“I found his mother’s diaries hidden under the floor of the family home yesterday.” He reached out and took her hand. She smiled at him then returned her attention to me. “Honey, if there is anything I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“I was planning on going back to the Goose and Gridiron this morning to get the rest of my belongings, but if you want me to stay here, I will.”
“You are going alone?” Pierre asked.
“Yes.”
“Why not have Sheppard escort you?”
“No,” she said excitedly. “That will not be necessary. I can manage on my own, thank you.”
I knew what Pierre was thinking, and not wanting to deal with any more mistrust between Pierre and Bess, I hugged my mother’s diary against my chest. “If you will excuse me, I would like some time alone.” I did not wait for anyone to respond. As I walked past Bess, I leaned in and gave her a kiss. “Be careful.” I shot Pierre a cold, irritated look then walked up the back stairs and entered Mother Clap’s old room. I shut the door, crawled into her bed, and sat with the diary on the bed in front of my crossed legs.
I gazed at the book with a sense of longing. My mother held this in her hands. The words lingered in my head. The old cover was rough against the tips of my fingers as I caressed the surface, hoping to feel my mother’s presence, all I felt was guilt at the thought of reading her most private thoughts. I held it up to my nose, hoping to get a scent of her perfume still lingering like a ghost on the pages. Her smell, like her body, died long ago before I got a chance to know either. Pierre’s right, my mind insisted, she would want you to read these pages. Taking a deep breath, I opened the diary.
Thursday, 22nd January 1705
I am beside myself with joy. I have just received notice that I am indeed with child. I knew it as instinctively as one knows the turn of the seasons. A child changes everything. While it may weaken my body over the course of these upcoming months, it has strengthened my spirit and my will to survive. My beloved family physician, Mr. Finney, the only man I can trust, other than my beloved, confirmed my condition this morning and vowed to be there through it all. And while the news is something I have dreamed of for most of my life, it comes at a precarious time. I must find a way to leave the monster I was foolish enough to marry. It has been many months since I have last let him take me in that way. I know my duty as a wife, but I have been fortunate, as he has seemed to have lost interest in bedding me except for when he is consumed by gin, and in an angry mood. At least I can be comforted in knowing the child I carry is not his, but if he finds me growing in the belly, I fear for my own life and that of my unborn child. I will not let him destroy this child and will protect it with my own life if necessary.
I have not told Maarten that he shall be a father.
I stopped reading and took in a heavy breath as I stared at my father’s name. “Maarten,” I exhaled. It was there, written down, making it more real than any other part of my childhood. I sniffled, wiped my nose, then continued reading.
While I know that he loves me, I cannot help but think the news might be too much to bear given we are both struggling to find a way out of the dangerous games we have been playing over the past year to keep our love hidden from the world. I do not have long before my condition will begin to show, and I must take all necessary precautions. Bartholomew leaves tomorrow morning for another debate in the House of Lords. I will send word to Maarten this evening that we must meet at Mr. Finney’s home as I have urgent news to share. I pray to the Lord above that we can find a way out of this hell and be able to have a life together Maarten, myself, and our unborn child.
I wiped at the tears falling freely down my face as I read my mother’s words. The whole of me trembled. A sickness in my belly erupted from her confession of her willingness to sacrifice her life to save mine. Vague similarities drifted in and out of my mind as I thought of my own determination to save Mother Clap’s life and what I was willing to forfeit to save her. I always thought my strength and need to survive came from a hard life, but as I read my mother’s words, I realized my strength, my willingness to fight, came from her. I was my mother’s son.
There was a hole burrowing itself into my heart at that moment. It was the emptiness of a mother’s love. The sadness at never having had a chance to meet the woman, who gave up so much so I could live, began to swallow me. It rose in my throat and threatened to choke me. I ran my trembling hand over my face and through my hair as the anger and rage I felt for Mr. Green resurfaced. I knew it was pointless, as the man was dead and buried, but I wondered if the effects of his malice and evil would ripple through my life indefinitely. I returned to my father’s name. “Maarten,” I said again. Hearing myself speak his name became medicinal. I repeated it over and over in my head. It eased my anger toward Mr. Green, allowing me to breathe, knowing I would be fine, because, for the first time in my life, I knew who my parents were.
I turned the page and read the next entry.
Monday, 26th January 1705
I am safe for the moment to write this entry and will continue to do so every evening until my child is born. In case I do not survive either at the hands of God or my husband’s, I want my child to know how much we love him or her.
Bartholomew came home from the Lords in a mean-spirited mood. He began drinking before he even entered our home. I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was expecting me to allow him entry. The thought of him between my legs sickened me. I could not, no would not let him get that close to me or my child. I could not allow it. I continued to pour him drinks, hoping he would pass out from sheer drunkenness, but the more he drank, the nastier he became. I am ashamed to admit it. No, no I am not. I did what had to be done. I drugged the bastard with opium to keep him from my body and from tarnishing the child within me.
Maarten and I met last Friday just before noon. We do not see each other nearly enough to satisfy our love, but we do what we must for our safety. I told Maarten that he would be a father. At first, I could not read the expression on his face, a testament, he says, to his Dutch ancestors, but as the news settled, a tear formed in the corner of one eye, fell down his cheek, and was caught by the biggest smile I had ever witnessed on a man. He pulled me into his arms. We embraced and wept with joy. He is even more determined to find a way for us to leave London. His apprenticeship with The Stationer’s Company in Central London ended a fortnight ago, and despite his recent appointment as a Stationer by the same company, he must find an alternate place to work, away from London, so that Bartholomew cannot find us.
My only sorrow in all of this is that my child will be born a bastard. Maarten and I will never be able to marry, and I shall never be able to take his name, Vandenberg, as I will never be allowed to divorce my husband. We know this is not the preferred way to begin our life together, but we are also not ignorant enough to believe that Bartholomew would ever agree to a divorce. Our only chance of being married is if the bastard were to die, and in a confession, I can only make to this book, the thought of murdering my husband has remained with me, but I know the Lord, no matter the reason for my act, would never forgive me. My husband, on the other hand, I have no doubt would murder Maarten without a thought to the Lord, and bring me back to this forsaken hell in Bishops Stortford, and keep me a prisoner. Though I suppose I have been his prisoner since the day we met, the difference being that he will control my child, and no doubt destroy it just to spite me.
I mustn’t keep thinking in terms of death or dying. I must remain faithful that Maarten and I will find a way out of this, if not for our sake, for the sake of our child.
I stared at the last few words. A million questions ran through my mind, and yet all I could focus on were the words “for the sake of our child.” A warm sensation blanketed me and filled me with a comfort I had never known. In my mother’s words, I learned that they loved me, even though I was still in her womb. I was tempted to turn the page and continue reading, but something gave m
e pause. It was a glimmer of hope, a small morsel of an idea that I had to act on. I knelt at the edge of the bed and slipped the diary underneath the mattress for safe keeping. My heart raced. I knew it had been twenty-two years since my mother recorded those thoughts, and twenty-one since they had been separated by her murder, but there was something so urgent pressing me forward I did not hesitate a moment longer. I felt I had to act fast, and ran out of the room.
Chapter 10
“Thomas, what is the matter?” Pierre stood as I came running into the dining room.
“Christopher, I need your help. Are you free today?” As I came up to the table, I noticed Bess’s absence and figured she had left to fetch her belongings.
“I was going to go back to Bishop’s Stortford to help my parents, but I can delay. Why?”
“My father…” I took hold of the back of the chair and took a breath to calm my nerves. “He was apprenticed at The Stationer’s Company here in London.”
“That was over twenty-two years ago,” Pierre said. “You cannot expect to find out who your father is simply by going—”
“No, you do not understand. I know his name.” I struggled to contain my excitement. “My father was Maarten Vandenberg. They must have a record of him.”
“Slow down, mon amour.” Pierre came up to me. “I feel you have lost Christopher and me.”
“My father had just been appointed a stationer at the company when my mother told him she was with child. They were afraid of Mr. Green and were planning to leave London to get away from him.”
“I am sorry, did we not already know that?” Christopher said. “I thought Mr. Finney told you they were planning on going to Cambridge.”
“Yes, but perhaps someone at The Stationers remembers him, or knew where he was going to go to work in Cambridge. He would have needed a reference from them, would he not?”
“He would indeed.” Pierre nodded. “Especially being so new to the trade. It is as good a place as any to start. Christopher—”
“I shall get the carriage ready.” Christopher grabbed his overcoat and headed out the door. Pierre and I cleared the table from the uneaten breakfast then left and waited for Christopher to pull the carriage around the front of the house.
“I do not want you to get your hopes up,” Pierre said as we walked toward the carriage. “This is a long shot.” He opened the door. I climbed in. He followed and shut the door.
“I am well aware of that fact.” I knocked on the roof. Christopher eased the horses onto the street. We sat in uncomfortable silence as the hustle and bustle of the city passed us by. A heavy weight descended on me as I realized my response to Pierre was less than warm. I bowed my head and looked at him. “Sorry. I know you mean well, and yes, I do realize I am grasping at little, but I am powerless to stop it. Reading my mother’s words…it did something to me.” I paused, trying to collect the thousands of thoughts racing through my mind.
“How so?”
“For the first time in my life, I felt a connection to someone. It was not like the connection I have with you, Christopher, or even Mother Clap. For the first time, I know something about my mother and father, from her own words as if she was speaking to me. I swear I could almost hear her voice. I never realized how important it is to know where I came from. It explains so much of who I am. If there is even a small chance of finding my father, I have to try.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He smiled. “You know, Christopher and I will be right there by your side, no matter what.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss as the carriage slowed to a stop at Stationers Hall.
Christopher, like a perfect gentleman, came down and opened the door for us. He bowed with his hand extended, mocking his new role as our driver. Christopher smiled and winked at me as I stepped out of the carriage. He was so adorable, I wanted to lean in and kiss him, but knew our public display of affection would lead us both straight to Newgate Prison. I opted for a safer sign, a bow, and subtle wink.
“Good luck.” He placed his hand on my shoulder as I walked past. I turned and smiled at him as we approached the main doors. He nodded and waved.
“Pierre,” I stopped in front of the large double doors. My belly twitched and fluttered with excited anticipation and dread. “Would you mind talking to them? I am not sure I would sound at all believable.”
“I would be happy to.” He smiled at my obvious emotions then opened the door. As we walked across the expansive main hall, Pierre said, “Remember, keep the reason for our questioning vague. I do not think we shall get far if they know we are inquiring into a personal family matter.”
“May I help you?” A voice came from behind us. We both turned and noticed a young man approaching us. He appeared uncomfortable in our presence. “Do you have an appointment?” His eyes shuffled between mine and Pierre’s.
“No, I am afraid we do not.” Pierre removed his hat. “I am Pierre Baptiste.” He bowed. “And this is my associate, Thomas Newton.”
I followed Pierre’s lead. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” I kept my hat secured in my crossed arm. The man stared at the two of us with a questioning gaze. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t get past him and whatever capacity he held in the company. He appeared too young to be in any position of power then it dawned on me, he was an apprentice, and nervous of making a mistake. I gave him a reassuring smile. “I hope our intrusion is not a problem for you.”
“Mr. Waverly.” He nodded then relaxed a bit and forced a smile. “How may I assist you?”
“We have been charged with looking into the disappearance of a man who we have reason to believe was apprenticed here.” Pierre paused as we judged Mr. Waverly’s expression.
“Mind you, I have only been with The Stationers for a short time, and to my knowledge, no one has, as you say, disappeared.”
“My apologies for not specifying this sooner. You see, I am afraid time is not on our side. The man went missing in the summer of seventeen hundred and five.”
“Oh.” It was evident Mr. Waverly was not sure how to proceed. The clapping of heels echoed through the room as several men walked across at the opposite end. We all looked in their direction. Then Mr. Waverly turned back toward us. “I am afraid I cannot help you then.”
“You are an apprentice, are you not?” Pierre was trying to divert the subject.
“Yes, why?” Mr. Waverly gave us a suspicious look. He opened his mouth to say something, but then promptly shut it as if not sure how to proceed. I was actually starting to feel sorry for him.
“Has your master been with The Stationer’s for a long time?”
“He…I…”
“I am sorry for such questions. We are not trying to cause you any trouble. Perhaps if we could just speak to your master, what did you say his name was?”
“Mr. Price.” As soon as he spoke the words, he realized his mistake. “Please, these questions are making me quite nervous. I cannot lose my apprenticeship.”
“Mr. Waverly,” I spoke up. “We are not trying to cause you trouble. Perhaps if you could point us in the direction of Mr. Price’s office, we could inadvertently find our way there. No mention of our conversation, I promise.”
“Very well. Take the last set of doors on your right.” He pointed in the general direction. “Follow the corridor, and Mr. Price’s office is the third on your left. If you will excuse me, I am expected in the print room.” He bowed then left from the direction he came.
“I feel sorry for him.” I said as we turned and walked in our appointed direction.
“Apprenticeships are long and arduous. It is why so many young men choose the life of a criminal. At least you have like-minded people looking out for you. Here the trades are so cutthroat you have no one on your side.” Pierre stopped at the door. He knocked.
“Enter.” A stern voice shouted from the room.
“Mr. Price?” Pierre asked after he opened the door and entered his office.
“Yes.”
“Pardon our intrusion, but we wondered if we might have a brief word with you.” Pierre took a step forward and reached out his hand. “I am Pierre Baptiste, and this is my associate, Thomas Newton.”
Mr. Price grumbled something under his breath but gave no indication that he was up for the formalities of a greeting. His weathered face was aged with pocks, brown spots, and scrunched with wrinkles, yet he stared at us through crystal blue eyes. His wig had seen better days as far as the curls and appeared not to have been powdered in years. “Well, what is it? I do not have all day to dilly dally with unimportant issues. There are apprentices to supervise and work that must be checked. Speak now, or show yourselves out.” He paused and his expression shifted. “Wait do you have a complaint against one of our apprentices? Yes, that must be it. Who is the scoundrel?” He stood, leaned against his desk, and pounded his fist. “Who?”
“If you would allow me a moment to speak, Mr. Price,” Pierre said. “I can assure you we are not here to file a complaint against anyone. We are looking for a gentleman, who went missing some time ago. We have reason to believe he was apprenticed here then given a permanent appointment in the spring of seventeen hundred and five.”
Mr. Price fell back into his chair. The leather passed a puff of air. Mr. Price did not seem to notice the embarrassing noise. His concerned and questioning gaze told us all we needed to know.
“His name was Maarten Vandenberg.” Pierre nodded. “I take it from the expression on your face you knew him.”
Mr. Price shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “I wouldn’t say that. Why are you interested in this man, Mr. Vandenberg?”
“What do you say, Mr. Price?” I asked, hoping to deflect his questioning and get on with what he knew of my father.
“Huh?”
“Mr. Vandenberg,” I said with too much force. My frustrations were starting to get the better of me.
Den of Thieves Page 15
