Chapter Thirty-Two
The Temple Bar, London, England, December 12, 1811
The law offices of Mr. George Brook, solicitor to the Marquess of Foye. The rain from Oxford had followed Sabine to London. She did not have an umbrella and so hurried to the door through the rain with her cloak inadequate to the task of protecting her from the cold or the wet.
The first thing Sabine saw when she had climbed the stairs to Mr. Brook’s office was a statue of Minerva in a niche above the transom. That seemed auspicious. The sight made her smile. When she opened the door, a slender clerk came to his feet. The fingers of his right hand were ink stained. He brushed at his coat, clearing his throat and setting a hand to his cravat. Three other clerks looked up from their copying as well.
“Ma’am,” said the first clerk. He smiled at her, looking her up and down. Sabine decided she did not like him much. His face was round, for someone as thin as he was. His shoes were scuffed, something Foye would never have tolerated in his dress. “May I be of assistance?”
“I should like to see Mr. George Brook, if you please.” She had Foye’s letters with her, all of them. She felt, rather superstitiously, that actually using them was an admission that something had gone wrong. Nevertheless, she had them with her and now slipped them from her reticule to find the one addressed to Mr. George Brook. She did not hand it over immediately. Her heart lurched. This was Foye’s writing. She remembered so vividly watching him write this very letter. “Is he in?”
The clerk came from behind his high desk. “He’s with a client, ma’am. Is he expecting you?”
She resisted the urge to smooth back her hair. Now that it was growing out, it curled around her face as Foye’s was wont to do. She had not, of course, removed her hat, merely pushed back her hood. “No.” The clerk knew very well she was not expected. “But the matter is urgent.”
“Have you a card, perhaps?” the cleric said.
She swallowed. “I haven’t a card.” Her stomach was not at present inclined to charity, and the climb up the stairs had exhausted her. She looked around for a chair and sank down on it. Before she left Oxford, she’d found a length of inexpensive cloth in a trunk tucked away in the attic. She’d dyed it black and made herself a gown. Not worthy of a marchioness, she thought, but it would do better than her Turkish costume. Now, she wasn’t so certain.
She wore the black-dyed gown now and thought she looked quite hideous. With black-dyed slippers and a black ribbon threaded through her black cap, there was no mistaking her mourning state. Godard deserved no less from her. She had no jewelry but for the ring Foye had put on her finger in Iskenderun, and that was at present hidden by black gloves bought secondhand and dyed along with her frock.
“May I tell Mr. Brook your name?”
She looked up. Her name. She very nearly said. Miss Sabine Godard. “Lady Foye,” she said. She handed the clerk Foye’s letter to Mr. Brook. “I am Lady Foye, and I have urgent business with Mr. Brook.”
No more than five minutes passed before the clerk returned. An older gentleman in tan breeches, a green waistcoat, and a coat with a ridiculously high collar stood behind the clerk. He held Foye’s letter in one hand. Sabine decided not to stand. Her stomach was not settled, and she was nervous on top of that.
Brook walked to her and extended his hand. “Lady Foye.”
“Mr. Brook, I presume.”
“Yes, my lady.” He nodded at her, taking in her black gown. “My condolences for your loss, Lady Foye.”
“Thank you.”
“May I bring you anything to drink? Tea, perhaps?”
“Yes, thank you.” Not so much because she wanted tea but because when it came she would have something to do with her hands.
Brook gestured, and one of the clerks left his chair and disappeared through an interior door of the offices. “Shall we speak in private?”
“Please.” She put her black-gloved hand on his and stood. Brook said nothing until they were inside his office. It wasn’t large, but he had a window that scattered light across his desk. There was a long table covered with papers along one side of the room. Rain dripped down the window.
She sat down, brought her hands to her lap, and waited while Brook seated himself at his desk with Foye’s letter before him. “I’m sure this is a surprise to you, Mr. Brook. Foye has not returned from Turkey yet, and things have come to a pass here. We had agreed, sir, that I would wait for him to arrive—that is not relevant, I suppose. The fact is that I was reported dead, erroneously as you can see, and at present I no longer have the home at which Foye and I expected to meet upon his return to England.”
“Well.” He cocked his head and returned her smile, but so briefly she wondered at it. “I can see that you are most certainly not dead. Lady Foye.”
“No, sir.”
The clerk came carrying a salver with the promised tea and a plate of powdered cakes. Water speckled his breeches, from which evidence Sabine presumed that he had gone outside to purchase the food. She ignored her tea but did accept one of the cakes. She sat with the plate on her lap.
“Is there anything that can be done to recover my possessions? And my uncle’s.” She explained her situation with Godard and the house in Oxford while Brook stirred milk and sugar into his tea. “I’ve been told the house is let and there is nothing to be done about that.”
His eyebrows drew together. “It is certainly a matter I can look into on your behalf, Lady Foye.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. I am would be very grateful for anything you can do.”
Brook picked up Foye’s letter and studied it in silence for a very long time. He schooled himself too well. Sabine had no idea what he was thinking. “Have you proof of your marriage, Lady Foye?”
“Yes.” She opened her reticule again and handed over the documents from Hugh Eglender. “We were married in Iskenderun. At the consulate there. Mr. Eglender is a friend of my husband’s.”
He took the papers and examined them carefully. Sabine reached for her tea and held it, letting the cup warm her hand. “There is a great deal that must be done,” the attorney said. “And quickly.” He lifted his head from his study of the documents she’d given him. “There seems little doubt that you are indeed Lady Foye.”
“I should certainly think so,” she said. But her heart beat hard in panic now. Could there be any doubt? Did Brook intend to deny her?
“Forgive me if I am indelicate. Is there any chance that you are with child, my lady?”
She sat very still. “Why do you ask that question now, sir?”
“My dear Lady Foye.” He put the pages on his desk. “You are in mourning.”
“For my uncle, Mr. Brook.”
Brook turned white. “Is it possible? You do not know?”
“What?” She stood up, forgetting the plate on her lap. It clattered to the floor. Her legs shook so hard she had to reach behind her to steady herself with a hand to the back of her chair.
“How am I to tell you this?” he said in a low voice.
“Tell me what?”
“Lord Foye did leave Iskenderun, I presume not long after you did. He took passage on the Hecla.”
“The Hecla. I expected he would sail on the Thunderous. Why the Hecla?” She watched him. “How is it you know what ship he took while I do not?”
“It was in all the papers, Lady Foye. They were caught in a storm off the coast of Gibraltar. A ship of the line, the Thunderous, was nearby. They, too, were caught in the gale. The Thunderous captain was no doubt the better sailor. His account of the wreck appeared in the Times. The Thunderous saw the Hecla founder and go down. When they were able to approach, which you must image they did with all possible haste, it was too late to save anyone.”
Sabine’s world stopped.
The lawyer stood up and started around the desk. “I am very sorry to tell you this, but all the passengers on board the Hecla perished.”
“No.”
“The Marquess of Foye is dead.”