CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

July 25th, 1812

Exeter, Devonshire

 

IN THE MORNING, Mordecai insisted on getting up. A full day spent in bed was more than enough for any man. He walked across to the window. His head scarcely ached and his legs felt as if they belonged to him again. “I’ll get dressed,” he told Phelps.

Dressing exhausted him, but he tried to hide it. He didn’t think Phelps was fooled. “You sure you’re wanting to go downstairs?” the coachman asked.

“Just as far as the parlor,” Mordecai said.

He had no problem with the corridor, but the staircase was another matter. His head didn’t like it, and nor did his legs. He halted after three steps, clinging to the banister.

“Back to bed with you,” Phelps said, and Mordecai didn’t argue.

He slept again, and when he woke it was nearly noon. For the first time since the incident on the High Street, he was properly hungry. “Fetch me up a sirloin,” he told Walter.

He ate a substantial repast, and once that was over he was bored. He didn’t quite dare to open a book again; he was afraid that the print would still be unreadable. Which left him with two options: sitting here twiddling his thumbs, or getting dressed. Mordecai chose getting dressed. This time, it didn’t exhaust him. He felt almost himself as he shrugged into his tailcoat.

He straightened his cuffs, smoothed his lapels—and hesitated. For weeks he’d carried the marriage license with him, carefully tucking it into his pocket each time he dressed.

“Sir?” Walter asked. “Is something wrong?”

“There was a paper in my breast pocket yesterday,” Mordecai said.

“I put it in your portmanteau for safekeeping,” Walter said. “Along with your pocketbook.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Would you like it, sir?”

“Uh . . . no. Thank you.” Mordecai gave himself a mental shake and turned to the door. “I’d like to try the stairs again.”

Phelps frowned, but said nothing.

Mordecai took the stairs slowly—and his head coped, and his legs coped—and he reached the private parlor with a sense of triumph. I’ll try reading next.

“I shan’t need you,” Mordecai told Phelps and Walter. “I’ll ring if I require anything.” He opened the door and stepped inside—and there, sitting on the green sofa, was Eleanor Wrotham.

Mordecai froze, and wished he’d stayed in bed.

Eleanor stood. She wore an odd-looking turban on her head. Her expression was cool and aloof. “Mordecai. How are you?”

“Much improved, thank you,” Mordecai said. “Uh . . . how are you?”

“Perfectly well.”

An awkward silence fell. I should have stayed in bed.

“I’m waiting for a new friend to visit,” Eleanor said. “Mrs. Reid. She says she knows you.”

“Reid? I don’t think I know a Mrs. Reid.”

“She’ll be here at one.”

They both looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Twelve fifty-eight.

“Uh . . . well . . . then I’ll leave you,” Mordecai said, turning towards the door.

“She may have news about Sophia and Lizzie.”

Mordecai reluctantly looked back at her. Eleanor Wrotham. Who could burn down doors and set boots on fire.

He didn’t know what to believe. Didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know how he felt about her anymore.

The door opened. Letitia Trentham, the great heiress, walked in carrying a hatbox.

Mordecai did a double take.

“I’m glad to see you on your feet, Mr. Black,” Miss Trentham said. “How do you feel?”

“Uh . . . fine. How are you, Miss Trentham?” And what the devil are you doing here?

“Mrs. Reid now,” Miss Trentham said with a smile.

“Oh? When did that happen?” And how had he missed it?

“Three and a half years ago.”

“Oh,” Mordecai said again. I must have forgotten. Which was more than a little disturbing.

Miss Trentham glanced past him to Eleanor. “No solid news, yet. But Icarus is hopeful. The countermen at the shop definitely remember Lizzie. The next time she shows up, they’ll send her here.”

Eleanor seemed to understand this cryptic utterance, but Mordecai was floundering. “Who’s Icarus? What shop?”

“Icarus is my husband. He has several businesses in town. The confectioner’s on the High Street is one of them.”

“Oh,” Mordecai said. It took several seconds for his brain to put her words together in a way that made sense.

Miss Trentham’s brow creased. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My wits are rather slow. I think . . . if you’ll excuse me . . . I think I’ll lie down.”

Mordecai retreated to his bedchamber, shaken.

 

---

 

“IS HE QUITE all right?” Mrs. Reid asked, frowning, as the door shut behind Black.

“I don’t know,” Nell said worriedly. “He’s not usually like that.”

“He needs to see Merry.”

“Is she in Exeter?”

Mrs. Reid shook her head. “Thirty miles away.” She hesitated, and then said, “Has he spoken yet about your magic?”

“No.”

Mrs. Reid grimaced faintly, and then held out the box she was carrying. “This is for you. So you can get rid of that turban.”

Nell took the box and opened it. Inside was a wig of coppery-red hair dressed in a Psyche knot, with pretty ringlets around the hairline.

“Mrs. Trussell-Quimby has red hair, didn’t you say? I think that’s an illusion we’d best maintain.”

Nell hesitated. The wig looked very expensive. “I can’t possibly accept—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Reid said briskly. “Try it on.”

Nell unwound the turban. With Mrs. Reid’s help she soon had the wig on her head.

“Very nice,” Mrs. Reid said approvingly. She folded up the shawl. “Personally, I’ve always hated turbans.”

“So have I.” Nell touched the ringlets gently. They felt very soft. Human hair, not horse.

“Do you have hairpins upstairs?”

“Plenty of them,” Nell said.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Spectacles.” Mrs. Reid rummaged in her reticule and produced a slender case.

“I can’t—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Reid said again.

The spectacles had tortoiseshell frames this time. Nell slid them onto her nose.

Mrs. Reid stepped back a pace and scrutinized her. “Goodness. You do look quite different. I almost wouldn’t recognize you.” She grinned suddenly, no longer regal but full of mischief. “I must try this on Icarus one day, see if I can fool him.”

Nell found herself grinning back.

They sat on the sofa and talked—and talked. Very quickly they were Letty and Nell. Nell found herself telling Letty about Mordecai Black’s proposals, about how much he’d come to mean to her, about her decision to marry him the next time he asked. “But perhaps he won’t want to marry me anymore.” She kneaded her hands together, realized she was doing it, and forced herself to stop.

Letty shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like Black to me. I always enjoyed dancing with him. He never treated me as an heiress. I don’t think my money meant anything to him. He . . .” She frowned, as if searching for words. “He judges people by a different set of criteria than most men.”

Nell hoped she was correct.

“Give him time,” Letty said. “Icarus didn’t become comfortable with it until he met Cosgrove and Sir Barnaby.” She shook her head again, and smiled wryly. “Poor Icarus. He would much rather not believe in magic, but he has a wife who can hear lies and a daughter who will one day receive a magical gift.”

“A daughter?”

Letty’s smile softened. “We have twins. A boy and a girl.” Then she said, more briskly, “I suggest we all go to Woodhuish once you’ve found your sister. You can meet Charlotte and Merry, Black can talk with Cosgrove and Barnaby and Icarus . . . and I think you’ll find that the issue resolves itself.”

Nell hoped so. “What are Charlotte and Merry like? Can you tell me about them?”

They plunged into conversation. When Nell next looked at the clock she realized that an hour had sped past.

“Gracious! Is that the time?” Letty Reid exclaimed. “My poor children will be wondering what’s become of me.”

“You brought them to Exeter?”

“We always do,” Letty Reid said cheerfully. She took her leave, hugging Nell. “We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything about your sister. I promise!”

 

---

 

MORDECAI TOOK REFUGE in his bed, where he lay and stared at the ceiling. How had he not known Letitia Trentham had married? He must have known.

He rummaged through his memory, trying to find gaps, and failing—and that worried him even more. Had he found no gaps because there weren’t any . . . or because he couldn’t recognize them?

In the middle of the afternoon, someone knocked on his door. It was Lord Cosgrove.

Mordecai was relieved. “Cosgrove,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” He sat up and shoved several pillows between his back and the headboard. “Walter, fetch up some coffee, will you?”

Cosgrove took off his hat. “Letty Reid sent me. She’s worried about you.”

“I’m worried, too,” Mordecai admitted. “I didn’t remember she was married. I still can’t remember it! And I should be able to, shouldn’t I?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

Cosgrove pulled a chair across to the bed and sat. “It wasn’t a Society wedding. A notice in the newspapers, nothing more.”

“But I must have known.”

“Probably, but it was several years ago now, and the Reids rarely go to London. It’s only natural you’d have forgotten.”

It was calming to talk with Cosgrove. They’d sparred often at Gentleman Jack’s, and even though Cosgrove was eight years older and three inches shorter, Mordecai had lost as often as he’d won. Outside the boxing ring, they’d had little in common—Cosgrove was a peer of the realm and moved in political circles; Mordecai was a bastard with no interest in politics—but inside it, they were well matched, and because of that, they’d been friends.

When Cosgrove had remarried and moved to Woodhuish the sparring sessions had stopped. They’d seen each other rarely, and Mordecai had forgotten quite how much he liked the man. Cosgrove had an inner fire and strong principles and the courage to fight for what he believed was right.

They sat and drank coffee and the earl told him about the lying-in hospital Letty Reid had established in Exeter, about her husband’s business enterprises. “Staffed wholly by invalided soldiers. He was a soldier himself. A major. You’d like him.”

“They live in Exeter?”

“No, but they’re here fairly often.”

Mordecai’s anxiety came surging back. “But surely I must have met them? I pass through Exeter several times a year.”

“Why should you have met them?” Cosgrove asked. “I’m in Exeter as often as they are—and how many times have we met these past few years?”

“Not many.” Mordecai paused. “At least, not many that I remember.”

“A couple of times, that’s all.” Cosgrove put down his cup and reached across and gripped Mordecai’s hand. “You’re not losing your wits, man.”

Mordecai’s throat tightened. He found himself unable to speak.

Cosgrove picked up his coffee cup again. “Miss Wrotham said you went to the West Quarter. What did you think?”

Mordecai grimaced.

Cosgrove leaned forward and began telling him about his plans for the West Quarter.

Mordecai listened in astonishment.

“. . . decided to start with the poorest of the children. The ones whose parents have abandoned them. Get them off the streets and into good foundling homes. Letty’s helping me. Her mother had all those foundling homes in London. You remember?”

For a moment Mordecai was afraid that he didn’t—and then he did: Miss Trentham’s mother had been a philanthropist. She’d established a lying-in hospital in Holborn, and several foundling homes.

“We’ve set up two foundling homes and a charity school already,” Cosgrove said. “It’s early days yet, but it’s looking promising. Extremely promising.”

“Be careful who you choose to run the places,” Mordecai cautioned. “Sometimes children are safer on the streets.”

Cosgrove hesitated, and then said: “Letty has a Faerie gift, too. She knows when people lie. You can be certain that anyone she selects to have charge of the children will have their best interests at heart.”

Mordecai stared at him.

Cosgrove shrugged, and took another sip of his coffee.

Mordecai watched him drink, deeply unsettled. Had Cosgrove gone mad?

Cosgrove lowered his cup and met his gaze. His lips twitched faintly, as if he was amused. “Want to talk about it?”

Mordecai knew what he meant by it: magic. “Not really.”

Cosgrove shrugged, and turned the subject. For the next ten minutes he talked about his wife and children, his face animated, his voice warm: a man who loved his family.

Mordecai listened, while Cosgrove’s question nibbled away at the edges of his mind: Want to talk about it?

“Well,” Cosgrove said. “I’ll be off.” He pushed to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down at Mordecai. “Don’t worry, Black. If your skull doesn’t mend itself I know someone who can do it for you.”

“Magic?”

Cosgrove nodded. He didn’t say Want to talk about it? again, but the offer hung silently in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Mordecai said. “It’s just . . . too much right now.”

Cosgrove nodded. “It’s a lot to get your head around. I know.” He smiled, and donned his hat. “I’ll be seeing you.”

 

---

 

MORDECAI HAD A nap, and then decided on a second foray down to the parlor. He was buttoning his waistcoat when a knock sounded on the door.

Walter went to answer it.

His guest was even more unexpected than Lord Cosgrove: Letitia Reid. Relief lit her face when she saw him. “Oh, thank God! You’re up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve found Lizzie.” She twisted her hands together. “Icarus is bringing her. He sent me on ahead.”

Mordecai looked at Letitia Reid’s anxious face, looked at her twisting hands, and felt a deep sense of foreboding. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Sophia Wrotham’s dead.”

Mordecai held his breath for a moment, and then released it soundlessly.

“Will you come down to the parlor? Please? From the way Nell talks about you, I think she’d be glad of your presence.”

“Of course,” Mordecai said. “Walter, my tailcoat.”

He shrugged into the coat and went down the stairs with Letitia Reid, and he didn’t think about his legs or his head, didn’t think about anything except Sophia Wrotham. Please let this be a mistake, he prayed silently. But he didn’t think it was a mistake. Letitia Reid wasn’t the sort of woman to make mistakes of this magnitude.

Eleanor Wrotham was seated at the writing desk. She looked up as they entered and stood hastily. “Letty!” she said with a smile, and then the smile faded and she said, a little uncertainly, “Mordecai. How are you?”

“Fine,” he said. “Nell . . .” He floundered to a halt. Should he say anything? He glanced at Letitia Reid.

“Is something wrong?” Eleanor asked.

“We’ve found Lizzie Wellsford,” Letitia Reid said. “But the news about your sister isn’t good. You need to prepare yourself.”

“Not good?” Eleanor said. “What exactly—”

The door opened. A man Mordecai had never seen before stepped into the parlor. With him was a young woman.

The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and lean, with a soldier’s bearing. Reid, Mordecai’s brain labeled him. The woman was young, no more than eighteen. She had a pretty face and curling brown hair and was dressed very smartly. Lizzie, he labeled her.

There was a moment of silence, while they all looked at each other. Letitia Reid broke it. “Lizzie, this is Miss Wrotham. Sophia’s sister.”

Eleanor took a hasty step forward. “Where is she? Where’s Sophia?”

Lizzie tried to smile, but it came out lopsided. She shook her head. Tears shone in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Eleanor said. All the color seemed to drain from her face.

Mordecai crossed to her and took her hand, gripping tightly. “Sit,” he said, drawing her to the sofa. “And you, too, Lizzie.”

Eleanor sat with none of her usual grace. She moved as if her limbs were rusty. Mordecai sat alongside her. He kept hold of her hand. He didn’t consider that she was a woman who could set doors on fire, nor did he consider that holding her hand in public might ruin her. There was only one thought in his head: that she needed comfort.

Lizzie Wellsford chose one of the armchairs beside the fireplace. Letitia Reid took the other one. Reid stayed standing. He was carrying a slim package. Brown paper tied with string.

“We followed you from London to Exeter,” Mordecai said. “We found Miss Pender, and the lodging house in Turnagain Lane. What happened after that?”

“We moved to Gandy Street,” Lizzie said. “I met a gentleman and he set me up with a place.” Her cheeks flushed pink and she lifted her chin, ashamed and defiant at the same time.

“Needs must,” Mordecai said mildly. “Anything would be better than Miss Pender, I should think.”

Lizzie’s chin lowered. She grimaced. “You’re not wrong.”

“Tell us,” Mordecai said. “We’re none of us here to judge you.”

“We moved to Gandy Street,” Lizzie said again. “Mr. Wheatley hired three rooms for me, and a maid’s room in the attic. It’s better than any lodgings I’ve ever had before! Sophy pretended to be my maid, and when Mr. Wheatley wasn’t there she taught me how to read and write.”

Mordecai smiled at her, and nodded encouragingly, aware of Eleanor’s hand clinging to his.

“The baby was born two weeks after we moved. The sweetest little girl you ever saw. Sophy called her Felicity. Felicity Eleanor Elizabeth. And she loved her so much! We both did. But . . .” Lizzie bit her lip. “But the afterbirth didn’t all come out, and the midwife had to come back, and after that Sophy caught a fever, and it got worse and worse . . .” Tears were bright in her eyes. She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth.

“When did she die?” Mordecai asked quietly.

“July second,” Lizzie said, and sniffed, and wiped the tears away with her knuckles.

Mordecai glanced at Eleanor Wrotham. Her face was very like a duchess’s, pale and haughty. He put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, not caring what the Reids thought.

“What happened to the baby?” Letitia Reid asked.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Lizzie sniffed again, wiped her eyes again. Reid silently handed her his handkerchief.

Lizzie blotted her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep, shuddering breath. “She needed a wet nurse, and I couldn’t have one living in the rooms—Mr. Wheatley wouldn’t have liked it! But I didn’t want to give Felicity to a foundling home, so I asked the midwife to find someone to look after her. I thought that maybe one day I could take her back.” Lizzie turned the handkerchief over in her hands, twisting it. “And the midwife found someone. A Mrs. Jellup. Only I didn’t like her. Lushy, she was. She swore she never touched a drop of liquor, but I grew up in the West Quarter. I know drunkenness when I sees it.” And then Lizzie corrected herself: “See it.” She twisted the handkerchief more tightly. “I was going to move her, little Felicity, only Mr. Wheatley wanted to take me out of town.” A tremulous smile lit her face. “He’s right kind, Mr. Wheatley. Treats me very decent.” The smile faded. “So I left Felicity where she was, and when we got back I went to fetch her away, only . . .”

There was silence while Lizzie wiped her cheeks, blew her nose. No one prompted her to speak. They all knew what was coming: the baby was dead.

Lizzie blew her nose a second time, and then said, “The wet nurse lived in Meacham Street, and it’s gone. Burned to the ground. And everyone says Mrs. Jellup burned with it. She didn’t get out.”

Mordecai closed his eyes. Oh, God.

“So Felicity’s dead, too. And it’s all my fault!”

“Hardly your fault,” Letitia Reid said. “You did the best you could. No one could have known what would happen.”

Lizzie shook her head. “I should’ve done better. Sophy was the best friend I ever had.” Tears filled her eyes again.

“It sounds to me as if you were the best friend she ever had,” Letitia Reid said firmly.

“Yes,” Eleanor said, her voice low and choked. “You were. I’m glad you were with her these last few months. That she had a friend, someone to look out for her. I’m glad she didn’t die alone.” Tears trembled on her eyelashes. One detached itself and slid down her pale, haughty cheek.

Mordecai watched it, and felt his heart break. Nell. He tightened his grip on her shoulders.

“Sophy knew you’d come for her,” Lizzie said. “She said it over and over: ‘Nell will come, I know she will.’ She never stopped saying it.”

Eleanor’s face twisted.

Lizzie turned in her seat, seeking Reid. “Where’s—?”

Reid silently handed her the package he was carrying.

“Here,” Lizzie said. “Sophy gave me these for you.” She crossed to the sofa and perched alongside Eleanor. “Keep them safe, she said. Give them to Nell when she comes.” She untied the twine and peeled back the brown paper. Inside were two journals with cheap pasteboard covers, one stained crimson, the other yellow, and several sheets of loose paper. “This one’s for you,” Lizzie said, picking up the crimson book. “She said this was your color.”

At that comment, Eleanor gave a muffled sob. She pressed one hand to her mouth.

Lizzie opened the book. The pages were full of writing. “She said she wrote letters to you, but after London . . . she weren’t—wasn’t—so certain you’d got them. She thought you were married, you see, and that your husband had forbidden you to reply. But she went to his house and it wasn’t you as was his wife after all. Sophy didn’t know what had happened to all the letters she’d sent, so she wrote this instead.” Lizzie closed the book and held it out.

Eleanor lowered her hand from her mouth. She took the book.

“It’s everything,” Lizzie said. “From the beginning up until the very last day.” She smiled crookedly. “She knew you’d come.”

Eleanor didn’t open the book. She pressed it to her breast.

“And this is the one she started writing for Felicity. Yellow, for happiness. She said she’d give it to Felicity when she was grown, but . . .” Lizzie’s mouth twisted. “I think she’d want you to have it. There’s a blue book, too, which she was using to teach me how to write, but I kept that.”

“Of course,” Eleanor said. Her voice was low, little more than a whisper. “Of course you must keep that one.” She took the yellow book and slowly opened it. The first page held writing, but the second . . .

Eleanor inhaled a faint, soft gasp.

“That’s Felicity,” Lizzie said. “Beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Eleanor touched the sketch lightly, reverently. “Very.”

“And these are some of Sophy’s other drawings.” Lizzie handed over half a dozen sheets of paper. They were creased and dog-eared. “I kept the ones she did of me, and also one of Felicity. I hope you don’t mind?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Of course not.” She closed the yellow book carefully, almost reverently, and then looked at the drawings, one by one.

“Sophy had nothing else to leave, except a ribbon she said you’d given her. It matched her eyes. She never would sell it, even when she was hungry and had no money for food.”

A spasm of grief crossed Eleanor’s face. She closed her eyes tightly.

“I made sure she was buried with the ribbon in her hair,” Lizzie said. “I knew she wouldn’t want to be parted from it.”

Mordecai expected Eleanor Wrotham to break down at those words. He would have. He held his breath, waiting for it to happen, ready to comfort her, but she sat silent and unmoving, almost unbreathing, her head bowed, her eyes closed, one hand pressed to her mouth—and then she inhaled a shaky breath and lifted her head and opened her eyes. “Where is Sophia buried? I want to see her grave.”

“Bartholomew’s Yard,” Lizzie said.

“Can we go there now? Please?” Her voice trembled, and Mordecai heard how close she was to breaking.

“Of course we can go now,” he said firmly. “Lizzie? You’ll take us?”

Lizzie nodded.

They all stood, Eleanor jerkily, clutching the books and the sketches to her breast.

“Where’s your bonnet, Nell?” Mrs. Reid asked quietly. She held out her hand. “Come up with me to fetch it.”

Eleanor let Letitia Reid lead her from the parlor.

There was a long moment of silence after the door closed behind them. Mordecai released his breath and turned to Lizzie Wellsford. “Thank you,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Thank you for everything you did for Sophia Wrotham. Thank you for being her friend. For keeping her safe. For being with her when she died. And thank you for coming here today.”

Lizzie gave a watery smile, and nodded.

Mordecai released her hands. “Sophia Wrotham was fortunate to have you as a friend.”

“It’s me as was fortunate,” Lizzie said, moping her eyes. “Sophy was the nicest person I ever met. Always had a good word to say about everyone. Even about Miss Pender.” She gave a choked laugh, and then a sob. “Everyone loved her.”

Mordecai said nothing. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.

Reid stepped forward. “You must be Black. I’m Reid. Icarus Reid.”

“Mordecai Black,” Mordecai said, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you for finding Lizzie.”

“You’re welcome. I’m just sorry . . .”

The parlor door opened. Letitia Reid entered the room alone.

“Where’s Nell?” Mordecai asked.

“Washing her face. Do you intend to come with us to Bartholomew’s Yard?”

“Of course.”

Letitia Reid looked him up and down. “Are you well enough?”

“Yes,” Mordecai said, even though he wasn’t certain of it.

Her eyebrows twitched up slightly, as if she didn’t believe him . . . and he remembered Cosgrove’s disclosure: Letitia Reid could hear lies.

“I’m coming,” Mordecai said firmly.