by Beth Byers
Abigail launched herself off the bed and flew about the room, grabbing anything within reach; her blue skirt, a white cotton blouse, the nearest cloak, and cloche, then rushed down the stairs and out the door.
Too worried about being late, Abigail emerged onto the street and rammed straight into a small and poorly dressed. Few who lived in this part of town lacked adequate coin, and her heart immediately went out to the sorry creature.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “I should have been looking where I was going.” It wasn’t their fault she had been awake until the wee hours of the morning laboring over her article and now did not pay attention to where she was going.
“No problem,” the individual said in a shrill voice. He shoved her hard.
“Hey,” Abigail gasped as she stumbled backward, and lost her grip on her purse.
The culprit sped off clutching her purse in his grimy hands.
“Thief!” Abigail screamed, “He stole my purse!”
A pair of strong hands touched her shoulders, followed by a deep voice whispering in her ear calmly, “I’ll take care of this” then he too ran off into the crowd.
Abigail gave chase not content to stand around and wait. She wove around a well-dressed couple out for an early morning stroll, clutching her cloche, and tried not to imagine the sight she made racing after a man. Down one street then another she ran careful to keep him in her sights at all times though her breathing grew more labored with every block.
She was three blocks from the newspaper office where she worked when she saw the man veer down another street. One of the men she worked with was crossing the street, but she dared not call out to him or risk losing sight of her thief. The man had just disappeared down an alley. She dashed after, but by the time she arrived, they weren’t there.
“No!” Abigail gasped in frustration. There was no other exist that she could see. Her lungs burned as she worked to catch her breath.
She was about to turn back when the same voice as before spoke from the far end of the alley. “Give it up, lad.”
That’s when she saw them, the man holding the thief by the ruff of his grimy neck.
“Not a chance, govnor,” the lad of what looked to be ten to twelve years of age spat. He still clutched her purse tightly to his chest.
“He’s so young.” Abigail observed while the man held firm, waiting for the lad to tire himself out. It warmed her the man did not silence the lad with the back of his hand. She stepped further into the alley, saying, “Please don’t hurt him, he’s only a child.”
“True,” agreed the man, glancing her way. To the lad he said, “If you will return the lady’s purse, I believe we let you go. Is that acceptable with you, my lady?”
“Absolutely.” Abigail smiled, eager to agree if it meant resolving the matter quickly.
What would make a child so young do such a thing? Yet, even as the thought came to her, she knew. He was hungry. The child was thin as a rail, probably hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks—or a bath. Sympathy for the boy assailed her. She too had once found herself alone in the world.
The lad frowned.
“You heard the lady,” the man coaxed, loosening his grip on the boy’s collar. “Hand over the purse and you can go.”
Abigail had joined them and now stood within arm’s reach. She extended her hand. Reluctantly, the lad handed over the purse.
“Thank you,” Abigail said and quickly sorted through the contents of her purse. All was as it should be. She nodded, prepared to tell the man to let the boy go, when the boy made a sudden move as if to run. In his haste, he dislodged his cap, and a length of stringy hair fell about his shoulders.
Abigail’s jaw slackened. “You’re… a girl!”
“So what if I am?” She said, her tone defiant.
During the war Abigail had seen firsthand many abandoned children doing whatever was needed to get by. She suspected this girl was no different.
Abigail opened her purse again, dug to the bottom and pulled out a shilling. She held it out like a prize and asked “Do you have a name, darling?”
The girl glanced over her shoulder. “I ain’t nobody’s darling.”
“All right,” Abigail said, holding the coin out of reach, hoping the girl would give in.
She did. “My name’s Eli.”
“What a lovely name. Is that short for Elizabeth? My middle name is Elizabeth, Abigail Elizabeth Dutcher.”
Eli’s gaze was suspicious. “Good fer you. Now if that’s all—”
“No, that’s not all.” Abigail dropped the shilling into the girl’s palm. As Eli ran off, Abigail called after her “Use that to buy yourself a decent meal.”
The man came up alongside her and was staring at her with interest. It made her uncomfortable.
“Did I do something you disapprove of?” Abigail asked, irritated to find herself under scrutiny.
The man smiled. “Not at all. What you did was kind. I do not believe most would be so generous, nor so forgiving.”
Abigail shrugged and looked away. “I cannot speak to that. Then again, I ceased doing what others expect of me a long time ago.”
“Interesting,” he commented quietly, a smile still tugging at his lips. Louder he said, “Allow me to introduce myself, Isaac Townsend, attorney-at-law. Tell me Miss Dutcher, would you by chance be any relation to the late Viscount and Lady Hawthorne? As I recall, they had a daughter named Abigail, and the Lady Hawthorne’s maiden name was Dutcher.”
“I believe you have the better of me, Mr. Townsend. How is it you are so well acquainted with my family?” Abigail asked, suddenly uncomfortable and wishing to be on her way.
“My father used to do business with Lord Hawthorne. In recent years I have had business dealings with the current Viscount Hawthorne. Your second cousin I believe.”
Abigail groaned. “Then I suspect you have heard all the sordid details.”
“I’m afraid I have not, madam.”
Abigail serious doubted that. She’d never known her second cousin to not paint himself a victim, and if this man was a lawyer working for Thomas, she could well imagine the sort of man he was. Then again, his actions so far were not what she’d expect from an associate of her cousin’s. She also felt she owed Mr. Townsend some explanation.
She sighed, prepared to give Mr. Townsend the abbreviated version. “Yes, Lord and Lady Hawthorne were my parents. When they drowned at sea in 1915 my second cousin Thomas inherited the title along with the entailed estates while I inherited the bulk of Papa and Mama’s wealth. That left Thomas with three estates in need of repair and little else. As you might imagine he was counting on a great deal more. Seeing as I was not yet of an age to take control of my inheritance, he claimed guardianship and then did his best to swindle me out of what was rightfully mine. Thomas even tried to force me into marriage.”
“I assume you refused,” Mr. Townsend said.
She nodded and continued in a gentler tone. “Fortunately, Papa’s will gave me control of my inheritance when I turned eighteen. However, after two years living with my cousin at Hawthorne I was too bitter, too heartsore. I hated my life and needed to do something meaningful for the war that had claimed my parents' life. So I took my mother’s maiden name hoping to avoid family ties and joined VAD, the Voluntary Aid Detachment.”
“Commendable. What did you do?” Mr. Townsend motioned toward the sidewalk and led her down the street.
Abigail hardly noticed as she continued.
“Anything they would allow me to do. I’d thought to work as a nurse, but I soon learned I and blood do not get along. The sight of it alone sends me into a panic.” A blush crept along her neck. “You cannot imagine how much blood there is to be found during wartime.”
“Oh… I think I can.”
Mr. Townsend’s expression was unreadable making Abigail wonder what his part in the war had been. Before she could ask, she noticed she was standing at the bottom step in front of her office building, the St. James
Gazette.
“How did you know I work here?” Abigail asked in amazement.
He grinned. “To be honest, I am a fan of your work. I’ve read several of the articles you’ve written for the newspaper over the last few months. When you introduced yourself to that girl, I knew instantly.”
“I see.” Abigail wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or not. George Markham, owner and editor-in-chief of the St. James Gazette, only assigned her fluffy stories to report on. Isaac Townsend did not strike her as a man who enjoyed reading about the latest fashion in Paris or the outrageous antics of the Dowager Duchess of Summerton.
Her doubts were plain to him however. “Forgive me if I presumed too much.”
“No, I was… merely surprised. Thank you for your help, Mr. Townsend.”
“Pleased to be of service.”
They stood there in awkward silence until Mr. Townsend abruptly tipped his hat and said, “It was a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Miss Dutcher. Have a lovely day.” He turned away, then turned back. “Miss Dutcher, might I be so bold as to enquire whether you’d consider dining with me soon? I’ve not yet tried Jake’s, and I hear the music and the dancing are to die for.”
Abigail smiled at the mention of Jake’s. She had visited the club several times with friends from the office. As far as she was concerned, it was the best jazz club in all of London, and possibly better than New Orleans. Even if this man turned out to be Thomas’s man, an evening of dancing and drinks would be well worth her time. Abigail wanted to purr with happiness. Instead, she gave him a winning smile and said, “Why Mr. Townsend, that sounds lovely.”
A gleam filled those hazel orbs of his. “Then I shall telephone soon with a date. Do you keep a line at home, or may I reach you at the newspaper?”
Abigail considered then decided the office would be best. Giddy with excitement she handed him her business card.
“Wonderful,” He said and handed her his own business card containing two telephone numbers. One for his office, the other his home. “I will be in contact soon. Good day.”
Abigail watched him leave. As she climbed the steps and entered the building, she couldn’t quite keep the bounce out of her step, nor the nervous feeling that her life had just taken a drastic turn. She would just have to hope it would prove to be a good one.
Outside, Big Ben chimed the ninth hour. Abigail was definitely late now, but she no longer cared. She had her article in hand and a possible date. George Markham would have to accept her tardiness and move on.
Chapter Two
This was it. The day she’d been waiting for. Today would mark the end of her days as a gossip columnist and the beginning as a hard-hitting journalist reporting on the important news of the day.
“Good morning, Abby darling. Ooh, lovely new dress!” Edith Cummings, the St. James Gazette front desk receptionist, singsonged as she passed Abigail’s desk on her way to her own, her ever present compact clutched in her palm.
“Thanks, Edith darling,” Abigail commented drily, her eyes glued to the article and by-line where her name alongside George Markham’s appeared.
A sense of unease settled into her stomach.
Winslow Heir steps out with parlor maid
Exclusive story by George Markham and Abigail Dutcher
What is this? This was not the story she’d written. The characters were the same, and the article did tell about young lord Henry Winslow, heir to the viscountcy, and Miss Elsie O’Malley, their Irish downstairs maid, who hoped to receive the Viscount Winslow’s blessing to marry. This story was meant to demonstrate what the modern age could mean for the modern woman, and men alike who wanted to choose their life over the life handed them at birth.
This sensationalized piece of fiction was… not. Sordid details were added, facts minimized or eliminated all together. How dare George do this? She skimmed over the article again and again; her stomach lurching with every read.
“Smashing story we’ve got there, don’t you think? Already sold out this morning’s edition. I told Eddie, and he’ll have a second edition ready within the hour. You’ve got instincts, Abby girl, that’s for sure,” George Markham said from behind her chair.
She turned slowly to face the little man for whom she worked. George Markham enjoyed thinking himself an enlightened man, making his way in the competitive world of journalism. He lacked connections while she had them in spades when she so chose. He hired her for that reason alone, and until now, she’d considered their relationship to be fair to both. She occasionally introduced him to society, and she got to see her work in print. No longer.
Abigail’s voice shook as she pointed to the offending newspaper and said,
“That is not my article.”
“It is. I just tweaked it here and there.”
“You’re an idiot George. Those ‘tweaks’ as you call them are lies. Lord Winslow is likely to sue us for libel!” Abigail ran her fingers through her wavy bob, mindless of the mess she was making of her hair. George was too stupid to see what he’d done, but she wasn’t. She might just burst a blood vessel.
“How so?” He asked a nervous chuckle spilling over his pudgy lips as conversations around the newsroom dropped off. “Um, perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office.”
“Fine.” Abigail stood and followed her boss into his office, a glass-enclosed space in the floor's center that allowed George Markham to keep an eye on all his staff. It also turned the space into a fishbowl for all to watch them. Abigail didn’t care. She paced around the room once then whipped around to face her employer.
“How many times must I tell you George, you can’t go about printing lies?”
“But they aren’t lies. Can you honestly tell me this Lord Winslow approves of his son and heir marrying a lowly maid? I’ve never known the gentry to be so accommodating,” George stated, heatedly.
“No,” Abigail hedged, “But, I can tell you he does not want the news brandished on the cover of every newspaper in London. Lord Winslow has the money and power to ruin you. You need to print a retraction immediately.”
“But—”
“You hired me to help you build your business and entice the gentry into reading your newspaper. I can’t do that if we lose their trust and I am ostracized from society.” Not that Abigail cared. It was often a difficult line she walked, dancing on edge of society while simultaneously avoiding all contact with her cousin.
George hung his head in defeat. “All right.”
“Excellent,” she said, her gaze falling on a three-paragraph story on the last page of the newspaper. There was no by-line included.
It was not the kind of story that would interest the gentry. The only thing of interest might be the fact the person had died close by. It told of the discovery of a dead child in an alley the day before yesterday. The alley in question was not too far from where she’d caught up to her robber. Worry creased her brow as she thought of the girl, Eli. There were many orphaned children living on the streets in London so odds were it couldn’t be her. The article did not state whether the child was male or female.
“Who wrote this?”
George leaned over to get a better look then shrugged. “Jimmy.”
Abigail stared hard at George. “Jimmy Atkins hasn’t been here three weeks, and you let him cover this story? I’ve been hounding you to let me cover something like this. It should have been mine.”
George’s chest puffed out in indignation. “He brought the story to me, if you must know. Besides Abby, you’re a lady… and too swanky to go running after stories like that. This is man’s business. Be happy covering society events.”
“Why you little weasel. I’m as capable as any man.” She glared at George while he refused to look at her as he shuffled about becoming increasingly uncomfortable. When she thought he had squirmed enough, she added “I want to know who died.”
“Why?” George asked showing true surprise. “There are hundreds of orphans roaming the city. N
o one cares who they are or how they die. I only printed it because Jimmy begged me to.”
Abigail reminded George about her nearly stolen purse two days prior.
“So… because some kid tells you their name, you want to know if the kid in the alley could be the one you gave a shilling to for stealing your purse? Do you know how crazy that is?”
Abigail sighed. “Yes George, I am well aware. But, I still want to know. Let me take the story. If Jimmy tells me what I want to know, I’ll drop it. If he can’t, you agree to let me do some digging. Sound fair?”
“Fine, but you promise to not go alone. Got it?”
Abigail ground her teeth in frustration, smiled sweetly and said, “We’ll see.”
Jimmy Atkins couldn’t be a day over nineteen years, Abigail decided as she approached him a short time later. Lean, to the point of gaunt, he had an intense way about him many at the newspaper found off-putting. But in the short time he’d been here, he’d been polite enough to her. Today, he ignored her as his fingers flew over the typewriter.
Glancing down at the column again, she considered how best to begin. All it said was a child was found dead in the alley. No mention of family, and no indication the police was investigating.
“Jimmy, do you have any additional information pertaining to this story you wrote?” She held out the newspaper, pointing to the article.
“Nope,” Jimmy answered without looking, his fingers continuing to fly over the keys of the typewriter.
“You didn’t even look at the article.”
“Last I knew, I only got the one.”
She tried again. “Well, I’ve met several of these street kids and I want to check into this a little more. Do you know how the child died? It has been very cold this winter.”
