by Erica Monroe
Joseph had labeled each sheet with what the charts represented. As Thaddeus had predicted, the Larker factory wasn’t making enough money to justify the purchase of so many new Jacquard looms, nor could they afford to pay for a staff of thirty who worked early morning to late evening.
“What’s this about, brother? Why do you care about a struggling textile factory? Not exactly interesting work, I’ll tell you.”
“It’s a case I’m on,” Thaddeus said.
Joseph winced. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. The last case you had me look into nearly brought my bosses down upon me. If I wasn’t such a well-liked chap—”
“But you are,” Thaddeus placated him. He highly doubted Joseph was in any real danger of being dismissed at Barclay’s. Most of the clients seemed to find Joseph’s smarmy mannerisms to be charming, and his wife’s family had important social connections that the bank needed.
Thaddeus flipped another page in the packet. “In your experience, what are some of the causes for a business to spend exorbitantly more than they make?”
Joseph deliberated for a moment, sipping at his whisky. “When starting a business, there are certain expenditures one must make. The first year isn’t profitable, or at least not to the extent expected later. That sheet in the back talks about how the factory ran prior to the Larkers taking over. You’ll see that a lot of upgrades were made once Boz Larker bought the place.”
Thaddeus shuffled through the papers to find the sheet indicated. “Would you consider these costs to be normal for a factory?”
“How the devil should I know?” Joseph shrugged. “Case or not, the Larkers are dreadfully dull. Overspending is a way of life, Thad. Why, I’ve seen some of those young bucks withdraw seven thousand pounds from their account to pay gambling debts.”
Thaddeus pursed his lips, combing over the report again. “It concerns me.”
Joseph leaned back against the liquor cabinet, crossing his left leg over his right and tucking his thumbs in the folds of his waistcoat. His wide forehead creased with premature wrinkles. There was sharpness to his features that had not been there when they were boys.
Then, Joseph had been a brother in more than the literal sense of the world.
“Do you remember when you found me hiding underneath my bed at Eton?” Thaddeus asked.
Joseph looked up from pouring more whisky into his glass, his brows furrowed. “Yes,” he drawled. “But I don’t remember what possessed you to take up residence underneath your cot. It must have stunk dreadfully. Lord knows the maids didn’t clean properly. Can never get proper servants.”
Thaddeus ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the short ends. How could that moment not have meant something to Joseph, when it had defined Thaddeus’s youth?
“They were bullies.” Thaddeus hated how weak his voice sounded, as if he was again a child longing for Joseph and Nathan to notice him. “I was scared to take meals in the common room. When you found out, you hunted them down in the courtyard.”
“And I punched the bounder in the nose,” Joseph declared, raising his whisky triumphantly.
“It was the only time in my life I’ve ever been glad to see someone bleed.” Thaddeus forced a smile onto his lips because that was what Joseph would expect, but he was no longer keen on the memory.
“I told you if you take out the leader, you’ll stop the rest.” Carrying the whisky bottle with him, Joseph sat down in the chair by the fire. “And you listened to me, which I found quite the shocker. I saw you the next week, fighting that bleeder when he picked on that scrawny lad from Norfolk.”
“They stole his assignment, like they’d done to me. I couldn’t let it continue.” He’d been so angry; he’d struck out with a ferocious uppercut. The brute’s nose had broken from the contact, but the boy from Norfolk had never been a target again.
“For a lanky pain in the arse, you packed quite a punch.” Joseph’s grin stretched wider, becoming that genuine smile Thaddeus remembered from their youth. The one that said he’d finally earned his brother’s admiration after so many efforts to impress him.
“Thanks,” Thaddeus said, as if that compliment hadn’t struck him.
Joseph patted his shoulder, as one might pat the top of a dog’s head. “You’ll thank me more later. I’ve found a job for you. It’ll be all fantastic from here.”
Stifling a groan, Thaddeus reached for the bottle of whisky and refilled his own glass. “I have a job.”
“No, a real job.”
“I have a real job.”
“One with security. One Father will be proud of.”
Thaddeus was curious, though he loathed himself for still wanting his father’s approval. Damn Joseph for striking at his weakness.
“The job is at the bank,” Joseph continued. “They’ve got an opening for a representative. Someone who meets with the rich old spats, assures them their money is safe. Eight years since Fauntleroy embezzled funds, and they’re still buggered over it. As if that would happen at our bank.”
Thaddeus wasn’t amused. “You’d like me to give up policing so that I might sit with the elderly?”
“It’d be an easy job,” Joseph said. “You’d be a fool not to take it. Plus, women love a banking man. How’d you think I snared Catherine?”
Thaddeus didn’t think Joseph would appreciate hearing his real thoughts on Catherine. He took a seat upon the settee, for as eldest brother, Joseph had claimed Thaddeus’s usual spot. Just as Joseph claimed he knew what was best for Thaddeus. And a little, niggling part of Thaddeus couldn’t help but wonder if his brother was right.
Wouldn’t it be easier? To no longer roam the cold streets of Spitalfields, armed with a truncheon while the scoundrels of the world had flintlocks and knives? Whose life was he really changing?
Thaddeus’s gaze roamed the library. Encased in shelves that spanned from floor to ceiling, he had amassed one of England’s premier collections on crime deduction and criminal motivation. If he were not a police officer, what would he be? How would he function? He’d never met anyone who had cared about all of him, outside of what he could do for them. In school, he’d been the boy to befriend if one wanted to ace an exam. At work, he was the man people came to if they wanted a difficult case solved.
Thaddeus lowered his head to look Joseph directly in the eye. “I’m part of the Met, and that’s not going to change. I do what I do because I believe it’s the right thing. These people deserve protection, as you or I do, and I’m not going to give that up.”
“Have it your way.” Joseph attempted to be flippant, but the slightest bit of sadness had flashed across his weathered face.
Thaddeus nodded stiffly, raising his glass in salute. “I intend to.”
4
The next morning, Poppy sat once more at her kitchen table. She dipped the last hunk of bread into her bowl of leftover stew and chomped down with renewed gusto. There. The stew made the old bread passable, and it’d do to keep her sated as she worked at the factory today. Moira played on the ground next to the table, amusing herself with a collection of thimbles.
This was her life, an endless cycle of late nights and early mornings. Falling asleep to the noise of the streets outside her window, for it was never silent in London. She was never alone. At work, there were twenty-five other weavers on the same floor. At home, she shared a room with Moira. The cottage had two rooms in total beside the central living area that doubled as a kitchen. Edna had the other room.
“You never stop, Pop,” Daniel had said. “You need to rest. You’ll run yourself ragged.”
But if she stopped—if she broke from this hectic pace for more than a moment—she’d think, and above all, Poppy wanted to avoid lengthy introspection. Thoughts led to self-doubt. Self-doubt led to failure, and failure wasn’t an option.
Every day spent in the Larker factory was for the single goal of putting Moira into a finishing school when she was older. Giving her daughter the chance to be something more than she h
erself had been. At nineteen years old, Poppy was already ruined. But for Moira, a new life lay before her, unwritten.
Poppy nibbled on her bottom lip, staring out the window. Jimmy, the elderly gentleman from one cottage down, was outside sweeping up the rubbish dumped into the street with the last storm. Several of her other neighbors were out enjoying the sunshine.
Once, this little section of Spitalfields would have sent her into a panic. She’d been sheltered growing up on Uncle Liam and Aunt Molly’s farm in Dorking. While they had not been wealthy by any means, Poppy had never wanted for anything. She’d been content to accept Aunt Molly’s help in getting an apprenticeship with a mantua maker in town.
Until her seventeenth birthday, she’d never known more. She didn’t remember her parents clearly. They’d died when she was young. They were a thread, snipped before it could develop into something truly influencing.
And until her seventeenth birthday, she’d followed society’s strictures. She’d known her place. As an Irish Catholic woman with no dowry, she couldn’t hope for anything more than an inconspicuous life in Surrey. She possessed no great beauty to trap men, and she spent too much time with her nose in a book.
But Edward Claremont changed all of that. He’d reminded her of the heroes in Ann Radcliffe’s novels. He’d made her want, for the first time in her life, to be something more. In that week he’d courted her, she’d believed him when he said she was beautiful. She’d believed this was how love should be: overwhelming and intoxicating. It didn’t matter that Edward cared little for literature or any of her other interests. He was gloriously handsome and rich. For some reason, he wanted her.
So, she’d allowed him to take her maidenhood. She had not protested. No, she’d gone willingly into her destruction, thinking that she’d achieve a happy ending fit for a story tale.
And instead, she’d learned that those with lofty expectations have the furthest to fall.
“Mama, Mama,” Moira cried, tearing Poppy from her thoughts. Moira held out the largest of the thimbles, which encompassed her entire palm.
“It’s very pretty, Moira,” Poppy agreed.
Moira nodded. “Bobs.”
“Are you building a castle?” Poppy asked, as Moira stacked each of the thimbles like turrets on an empty wooden box.
“Mine,” Moira declared, following up this assertion with several mashed words that Poppy couldn’t quite identify. But she sounded excited, so Poppy nodded along with her.
“They have castles all over Ireland, you know. Ireland’s where our family comes from. Some day when you’re older, we’ll go there.”
She didn’t know why she’d said that. It was another lie to add to a multiplying list of untruths. They wouldn’t go back to Ireland—not when Poppy would have to look her relatives in the face and lie about Moira’s origins.
A bastard shall not enter into the Congregation of the Lord: even to his tenth generation shall he not enter. So said the Bible, and so said the Magdalene hospital representatives when they’d come to Uncle Liam’s farm. They’d claimed they wanted to help her find her way back to the Lord. That they’d learned of her plight from the concerned citizens of Dorking.
Better to trap her in the asylum, quartered with the hopeless, the mentally deficient, the tainted, and the prostitutes. Clothe her in an inoffensive little cap and apron, a dark-colored dress designed to hide her womanly curves. All because she was a creature of sin. Moira was thus the devil’s helper, born in shame and malevolence.
There was nothing left for Poppy in Ireland or Surrey. London was the last place she could go where family would accept her.
Tiring of the thimble collection, Moira reached out with both hands for Poppy to pick her up. Poppy complied, scooping Moira up from the floor and settling the babe on her lap. She laid her head down on top of Moira’s.
Edna Daubenmire emerged from her room, straw bonnet in her hand. At sixty-five, Edna was as spry as a woman half her age. With squat arms and a spindly frame, she stood two heads shorter than Poppy, making her the smallest woman Poppy had ever encountered.
Edna set her hat down on the counter. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Acceptable,” Poppy said, not wanting to worry her friend.
Edna pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up on her bulbous nose. “I don’t believe you.”
“The sun is shining, and I’ve got a day off tomorrow. Why shouldn’t I feel content?” Off the top of her head, Poppy could think of seventeen different reasons why.
Peering at Poppy dubiously, Edna scooped stew into a bowl. Coming to the table, she took a seat across from Poppy. Moira cooed, delighted to see her companion.
“When I came home last night, you’d already gone to bed,” Edna observed. “That’s unusual for you. I expected Kate and Daniel to stay longer, too.”
Poppy shrugged. She’d told them she was fatigued after a long day at the factory, when she’d wanted solitude to think over the night’s events. Another lie to add onto her long list, and no clearness gained from it.
“Jane came by too, and she had to work early,” Poppy said.
“Jane,” Moira repeated, waving her hand jubilantly.
Edna let out a low laugh. “I’ve never seen anything quite as awkward as Jane Putnam speaking with a child. Last time she was over, I heard her explaining to Moira about the seven different types of house breakers.”
Moira shifted in her lap. Poppy grasped the girl’s hands, allowing her to stand up on her knees. Moira bobbed, squealing boisterously.
“While I do wish she’d choose a different subject matter, I think it’s kind that she cares,” Poppy said.
“Miss Jane has a good heart,” Edna concurred. “But enough about that, my dear. You haven’t answered my question truthfully.”
Poppy sighed. She couldn’t lie to Edna. They’d been through too much together, and never had Edna faltered in her devotion to Poppy. “I met someone last night.”
“How delightful!” Edna exclaimed.
“No, no, it is nothing like that.” Poppy hurried to correct her. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, at least. There’d been that one moment, when their eyes had met. Her palm pressed against the side of his strapping chest.
“You know my feelings on that subject. I’m not going to court anyone. Moira deserves a steady home.”
“Men are not all like that rapscallion Claremont,” Edna said, as she had many times before. “My Ernest was honorable until the day he died. The right man will love Moira and he’ll love you all the more for everything you’ve been through.”
Poppy knew that was the worst of lies. Men cheated, and men lied. Even Daniel had left Kate for years. A woman’s sole chance at happiness was independence, through a good education and a good position. She’d make sure Moira had that chance.
“I’m glad you found happiness with Mr. Daubenmire,” Poppy said. “But I doubt that such a man exists for me, and I’m in no haste to find him.”
And if she embarked on such a relationship again, it would certainly not be with the man who knew all her family secrets.
No. Not all. Knight knew most of their secrets.
“If he is not a suitor, who is this man?” Edna asked.
Poppy bounced Moira again, holding onto her hands. “He’s a sergeant with the Metropolitan Police. He followed me from the factory and kept asking questions about that girl who died last week.”
“Dreadful.” Edna frowned. “But why did he choose you?”
“I suppose I was the easiest to get to when the factory let out. Most of the workers dispersed in groups.” She remained uncertain.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Edna ate a spoonful of stew before continuing. “I know how you dislike the Met, after what happened to your brother.”
Poppy frowned. “That’s where it starts to get odd. Thaddeus Knight is the man who saved Daniel.” Saying it out loud made it no less peculiar.
Edna’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I suppose
of all the Met for you to meet, he’d be the least likely to earn your disapproval.”
Poppy forced a small smile and nodded.
“Oh dear,” Edna remarked. “It didn’t go well, did it?”
“I was a tad rude.” Poppy covered Moira’s ears with her hands and lowered her voice. “I may have told him he was a blighter and a bounder.”
“Poppy!” Edna chided. “He saved Daniel! That’s no way to behave. Your aunt taught you better than that.”
Aunt Molly had been friends with Edna before she passed. No matter how old Poppy got, she’d always be a young girl in Edna’s eyes. How Poppy longed to have Aunt Molly back beside her to give her advice. She, unlike Uncle Liam, would have understood her predicament. Aunt Molly had never been the type to judge.
Poppy removed her hands from Moira’s ears. “I know. In my defense, I didn’t know that’s who he was.”
“Still, manners,” Edna scolded.
“I thought if I was belligerent, he’d consider me too much trouble to ask further questions. And I was doing fine with the accent Kate taught me, until I got distracted and slipped up. Sergeant Knight is different from the rest...my mistake intrigued him. He wouldn’t stop asking me questions, as if I knew who killed Anna.”
“Which you don’t, correct?” Edna inquired.
“Of course not. Why does everyone seem to think I do?” Poppy grimaced. “I’m not going to cast stones when it’s all rumors. The Larkers are wretched people, to be sure, but I can earn a decent amount with them.”
Edna harrumphed. “Provided you work long hours until your back is sore, and your eyes are blearing from staring at the weaving.”
“If that’s what it takes to give Moira a chance at a new life, that’s what I’ll do,” Poppy vowed.
“I’m not disapproving, Poppy, merely wishing there were another way.” Edna patted Poppy’s hand. “It’s not fair that you must spend all day away from this beautiful girl.”
