The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

by Callie Hutton

  “Would you care to change seats so we are closer to the fire?”

  “Heavens no, I’m too warm already.” Oh dear God, she was so immersed in her concerns over her possible arrest, she’d forgotten her comment about being a bit chilled. He viewed her with curiosity.

  “I’m sorry. I sometimes become too cold or too warm rather quickly.” She hesitated. “I am afraid that is one of my character traits.” She grinned at tossing his words back at him.

  He tilted his head to one side. “Well done, Mrs. Pennyworth,” he murmured.

  Lord and Lady Monroe, sitting in front of them, turned and gave them displeased looks. Mr. Baker raised his eyebrows, glanced at Charlotte, and covered his amused lips with his finger. She had to stifle a giggle. So, the staid former Inspector had a sense of humor.

  An hour later, Charlotte took a glance once again at the long clock in the corner. She stifled a yawn just as she heard a light snore. She turned to find Mr. Baker fast asleep. Lest they garner the attention of the couple in front of them once again, she nudged his arm with her elbow.

  “What?” His loud response stopped the poet in his tracks. All heads turned in their direction. Embarrassed, Charlotte winced at the irony in her waking him, so his snoring would not disturb the couple in front, only to have him respond with such gusto that they now had everyone’s attention.

  The young man at the front of the room cleared his throat and continued. Thankfully, he was the last reader on the program. With a sigh of relief, she stood and shook out her skirts. “Would you care to accompany me to the refreshment table? I feel quite parched.”

  “Yes, refreshments sound wonderful.” He took her elbow and escorted her to the table and bent to speak into her ear. “This is a good opportunity to introduce me.”

  Charlotte was amazed when Mr. Baker took two plates and placed various items on them. He escorted her to a small table where he left her with the food, then he returned with two cups of tea. Certainly, a private investigator should not know the proper protocol for taking refreshments at a Society event.

  That thought reminded her how little she knew of the man. But then, there was no reason to know him any better. He was her employee. That was all. And it would do her well to remember that, so they did not cross any boundaries.

  She needn’t notice how well he fit in with the other members of the poetry reading audience, or how gentlemanly he was to hold her elbow to escort her. She could walk by herself, thank you very much. Her legs had been holding her up for years.

  Mr. Conrad approached their table. He was a pleasant man, nearing his fiftieth year. She’d always enjoyed speaking with him, but now Mr. Baker had put her on guard, made her re-examine every man with whom she spoke.

  The idea that someone from her social circle was responsible for the packages on her doorstep had crossed her mind briefly, since they had arrived the mornings after she’d attended various affairs. She hadn’t realized how much she’d dismissed that idea until Mr. Baker had presented it as the obvious one. It was difficult to believe someone she spent time with, and had possibly even shared a dance or conversation with, could do such a thing.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pennyworth. Did you enjoy the readings?” Mr. Conrad bowed over her briefly and cast an inquiring glance at Mr. Baker.

  “Yes. The readings were delightful. May I present Mr. Elliot Baker to you, Mr. Conrad? He is my guest this evening.”

  Mr. Baker stood, and they shook hands. “Will you join us?”

  Charlotte was sure Mr. Baker wanted to speak with various men, and Mr. Conrad was a good one to start with—even though she had found him to be a mild, innocuous gentleman, who would never dream of doing dreadful things to upset a woman.

  They were soon joined by Mr. and Mrs. Graymoor and General Norwich. Although he held his own with the conversation, Mr. Baker covertly eyed each man and most likely took note of how they presented themselves.

  “Mrs. Pennyworth, will we have the pleasure of your attendance at the assembly this Thursday?” Mrs. Graymoor, an older woman, regarded her as she took a sip of the ratafia. “Mr. Graymoor and I so enjoy your company.”

  “Yes, I do plan to attend.”

  “Excellent,” General Norwich said.

  The conversation continued, with the Graymoors eventually quitting the small group and a few others taking their places. Eventually, Mr. Baker addressed Charlotte. “Mrs. Pennyworth, may I interest you in a stroll around the room? I find that standing in one place makes me a bit restless.”

  “Of course.” She joined her arm with his, and they strolled away.

  He bent close to her ear, “Introduce me to a few more men.”

  She steered him in the direction of a group of men having a lively discussion about the latest reports from Scotland Yard on the lack of progress in catching the man brutally killing prostitutes in Whitechapel. She preferred not to listen to the details that men so enjoyed sharing, but once she joined the group, the talk changed to the weather and other subjects fit for a lady’s ears.

  Once several of the guests began to ask for their carriages, Charlotte turned to Mr. Baker. “I find I am quite fatigued. Perhaps we can call for my carriage?”

  “Of course.” He led her to the front door where he spoke with the butler. His eyes never stopped moving, taking in the surroundings, and focusing on the men conversing.

  Charlotte hadn’t realized how strained the evening had been for her until she settled into her carriage. Every man who spoke to her had become a suspect. At least she hadn’t needed to worry that Mr. Baker would stand out as someone who did not belong. He had conducted himself exceptionally well.

  “I must thank you for your attention this evening, Mr. Baker.” She offered him a warm smile. He turned to her, and once again she was taken with his appearance. He was certainly an attractive man. His strong features looked as if they’d been chiseled from marble. Except he was a flesh-and-blood man. Even though he’d arrived at her door freshly shaven, already a light shadow appeared on his jaw and chin.

  The way he studied her in the golden glow of the lantern on the carriage wall brought flutters to her insides. Although she had no intention of ever entrusting her heart or well-being to a man again, as a widow, she could perhaps one day engage in a liaison with a gentleman without too much scandal, providing they were discreet.

  But certainly not this gentleman, who represented the law, and who, for all intents and purposes was her employee.

  “Aside from the poetry, it was my pleasure,” he answered. “Since I do not travel in the circles to which you are accustomed, I had hoped not to call attention to myself.” He grinned. “Except for the snoring, I believe I succeeded.”

  She laughed, more of the tension leaving her body. “Yes, you did succeed. However, I am sure Lord and Lady Monroe will never sit in front of us again.”

  “Ah, yes. It is difficult to relate to someone who is actually there to listen.”

  The carriage continued on until it rolled to a stop in front of her house. Mr. Baker helped her from the vehicle and escorted her to the door. Suddenly, she felt awkward. After all, this was not a true social engagement for them, but merely business. “My carriage will take you the rest of the way home.”

  “Thank you very much, but after all that sitting, I believe I would enjoy the walk.” He bowed slightly, and once the front door was opened, he turned and hurried down the stone steps.

  Chapter Three

  Elliot could not get away from Mrs. Pennyworth fast enough. Spending the entire evening with her, the warmth from her body right next to his, and the light floral scent emanating from her skin, was beginning to drive him crazy.

  Crazy would be continuing with this assignment. Rather than a nice leisurely stroll, he hurried along the cobbled streets, moving through the London mist from gaslight to gaslight until he arrived at his home. Despite the cool evening, he was sweating when he entered his rooms. He flung off his jacket and tie and tugged his shirt from his pants.
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  The best thing for him to do would be to work diligently to solve Mrs. Pennyworth’s problem, and then forget her. And her sweet face. And golden hair. And soft skin he wanted to run the back of his fingers down.

  Groaning at his stupidity, he removed the rest of his clothes and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Yes, he needed to move forward with this, and put Mrs. Pennyworth far from his mind.

  …

  The next morning, he climbed aboard an omnibus and took a ride to her house. He found her already out and about, a surprise, since he thought ladies of her class spent the morning in bed. The young parlor maid invited him in to wait. Although he had no intention of waiting, since she said Mrs. Pennyworth would be out for a couple of hours, he accepted her offer and spent the time speaking with the staff, starting with the young girl.

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  Apparently, not expecting to ever need to converse with guests, she blushed and seemed to have a difficult time forming words. “I have been in service here since before Mr. Pennyworth married Mrs. Pennyworth.”

  “And when was that?” He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “The marriage, I mean.”

  “Last year, my lord. I believe October.”

  He grinned. “I am not a lord, merely Mr. Baker.”

  She blushed once again, her small hands fluttering at her side.

  “What is your name, miss?”

  She gave him a curtsy. “Bridget, my l—“

  Yes, she looked like a Bridget. Flaming red hair, trying very hard to escape her white frilly maid’s cap. Deep blue eyes and freckles marked her as Irish.

  “Tell me, Bridget, was there a package delivered here today for Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  For the first time, the girl’s open demeanor closed down. She began to view him with suspicion. Her eyes narrowed. “I am not sure, and now I must return to my duties.”

  Elliot held out his hand. “No, wait. I should have introduced myself. I am Mr. Elliot Baker, and Mrs. Pennyworth has hired me to help her with a problem.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Are you speaking of the strange things that show up on the doorstep?”

  “Yes. That is why I asked about packages this morning. Was there anything for her today?”

  The girl shook her head. “I really do need to return to my duties. Mrs. Blanchard will have my head if my morning chores are not completed.”

  “Ah, yes. Is Mrs. Blanchard the housekeeper?”

  “Yes, and a fierce one she is.” She began to back away.

  Elliot reached into his pocket and withdrew his card. “Will you be so kind as to present this to Mrs. Blanchard and ask her to allow a few minutes to speak with me?”

  Bridget reached out and took the card, then giving another brisk curtsy, left the room. She was back in a matter of seconds. “Oh, my—Mr. Baker, I forgot to ask if you would like tea.” She fidgeted with her fingers. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Blanchard I neglected to ask before now.”

  He smiled, hoping to put the girl at ease. “No, thank you, and do not worry. It will be our secret.”

  In less than ten minutes, an older woman entered the room. She was a bosomy middle-aged woman, tall, with steel-gray hair pulled back into a painful-looking bun. She wore a long dark wool skirt, covered with an apron, and a white blouse, more fitting for a governess. “You wished to see me,” she looked down at the card, “Mr. Baker.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He waved to the settee in front of the cold fireplace. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Blanchard.”

  She settled at the very edge of the settee, watching him expectantly.

  “I have been hired by your employer to investigate an issue she is currently dealing with. How long have you worked for Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  Mrs. Blanchard drew her brows together in thought. “Mrs. Pennyworth’s been here since last October when she married the master. For Mr. Pennyworth, I have been in service for nigh on ten years.”

  Ten years the man had had his own household. He must delve more fully into Mr. Pennyworth’s affairs. There was always the possibility some connection to him was precipitating the packages. Although, why they would start now was the question. A question he needed to ask. “I understand Mr. Pennyworth passed about a year ago?”

  Mrs. Blanchard nodded and tsked. “The poor man died only a month after his wedding to Mrs. Pennyworth. So sad for the young girl. She was quite happy when he first brought her here. I had expected years of continued happiness, with little ones arriving on a regular basis.” She touched the edge of her apron to her eye.

  Apparently, Mr. Pennyworth had been well-liked by his staff. “Has Mrs. Pennyworth hired any new servants, say, in the last couple of months?”

  Mrs. Blanchard glanced up at the ceiling, which he found many people did when they were thinking. “A new kitchen girl.”

  “What is the hiring process?” Since he’d never had a full-time servant, he had no idea. The oldest son of a policeman, his path in life had been laid out almost from birth. His family of three brothers and two sisters had never starved, but they had watched their coins carefully. Clothes had been mended and handed down, meat had appeared at the dinner table only once a week, on Sunday, and they had all tended the garden at the back of their small London house.

  But every one of them had had a decent education, thanks to the local vicar who ran a school for the nearby children, and his parents who had sacrificed their help while they were in school.

  “If we require a new servant, Mrs. Pennyworth contacts the hiring agency, and they send over a few. I generally interview them first, and if they pass my examination, Mrs. Pennyworth speaks with them. She, of course, makes the final decision.”

  “No new men?”

  She shook her head. Of course, it would not be that easy, but he would be remiss in his duty to not check the most obvious first.

  “Has Mrs. Pennyworth made you aware of the odd leavings on the doorstep the last few weeks?”

  “Not at first. Mrs. Pennyworth keeps to herself. I knew something was amiss, however, but as it was not my place to question her, I waited until she confided in me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Only last week. I found her holding what appeared to be a dead bird. She was pale as new snow, and my stomach churned at the fear in her eyes. I helped her to a chair, disposed of the bird, and brought her a tisane. She then poured out the story of the strange happenings, and I suggested she visit Scotland Yard.”

  Itching to learn more about his client, he realized questioning her housekeeper would not be quite the thing. When he was with the Yard, he could ask away, but Mrs. Pennyworth had hired him to find her tormentor, not examine her personal life history.

  Sometimes, it was hard to differentiate between honest suspicion and the general skepticism he’d developed after his experience with criminals in general, and Annabelle, in particular. He tried to tell himself with each new woman he met that not all females were devious schemers.

  “Yes, well the police are busy right now attempting to catch the man attacking prostitutes in Whitechapel.”

  Mrs. Blanchard sniffed. “One would think that tax-paid policemen would be better served in looking for those who torture the ones who pay those taxes, instead of worrying about the women off the street.”

  Elliot was familiar with many individuals, even some on the police force, who held the same opinion. To him, a life was a life, despite how one wished to conduct it. While prostitutes plying their trade in Whitechapel might turn many God-fearing souls to condemnation, most, if not all those women, were in that situation through no fault of their own.

  He slapped his thighs, and stood. “Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Blanchard. Please inform Mrs. Pennyworth of my visit, and ask her to send around a note if she needs to speak with me before I escort her to an assembly dance Thursday, next.”

  Mrs. Blanchard nodded. “Yes, Mr. Baker, I will pass that message on to her.” She walked him to the front
door. “Have a pleasant day.”

  …

  Charlotte placed her hand on the fevered brow of the young girl tossing in the small cot. “You have quite a fever, Mary.”

  “I feel so hot, miss. Do you suppose I’m getting close to the gates of hell?”

  Charlotte sucked in a breath. “No, for heaven’s sake—wherever did you get such an idea?”

  “Mrs. Trevor said so, miss. She said those of us left here with no papa to claim us are headed to hell.” She nodded her little head, her small forehead wrinkled with concern.

  Charlotte gritted her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. It was bad enough these poor children had no family, and for the most part, spent their childhood in this orphans’ home without proper nutrition and clothing, but it rankled that those in charge of the little mites condemned them for things over which they had no control. “No, Mary. I do not think you are near the gates of hell, and no, you are not headed there. If you are a good girl, and do what the Lord expects of you, there will be no gates of hell for you. Now, I am going to get a cloth and a pan of cool water to wipe you down. You will feel much better soon.”

  She would also have a word with Mrs. Trevor on how to speak to the children.

  Charlotte volunteered two mornings a week at the St. Jerome Children’s Orphan Home in St. Giles. It had helped her with her grief after Gabriel had died. If she were not to have a child of her own, then her motherly instincts could be put to good use by caring for those who had no parents.

  Most of the children at St. Jerome’s were illegitimate, their mothers prostitutes and drunkards. Some had been dropped off on the front steps, wrapped in bloody ragged blankets with umbilical cords still attached. Others were rescued from dire circumstances by kind-hearted souls who brought them to St. Jerome’s.