by Amanda Quick
There were several Coopers but no Edwina or Theodora.
She closed that drawer and tried the one that should have contained a file for Phoebe Leyland.
That search, too, proved futile.
There was no file for Hannah Radburn, either.
It was as though the girls had never existed.
Disappointment and frustration flashed through Concordia. There had to be some record of the four. They had all come from the Winslow Charity School for Girls.
Recalling Ambrose’s success with the search of Mrs. Jervis’s desk, she went to Edith Pratt’s heavy desk.
The first thing she saw was a large, leather-bound journal.
She flipped it open and found herself looking at an appointment calendar and schedule typical of the sort most headmistresses kept. It came as no surprise to discover that Edith Pratt maintained meticulous records. The details of daily classroom assignments, weekly menus and the monthly change of sheets on the beds were all carefully noted in small, very precise handwriting.
The sheets were only changed monthly? Outrageous, Concordia thought. Fortnightly was the rule in respectable schools and households. Evidently Pratt had found yet another way to save money. True, the washing, drying and ironing of sheets took up a great deal of time and effort, but it was absolutely necessary to perform the task frequently and regularly in order to achieve a healthful standard of cleanliness.
She studied the entries for the past week but nothing out of the ordinary jumped off the page. Unable to think of anything else, she turned back to the month that Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora had been removed from the school and sent to Aldwick Castle.
Two days prior to the day that the girls recalled having been summoned to the office and told to pack their bags, the name H. Cuthbert, Dorchester Street was written down and underlined twice. The words bill for 4 pr. new gloves & 4 new bonnets were jotted down directly beneath the address.
She searched the schedule for a few days prior to the date but saw no other useful notes.
Closing the journal, she reached down and opened the largest of the desk drawers. A file labeled Correspondence caught her eye.
It was a very slim folder.
She sifted through it quickly. Most of the letters were from potential employers requesting descriptions and details of the physical looks and educational accomplishments of the school’s most recent graduates. There was, Concordia noticed, a strong demand for modest young women of plain and unremarkable appearance. Few wives wanted to hire governesses who might prove attractive to the men in the household.
She was about to drop the file back into the drawer when a signature at the bottom of one of the letters caught her eye. W. Leyland.
Phoebe’s last name was Leyland.
Footsteps echoed loudly in the hall.
There was no time to peruse the letter. Concordia yanked it out of the file and jammed it into the inside pocket of her cloak.
She hurried around the corner of the desk and went to stand at the window, making a pretense of looking out at the street.
The office door opened abruptly.
“That takes care of that little matter,” Edith announced. She was flushed with satisfaction. “There will be no more fires in any of the rooms until the end of October.”
“You were about to check your files for a record of Rebecca,” Concordia said, turning away from the window.
“Yes, of course.”
Edith went to the cabinet containing the Ts, rummaged around briefly and then shut the drawer.
“Sorry. There is no file for a nine-year-old illegitimate girl named Rebecca who was fathered by a gentleman named Thompson.”
“Thank you, Miss Pratt.” Concordia went to the door. “You’ve been most helpful.”
Outside in the hall it took all of her self-control to walk sedately toward the front door. Every instinct she possessed was urging her to flee the suffocating atmosphere of the school.
The wan-looking Miss Burke opened the door for her and uttered a weak farewell. Concordia got the impression that the woman longed to follow her out of the mansion. But Miss Burke was evidently as much a prisoner of the school as any of the students.
Concordia breathed a small sigh of relief when she reached the street. It occurred to her that during the entire time she had been inside the school she had not seen a single student.
That was not surprising. Hannah, Phoebe, Edwina and Theodora had explained that for the most part the girls were restricted to the upper floors of the old mansion. The exceptions included the two meals a day served in the dining hall and the thrice-weekly twenty-minute exercise sessions outside on the walled grounds at the back of the big house.
At the corner Concordia paused to look back at the dark mansion one last time. There was a flicker of movement in one of the upstairs windows. She glimpsed a pale face looking down at her. She thought about Hannah’s friend Joan, who was somewhere inside the school.
Concordia shivered. She was fortunate. She could walk out of that dreadful place today. But that young girl up there and thirty-six others were trapped in the shadows.
Her eyes blurred as she rounded the corner and started down the street toward the cab in which Ambrose waited. She pulled out a handkerchief.
None of the passersby took any notice of her when she dabbed the moisture from her eyes. Widows, after all, were expected to burst into tears at odd moments.
20
Did you take complete leave of your senses?” Ambrose demanded from the opposite carriage seat. “What the devil did you think you were doing?”
It dawned on Concordia that he was furious. His reaction baffled her.
When she had returned to the cab a few minutes ago, she had expected praise and admiration for her display of initiative. Instead, she was receiving a blistering reprimand.
“I merely took a quick look through the files while Miss Pratt was out of the room.” Annoyed, Concordia crushed the black veil up onto the brim of her hat and glared at him. “I fail to see why you are so agitated, sir. Had you been in my shoes, I’m certain you would have done the same thing.”
“What I would or would not have done is beside the point. I gave you very precise instructions concerning how you were to conduct yourself while you were in that place. I specifically said that you were not to do anything that might arouse suspicion.”
“No suspicions were aroused, I assure you.”
“Only because you had the good fortune not to be caught in the act of searching the files.”
“It was not good fortune that prevented me from being caught,” she retorted. “It was my own caution and cleverness. Furthermore, I resent being lectured to in this fashion by a gentleman who appears to have made a career out of taking very similar risks.”
“We are not discussing my career.”
“That is true, isn’t it?” She gave him a falsely sweet smile. “In fact, you have told me very little about yourself. You are a man with many secrets, are you not, Mr. Wells?”
“Do not try to change the subject. It is your actions that we are discussing here.”
“For heaven’s sake, you are acting as if you have the right to give me orders. I would remind you that I am the client.”
“And I am the expert in this affair. It is only reasonable that you take instructions from me.”
“Indeed? And just what do you know about the filing arrangements commonly used in girls’ schools? Very little, I expect. I, on the other hand, have spent my entire career working in such places.”
“You are a teacher, damn it, not a detective.”
“This is ridiculous. Why on earth are you overreacting so dramatically to what was, essentially, nothing more than a bit of clever sleuthing on my part?”
“If I am overreacting, it is because you scared the hell out of me, Concordia Glade.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He groaned and reached for her. His hands closed around her upper arms.
Before she realized his intent, he hauled her onto his thighs.
“There is no hope for me, is there?” He sounded resigned. “You are going to drive me mad.”
She clutched at her hat, which had been knocked askew by the abrupt change in the seating arrangements. “What on earth are you talking about?”
His mouth trapped hers with a fierceness that stopped the words and stole her breath.
The world outside the swaying, jostling cab ceased to exist. A shimmering, glittery sensation swept through her. She put her fingertips on Ambrose’s shoulders. This was the second time he had kissed her, she reflected. It provided an excellent opportunity to practice what she had learned the first time.
She opened her mouth in an experimental fashion. He muttered something low and urgent and immediately deepened the embrace.
A very satisfactory experiment, she concluded.
By the time he raised his head she was hot and flustered and her eyeglasses were fogged.
She yanked off the spectacles. “This is really most annoying.”
He watched her very steadily, his expression unreadable. “I suppose you want an apology.”
“For clouding my eyeglasses?” She wiped the lenses carefully with a clean handkerchief and held them up to check for smudges. “I hardly think that is necessary. It is not your fault that when warm, moist air, such as one’s breath, comes in contact with a glass or mirrored surface, it creates a foglike vapor. It is merely a scientific fact.”
She popped the spectacles back onto her nose and discovered that Ambrose was gazing at her with a wry, bemused expression.
She frowned. “Is there something wrong, sir?”
He shook his head as though dazed. “Nothing that I could even begin to explain in a remotely rational manner.”
She could feel the muscled strength of his thigh and the unmistakable hardness of his aroused body pressing against the side of her leg.
She was the cause of that particular physical change in his anatomy, she thought, rather dazzled by the newfound sense of feminine power.
The cab jolted over some rough pavement. The movement caused her to settle into an even more intimate position. Reality came crashing back. They were in a hired cab, for heaven’s sake, she thought. It was certainly not the place for this sort of thing.
She cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should return to my seat.”
His mouth curved faintly but the heat in his eyes stirred her senses in a way that made it difficult to breathe.
“Perhaps you should, Miss Glade.”
Well, at least he no longer appeared angry, she thought. That seemed like a good sign. Taking command of herself, she collected her skirts and moved back to the other side of the cab.
“Now then, if you have finished lecturing me, perhaps you would like to know what I found in Miss Pratt’s office,” she said.
He frowned. “I thought you said there were no files for any of the girls.”
“True. It was as if they had never resided in the school,” she said patiently. “However, I found two items of interest in her desk. The first was a note in Pratt’s appointment journal concerning a bill for four pairs of new gloves and four new bonnets to be sent to an H. Cuthbert on Dorchester Street.”
“Who is Cuthbert?”
“I don’t know, but his name was written down in the journal only two days before the girls were handed over to Miss Bartlett to be escorted to the castle. I think the fact that the bill was for exactly four pairs of gloves and four bonnets has to be something more than a mere coincidence, don’t you? Obviously the girls were being outfitted for the journey to the castle.”
His brows climbed. “My apologies, Concordia. You are, indeed, starting to sound like an expert detective.”
“Thank you.” Pleased, she reached into the pocket of her cloak. “The other item of great interest that I discovered was a letter signed by a W. Leyland.”
Recognition flashed in his eyes. “A connection to Phoebe?”
The hunter in him had returned to the fore, she thought, greatly relieved. It was much easier to deal with Ambrose when he was in this mood.
“Perhaps,” she said. “I have not yet had an opportunity to read it.” She opened it carefully. “As you can see, it is somewhat wrinkled. The moment I discovered it in the drawer, I heard Miss Pratt returning. I was obliged to stuff it rather quickly into my pocket.”
“In other words, it was a very near thing. Just as I feared, you were almost caught.”
She smoothed the letter on the cushion of the seat. “For the sake of our mutual goal in this matter, I suggest that we do not return to that subject.”
His jaw flexed but he did not pursue the matter.
“Read it to me,” he said.
She picked up the letter.
To Whom It May Concern:
I write to inquire whether or not my niece resides in your school. Her name is Phoebe Leyland. She was lost in a boating accident four months ago. Her body was never recovered. The authorities are convinced that she drowned.
Unlike most girls, Phoebe was taught to swim and was quite expert. It has occurred to me that she may have survived the accident but perhaps lost her memory as a result of the shock or a blow to her head.
On the off chance that Phoebe was found and placed in an orphanage because of her inability to identify herself or to recall the details of her past, I am writing to as many institutions as possible to ask that records be searched for a girl matching my dear niece’s description. Following are the particulars . . .
Concordia quickly read a description that matched Phoebe in every way.
When she was finished, she looked at Ambrose.
“It is signed W. Leyland,” she said quietly. “Phoebe often speaks fondly of a maiden aunt named Winifred Leyland. Her father had intended that she go to live with Winifred after he died. But an uncle on her mother’s side of the family took her in instead. The uncle and his wife told Phoebe that Winifred had succumbed to a fever.”
“And then they sent Phoebe to the orphanage.”
“Yes.” Concordia tapped the letter. “It doesn’t make any sense. If the uncle and his wife wanted to be rid of an unwanted niece, why not send her to live with Winifred Leyland? Why did they pack her off to Winslow and tell her that her aunt was dead?”
Ambrose settled back against the seat, looking thoughtful. “In my opinion, the most interesting aspect of this matter is that the aunt and uncle also appear to have gone out of their way to inform Winifred Leyland that Phoebe had drowned.”
Concordia’s fingers clenched around the letter. “Why would anyone do such a cruel thing to an orphaned girl and the only other person on the face of the earth who wanted her? It is monstrous.”
“I suspect that Larkin or his partner compensated the aunt and uncle very well for their cooperation and silence.”
She stared unseeingly down at the letter. “You mean they sold Phoebe to those dreadful men?”
“That is certainly how it appears. It is obvious that Edith Pratt was involved in the business, too. Larkin and his associate probably paid her to take the girls into the school with no questions asked and hand them over when they were ready to move them to Aldwick Castle.”
“I suspect that they paid Edith Pratt quite handsomely for her assistance,” Concordia said, closing her fingers into a small fist. “She appeared rather expensively dressed for a headmistress of a charity school. What are you thinking, sir?”
Ambrose leaned back in his seat. “I believe it is time that I interviewed the four people who know more about this affair than anyone else.”
21
He sat down behind his desk and looked at Hannah, Phoebe, Edwina and Theodora. They were seated in front of him in a neat row. Curiosity, expectation and excitement lit their faces.
Concordia occupied the wingback chair near the window. Unlike the girls, she appeared serious and more than a little anxious. He knew that she was concerned that his questions would fo
rce the girls to recall some of the unhappiest moments of their young lives. He wasn’t looking forward to this any more than she was, but he could see no way around it.
He needed answers, and Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora very likely knew a good deal more than they realized.
“Miss Glade said that you would like our help with your investigation,” Theodora said.
“We will be happy to assist you,” Edwina assured him.
“Does this mean that we are now assistant detectives?” Phoebe asked eagerly. Behind the lenses of her spectacles her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“That is precisely what it means,” Ambrose said.
“How thrilling,” Hannah whispered. “Just like in a novel.”
Concordia smiled for the first time since they had gathered in the library. “That is true, Hannah. The four of you are, indeed, involved in a mystery story of your very own. We are attempting to identify the villain of the piece.”
“What do you want to know?” Phoebe asked.
He looked at her. “For starters, Phoebe, we have some reason to believe that your aunt, Winifred Leyland, may still be alive and that she is searching for you.”
“Aunt Winifred?” Phoebe stared at him, clearly stunned. “Alive? But Uncle Wilbert said she died of a fever.”
Ambrose glanced at the date of the letter in front of him. “As of a little more than two months ago, she was alive and living in a village named High Hornby.”
“That is her home,” Phoebe whispered. “She has lived there for many years. But why would Uncle Wilbert and Aunt Mildred say that she died?” Her face started to crumple.
Concordia was out of her chair and at Phoebe’s side in a heartbeat. She put her arm around the girl’s shaking shoulders.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said quietly. “Rest assured, if your aunt really is still alive, we will find her.”
Phoebe sniffed a couple of times and looked blankly at Concordia. “I don’t understand, Miss Glade.”
“None of us do, as yet,” Ambrose said. “But we will sort it all out eventually. Now then, your aunt’s letter indicates that she was told that you drowned in a boating accident. Do you have any idea how that tale might have come about?”
