A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  “So they cannot hold on to my home any longer?”

  “No, Miss Young,” Colmore Dunn said. “It has already been cleared of police presence, and the locks replaced. I received a telegraph this morning, and acted as your solicitor. I hope that was in order.”

  I could have kissed him, but of course I did not. “Yes, very much so. Thank you ever so much.”

  “There were, however, some documents which caused concern. Specifically, the certificates which were signed, but the ownership left blank; the companies they belonged to also matched investment certificates with Inspector Collingsworth’s name on them.”

  I stood in shock. “What?” Lisbeth looked my way, and I looked at her reassuringly and sat back down. “There were no certificates with the owner’s name left unfilled. They were all made out to Papa. There were no share certificates with Collingsworth’s name on them amongst Papa’s things. I’m certain of it. I reviewed them all.”

  Now Colmore Dunn looked shocked. “But yes. Both the blank ones and Collingsworth’s are related to a tin mine scheme in Singapore, headquartered in London. In cases of fraud, these are sometimes handed out, en masse, and illegally, to the protector, to be filled in later as bribes or hush money. They increased in value so quickly they were more valuable, often, than cash.”

  “Collingsworth had been paid in this manner.”

  “Oh yes,” Colmore Dunn said. “He was likely offering them to others doing his bidding, too. I’m certain once the lid is lifted the investigators will find many more means of payoff and protection money. Your father’s notes will be a great asset for that investigation. They thoroughly documented the police he knew were involved, and those who were clean and would testify. He noted the names of both officers and titled men utilizing the underage King Street brothel, and they shall not bear up under the public shame which shall be heaped upon them. Many of them are likely involved in those illegal investments, too, and your father has documented it all. It’s no wonder Collingsworth was desperate to get his hands on that notebook of your father’s. It reveals all.”

  “They visited the King Street house to engage young women of . . . ill repute. Is that right? Police and the titled, foreign investors, all of them?” My stomach clenched, and I closed my eyes for a moment to let a wave of nausea pass.

  His face grew somber. “I will speak to you honestly, Miss Young, as Matilda would prefer I speak with her. Yes. I’m sorry to say that bad men often entertain potential clients and associates in a terrible manner and a few bad officers sometimes participate as a perquisite of the arrangement. Terrible business. Shameful. Knowing their names, though, will help trace their involvement both with, well, underage girls as well as fraudulent investment schemes. When Thomas is well enough, I am sure he will speak with Lord Shaftesbury and see that those men are brought to account as well.”

  Mrs. W was right. The highborn almost never answered for their actions. My face must have betrayed my lack of confidence.

  “There are many ways to see justice wrought, Miss Young. It shall be done, I assure you.”

  “Did Collingsworth kill my father?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps he did of his own accord, or was ordered to, or ordered someone to. As you’ve worked out by now, it’s not likely that the cart accident was an accident at all.”

  “The angles weren’t right,” I agreed. “But I could not have known for certain.”

  “Without knowing the motivation behind it, it would have been difficult for anyone to ascribe his death to a murder with certainty. Now that we know what—and who—he knew was involved with criminal association and activities, and have notes to prove them, an investigation will certainly solidify the truth.”

  “Murdered,” I said. I’d known it, I supposed, all along.

  Colmore Dunn nodded. “It is most probable that your father was killed because he wanted to see justice brought in matters of fraud and the trafficking of those girls stopped. There will be an inquest, rest assured. The truth will out.”

  Papa. I love you. I admire you. I miss you. I’m so sorry.

  “And the certificates?” I looked at a blank transfer share. “I am certain I have never seen this before. I looked through them all most carefully.”

  “Although Collingsworth’s name was listed in your father’s notebook, the proof of his involvement, and all the indictments that will follow, will be led by way of these transfers and attendant certificates.”

  “Sergeant Collingsworth—the inspector’s son—returned them to me. I looked at them then and saw no blanks, nor certainly anything with his father’s name on it. Is he—Francis, that is—under suspicion?”

  “For the moment it is more than likely because of the level of his father’s involvement. Everyone associated will be suspect until that suspicion is removed. He remains at his home, and in uniform, though.”

  “Could the fact that these certificates unaccountably appeared throw Papa’s innocence into question?”

  He thought for a moment. “Could possibly. The justices will want a clear accounting from whence everything came.”

  Perhaps Papa was not in the clear just yet. “I must visit Francis,” I said. “Sergeant Collingsworth. He may know the truth of the certificates, as he had them delivered to me.”

  Colmore Dunn put his hand up in protest. “He may not have been involved. It may have been someone else,” he said. “In any case, Lockwood would not hear of you calling on the man after what his father has put you through.”

  “But Lord Lockwood is too ill to accompany me.” My heart crushed within me, under the very delicately beaded plastron of the dress Lady Lockwood had found for me.

  I smiled, just a little. The crushed heart had provoked a sudden thought, another thought, a tenth or hundredth thought, of Thomas.

  “Miss Young?” I’m sure Colmore Dunn found nothing to be cheered about at this juncture, other than the possibility of my father’s innocence.

  “I’ve just had an idea,” I said. “Do you know where Lord Lockwood keeps his fencing equipment, here at Darington?”

  He nodded. “Of course. There’s an outbuilding we use for practice.”

  “I’d like your help with something, if you would. Then I shall ask him about London.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  HAMPSHIRE AND LONDON

  I realized how contrary to etiquette it was, a lady visiting a gentleman’s bedchamber. But Thomas could not be moved from his room and he had asked to see me. No one would contradict his instruction.

  His valet whispered to me, “Do not stay long.”

  I agreed. “I shan’t.”

  Then his valet went to the attached sitting room where Lisbeth waited for me.

  I walked toward the bed and set down the item I had brought with me, quietly, on the floor.

  “Thomas,” I whispered. His eyes were closed, the lashes fanning out against his cheeks, which were pink with fever. I longed to caress the little sprinkle of freckles to the side of his eye, and this time, I did. His beard had been trimmed; his faithful valet had seen to it, I presumed. I could remain looking at him for a long while, drinking in the sight of him, a sight I had not expected to see, certainly not at close quarters, again.

  And now, perhaps this would be the last time. I could not countenance the idea. I bent over and gently kissed his lips.

  The lashes fluttered open, and he looked at me, his rusty-brown eyes clear in spite of the pain, and then he smiled. “I do believe, in the fairy tales, the prince is supposed to kiss the princess and then she awakens, not the other way round.”

  “If she had to wait for that, perhaps the princess would have gone unkissed.”

  He laughed, and then winced; it had clearly caused him some pain.

  I silenced him and put my hand on his face. “You must get well.”

  He nodded, but we both knew he had little say over that now.

  “Pray for me,” he said.

  “Constantly. I wrote to you immediatel
y after Lady Tolfee’s ball, but the letter was stolen. I’m sorry you did not know how I feel about you. It offered my apologies, and I said, well, I said you are all that I’d hoped for, which is still true, more than ever, true.” I looked at the floor. “I’ve brought something for you. To take from you.”

  He looked at me wonderingly, and then I lifted up the plastron, which I’d had Colmore Dunn find. “What?”

  I smiled. “You don’t need to guard your heart any longer. I will do it for you.”

  He reached out and took my hand and brought it to his lips. They were very hot, and I tried to keep my fears from my face. I sought to further reassure him. “Has anyone explained to you the situation that occurred this week?”

  “A little,” he said. “Enough for me to know that you are safe and well, your father is likely innocent though it’s not yet proved, and that Winton is not burnt.”

  “That is enough for now,” I said. “May I send Colmore Dunn to question Sergeant Collingsworth? It may be that he has some information that will clear my father.”

  “Will Collingsworth speak honestly with him?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I hope so.”

  He took my hand. “You go. Colmore Dunn will accompany you.”

  I shook my head. “No. I will stay here with you till you are well.”

  He shook his head and when I could see it caused him pain, I laid my hand alongside his cheek. “Quiet, now. Do not move.”

  “You must go to London. It is likely that your father is not the only innocent man—it may be that Sergeant Collingsworth is also an innocent man, and I do not wish to see harm done by him. Nor do you, I know.”

  “Someone else can go.”

  He shook his head once more, but gently. “No one else can sew the Cinderella costumes. Finish the designs. Fuse the gowns with love and skill from within.” He squeezed my hand. “Just you.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes, I insist. I do not want you to remain here, seeing me like this, being here if . . . I should rather have you think upon our best days.”

  I wiped away a tear. “Which lie ahead.”

  He smiled, the flush in his face rising. Fever. “Most certainly.” He contradicted the fear he’d just spoken.

  “Then you must stay in London,” he said. “Until I come to fetch you.”

  “No. I shall return here until you are well.”

  He held my hand. “There is nothing you can do here. I will either heal or not. There are things you can do in London. You can collect your girls again. I assume you took them to stay at the Mission while you went on a mission of your own?”

  I smiled. He knew me. No one could have told him that.

  “Then there is Cinderella,” he said.

  “Someone else can sew it.”

  “Come, now, Miss Young. What of your calling? Where is the passion you so often spoke of?”

  I leaned close. “My passion is here. At Darington.”

  He closed his eyes, and then looked at me once more. “Now, knowing that, I can be content whatever comes my way. Go, Gillian. Go, and sew, for me. Promise me. It means the world to me to know that I have encouraged you to do and be whom you are meant to be. Sew them for me. Please. I shall be there presently, in full health, and we shall watch the performance together and delight in your creations. I love you, Gillian.”

  “I love you, Thomas.” I blinked but the tears fell anyway and he caught one on his hand. Then he closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed, and he fell back into his sleep again. I brushed his cheek with my hand and stood.

  I will sew. I will sew for you. We shall have our happy ever after.

  • • •

  Lisbeth promised to keep me up to date, daily via telegraph, on Thomas’s well-being. If he took a downward turn I should be back to Darington on the next train, or riding bareback or running barefoot if need be. I pulled a blue ribbon from my hair—a favor, for the swordsman—and left it wrapped round his fingers, whilst he slept, before I left.

  Once in London, the first thing I did was hire a carriage and go toward the Theatrical Mission. Mother Rachel nearly cried when she saw me. “You’ve returned!”

  “I have, indeed,” I said. “I’ve come to collect my girls and Mother Martha. I do not know if there will be enough time to sew the costumes, all of them, and properly, as there are only two months before dress rehearsals. But we shall try.”

  “I have another woman I can send,” she said. “If you have room. She’s very experienced in the theater. Used to sew till she got married. Then her husband died, and she has nothing . . .”

  “Send her along,” I said. “Sooner the better!”

  My girls raced up the stairs, and I gathered them into my arms and cried into Ruby’s thick hair, holding Charlotte all the while. I let go of them and Mother Martha came to me, radiating peace and love.

  “We’ve work to do, young lady,” she said.

  “We have!”

  Once I got them settled and sewing, I thought I should find out how to contact Mrs. W. I did not know where her sister lived, but I should certainly send for her right away. I did not like to pry into her things but had no other means to find where her sister might live.

  I went into her chamber, which was sparsely furnished. She rarely bought anything for herself, preferring to use the stipend from the account my mother had established for her for her charitable causes, and not for herself. I pulled open a bureau drawer. There was a Bible and some memorabilia from various speakers. There were some letters. I paged through them and found some with a postmark near the time her sister’s husband had died. There was a return address on them: Oakley Manor. Her sister lived in Hampshire, not so far from Winton, perhaps twenty miles or so.

  I opened the letter—yes, it was to her sister. I would send for her.

  As I went to push the drawer shut, though, something caught my eye. It was round, and rolled forward as I pushed the drawer back. It looked familiar somehow. I picked it up. It was a wooden replica of my signet ring.

  I held it and looked at it. Yes, it exactly matched the signet ring design, which was complex and unusual. It had red wax on it. It had been used to seal a letter at least once.

  Any letter sealed with that signet would be understood to have been written by me. Or by Mamma.

  Cold washed over me. I took a small handful of the letters that Mrs. W had written and returned to my bedroom. Once there, I fished out the letter that Mamma had written to Papa, telling him she wanted to donate Winton Park. I also opened up one of her love letters to Papa. I laid three documents side by side on the bed.

  Mrs. W’s handwriting on her own letters was different from Mamma’s in almost every way. And the two letters from Mamma were nearly exact. But the manner in which Mrs. W hooked her letter h was very different from the way Mamma expressed it. It was expressed like Mrs. W’s on the letter declaring Mamma’s intent to donate Winton Park.

  She’d tended to all of Mamma’s correspondence; of course she could mimic her handwriting.

  I recalled what Thomas had told me long ago, about fencing. I repeat a stroke so many times that when I am fencing I can focus on tactic and strategy knowing my arm will do what it has been trained to do by repetition.

  She had forged the letter from my mother, stating her desire to give Winton Park to the Cause. She had lied to me. Duped me!

  My fists balled and I could barely stand up straight as the anger coursed through me and forced the blood into my head. Then I thought back on her long life with us. She had always given, never taken. Or had she? Perhaps she had taken more that I was not aware of. Once trust is unresolvedly undermined, everything is shaded in question-mark gray.

  I went to get the flower book that she had written in with Mamma. Yes, Mrs. W’s h was hooked; Mamma’s was not.

  The light was going dim. Louisa had been found and Mother Martha came down the stairs. “Are you all right, Miss Young?”

  I shook my head. “No, I
do not think that I am. Someone I trusted seems to have done me a grave harm, and I do not know how to make sense of it.”

  “Have you asked them? Perhaps that would be best. Directly talking to one another solves many problems.”

  Yes. I wouldn’t mail her, nor send for her. I would journey back to Hampshire, just for a day, and speak with her, directly and in person, there. I did write to Francis, at the Chelsea division, so his mother could not intercept my correspondence again. I asked if I might meet with him at his convenience and informed him I would be bringing my solicitor, Mr. Colmore Dunn. The next morning came his reply, a solitary word, Yes.

  Mother Martha and the girls and new seamstress sewed all day, morning till night, though she did give me Little Women to read on the train, bookmarked. I would return and join them to sew shortly. I had to resolve two things first. Mrs. W and Francis.

  I took Thomas’s man for protection and boarded the train to Oakley.

  • • •

  Oakley Manor was large, as large as Winton Park. I do not know why that surprised me, except that given Mrs. W’s abhorrence of wealth and titled people I had not expected to find her sister living on such a large estate. Thomas’s man said he would wait in the carriage for me.

  I walked up to the door, and a man opened it. “I am Miss Gillian Young, come to call on Mrs. Woodmore.”

  “Are you expected?” he asked. The rise of his eyebrows implied surprise.

  “No,” I said. “Certainly I am not.”

  He showed me into the sitting room, and within a few minutes, Mrs. W came to greet me. She looked into my eyes and I back at her and knew that she understood the reason for my visit.

  “Gillian,” she said. “I’m so glad you are well. I’ve worried and prayed, when they came to seize the house. Has it been returned to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. My tone was clipped. “Papa’s name is cleared, and Collingsworth is in jail.”

  “Francis?” Her hand flew to her throat.