A Grave Inheritance

by Kari Edgren

  The door closed, and I stared at the now empty space, my mind lurching like a maddened horse. The little wretch must have gone straight from Cate’s to the theater after attacking the boy. Why go there out of all the other places in London? Had Nora been purposefully targeted or was the girl looking for me?

  Panic urged me to fly after my best friend. I pushed it back and focused instead on the available facts. Somehow, the wretch had acquired the skill to kill swiftly and, no doubt, could have struck Nora with the same efficiency she had used on the boy. Yet, Nora looked the epitome of good health this morning. While I mulled this over, another idea crept into my head. Was it possible that their encounter had been dictated by happenstance rather than premeditation? The girl could have been passing by on route to another destination, and having recognized Nora from the docks, hoped to gain nothing more than another penny.

  The panic began to subside, soothed by the reasonableness of this new theory. But no matter her motivation, she was bad news and Nora had to be warned against further interaction. Prohibited from sharing the whole truth, I would frame my own knowledge into horrible stories being whispered through London—perhaps about a habit of harming small children for fun. Worded the right way, I wouldn’t even have to lie too much. Certainly, Nora couldn’t turn a blind eye, no matter how sorry she may feel for the girl.

  My nerves somewhat restored, I glanced toward the window. Nora was right about the day and I decided not to waste any more of it. Throwing the covers back, I got out of bed to pull the bell for Beth.

  Once dressed, I washed a few bites of a scone down with a cup of tea before clearing a spot on my dressing table to write a note to Julian. With the quill in hand, I stared down at the blank parchment, debating how best to start. Numerous salutations came to mind, one seemingly more suitable than the rest. I dipped the quill into the ink and started to write:

  Dearest Julian,

  My hand wavered, nearly struck out the intimate salutation. At the last second I decided to leave it.

  Thank you for the basket.

  I hesitated again, unsure whether or not to include Henry in my next line.

  I found Caitria’s altar at All Hallows and easily crossed over. I dare say I’ve never drunk so much in my entire life! You worked a miracle on my behalf to have located the passageway on such short notice. This note cannot fully express my gratitude for what you’ve done, nor the extent of my joy to be back amongst my own kind.

  Pleased with these first lines, I then proceeded with the less pleasant part.

  Julian, last night I was an unwitting witness to a heinous act that may very well involve the leath’dhia. It is of the utmost importance that we speak, and I implore you to call on me without delay.

  Brigid Buadach,

  Selah

  I was busy digging through my writing box in search of wax and seal when the door opened. Cate came into the room, her face a welcome sight as she crossed to where I sat.

  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly, placing a hand on my forehead. “How are you feeling? Hopefully your headache is gone. Fannie told me you requested a pot of willow bark tea last night.”

  “I’m much better, thank you.”

  She removed her hand from my head and picked up my wrist next. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Hmmm.”

  “Is anything amiss?”

  “No, no, your pulse is fine.” The crease vanished. “How would you like to go out this morning? I’ve errands to run and thought it a good time to bring the knife to the metal smith.”

  Nora hadn’t been gone an hour before I grew bored with the idea of staying at home. By no means as exciting as St. Paul’s Cathedral and a picnic, I could think of worse ways to spend an hour or two than errands with Cate.

  “I would love to go.”

  Cate gave me a smile. “Grab you cloak, the carriage is waiting.”

  I shot a furtive look at the letter for Julian. To place it unsealed into the hands of a messenger, or even a house servant, would be asking for trouble. I might as well just throw the windows open and shout out every word for all to hear, the end result would be the same. Anxious as I was to speak with Julian about the little wretch, our meeting would have to wait until I returned later today. Pushing the letter aside, I retrieved my cloak from the armoire and followed Cate from the room.

  We went first to the furniture curator where Cate approved a chaise lounge for her bedroom. An elegant mix of mahogany and burnt amber velvet, the piece was certainly beautiful, but my interest didn’t really pick up until our next stop at the dressmaker’s shop. Just that morning, the proprietor had received several new patterns from Paris and sent word to Cate, who happened to be a good friend and her favorite client. As we approached the entry, a young boy of about eight years jumped up from a nearby stool to open the door for us.

  “Good day, Johnny,” Cate said. “You look smart in your new uniform.”

  The boy’s face lit up with a smile. “Thank ye, milady. Mrs. Clifford is waiting for ye inside.”

  Cate bent over and spoke to Johnny in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Has she shown the patterns to anyone else this morning?”

  The boy looked around, then answered in a similar tone. “No, milady, some other ladies came by, but she kept them well hidden. Ye be the first to see them.”

  “You do me a great service, Johnny.” Cate ruffled the boy’s scruffy brown hair before we continued into the shop.

  Once inside, my first impression was that we had walked into a small crowd of fashionably dressed shoppers. Most of these ladies, I soon realized, were not the flesh and blood variety, but had been carved from wood, their jointed arms posed to reflect real life movements. Along two walls, shelves were stacked with bolts of colorful silks and velvets. Another wall was lined with lighter linens for ladies’ underclothing while the final wall displayed buttons, trims and ribbons. A large table stood near the rear of the shop, its broad expanse covered with what looked to be pattern books.

  A well-rounded woman stood behind the counter, cutting a length of pink ribbon for what I now saw to be the only other living customer. “Good day, Lady Dinley,” the woman said in greeting. “Let me fetch Liza and I’ll be right with you.”

  “No rush, Mrs. Clifford,” Cate replied. “I always enjoy some time to look around.”

  Mrs. Clifford rolled up the pink ribbon before disappearing through a door. She reemerged seconds later with a girl of about ten years in her wake. Liza took over with the ribbons while Mrs. Clifford came over to where we stood, admiring a sleeve design on one of the mannequins.

  “Thank heavens you’re here,” Mrs. Clifford said. “Word has started to spread that new patterns arrived from the Continent. I’ve already had to send four ladies away this morning, and not ten minutes ago a note came from the queen, summoning me to Kensington at two sharp. Now that’s one woman I’d not have the nerve to defy, even for you, Cate.”

  “You’ve my eternal gratitude for keeping them out of sight this long,” Cate said.

  Mrs. Clifford led us to the back table, where she produced a thick packet of parchment. “You simply won’t believe what they’re doing in Paris this fall.” Taking out one of the papers, she spread it open on the table. “Just look at these block pleats. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  We stayed at the dress shop for two hours while Cate and Mrs. Clifford pored over the patterns. Their excitement for the newest designs was contagious and before long both Liza and Johnny joined us at the table. Mrs. Clifford offered no objection and Cate went so far as to request their opinions on the various gowns she was considering. They all seemed very comfortable together, with no overt consideration for age or rank.

  While Cate finalized her order, I wandered over to the accessories wall in search of a ribbon to match one of my new gowns from Henry. Liza followed, taking her
place on the opposite side of the counter.

  “Would you like me to cut something for you, miss?” she asked.

  “A yard of that pale blue there.” I pointed the best I could at the display.

  “This one?” she asked. I nodded and she took it from the shelf. Pulling the ribbon along a measuring stick, she snipped it off at the yard mark.

  “You seem very comfortable with Lady Dinley,” I said. “How long have you known her?”

  “All my life, miss. Her ladyship brought me into the world ten years ago.”

  “Lady Dinley was your midwife?” I asked, sure that I must have misunderstood.

  “Yes, miss. She’s birthed a lot of us children from the rookeries.”

  “But Lady Dinley can’t be more than one and twenty. She couldn’t have been birthing babies at only eleven years old.” I had been fourteen before acting as full midwife, and even that was an uncommonly young age for something so fraught with danger.

  Liza gave me a curious look. “To be honest, miss, I’ve never given much thought to her age, but I do promise that Lady Dinley’s was the first face I ever saw in this world. When my mama died two years later, her ladyship took me on as a ward.” She handed me the ribbon. “Would you like another color? I think this green would be very pretty against your skin.”

  I nodded, temporarily at a loss for words.

  With the ribbons tucked into my pocket, I followed Cate out of the shop and into the carriage. The new gowns had put her in high spirits, so much that most of the trip to the metal smith was filled with her lively chatter regarding Parisian and English fashion. I was the most attentive listener, my eyes fixed on her face as I studied its every line and feature. Her skin was flawless, perfectly smooth and undeniably youthful. Until speaking to Liza, I would have sworn an oath that she was only three years my senior. Five at the very most.

  Propriety alone kept me from asking outright about her age. Fortunately, there was another subject I found of equal interest, and with a little luck would inevitably satisfy my curiosity on both fronts. At the first lull in the conversation, I pushed ahead.

  “Liza told me that you’re a midwife.”

  Cate gave me one of her smiles. “Liza has always been one to exaggerate my abilities. I’ve learned a trick or two over the years and try to do what I can to help. Mostly it’s the poorest of the poor who seek me out, those who can’t afford to pay to have their babies delivered.” She looked at me, her own curiosity evident. “Henry mentioned that you were a healer in the Colonies. Did you ever serve as a midwife?”

  “More times than I can count. My mother was a midwife and trained me before she died.” I chose my next words carefully. “I was fourteen the first time I ever attended a woman on my own. From what Liza said, you must have been even younger.”

  “Far too young,” she readily agreed. “Not yet ten years and so scared I nearly blundered the whole thing. By the time the real midwife arrived, I was holding a screaming baby boy and swearing on everything sacred to never get with child myself.” Cate laughed, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Nature has a way of making us forget such promises.”

  Her age was forgotten by what sounded to be an admission of motherhood. I hadn’t even suspected the possibility and was just trying to wrap my head around the notion when the carriage came to a stop.

  Cate leaned over and pushed open the door. “Here we are. You best hold up your skirts, the road can be muddy.”

  Before leaving the house this morning, I had wrapped the knife in a piece of oilcloth. Now with the oilcloth in one hand and a fistful of silk skirts in the other, I stepped from the carriage, silently cursing when my shoes sank into a soft layer of crushed rock and mud. Hiking up the front of my skirts another few inches, I glanced around at the shops that lined both sides of the narrow road. Coal dust coated the wood and brick facades, but the never-ending fight against the grime was most evident in the heavily smudged windowpanes. Tradesmen were in abundance, some engaged in conversations, while others hurried to and fro about their business. Other than a wagon and several work carts, Cate’s was the only carriage in sight. Two housewives passed in front of us, baskets in hand as their sharp eyes took in our silk gowns and fine woolen capes.

  Wasting no time, Cate walked toward the nearest doorway, passing beneath a painted black sign with a silver hammer and anvil. Once inside, I blinked several times while my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  At first sight, the shop seemed a chaotic hodgepodge of metal work. Copper and iron cooking pots were piled in the corner directly to my right. Wooden counters ran along two walls, most of the surface space taken up with what appeared to be normal household items such as brass candleholders and pewter dishware. The third wall was covered by a variety of knives and swords.

  A large man stood behind one of the counters, with a golden figurine resting in the palm of one hand. He held a tool in the other hand, grasped like a quill between his thumb and index finger. A pair of spectacles pinched the bridge of his nose, the lenses magnifying his eyes to at least twice their normal size.

  He glanced up from his work. “You’re just in time,” he said, beckoning us forward.

  Cate crossed the shop to where the man stood, her eyes locked on the figurine still in his hand. “What have you got there?” she asked curiously.

  The man set the magnifying glasses and tool aside, then picked up what looked like a golden key. “A mechanical soldier. The Duke of Buckingham had it commissioned for the king’s birthday.” He stood the soldier on the counter, inserted the key into its back and turned three revolutions.

  I watched in wonder as the soldier began to move forward, aided by nothing more than a pair of golden feet. Measuring about four inches tall, its stiff legs marched with surprising speed, covering the distance in a matter of seconds. Cate’s hand shot out just as the soldier stepped over the edge of the counter.

  The man grinned, pleased with his work.

  “Very nice, Mr. Faber,” Cate said, handing back the figurine. “I dare say, his majesty is sure to be pleased.”

  Mr. Faber took out the key and set the soldier on the counter. “The whims of the wealthy,” he said. “Now what can I do for you, my lady?”

  “This is Miss Selah Kilbrid,” Cate said by way of introduction. “She arrived from the Colonies a week ago, and brought with her the most extraordinary knife. I was hoping you might be able to tell us something about its history.”

  Taking this as my cue, I placed the oilcloth on the counter. To my surprise, I glanced back up to find Mr. Faber staring intently at my face. Something akin to sadness flashed in his eyes—and longing.

  Cate cleared her throat.

  Mr. Faber gave a quick shake of his head and dropped his gaze to the counter. “What have we here?” he asked, pulling the cloth aside. When the knife came into view, his breath turned to a low whistle. Light from an oil lamp glinted off the Gaelic words, and he ran a finger across each letter. Then gripping the bone handle, he lifted the knife to eye level and stared down the long blade. “Made in Ireland about fifty years ago.” He tilted it side to side. “Most likely in a forge near Dublin.” Lowering the knife, he placed it back on the cloth.

  I looked at the knife, perplexed by Mr. Faber’s assessment. To be sure, I hadn’t expected him to know its full history, how the smith god Goibniu had forged the blade in ancient days. But fifty years? A man skilled enough to create the mechanical soldier should have been able to do better than that. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up to see Mr. Faber staring at Cate, nodding ever so slightly.

  “Well, there you have it,” she said, turning to me. “No more antique than my father’s first pair of riding boots. Shall we go? So many errands have given me an appetite. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop at the teahouse on the way home. The baker there makes the most scrumptious red currant scones in all of
London.”

  The mere mention of food made my stomach grumble. I was on the verge of agreeing when the door banged opened, and a young girl came into the shop. She ran right up to Cate. “I’ve been searching for ye all morning, milady. Sophie said ye went out today and that I might find ye with Master Faber.”

  Cate bent over to face the girl. “What’s wrong, Ellen?”

  “It’s Jenny, milady. She’s in a bad way. Ye’ve got to come with me now.”

  “Charlie visited me last night,” Cate said, her voice suddenly tired. “I’ve already done what I can for Jenny.”

  Ellen shook her head. “No, milady. It got worse after ye left.”

  Cate’s expression turned thunderous. “Damn his black soul to hell,” she said, so softly I almost missed it. Standing back up, she patted Ellen’s cheek. “Run along. I’ll be over just as soon as I’m done here.”

  Ellen didn’t budge. “There’s more, milady. Hannah Thorpe didn’t make it home last night.”

  “Sure she did,” Cate said. “I brought her there myself once I was done with Jenny.”

  “No, milady. Her papa found her this morning, dead as a doornail, curled up not ten steps from the back porch. Folks say she was covered head to toe with the pox.”

  Cate’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” she said, then looked at Mr. Faber. “Tom, I need you to keep Miss Kilbrid company while I’m gone. Fix a pot of tea and put out some biscuits, if you don’t mind.”

  “I should come with you,” I said, having no intention of spending the afternoon alone with the metal smith.

  Cate put a hand on my shoulder. “Stay with Tom. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I started to protest again, but she turned and hurried from the shop, Ellen close on her heels. The door closed behind them, leaving me alone with a man I had known for less than five minutes. For a brief moment I was tempted to run out, to insist that Cate take me along.

  Mr. Faber shifted his weight. “Would you care for some biscuits and tea?” he asked.