CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THEY WENT TO Bartholomew’s Yard burial ground in two hackneys. It was less than ten minutes from the inn. Which was fortunate, because the journey brought Mordecai’s headache back.

He should have been first out of the hackney, should have helped Eleanor to descend; instead, he was last, and when he made it to firm ground he had to lean against the carriage for a moment, fighting dizziness, fighting nausea. Eleanor didn’t notice. She looked numb with grief, blind with grief. Reid gave her his arm, and Mordecai blessed the man silently, and then closed his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth. I am not going to throw up. When he opened his eyes, Letitia Reid was standing beside him.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“I’ve had better days,” Mordecai admitted. He pushed away from the hackney.

He walked into the burial ground arm in arm with Letitia Reid. To an observer it would have looked as if he was escorting her—but he and Letitia Reid both knew that she was supporting him. By the time they reached Sophia Wrotham’s grave, Mordecai’s nausea and dizziness had faded. Only the headache remained.

“There’s no headstone yet, but I will get her one,” Lizzie said. “A good one. Only I can’t afford it, yet.” She hesitated. “I could if I sold some of the dresses Mr. Wheatley bought me, only that doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“How did you pay for the burial, Lizzie?” Letitia Reid asked.

“Mr. Wheatley paid for it. He’s very good to me.” She gave a tremulous smile. “He probably would have paid for the headstone, too, only . . . I want to pay for it myself. I want it to have more than just her name on it. I want it to say something about her.”

Eleanor stirred. She glanced at Lizzie. “Would you mind if I paid for it?”

“Of course not.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, sadly. “You can help me choose the words.”

 

---

 

THE JOURNEY BACK to the inn was even worse than the journey to the graveyard. Mordecai almost cast up his accounts. He descended hastily to the flagway and leaned against the hackney, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. When he was finally able to open his eyes he found that the person waiting silently beside him was Icarus Reid.

“Miss Wrotham?” Mordecai asked.

“Letty took her inside.”

“Good.” Mordecai shakily pushed away from the hackney.

Reid matched step with him. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No.” He’d been no use to Eleanor Wrotham. No use at all.

Reid discreetly took Mordecai’s elbow, helping him up the stairs.

“Thanks,” Mordecai said, when they reached the parlor door.

“I suppose it’s no use telling you to go to bed,” Reid said mildly.

“No.”

Reid smiled, as if that was the answer he’d expected . . . and then the smile disappeared. He leaned close. “I’m going to Meacham Street,” he said in a low voice. “I want to be certain about that wet nurse. Don’t say anything to Miss Wrotham. Don’t get her hopes up.”

“I won’t.”

Reid gave a short nod. He opened the parlor door. Mordecai saw Eleanor and Lizzie and Letitia Reid seated on the sofa together.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so. Sit down. Drink some tea.” Reid clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared down the stairs again.

Mordecai sat in an armchair and drank a cup of tea, and then a second cup, and listened to Lizzie talk about Sophia Wrotham. The girl spoke eagerly, words spilling from her tongue, and Eleanor listened, no longer blind-eyed, but fiercely intent, as if Lizzie’s words brought her sister alive again. Mordecai sipped the tea and felt his headache fade and watched. They both need this, he thought. Lizzie to talk about Sophia, and Eleanor to hear it.

It wasn’t until he’d finished his second cup that he noticed the wig Eleanor was wearing. Mordecai stared at it, astonished. Where had the ringlets come from? And then he noticed that she was wearing a pair of spectacles that he’d never seen before in his life.

Mordecai looked away, blinked several times, looked back. Eleanor was still wearing the unfamiliar spectacles and wig.

He poured himself a third cup of tea, deeply unsettled. Where had she got the wig and spectacles from? And how on earth had he failed to notice that she was wearing them?

“If it wasn’t for Sophy, I’d still be at Mrs. Harris’s. I’d given up, you see. But Sophy didn’t give up. She said we could get out of Mrs. Harris’s if we put our minds to it, and we did. She used to say that tomorrow would be a better day than today, and the day after that even better. And she was right. Look at me.” Lizzie gestured to the fashionable gown she wore. “I never would have guessed this would happen to me, not in a hundred years. And it’s all because of Sophy. She taught me how to speak better and how to act refined, and Mr. Wheatley would never have looked at me otherwise.”

Mordecai looked at Lizzie’s pretty face and trim figure and thought that Mr. Wheatley would doubtless have looked at her however she spoke or acted. Any man would. And then he thought, But Wheatley might not have treated her as well as he is. Lizzie wasn’t a lady, but she was a long way from a tuppenny whore—which is what she’d been in London, and what she doubtless would have been if she’d returned to the West Quarter. And Sophia Wrotham was responsible for that change.

Mordecai sipped his tea, and thought about the annuity his father had given Dorothy Black. Would Lizzie accept an annuity for her care of Sophia Wrotham?

“She chose my surname, too, Sophy did. Because it sounds respectable. Wellsford.”

Mordecai put down his teacup. “What’s your real name?”

“Wix. Lizzie Wix.”

No wonder Billy English hadn’t recognized Lizzie’s name.

Mordecai was contemplating a fourth cup of tea when Reid returned. The man’s expression was thoughtful, frowning. Mordecai met Reid’s eyes and lifted his brows, asking a silent question.

Reid grimaced faintly back. He poured himself a cup of tea and took the other armchair.

“Icarus?” Letitia Reid said. “Where have you been?”

“Meacham Street.”

All attention focused on him.

“What did you learn?” Mordecai asked.

“Mrs. Jellup did definitely die in the fire, but she no longer had the baby with her.

“What?” Lizzie said sharply.

“I found one of Mrs. Jellup’s neighbors, a widow who had the room next to her. She said Mrs. Jellup often took in babies, that she’d had one until two days before the fire, but at the time of the fire, she didn’t. She was quite certain of it. Swore on it. Said the walls were paper thin and she could hear every scrap of noise, and there was definitely no baby with Mrs. Jellup the day of the fire.”

“But . . .” Lizzie said, and then closed her mouth.

“My guess is that Felicity died and Mrs. Jellup had her buried,” Reid said. “But there is a chance—a very slim chance—that she gave Felicity to someone else. I’ll make some enquiries. Please don’t get your hopes up. I think it most likely the baby is dead.”

Lizzie nodded, but her eyes were already bright with hope. Eleanor Wrotham’s face was less revealing. She sat still and taut, her hands clasped in her lap.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take one of the sketches of Felicity with me,” Reid said.

“Of course,” Eleanor said.

“She had a ribbon tied around her wrist,” Lizzie said eagerly. “A yellow one. Mr. Wheatley gave it to me, and I tied it round Felicity’s wrist so there could be no doubting who she belonged to. I told Mrs. Jellup not to take it off. Not ever!”

 

---

 

THE REIDS LEFT, taking Lizzie with them. Mordecai and Eleanor ate dinner together in the private parlor. It was a silent meal. Letitia Reid had said that Eleanor would be glad of his presence, and Mordecai hoped that was true, but he couldn’t quite believe it. Eleanor had retreated into a silent, private grief. He didn’t think she was aware of his presence at the table any more than she was aware what she was eating. Her movements were slow and slightly jerky, her gaze unfocused.

“Nell?” Mordecai said quietly once the meal was over. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He thought she hadn’t heard him, but after a moment she smiled at him, a faint, mechanical movement of her mouth, and shook her head.

Even though it was not yet nine o’clock, Mordecai escorted her upstairs and handed her into Bessie’s care. Then he went to his own room. He went through the familiar routine—stripping, donning his nightshirt, cleaning his teeth, washing his face—but his mind was elsewhere.

“Good night, sir,” Walter said.

“Good night,” Mordecai said absently.

He stood looking at his bed for a long moment—the turned-back covers, the smooth sheets, the plump pillows—then he shrugged into his dressing gown and found his slippers and went down the corridor to Eleanor Wrotham’s room.

Bessie answered his quiet knock.

“How is she?” Mordecai asked.

“She hasn’t said a word, sir. It’s like she’s sleepwalking. I’m not sure I should leave her alone.”

“Go to bed, Bessie. I’ll look after her.”

He saw shock flicker across Bessie’s face.

“I won’t do her any harm.”

Bessie flushed. “I know you won’t, sir.” She hesitated for a moment, shifting her weight from foot to foot, then came to a decision. She dipped her head and stepped past him into the corridor. “Good night, sir.”

“Bessie . . .”

She halted, and turned to look at him.

“I won’t do her any harm,” Mordecai said again.

She smiled at him, sudden and sweet. “I know, sir. Else I wouldn’t be going now.” She dipped her head again, not obedience this time, but acknowledgment. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Bessie.”

Mordecai watched her out of sight, then stepped into the bedchamber and closed the door. The room was dim, lit by the last of the fading daylight. Eleanor was in her nightgown, standing beside her bed, staring down at it as if she didn’t recognize it for what it was.

Mordecai crossed to her. “Come on, Nell,” he said gently. “Time to sleep.”

He coaxed her into the bed, climbed in alongside her, pulled the covers up, and put his arms around her. She was more marble statue than woman, her body angles, not curves. She didn’t speak, didn’t nestle into him, just lay silently. Does she even know I’m here?

Darkness fell. Eleanor relaxed by slow increments. Mordecai drew her closer, tucked her into the curve of his body, stroked her hair gently, whispered in her ear, “Go to sleep, Nell.”

She didn’t go to sleep; she cried. Deep, wracking sobs that shook her body.

Mordecai held Eleanor Wrotham while she wept, and then held her while she fell asleep. And then he slept, too, and didn’t wake until it was daylight. He blinked drowsily, turned his head, and saw Bessie standing by the bed.

Mordecai suppressed a groan. God. It was morning already.

Eleanor was fast asleep, wholly relaxed, curled into his embrace.

Mordecai disengaged himself carefully and slid from beneath the covers. Bessie handed him his dressing gown.

Don’t wake her, Mordecai mouthed, and Bessie nodded, and opened the door for him, and her smile was just as sweet as it had been last night. She approved, he realized groggily. Bessie approved of him holding Eleanor Wrotham while she slept.

Once in his own bed, he fell asleep again. It was midmorning by the time he woke. Mordecai slitted his eyes open and watched Walter lay out his shaving tackle. The lad was quiet, but not as quiet as Tompkin. Walter looked around, saw he was awake, and snapped to attention. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Walter.” Mordecai sat up. He rubbed his face, heard the scratch of stubble, and yawned.

Walter poured hot water into the washstand bowl and handed Mordecai a cloth for his face. He was attentive, conscientious, assiduous—and unusually poker-faced.

“Uh . . . Walter?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What time did you first check whether I was awake?”

Walter avoided looking at him. He fussed with the razor.

“What time, Walter?”

“Oh, um, . . . about seven o’clock it was, sir.”

At seven o’clock Mordecai had been fast asleep in Eleanor’s bed.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Shit. Had Walter guessed where he’d been?

Of course he had. Walter wasn’t a fool.

Mordecai opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Walter, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone—”

“Of course I won’t say anything!”

Mordecai looked at the footman’s indignant face, and said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Walter looked slightly less indignant. He nodded, much as Bessie had done last night—a nod that combined respect and complicity and approbation, all at the same time.

“She needed someone with her,” Mordecai said, and that sentence was an admission all by itself, but Walter only nodded again and said, “I know, sir,” and handed him his razor.

 

---

 

HE HAD A very late breakfast in the private parlor. Eleanor joined him. They ate without speaking. Mordecai kept an eye on her plate. She consumed very little. Her face was pale and aloof. She was holding her emotions tightly to herself.

“Nell?” he said, when they’d both finished eating. “Would you like mourning clothes?”

She stiffened.

Mordecai waited silently.

Eleanor looked down at her plate and pushed it away. “Not black,” she said. “Not black for Sophia.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Crimson,” Eleanor said, lifting her gaze to meet his. “We wore black when her mother died, and Sophia hated it. She said that if I died before her she would wear violet for me, and if she died first I must wear crimson. She made me promise.” A spasm of grief crossed her face, and was almost instantly gone. “I’ll wear crimson for Sophia—and I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“I know of a good modiste,” Mordecai said. Véronique had patronized her. “You can have a fitting this afternoon.” He waited a moment, and then said, “What about a headstone?”

Grief spasmed across her face again. She looked away from him.

“You can visit the stonemason today if you like,” Mordecai said. “Or it can wait.”

Eleanor was quiet for a long moment, then looked at him. “Today. With Lizzie.”

Mordecai nodded. “I’ll arrange it.” He hesitated, uncertain how much money Eleanor had. Not very much, he suspected. “May I pay for your mourning clothes? Please? My gift to you.”

Eleanor stiffened again.

“I can’t bring your sister back,” Mordecai said quietly. “But I can give you the wardrobe she would like you to wear.”

Eleanor bit her lip. After a moment, she nodded. “Thank you.”

Mordecai exhaled a silent sigh, relieved to have cleared that hurdle. “May I pay for the headstone, too?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I want to pay for it myself.”

“Can you afford it?”

Eleanor bit her lip, blinked several times, inhaled a deep breath. She’s very close to tears. “I need to sell my mother’s pearl brooch.”

Mordecai shook his head. “Nell, please, let me pay—”

“I want to pay for it myself.” Her voice was low and fierce.

Mordecai breathed in slowly, and then breathed out. “All right,” he said. “Would you like me to sell the brooch for you?”

She bit her lip again, and nodded. Moisture brimmed in her eyes.

Mordecai reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “Nell . . .”

She pulled her hand from beneath his. “Please don’t,” she said in a choked whisper.

Mordecai understood what those two words meant. It wasn’t Please don’t touch my hand, but rather, Please don’t make me cry.

He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll make those arrangements.”

Eleanor nodded and blinked back the tears, trying to regain her composure. “Thank you.” She stood, too, and crossed to the little writing desk, her steps jerky, hasty. “I need to write to the Dalrymples.” Her hands fumbled as she opened the inkpot. She kept her face averted from him.

She’s trying not to cry.

Mordecai’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He wanted to hug her, but knew if he did that she would cry. And she didn’t want to. Not in daylight. Not in public. Eleanor Wrotham was clinging very hard to her composure, and the kindest thing he could do for her right now was to give her privacy.

So he did.

Mordecai sent Walter to arrange private fittings with the modiste, the milliner, the shoemaker, and the tailor—the latter to measure Eleanor for a riding habit—and directed Phelps to find the best stonemason in Exeter. Then he opened his writing case and sat down to write some letters of his own, but the words twisted and slid sideways. Just looking at them made his head hurt. By the time Phelps returned, he had the devil of a headache.

“Phelps. Finish this letter for me, will you?”

The coachman obediently picked up the quill.

“What have I written?”

“Please inform Tompkin that.”

“That I wish him to come to Coombe Regis with all haste,” Mordecai said, closing his eyes and rubbing his aching temples. “It’s unlikely I’ll return to London for several months, so he should pack whatever of my wardrobe he believes necessary for a long stay in Devonshire.”

He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the letter and had Phelps address it to his housekeeper in London. Then he dictated a letter to his housekeeper at Coombe Regis, telling her to expect himself and at least one guest shortly, to air the Rose Suite, to prepare the nursery in case it was needed, and to send his curricle to Exeter with all haste.

Mordecai signed that letter, too. “Have them both sent express,” he told Phelps.

“Yes, sir.”

Walter returned. Mordecai sent him out again with a message for Lizzie Wellsford, inviting her to visit the stonemason with them later that afternoon.

Eleanor Wrotham and Bessie departed for the fittings. Before they left, Bessie brought him a pearl brooch. “Ma’am said to give this to you.”

“Thank you, Bessie.”

Mordecai examined the brooch once she’d gone. It was demure little piece—which didn’t surprise him. He couldn’t imagine Mr. Wrotham allowing his wife to wear anything that would draw the eye.

He had promised to sell the brooch for Eleanor and he would keep that promise—but right now he didn’t feel up to haggling with anyone, least of all jewelers. Mordecai tucked the brooch into his portmanteau, found his pocketbook, and counted out one hundred and fifty pounds in banknotes. Was that a fair price? After a moment’s consideration, he added fifty more pounds to the pile.

Not long after that, Reid arrived. His shirt-points had wilted in the heat and his hair, when he removed his hat, was dark with sweat. “Damn this weather.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “As bad as India.”

Mordecai ordered ale for them both and ushered the man into the private parlor. “Found anything?”

“No. As far as I can ascertain, no one buried Sophia Wrotham’s baby.”

“That’s . . . not what I expected.”

“Not what I expected either,” Reid said.

The ale arrived. Reid took a long swallow, then a second, and then told Mordecai about his day. By the time he’d finished, Mordecai was ready to believe that Felicity Wrotham hadn’t been buried in Exeter. At least, not legally.

“Either the baby died and Mrs. Jellup disposed of her somehow,” Reid said. “Or she gave the child to someone.”

“Where to, now?”

“Foundling homes first. And after that . . .” Reid shrugged. “Mrs. Jellup could have given that baby to anyone.”

“An advertisement in the newspapers could be useful.”

“Yes.”

“Would you write it?” Mordecai asked. He felt himself flush. “I, uh, can’t read or write at the moment.”

“Of course,” Reid said. “I’ll do it today.”

“Thank you,” Mordecai said awkwardly. “You’ve gone beyond the call of kindness. We’re little more than strangers—”

“Miss Wrotham is family.”

Mordecai eyed him. Reid’s expression was extremely neutral.

Mordecai hesitated, and then said, “Cosgrove told me about Letitia.”

Reid grimaced faintly. “I know. He told me.”

“I shan’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

Reid eyed him for several seconds, then gave a nod. It was more than a silent Thank you; it was a nod of kinship.

“You believe it?” Mordecai asked. “About the Faeries?”

Reid grimaced again. “Yes. Although I don’t want to. It’s . . .” He searched for a word and came up with: “Challenging.”

Mordecai grunted a laugh. “It is.”

Amusement gleamed briefly in Reid’s eyes. The sense of kinship between them became stronger.

“It makes my head hurt, just thinking about it,” Mordecai confessed.

“I’d say a lot of things make your head hurt right now.”

Mordecai grunted another laugh. “You’re not wrong.” He rubbed his hands through his hair and sighed.