become a subject of gossip because of him… Well, he would never forgive himself.
He drank a solitary toast to luck, to the morrow, and to Anna.
The morning brought rain, pelting sheets of it. Half frozen, it rattled against his window like shards of glass. Lewis took his time dressing, hoping it would lessen.
It did not. He decided on breakfast.
The public room was clogged with soggy travelers when he entered. But a number of them rushed out to return to their coach, and he found a seat by the window.
The street was nearly empty of pedestrians. Every so often an apparition appeared in the rain, nothing more than a colorless shape approaching the inn through the haze of rain, and then he would hear the front door open, and voices in the hall, and a chilly draft would blow through the room. But a shape was all he needed, and it didn’t come. He was glad of it; Anna did not belong out there in the deluge.
The eggs on his plate puckered and contracted in the cold room. Lewis cut an occasional bite of ham and kept the serving maid busy pouring coffee so he would always have a warm cup to keep his hands from freezing. The Leeds Intelligencer lay in front of him on the scarred oak table, but he hardly glanced at it. He needed to keep watch.
One interminable hour he sat there. His mouth tasted bitter. The devil take this waiting. He went to his room and cleaned his teeth, collected his greatcoat and hat, his gloves and umbrella. By the time he walked out the inn door the rain had lessened.
The downpour had done little to wash Briggate clean. Only a handful of vendors had bothered to set up shop, yet the smell of butchered animals and rotten fruit still permeated the shambles set up in the middle of the street, and the water that sluiced between the cobbles still ran filthy.
He left the worst of it behind as he splashed around the corner into Kirkgate. After wading another half mile, he peered from beneath the umbrella at the parish church of St. Peter’s, shrouded in mizzle, its square tower dividing the two mismatched halves. Leaving his dripping umbrella in the porch and scraping the worst of the mud off his boots, he stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed through the nearly deserted church. Perhaps a dozen parishioners sat or kneeled in the pews. Making his way around the perimeter, past the family memorials and marble effigies, Lewis found a white-haired man replacing burnt candles with fresh ones.
“Beg your pardon,” Lewis began.
The old man turned his way wearing a kindly expression. “I’m Bunton. What c’n I do fer ye, laddie?”
“I’m looking for Reverend Fawcett.”
The man shook his head. “I saw him head to th’ hall not ten minutes past fer the choir practice. That’ll keep ’im busy two hours an’ more.”
Damnation. The word almost came out of Lewis’s mouth.
He waited. Not two hours, but not much less. Bunton led him across the wet flagstones to the church hall and deposited him in the mildew-scented office of a flatulent, disinterested secretary. Lewis chose to stand in the icy corridor with the wafting notes of “Lully Lullay” sung by the unseen choir.
At length, Mr. Fawcett emerged from the choir room, recognizable by his vestments. He wore a scowl; the last few carols had not gone well.
The scowl did not lighten as he scanned Lewis’s card. “Ah, Wrackwater Bridge. What can I do for you?”
“It’s a personal matter, sir, of a sensitive nature. Reverend Redfern recommended I see you.”
“Well then.” Fawcett led Lewis to the closed door beside the secretary’s office, pulled a key from a pocket, and unlocked it. “Come in. Light the lamp, Dibble, and fetch us some tea.” The secretary muttered something and ambled off.
It was a vastly different place than the office next door. Clean and tidy, with books lined up evenly on the shelves, a short stack of papers topped with a bible in the exact center of the fine oak desk, a selection of quills laid neatly on a tray so there would always be one at the ready. The air was just as arctic, but a thick wool rug on the floor provided a barrier between the cold stone floor and the soles of Lewis’s damp boots.
Two vacant chairs for visitors sat in front of the vicar’s desk. A fire was laid in the small fireplace, but it was unlit. A table stood in the corner with brandy and glasses—that sounded better than tea, but it was not offered.
The vicar motioned toward one of the chairs and sat in the other himself. “Tell me how I can help you.”
Lewis leaned forward. “A young woman was seen in Leeds last week. She’s the daughter of a family connection.” Not the truth, but close enough. “They’re from the south of England, and there’s no reason for her to be in Leeds, except… It seems she’s in the family way. I believe she’s been sent here for her confinement.”
A knock sounded at the door and Dibble came in with the tea tray. Lewis could have howled with frustration. He forced himself to stay in the chair but his feet tapped out his impatience against the rug.
Mentioning no names, Lewis gave an abbreviated description of Sir John’s meeting with Anna. He struggled to maintain an air of disinterested charity as Fawcett devoted his attention to his tea, the crease in his trousers, the muffled voices in the corridor.
Lewis pulled his drawing from his pocket book and handed it across the small space between them. It earned only a cursory glance.
“You’ve come at a bad time. I leave for York early tomorrow for a meeting with the archbishop. In any case, there’s really nothing I can do for you.”
Lewis waited for more, but the vicar set down his cup with a final click and stood. Lewis jumped up…to do what? Grab the man by the front of his coat and shake him until he listened?
“Sir!” he cried. He could hear the dismay in his own voice, all the urgency he’d tamped down. “Have you heard me at all? You sip your tea and admire your fingernails. For the love of God, there’s a young lady in danger. How can you not know of the asylum Redfern mentioned?”
For the first time Fawcett looked at him, measuring the damp, long-haired young man importuning him, perhaps deciding whether to take offense. He shrugged, heading toward the corner where his hat and greatcoat hung. “Yes, there is such a place. My curate at Holy Trinity is the man to see about that. I really must go.”
He ushered Lewis into the corridor. “Dibble!” he called out. “Call for my carriage and then clean up in here.”
An unintelligible reply, and Dibble hurried away from them down the corridor. Lewis accompanied the vicar back the way he had come. They walked together through the church, even emptier than before. Of the handful of people doing business with God this evening, only one looked up as their shoes echoed across the floor. A woman, her eyes wide in surprise.
From the church porch, Lewis could almost believe the world had disappeared into the fog that lay over the darkened yard and the city beyond. He’d lost all track of time, shut away inside that moldering pile of stone. Waiting for this, waiting for that.
He’d taken a half step forward in his quest. But the devil was in it, he would have to wait some more. The curate would be gone until morning.
Lewis collected his umbrella and headed into the mist, scurrying to get out of the way as the vicar’s carriage drove around the corner and pulled to a stop. Then a woman’s voice called out. “If you please, sir?”
He glanced over his shoulder. Was she talking to him?
No. It was the woman from inside, waylaying the vicar as he approached the carriage. Lewis couldn’t see his face, but Fawcett’s impatience showed in the way he pivoted toward her, stiff and abrupt. The self-important toad.
Chapter 25
Coming awake in the darkness, Anna fought for breath. Blood. So much blood. In her mouth, her nose, all over her swollen breasts and belly. Between her legs.
She did not taste blood. Shaking, sw
eating, she threw back the sheets and the threadbare wool blankets. Pulled up the coarse muslin nightdress twisted around her thighs. She couldn’t see, but she could feel…
Not yet. Thank God, not yet. It was only terror invading the night, as it had done for months.
The dreams came in different forms, showing different sections of the thorny path she traveled. This particular bit sought to convince her she would not live to see around the next bend. Perhaps never lay eyes on the child she carried.
For a time, that was what she’d wanted. Sometimes the dreams showed her pictures of Afterward, and oh, it was an empty, lonely place. The long, long view from the rooftop, down the Avon to the Severn and the ocean she could not see except in her mind’s eye, restless and insensible. Or standing in a crowded room, separate, unseen.
But the strength with which she battled this particular dream, the death dream, the very fear it aroused, had persuaded her she wanted to live. In loneliness, there might still be some meaningful use for her mind and heart. In death there could be none.
The baby kicked. Anna shivered as the sweat froze on her skin.
Another kick to the bladder sent her heaving to the edge of the low bed. She slid off onto her knees, groping underneath for the chamber pot. When she was finished with that awkward task, she fought her way upright.
A few careful steps took her to the narrow window. She pulled the curtain aside, welcoming the gleam from the streetlight on Vicar’s Lane. It reached a feeble arm across the cold, bare planks beneath her feet, pointing toward the door.
Enough perilous forays into sleep for this night. Her woolen dressing gown no longer closed around her belly, but it helped keep her back and arms warm. She pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, trailing it behind her like a little girl dressed in her mother’s clothes. It caught in the doorjamb and something tore as she yanked it free. A bubble of viciousness broke inside her. Oh, she wanted to damage something that mattered! Wanted to be yelled at, and by God, yell back. Put an end to her submissiveness, her scrupulous courtesy. Scream at the whole world. Pour out all the shrill, jangling discord that filled every inch of her. Sometimes she imagined it was that, not a baby, stretching her skin ’til she thought she would split open.
Hands shaking, it took her four tries to light a candle, and then she nearly dropped it. She carried that one around the room and lit the others. There were not many—when darkness fell, they went to bed, she and Putnam.
She was so tired of these barren, rented rooms! They belonged to Putnam’s cousin, but he’d done them no favors. Someone’s discarded furniture, someone else’s cast-off little rug, someone else’s choices, none of them matching, none of them pretty. The only items from home were her brush and comb. Her ugliest bonnet. Two of her old gowns to wear after the babe was born. A handful of books Father thought suitably improving. And Lewis Aubrey’s self-portrait, only a few quick lines yet so like him, hidden away in her trunk. It hurt too much to see it, to remember his concern for her and the way she had repaid it.
Had he guessed what she’d done? Not then, no. But he must know now. She hardly dared step outside since seeing Sir John.
Putnam had grown up in Leeds, so that was the place they’d settled on for their hideaway. Oh, Anna had known the Wedburys and Aubreys hailed from Yorkshire, but Yorkshire was a big place. She had thought it would be safe enough.
She should have discovered exactly where they lived. Because the idea of seeing Lewis—or Gideon, God forbid!—filled her with dismay.
She lumbered across the room, careful not to trip on the blanket, and fell into a chair. Sir John must have been disgusted by what he saw. She disgusted herself. A slattern in homespun, heavy with child, haggard and graceless. So far removed from six short months ago when he had been so kind to her.
In those six months, she had heard every synonym for stupid many times over. If there were any her family forgot, she used them to castigate herself. They were all true, all deserved. Stupid to be so gullible, to believe she might find everlasting happiness, to succumb to Gideon’s wiles. Stupid not to fall in love with Lewis, instead.
No more! It was a pointless exercise. She was through with self-pity, at least for this night.
If only Putnam’s roots were in Cornwall, or Kent, or anywhere else but Yorkshire! If only they’d arrived at the inn three minutes sooner or later. If only she had seen Sir John in time to turn away.
If only he would keep his news to himself.
Lewis awoke at dawn, trapped in the melancholy of a dream he could not remember. Too late to try for more sleep, too early for anything else. The curate would hardly appreciate being roused from his bed.
He retrieved his poor boots from the hallway—they looked better than he had any right to expect—and rang for hot water.
By the time he’d washed and dressed it was daylight, after a fashion. The clawing in his gut felt like anxiety rather than hunger, but maybe feeding the beast would cushion its rending talons.
He descended into the morning chaos of the inn. He waited for a seat, then he waited for his breakfast. As it arrived, the bells at Holy Trinity chimed eight, and then a quarter past. Time to be on his way.
Lewis donned his greatcoat and checked that Anna’s portrait was safe in his pocket. Then he shouldered his way through a fresh group of coach passengers to reach the street. A voice called out, “Sir? Sir!” as he pushed the door open, but he had no reason to think it pertained to him.
Watching his footing, he headed south toward Boar Lane and Holy Trinity. He’d gone only a few yards when a red-cheeked maid from the inn caught him up.
“Sir, this is for you.” She handed him a folded piece of paper with only Mr. Aubrey written on the outside in a feminine hand.
Lewis frowned and opened it. Two short lines on the inn’s stationery:
I have what you seek.
Library 10 o’clock.
“What the hell?” He flipped the paper over. Nothing. Only his name and that cryptic message.
Only one thing he was seeking, and this was not Anna’s handwriting.
“Miss, do you know…?”
The maid was gone. No, there she was, holding the inn door open for a party of people encumbered by parcels and a crate containing a very indignant goose.
“Miss!” Lewis called, heading her way. She didn’t hear him.
The door had almost closed behind her by the time he reached it, slipping in the ruts of dirty, broken ice that crackled and shifted underfoot. He yanked it open again and caught her sleeve.
“Miss, where did this come from?”
She shrugged. “Dunno, sir, Mr. Hogg jus’ sent me out to find ye.” She turned and made her way toward the kitchens.
Lewis tried to catch the innkeeper’s eye, but the man was busy appeasing a dissatisfied customer. Lewis cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, anything he could think of to make sure they both knew he was waiting. Finally, with a sniff and a sneer, the lady accepted whatever deal was offered and marched herself upstairs, her maid trotting behind. Good riddance!
Hogg turned to Lewis.
Lewis held up the note. “Who left this, and when?”
“’Twas a woman, sir, come in last evening.”
“What time? Was she old or young? Fair or dark? Tall or short?”
The innkeeper shrugged as the maid had done. “I dunno, sir. My nephew took care of her, an’ he’s only here nights.”
Plague take it. “Where is the library, Hogg?”
“I’m bettin’ she means the subscription library over the bookshop in Commercial Street. Turn right out o’ here and right on Bond. Changes names the next block.”
Obviously, the man had read the note—that was one good reason for its author to keep it cryptic. Yet Lewis fumed. Was this another of Anna’s mysteries? He couldn’t imagine anything else the note could reference, but neither could he imagine she was behind it. She was perfectly capable of penning a note herself.
T
he church, or the library? It was already nine. If he went to the church, he would almost certainly miss a ten o’clock appointment at the library.
It really wasn’t a question. The curate would be available later, whereas Anna…if it was Anna…if it was the right library…
With a hasty apology, he stepped out of the path of a large gentleman entering the inn and headed south again.
Bond Street came in sight. Lewis endangered his own precarious footing assisting an old man who had fallen.
“You’re limping,” Lewis said.
“Bless ye, laddie, been limpin’ these forty years.”
That was a relief. Lewis did not have time to help the poor fellow get home, or to a doctor. But he could at least make sure the fellow reached the tavern he was aiming for. It was just around the corner in Bond Street, on the way to the library.
Chapter 26
Lewis loitered outside for a few minutes, keeping one eye on the passers-by while pretending to inspect the contents of the arched shop fronts at street level.
At the half-hour, he pulled open the doors in the left-hand arch and climbed the stairs to the library on the first floor. Another set of doors opened into a large, stunning room filled with light from the peaked glass ceiling. Filled too, of course, with books, the smell of paper and leather and ink and wood. For no logical reason, the beauty of the place seemed a good omen.
There were not many places she could hide. Lewis checked the alcoves and peered into the ladies’ reading room, earning black looks from its occupants. She wasn’t there.
He returned to the front of the room, selected a journal at random from the table display, and sat to read an article.
But each time the door opened he startled. With every swish of skirts he jumped, hoping—fearing—it was Anna. He couldn’t have said what the damned article was about.
