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.
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.
Whichever way they arrived, their lives were better, but certainly not wonderful. Porridge, bread, and the occasional piece of meat or fish made up their daily diet. Rarely did they see fresh fruit and vegetables. Charlotte had worked out a deal with the local dairy to supply the home with milk at a reduced price.
Most of the children suffered from illnesses directly related to malnutrition. The city of London provided some coinage, and other money came from wealthy benefactors, but most funds had to be cajoled from those more fortunate.
Charlotte spent a good deal of her time attending various fundraisers, begging on behalf of the children. She would give much more of her own money, but the tidy sum Gabriel had left her was controlled by his solicitor, and although he was happy to pay her dressmaker bills, he chafed at giving money to St Jerome’s.
A strange way of looking at things, from her viewpoint, and another reason to not trust a man. Gabriel had claimed to love her, but it wasn’t until his death that she’d discovered how little he had trusted her. She could barely make a move without consulting Mr. Daniels, the trustee. Although, as the pompous man had sniffed as he’d pointed out to her, she was fortunate to have the funds, since she and Gabriel had only just married.
He acted as though she had married Gabriel to do away with him and get his money. There had never been an occasion to explain to Mr. Daniels that she would have much preferred her husband to his money.
She detested the little man and hated when she found it necessary to deal with him.
Charlotte spent the next couple of hours attempting to reduce Mary’s fever, and assisting the woman employed to deal with the infants. She loved holding their little bodies, and the ache for one of her own followed her home after each visit.
“A Mr. Baker called for you, ma’am.” Bridget, the parlor maid greeted her as she entered the house.
“Oh, I am sorry I missed him. Did he say if he planned to return?”
“Not sure, ma’am. He spoke with Mrs. Blanchard.”
Charlotte removed her hat and cloak and handed them to the girl. “Please have Mrs. Blanchard attend me, and ask Cook to send a simple lunch to the drawing room.”
No fire had been laid in the cool fireplace, but Charlotte made a mental note to tell Mrs. Blanchard to see to having them prepared for winter. It would be nice to be able to start a fire now to warm up the space.
Perhaps the chill had not come from the air in the room, but from her time at St. Jerome’s. She enjoyed her visits there, but she always left with a heavy heart, knowing what she did was so little compared to their needs. Money. That was what would help the little mites have a better diet, warm clothes, and sturdy shoes.
“You sent for me, ma’am?” Mrs. Blanchard arrived with all the dignity that was her due. Unused to employing servants before her marriage to Gabriel, it had taken her some time to learn how to deal with them, to not make friends with them, and to observe the stringent servant hierarchy by which they lived.
“I understand Mr. Baker called today.”
“Yes, ma’am. When Bridget told him you were away from home, he sent for me.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Thomas, her combination footman and butler, arriving with her luncheon. She instructed him where to place it and returned her attention to her housekeeper. “What was his intention in sending for you?”
“He wanted information on the servants. He asked if we had any new staff, in particular, male staff. That was mostly what he wanted.”
She startled. “Mostly? What else did you discuss?”
Mrs. Blanchard flushed. “He asked some questions about you, ma’am. How long you were married, when Mr. Pennyworth died, that sort of thing.”
“Despite employing him to help with the unwanted packages situation, Mr. Baker has no need to pry into my life.” She cringed at the brusqueness of her words.
The poor woman’s face flushed even deeper. “Yes, ma’am. However, I told him no more than what is publicly known.”
Charlotte felt sorry for snapping at the woman, and the tension left her body. It might have been unwise to hire a private investigator—always in the back of her mind were the pending charges against her, but would he be so diligent in his duties as to uncover that?
Not for the first time, she considered whether there was a connection between her dilemma and Lord Barton. Then, she dismissed the idea. It had been so long, and her name had changed. He would have to be quite clever—which he was not—to find her after all this time. Of course, he could have hired someone, but she doubted if his desire for her was that strong. Most likely, he’d already turned his unwanted attention to another unfortunate employee.
“It is all right, Mrs. Blanchard. I will speak with Mr. Baker and impress upon him that he is not to question anyone in my household without me present.” She turned toward the lovely array of food Cook had sent. “You may return to your duties.”
The housekeeper turned on her heel and left the room, quietly closing the door.
Charlotte poured her tea, and while she ate the lovely finger sandwiches and fresh fruit, her mind wandered to Thursday’s assembly. With Mr. Baker again attending as her escort, it would soon become a matter of speculation as to exactly what their relationship was.
She quelled the twinge of excitement in her lower parts at the thought of being in his strong arms as they danced. Quickly, she chastised herself. She needed to put those ideas aside. She was finished with the male gender. They could not be trusted, and since she had the means to support herself, there was no need to seek another husband.
…
M dangled the beautiful diamond and ruby bracelet, the light catching the jewels, causing an array of rainbow colored specks to dance on the wall. Beloved Anne would be surprised and thrilled to receive it. She loved jewelry, the more expensive and flashy, the better.
The humming stopped at the thought that Anne still needed punishment. How dare she bring that man with her to the poetry reading? The plan had been to sit alongside her, and enjoy her lovely company, discussing the poems, and absorbing her familiar scent. Instead, he had taken up the space next to her, with Mrs. Davis on the other side, so there’d been no room. Anne should have known better, since she knew flirting was against the rules. Rules made for her own benefit, to keep her from making mistakes that required punishment.
And this man seemed so crass! Large and bulky, and far too much at ease with Anne. He had not appeared to be a gentleman, and when they’d been introduced, it had taken all the control mustered not to spit in his arrogant face.
Leaving the lovely bracelet on her doorstep, along with a small, but potent reminder that she needed to behave herself, had become necessary. Beloved Anne should already know to whom she belonged. How many times had there been occasions to impress that very idea upon her? Although hating to resort to such harsh tactics, truth be known, the image of Anne naked, on her knees, begging for forgiveness, was incredibly exciting, the memory causing a stirring down below.
If that horrible man accompanied her once again, even stronger punishments might be called for. A smile burst forth. Yes, more punishments. Then, a faint sigh quickly replaced the smile. It was so hard fighting the sadness. So very hard when the one you loved so desperately didn’t remember all you had shared.