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Chapter 5 A
On the next day, the scandal of the season continued to entice London from its vantage point on the front pages of all the papers. This was due primarily to the fact that the young "doctoress" in question seemed to have "vanished", leaving no trace behind. The London press still had not been able to locate her.
From his desk in his study, Mr. John Barrow scanned the article, irritation and contempt rising from his stomach. The news mongers were proving to be tenacious, and it didn't look as if they bothered to make sure that their facts were straight before they printed out their drivel. What angered John the most, though, was how doggedly they appeared to be pursuing his friend, Seth. Today's article noted that the Reverend Mr. Shackleford had no explanation to make in defense of his own unseemly behavior. They then went on to speculate about the "real" relationship that existed between the parson and the gender-defying physician, even going so far as to suggest that Mr. Shackleford preferred "women" who knew how to wear "pants as well as pantaloons." John assumed that the editors must have congratulated themselves heartily for coming up with such a charming little witticism at the expense of the innocent clergyman.
Barrow threw the paper down, disgusted, and leaned back in his chair, checking his pocket watch for the time. It was nearly 8:00 and he was a bit surprised that his assistant, Willie Barton, hadn't reported to him yet. That young man generally arrived early to work, even after he had moved out of the Barrow home and into rooms of his own at a reputable boarding house nearby. To John, it only made sense that the man would want to take advantage of the increase in salary that had come with his promotion from footman to assistant. And John believed that Willie deserved to enjoy a certain degree of independence -- just as long as he wasn't late!
And he wouldn't be again on that day. The knock on the door of the study heralded the arrival of the young man. "Morning, sir," said Willie, opening the door with an uncharacteristic scowl on his face. The young man saw the paper laying on the floor. "Have you had a look at the news already?"
"Yes," John nearly growled in response, going around to the front of the desk in order to gather the distasteful paper up and stuff it into the fire, "Unfortunately, I have read the paper."
"They aren't quite being fair to Mr. Shackleford, are they sir?" Willie asked, watching as the newsprint began to smoke and flame.
"No," John shook his head, turning away from the hearth and gesturing for Willie to join him at the desk. "They aren't. That's why you and I need to do whatever we can to at least take care of his problem with the resurrectionists!"
Willie made himself comfortable in one of the chairs that had been arranged to face the desk. "Yes sir," he agreed, and then went on a bit more warily, "I suppose that you'd like me to meet with Mr. Scoggins again today."
"Yes, Willie," John said, in a tone that conveyed the fact that he wasn't interested in holding any further discussion on the subject. Willie was simply going to have to forge some sort of working relationship with the other man, regardless of their differences in opinion. It wasn't easy for either man, however. Tim, Barrow knew, thought that Willie was too young and inexperienced for the responsibilities that he had been given. Tim could also hold a very long grudge: Scoggins wasn't about to forget that it was Willie who had been with John when his throat had been slit, something that Tim believed wouldn't have happened on his watch. That young criminal was too concerned about preserving the health of the man he thought of as his 'bread and butter.'
Unfortunately, Willie was also not been able to put the incident behind him. In fact, John knew that his young assistant still blamed himself for his employer's brush with death, and Scoggins' subtle hints and jibes about the occurrence were enough to send him away shame-faced and disgusted with himself. John watched as the young man seemed to swallow whatever protests he had been preparing to make about meeting with Scoggins and opened the little notebook that he carried with him, ready to make a list of his activities for the day. "After you meet with Mr. Scoggins today, I'd like for you to make some inquiries about a Mr. Richard Percy," John handed Willie a card that included the gentleman's current address. "Mr. Percy is a clergyman, I understand, and has just returned from a lengthy mission trip to India. He has been suggested to my friend, Mr. Darcy, as a suitable person to take over one of the livings that he has at his disposal. Mr. Darcy would like us to make sure that the gentleman is all that he says he is."
"Mr. Darcy doesn't expect anything out of the ordinary, does he?" asked Willie, writing the address into his book.
"No," John admitted. "But he does want to know what he can about the man's family, his schooling, his time in India, and whatever else can be discovered. I understand that this is the Lambton living for which he is being considered, which is the church that is located on Mr. Darcy's own land and the one that his family attends, so perhaps he is being even more careful with this appointment than usual."
"You mean that he doesn't want to suffer through bad sermons from the family pew, sir?" Willie asked, cracking a slight smile.
"Or worse," John said, returning the grin. "I don't imagine that we shall be able to discover whether or not the man gives good sermons, but we might be able to discern whether or not Mr. Darcy will ever find the rector taking liberties with a maidservant or being indiscreet with the butcher's wife, not to mention theft of communion silver or raiding the poor box for a supplement to his tithe."
Willie closed his book and stood up, ready to walk over to his much regretted appointment with Tim Scoggins. "Will that be all, sir?"
John nodded his head, "Give my best to Mr. Scoggins and tell him that we're counting on him to turn up something useful soon!"
Barton left and John thought about just how much they were relying on Tim to find out something useful about the church yard's night visitors. There was nothing else to be done; John had already exhausted what other leads they had. In fact, John's own conversation with the elderly sister of the late Mary Sutherland had not produced anything at all. Mrs. Sutherland's life and death appeared to be exactly as Seth had explained, uneventful and unremarkable. John had spent nearly an hour drinking tea with the late woman's sister yesterday, learning all about their girlhood in Surrey, and their many years in service around the country and in London, in the hopes of discovering some small secret that might have hinted at the reason why Mary Sutherland's body might be of interest to someone. And, unless there were some wildly insane former pupil out there who might wish to harm her former governess' body, John could think of no reason why someone had attempted an exhumation.
He couldn't give any more time to it right now, however. He had his own appointment to meet. And Edward Linson, Viscount Rodale was probably not a man that he would wish to keep waiting.
It was 'John Blevins'' business card that he presented to the footman guarding the entrance to the London home of Lord Rodale, a tastefully impressive, newly-built mansion in Mayfair. John assumed that the expensive lodgings were only taken for the season, considering how recently Lord Rodale had returned to the English shore and that he would be traveling to his ancestral home late into the spring.
John was somewhat surprised by the speed with which he was ushered into the house and down the hall to the study. There had been no pretense of seeing whether or not the master was at home or was ready to receive guests; instead, there was simply an immediate delivery of 'Mr. Blevins' to the man who had written to him asking for assistance.
Barrow thought of this as he followed the footman into the room: it appeared as if Lord Rodale was quite eager for 'Mr. Blevins' to solve a difficulty for him. Which is what made Lord Rodale's cheerfully aimless beginning seem so odd. Lord Rodale, who appeared to be approaching forty, looked rather stoic in demeanor, and was not handsome in any conventional sort of way, welcomed John and gestured to a seat with a hand filled with unsealed notes and calling cards. "It seems that I am today's most eligible bachelor of London," he remarked, waving the missives in his hand with a smallest hint of a rueful smile.
John cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrow at the attempted joke. By looking at the man, one would never be able to tell that he had become one of the most sought-after men of the season. Lord Rodale had a dark countenance -- black eyes in a swarthy complexion -- that was probably more suited for frightening passers by in a dim alleyway than for courting the favor of young women in brightly-lit drawing rooms and assembly halls. Financial independence and a title appeared to keep someone perennially attractive, however. "I believe that your return to England and your intention of remaining in the city was published in the papers yesterday, sir," John mentioned, "London society is always quick to welcome back those who return."
Lord Rodale shook his head, "I wouldn't say that I'm returning to it. In fact, I don't believe that I ever was a part of London society," he said archly, "Before I left for the West Indies, most of society deemed me not worth knowing." Lord Rodale sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk and sighed, "But it seems that I am to be welcomed back now and, at this rate, I'm going to have to hire a personal secretary just to take care of the polite refusals that shall be required for these invitations. This is just this morning's delivery."
John was intrigued by Lord Rodale's attitude, "I take it that you find London society at bit --" he searched for the appropriate word, "-- wearying."
Lord Rodale looked up tiredly. "I have to confess that I have grown unaccustomed to it. My plantations in Barbados are quite a distance from any sort of civilization. And I had never planned to return to England. Then -- " he stopped momentarily, coughing, " -- my brother Talbot died."
John nodded sympathetically.
"And now, suddenly, here I am. Back in London, being courted by --," he dropped the invitations and calling cards on the desk surface. "-- the same mothers and fathers and daughters who shunned me fifteen years ago when I was the practically penniless Edward Linson, second son of a viscount from an obscure part of Yorkshire."
"So you went out to Barbados to make your fortune?" John supposed.
"And made it I did," Lord Rodale replied, voice a mixture of pride and contempt, eyes looking away as if focusing on something far into the distance. "I made it out of nothing but bush and forest, with nothing but my hands and head to serve me."
John wondered, as Lord Rodale's features continued to darken, if the man weren't overstating the case somewhat. He had a feeling that his personal success hadn't relied on the strength of his back alone. And surely, the younger son of a viscount was given sufficient funds with which to begin a fortune?
"And now I've returned to lay claim to the title and lands that my brother has left without an heir," Lord Rodale finished, drifting off in explanation. "Talbot was quite a recluse, he never married, never had children."
John nodded again, still trying to make out just how Lord Rodale needed his assistance, beginning to be a little curious as to how his skills might fit the lord's needs. Surely the good man didn't think that John would make a capable social secretary? That was an idea too laughable to be believed! He was about to ask Lord Rodale to come to the point, when that man continued.
"Unfortunately, he left the estate in poor shape. I'm afraid that I'm going to have to sell the Barbados plantation to pay off the debts that my brother has accrued. Which is the reason why --," he looked pointedly over at John, and continued. "This is the reason why I must not lose control of it!"
"Are you in danger of losing it, sir?" John asked.
"Yes," the man admitted, looking down. "You have been called you here today because of that fact. I've heard around town that you are quite capable of unearthing -- information -- that has long been kept buried."
Finally! Here was an inkling of an appropriate difficulty for John to solve. But, if he were to understand it fully, Lord Rodale was going to have to become more comprehensible than he had proven himself to be thus far. "I should be happy to do what I can for you, sir, but I need a clearer understanding of your difficulty."
Lord Rodale nodded, seeing the necessity of this. "Well then, let me come right to the heart of it." He took a deep breath and began. "When I arrived in London early last week, I was contacted by a cousin of mine, James Linson. He is the eldest son of my father's only brother and, if I don't have a son of my own, can be considered the heir presumptive to my estate." Lord Rodale's features hardened into the same dark, brooding mask that they had assumed minutes ago when he was elaborating on his rise in fortune while in Barbados. He placed both arms on the chair rests and went on. "At first, I thought that it was only a courtesy visit that he was paying to me. Perhaps he even wished to become reacquainted with his cousin after years of separation. He had recently returned to England from India himself, as a matter of fact. He's in the army," Lord Rodale explained, " -- a captain."
Lord Rodale looked directly at John and went on. "After we had sat down, Cousin James revealed to me that the real purpose of his visit was to inform me of the truth behind my birth."
John felt his eyes widen, but he did nothing to stop Lord Rodale's story.
"He said that he had proof that my mother was not the lady married to my father," Lord Rodale continued haltingly. "He said that my true mother was, in fact, the woman who had been hired as governess to my older brother." Lord Rodale stood up and turned towards the bookshelves, placing one hand on them as if to steady himself. "You can imagine what effect such information had on me. I demanded to know how he had come to such knowledge, if, indeed, it were true. But, of course, it wouldn't suit his purpose to tell me."
"And what is his purpose?" John asked, leaning forward in his chair even as he came to his own conclusion.
"He means to prove that I am not the heir to my father's estate." Lord Rodale turned around.
"So that he can inherit," John added.
"Of course," Lord Rodale agreed, voice sounding calm even while his varying countenance betrayed the strength of his emotion. "The terms of the entail on the estate are very clear when it comes to -- illegitimacy." He pronounced the word with distaste mixed with a strong measure of fear.
"Is it possible that what he says is true?" John asked.
"I have no idea, Mr. Blevins," Lord Rodale sat back down, "I've spent the last week attempting to find something or someone who can say with certainty that I am my mother's child, but have been completely unsuccessful."
"I'm having difficulty understanding that, sir," John admitted, "It would be one thing if he were questioning your father's paternity, but the fact that he's questioning your mother's --" he let the idea hang in the air.
Lord Rodale nodded, "I can understand your confusion. You see, Mr. Blevins, my family comes from a very remote part of Yorkshire. In fact, there's very little around Rodale House at all. And my father and mother kept a very small staff. It was only a handful of servants, really. It might not have been very difficult for a staff member to have a child and for my mother to have taken it as her own. There would be very few people who would have known. There would only be a few trustworthy servants to swear to secrecy. And --," the lord continued, "the woman who I've always thought of as my mother was quite old when she --" he faltered "-- gave birth to me. It does seem odd that she was able to have a child considering her advanced age." He looked down before going on, "I've tried to contact the members of the staff that were at Rodale when I was born, but that was over thirty-seven years ago and many have died since then."
"So, there's no one to refute your cousin's claims," John summed up, "And you have no idea what proof backs up his accusation."
Lord Rodale shook his head. "I'm assuming that he was more successful than I in finding a former staff member, perhaps even the governess himself."
"And you would like for me to find out what his evidence is or locate a person capable of denouncing it?" John asked.
"Yes," Rodale agreed quickly, "That's exactly what I had hoped you would be able to do."
"And what kind of time constraint are we under?" John inquired further. "When does your cousin plan to make this information public? Has he given you an ultimatum?"
Lord Rodale nodded and looked down, "He didn't speak of a deadline but there is something else that I must tell you," he admitted, "James does not really want the estate or the title."
John was surprised at this. "Really?"
"As I mentioned before, Rodale is under heavy debt and is in a very remote part of the North country. I probably wouldn't want it either, were it not --" he swallowed uncomfortably. " -- my home."
"Then, what does he want?" John pressed.
"Money." Lord Rodale stated. "He wants all of the proceeds that will come from my sale of the Barbados plantation."
"And if you were to give that to him --" John led.
"I wouldn't have the funds to pay down the debt on Rodale," the lord explained, voice faltering again as he described the bleakness of that estate's financial situation.
John looked down, sympathetic to the bind that the man found himself in and wondered if it might not be easier for him to leave it all and return to the West Indies. "If you don't mind my asking, sir," John began, "what is keeping you from letting him have the title and the mortgaged estate?"
Lord Rodale grimaced, but seemed to see the rightness of the question. "You're right, of course. It would be much easier for me to return to Barbados and leave Rodale to James, wouldn't it? But there's something about owning your father's estate and claiming your father's title. It's my heritage and I won't give it up without a fight. You must understand that," he stared unblinkingly across the desk, assuming that 'Mr. Blevins' would be able to appreciate the pull of family history.
John smiled in agreement, but thought himself the very last person who would be able to understand that motivation. His own father had never claimed him as a son, even though he did support young John while he was still at school. John did not regret him, however. His natural father had proven himself to be weak and well near worthless. He was not a man who John would wish to emulate in life.
But then, John had inherited a living of sorts and had been able to lease a townhouse from a man whom he would have liked to have called father. In fact, when Sir John Murdoch had retired from the 'business' that had been trained to assume, John had asked to be allowed to use that man's business name. The work of 'Mr. John Blevins' had continued on, even though it was being done by another incumbent. John recalled the day that the business and the house had been transferred over to him and remembered how much of an honor it had been to be allowed to keep the name. Happily, John continued to be blessed by the friendship and wisdom of his mentor as well, who was now in retirement in the country.
When John thought about it, it appeared that his situation bore more similarity to Viscount Rodale's than he had originally supposed. If nothing else, it was close enough for John to begin to feel an empathy towards the man.
"Well then, sir, let me get right to work," John agreed to the task. "If you could give me your cousin's current address and the names of the people that were on the staff at the time of your birth, I'll begin today."
Lord Rodale nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper, putting a nib on his pen and inking it.
"And do you know the name of the governess who your cousin claims is your mother?" John added as an afterthought.
"Yes," Lord Rodale said, still writing on the sheaf of paper. "Although it is quite a common name and I wasn't able to locate the right one. Her name was Mary -- Mary Sutherland."
Chapter 5 B
It was nearly two o'clock before Seth saw his last visitor and felt as if he could walk over to the West End to check on his friend, leaving the rest of his work for the next day. He wanted to see for himself how his friend was bearing up under the weight of such a crushing disappointment and perhaps find a way to offer some measure of consolation, although he was not sure how that was to be done. He couldn't imagine solacing the person he knew as Thomas with simple platitudes or Bible verse. And, for the moment, his knowledge of the Bible failed him. He couldn't think of anything in either Old or New Testament that might speak to such a bitter change in circumstance.
Taking his hat and coat from the peg next to the door, he walked out of the door, throwing the overgarments on as he went. Thankfully, the weather had warmed somewhat since the last time he had attempted such a mission and he wouldn't need to wrap a muffler around his neck for protection. But he should put on his gloves, shouldn't he? Seth realized that he left them inside. Hastily, he went back inside for them, but could only find one mate where he had laid a pair the night before. Frustrated, he jammed his hands into his pockets, deciding that he had no time to make a search. He would still need to walk quickly, if he were to return to the parsonage at a decent hour.
Seth was actually welcoming the opportunity to be alone on his journey. Perhaps the walk would even clear his head somewhat, leaving the solutions to his problems easier to see. Foremost in his mind was finding a surgeon or an apothecary who would be willing to keep some office hours at the parish clinic, filling a small part of the void that had been left when Thomas had to leave. It wouldn't be the same as having a physician who was willing to call on patients as well as keep hours, but it would at least cure the more immediate problem of what to do with all the sick people coming to the parsonage expecting to be healed. That was what had occupied most of Seth's time on that day: the turning away of ailing women and children from his doorstep, none of whom had read the paper or knew anything about the scandal that had just befallen their parish. All they knew was that Dr. Townsend should have been at the parsonage, ready with a remedy for whatever pains they were experiencing and all they cared about was when he might return. They just stared at Seth in disbelief as he tried to explain that Dr. Townsend would never be able to return and that he was doing his best to find a replacement.
But how did one go about finding such a person? And, once such a person was found, how did one go about deciding whether or not that person was suitable? There was nothing in Seth's background that would have prepared him for the judging of medical abilities. All that he had to compare anyone to was Thomas, and Seth assumed that almost anyone who be a poor shadow when placed next to Dr. Townsend.
But he had to find someone and, after that, Seth supposed that he needed to find another housekeeper. That was just another decision that he felt unqualified to make.
Seth shook his head in disgust at his own stupidity. How had he survived in London this long, if he couldn't find and interview suitable candidates for two positions that he happened to have at his disposal? He could only assume that it was due to the fact that he had inherited a housekeeper from the last incumbent.
And he had brought Thomas with him from Cambridge.
Seth strode purposefully down the street, not even attempting to keep his boots from becoming filthy with the mud and filth lining the rapidly defrosting streets. In fact, the swiftness of his pace caused him to notice that there was something behind furtively attempting to keep up with him.
Seth jerked his head around. Was there someone trying to follow him? He stopped and looked around, allowing other walkers to pass him by while he scanned the busy street. There didn't look as if there were anything or anyone out of the ordinary. An attractively dressed pair of women were looking into the windows of a millinery shop, considering whether or not to venture in, a man was climbing back into his carriage and managed to step fully into a deep puddle, a young boy -- a street sweeper -- was taking a break by the head of the horse.
Disturbed, Seth walked on, quickening his pace even more, all the while attempting to keep the corner of one eye trained on what was passing behind him. Then, there seemed to be a flash of dirt brown pushing its' way through the throng of people.
He was being followed!
Seth continued swiftly on until he came to a side street. Ducking into it he stopped and waited for whatever might make the turn with him. He wasn't disappointed: not three seconds passed before a young boy ran straight into him.
Seth grabbed hold of the boy and turned him around, placing his arms under the boy's shoulders before the child knew what he did. As tall as he was, Seth had no trouble raising the boy a few feet into the air, letting him kick and flail all he wished. "Lemme go!" he shrieked. "Lemme go, mister!"
"Not until you tell me why you're following me!" Seth said, voice sounding surprisingly menacing.
"I wusn't followin' ya!" the boy protested.
"Yes, you were!" Seth insisted, "Don't lie to me! I saw you waiting by that horse a moment ago."
"Wot horse?" the boy kicked harder in an attempt to break free.
"Never mind what horse," Seth growled in exasperation. "All I want to know is what you're doing following me and I won't be letting you down until you tell me!"
The boy stopped kicking, seeming to consider that possibility.
"I assure you that I'm strong enough to hold you over the ground like this for quite some time," Seth continued dangerously, "It doesn't wear me out a bit."
That seemed to convince the young boy. "Where were ya goin', mister?" he asked in a weak voice.
"Why do you want to know?" Seth asked in surprise.
"I got's to tell them where you're goin'!" the boy said, sounding as if that were a good enough explanation for anyone.
"Who's them?" Seth asked in confusion.
"The men wot works on Fleet Street!" the boy said, sounding incredulous. "They pays me to follow people when they want to know where they go."
"Fleet Street?" Seth said, nearly dropping the boy in surprise. Fleet Street was where most of the newspaper firms were located. Why in the world would they care where he went?
But they might care if where he went was to see 'Miss Townsend'. Sweat cooled on Seth's brow as he realized that this young boy was hired to see if the clergyman who had harbored the "doctoress" would lead them to her. Which, Seth realized, was something that he had almost done!
Seth dropped the child and whirled him around, grabbing him by the collar so that the boy would listen to every word that he had to say. "You can tell those men that they aren't going to find her through me!" He hissed angrily.
With that, he released the boy, who scampered away quickly, more than a little unnerved by the tall stranger who had lifted him up from the ground with so little effort.
And Seth realized that he had a choice. He could either continue on his way to visit Miss Bennet, risking her anonymity in the process, or he could return home and wait until the scandal had retreated from public interest.
Standing in the center of the walk, Seth began to realize just how much he had counted on this opportunity to see his friend, especially now, after the Royal College had returned such a devastating decision. But he couldn't chance her secrecy. Protecting her privacy had to be his first priority, regardless of how much he was longing to see his friend. Sighing heavily, he turned around and walked home, wondering when it would be safe for him to attempt to visit the Darcy townhouse.
As he turned into the church yard, he recognized a familiar carriage and liveried servants standing next to the gate -- the bishop's own rig. His superior had arrived for a visitation.
Seth saw the bishop back to his carriage at the conclusion of his visit. His relief was palpable as he watched his rig drive off, grateful to still be in charge of his parish. It had been an extremely uncomfortable visit, however, with the bishop asking the same questions that the press had posed the day before. Had Seth known 'Miss Townsend's' true identity? Had he any ulterior motives for setting his friend up in the parish clinic? Had he been her lover?
Seth had been able to answer no to these questions with such firmness that the bishop had no choice but to believe him. Seth had still been given a very strong reprimand, however, and was told to be a better judge of character from that point on. To this, Seth had almost retorted something bitter sounding about his mistaking 'Miss Townsend's' gender having nothing to do with the strength of her character or her abilities as a physician, but was able check himself in time. And, to be honest, Seth wasn't quite sure from where that sentiment had come. If he hadn't been on the verge of saying it without thinking, he would not have believed that he harbored such an idea. In the end, Seth was simply glad that he hadn't ruined his chances for continuing on at this parish by uttering such a damning statement aloud and tried not to concern himself with figuring out the truth behind the words.
Seth watched as the bishop's carriage turned the corner and then moved back towards the gate, noting that the light in the sky was already beginning to fade. It was another evening where darkness began to settle too soon. Seth sighed, spirits sinking. He hated the blackness of London at night, with hardly enough light to bring objects into shadow. And the parsonage was so silent now that both Thomas and Mrs. Fenton were gone. There was no friend waiting with which to sit companionably near the fire and talk over the day. There was no one to bid good night. There wasn't even the bickering Mrs. Fenton to endure. Seth found himself reticent to go back inside, but was even more unwilling to stay outside and watch the world grow dim. Reluctantly, Seth placed his hand on the church yard gate as another carriage pulled up and another visitor alighted from it.
"Seth!" the man called out.
Seth turned, half afraid to see who it was. Thankfully, it was John Barrow. Seth smiled, relieved, and went over to greet his friend, "I'm glad that it's you," he said, holding out his hand for the other man to take.
John took it, but his countenance was grim. "I'm glad to see you as well," he said soberly. "May we go inside and talk? I have a bit of information to share with you."
Seth felt the small smile on his face vanish immediately, already fearing what the information might be. "It's about the resurrectionists, isn't it?" he asked, opening the gate for his friend and walking into the church yard.
John nodded, "Let's go inside and I'll explain all that I know."
And so he had, with little preamble and no need for refreshments, which was good because Seth had nothing to give and little patience to spare. John explained to Seth about his visit that day to Lord Rodale and how he had gone back to Mary Sutherland's sister for confirmation immediately after that. The Mary Sutherland buried in the church yard had been in service at Rodale House nearly forty years ago, but whether or not she had given birth to a child remained a mystery. If she had, she did not tell her sister, who was as shocked and surprised as he by the idea that Mary Sutherland might have had a child. John had tried to get the woman to recall any change in tone or demeanor that she could remember from the letters she had received at that time, but it had been over thirty-seven years ago and she was not one to keep her correspondence. It didn't do for those who moved about so frequently to gather too many possessions.
Seth listened to it all, too perplexed to utter any response while John related the story, but now that he had finished, there was one question that Seth wanted to have answered: "What would they want with the body?" he asked.
"I'm not completely sure," John admitted. "I've been wondering if there isn't something that an anatomist could tell from it." Seth began to feel ill as John went on, "Is it possible to tell whether or not a woman has had a child from a dissection of her body?"
"I suppose that it's possible," Seth said, cringing, "But, if this James Linson already has proof that Mary Sutherland gave birth to Lord Rodale -- then what would he need with the body?"
John shook his head in confusion. "It could be that he's protecting a lie."
"What?"
John explained his thought. "What if his story isn't true? What if Mary Sutherland didn't have a child but Captain Linson has found someone willing to say that she had."
"And Captain Linson couldn't risk the chance that the body might be found and examined?" Seth asked.
"So, he might have wanted to make sure that this wouldn't be possible," John agreed.
Seth thought further. "Or -- could it be that your Lord Rodale was the one who discovered the grave site and decided to have the body examined privately?"
"You mean so that he could learn the truth for himself, without having to admit the possibility to anyone else?" John asked, "I had thought of that as well, although I'm inclined to believe Lord Rodale's story."
"But wouldn't he have told you about her whereabouts and his attempts?"
John shook his head, "It wouldn't be the first time that a client has lied to me or withheld information. It's possible that he didn't wish for me to know of his illegal activity or its failure. It's also possible that he wishes to continue his attempts." With that, he looked at Seth, a strong measure of concern showing in his eyes.
Seth's courage faltered. It appeared as if he needed to expect more trouble from his night visitors.
"We still need to know whether any of this could be done," John went on, "Can an anatomist discover if a woman ever gave birth from doing a dissection ?"
"We'd need to ask an anatomist or a surgeon or a physician about that," Seth said.
"That's just what I was thinking," John replied. "Why don't we go over to the Darcy home and see if Mary can help us? If she's not well enough to come downstairs, we can at least send a note up to her."
"I can't go over there," Seth said dully.
John looked to be on the brink of complete frustration. "Are you telling me that you are still unwilling to forgive your friend? Are you going to continue to ignore her existence now that she's no longer a man?"
"Not by choice!" Seth defended himself loudly. "I tried to visit today!"
"What prevented you?" John asked, voice sounding his disbelief.
"A little street kid employed by Fleet Street," Seth spat out.
John looked confused and he went on, "They're having me followed," he said quietly. "I assume that the press expects me to lead them to their mysterious 'Miss Townsend'".
John shut his eyes and shook his head sadly. "I should have thought of that," he admitted. "You are right, of course. A visit from you at this time might just put her privacy into jeopardy. You had better wait until you are sure that you are no longer being followed."
Seth's heart sank. It was one thing for an individual to come to that conclusion privately, and an entirely different matter to hear it voiced by another person. John's affirmation of his deferring a visit to his friend sounded in his ears with a ringing finality. The danger seemed even more real and had a greater length to it. Would it be safe to chance it tomorrow? Would he have to wait a week? A month?
And they still needed consult her with their questions about what an anatomist could tell from a dissection.
"I'll have to send one of the men with a note instead," John broke into Seth's thoughts. "I shouldn't attempt to drive my carriage over there tonight, especially not immediately after visiting you."
Seth nodded, grudgingly appreciative of the caution with which John was approaching the situation, but regretting it at the same time. It felt as if they were all deserting her, regardless of whether or not they had a choice. "Do you think that Mrs. Barrow could visit her tomorrow without it raising any suspicions?" he asked, thinking about her, "She shouldn't be completely without friends at this time."
John smiled sadly, "I believe that Arabella can chance it. It won't appear out of the ordinary from her to do so -- she visits Mrs. Darcy quite frequently.
Seth's shoulders relaxed slightly, "Good," he murmured and slumped further down in his chair, recognizing for the first time just how tired he had become.
"You shouldn't be completely without friends either, Seth," John's voice intruded once again into his thoughts.
Seth felt himself go taut, "What do you mean?" he asked.
"You shouldn't stay here without someone else," John went on, "Those night visitors will probably be back. It's too dangerous. Arabella and I would both appreciate it if you would stay with us until we discover the culprits."
"No," Seth responded without having to think. "That would be giving into this -- this evil. I won't be frightened away from my parish by it."
John shook his head, but didn't make a protest. It was as if he had already assumed Seth's decision and decided that further attempts would be futile. "Then, at least let me leave one of my footmen with you. Daniel Kitwell has already packed a bag and has it with him in the carriage."
Seth looked over at his friend. Did it look to John as if he needed a burly footman as a protector? Did he appear that weak to John? That cowardly? That fearful? As Seth thought over the last week, he had to admit to himself that he had. Each one of his responses to these new and troubling thoughts had been bordering on squeamish, if not completely ill. Seth remembered how his stomach turned when John had first explained to him about the resurrectionist trade. He must have turned green in front of his friend's eyes as the explanation went on.
He must appear to John like a little boy who needs his hand held whenever life turns difficult! He didn't want to be known like that. It wasn't the man that he wanted to be.
"No, John," Seth responded finally. "I'll be fine by myself. Thank you for your offer all the same."
John opened his mouth as if to protest this, but Seth held up his hand. "I assure you, I'm capable of handling this on my own. There's no need to be concerned."
But, even as he said these words, he wondered if they both didn't have good reason to worry.
Seth posted himself by the window overlooking the church yard that evening, a close-trimmed candle the only object keeping him company as he kept a distant vigil over Mary Sutherland's grave.
The candle had gutted itself out long before morning came and Seth awoke when the first faint rays of dawn began to play across his eyelids. He blinked and peered into the distance, heart sinking as he focused on the grave site the he had meant to watch over all night. While he slept, a mound of dirt had been created right next to the marker. Seth could see the outline of it in the dim gray light that was breaking into morning.
"No!" Seth breathed and was on his feet in an instant, running for the door and out into the open. He reached the hole where the grave had been, breathing heavily not from exertion, but from fear of what he would find there, knowing that his worst fears had to have been realized. Mary Sutherland's grave had been disturbed.
But, as he peered into the narrow channel that he now knew was so characteristic of the efficient holes that the resurrectionists make and recognized the remnants of the wooden coffin lid that had been splintered at the head by a sledgehammer, he saw that the body remained inside.
She was still there!
At first, all Seth could think of was how little the body had decayed in the week since the woman's death, numbly recalling that it had been a very cold week in London, which must have slowed the decomposition of tissue. Gaining clarity in thought along with the brightening light, Seth began to realize that there was something out of place about the body.
The clothes had been disturbed.
Seth had known Mary Sutherland for as long as he had been at the parish and had never seen her without a lace cap covering her head, nor had she ever worn any dress that did not cover her neck and shoulders. The cap had been removed and the dress had been --
Seth knelt down, investigating further, turning away quickly as he realized that the dress was no longer there!
A blanket. He had to cover her! She couldn't stay exposed in this way! He raced back into the parsonage and threw open the trunk of linen that was still at the foot of Thomas' bed.
It was only after Seth flung the blanket over the opened grave site that he realized how odd it was that they had taken the clothes but had left the body. That was what was considered theft in the eyes of the law. A man could be prosecuted if clothes were stolen, but not the body covered by them. A professional resurrectionist would have removed the clothes and left them at the grave in order to evade the law.
Seth couldn't understand it. No resurrectionist would have done such a thing. And the crime did not fit Captain Linson or Lord Rodale's purposes either.
Why had the body been left?
Seth sat down on the ground and lowered his head to his hands. It was a crime not explainable by any motive that they had found thus far. It was still out there, completely undiscovered.
It was still an unknown evil.
And the unknown was always more dangerous than the known.
Seth tried to gather his wits about him and think of what to do next, but all that came to mind was how much he wished that he had taken John Barrow up on his offer of Daniel Kitwell as a companion last night. Had there been two of them keeping watch, this would not have happened. Seth blamed himself. He shouldn't have been so proud, so determined to prove himself brave and unafraid.
Chapter 6
Mary didn't ask about the front page of the paper after the night that she read the article about the Royal College's decision to dismiss 'Miss Townsend', nor did Elizabeth even bother to bring up the society column to her sister's room after that. It was clear to all from the change in Mary's demeanor and the rumpled and tear-stained newsprint left lying on the butler's desk that Mary had discovered what they had attempted to keep from her. Unfortunately, no one chose to speak about it to her -- so the fact remained unacknowledged.
Not that a more open discussion of the situation would have helped; Mary didn't imagine that Elizabeth or Jane could say anything that would keep her from slipping into a black well of bitterness and despair. Neither sister had any perspective with which to understand the difficulty of her situation. With their happy children, rich husbands, and comfortable homes -- they were the very last people in the world that might be able to perceive how deeply she missed her quiet life helping a small segment of the population in London's East End from her little clinic in the parsonage. And how could her sisters ever comprehend the guilt and frustration that she felt at having left her patients to cope with their ailments without her? They could never fathom just how great a hole had been created in her when her credentials and her work had been ripped from her.
Cheerful platitudes would never have been able to fill the void that she felt inside, so the only thing that Mary could feel grateful to Elizabeth for was that her sister had offered none. Grudgingly, Mary also had to appreciate the fact that she respected her wishes with regards to Dr. Folsom. Mary absolutely refused to let that man treat her. She couldn't be expected to allow him to attend her after what he had done, could she? She would take care of herself from now on, if it was all the same to Elizabeth.
She could still treat herself, if no one else.
So, she remained in the room that Elizabeth had assigned to her, tending to her own wound with the small supply of healing substances that were still available to her from the apothecary -- she wasn't able to have her prescriptions filled now -- and receiving the small group of guests that were allowed to visit her upstairs. There weren't many distractions to such an existence and the ones that were available didn't seem to raise Mary's spirits at all. Mary had fallen out of the habit of doing needlework, couldn't bear the thought of practicing the pianoforte, and found most of the books in Fitzwilliam's library dry and pointless. Elizabeth suggested that she send out letters, but to whom? Most of her former acquaintances would be completely taken aback by receiving a letter from her and the friends that she had made in the last six years wouldn't recognize the name Mary Bennet.
Correspondence was fraught with problems for Mary. Aside from the fact that she couldn't think of anyone that she really wanted to write, the letters that she did receive were generally awkward and often painful. The letter sent to her by her mother fell into the latter category. Mrs. Bennet, who was staying with Kitty and Robert in Edinburgh and would not be able to visit London for quite some time, had quite a few points to make about the suffering that she had endured at the hands of her middle daughter. Mary's disappearance had driven Mrs. Bennet into her room and she had stayed in her dressing gown for the rest of that month, refusing to see anyone but her sister, Mrs. Philips. Mrs. Bennet ended the letter to her long-lost daughter by giving her the assurance that she had been the one to drive her own father into an early grave.
Kitty's letter was both more awkward and less extreme in its sentiments than the one sent by their mother. Her younger sister was, of course, surprised to hear that she had finally resurfaced, had been shocked at her choice of occupation, was very glad to know that she was doing well, and would look forward to becoming reacquainted when she and her husband brought Mrs. Bennet back to the south later in the year. That said, Kitty's letter began to rattle away in true Kitty fashion. Regardless of the fact that she had grown somewhat less insipid and ungovernable than she had been in childhood -- a ball was just as inspiring to her. Kitty had launched into a long description of the dance that she had attended the week before and all of the impressive individuals that had been there. Kitty's letter even started to relate how one of her new acquaintances had recently discovered that she had been robbed of a priceless brooch! The lady was quite heartbroken about the theft -- the ornament had been in her husband's family for two generations, something that Mary assumed must turn even the ugliest piece into an heirloom. Mary grew skeptical of that lady's level of brokenheartedness as she read Kitty's letter; it seemed that the woman couldn't even remember the last time she had looked at the jewel -- it being an odd color that didn't go with anything that she generally wore.
Young Mrs. Townsend also talked about the draftiness of the meeting rooms in Edinburgh, the rusticity of the walks, the dowdiness of the fashions, and the oddness of the food. She had been encouraged to try haggis the evening before, something that she did not like at all! By the end of Kitty's letter, Mary realized that her little sister had not changed one bit.
And, if she did know what part her own husband had played in Mary's disappearance, she hadn't thought to mention it.
Mary hadn't expected a letter from Dr. Robert Townsend to be included in the packet of messages from Scotland, but it was the substance of his letter and not the fact of it that shocked Mary the most. In it, Robert revealed that her anonymous benefactor had actually been her father! It was Mr. Bennet who had paid her way through Cambridge as he would have his son, if he had ever been blessed with one. Robert explained that Mr. Bennet had always known of Mary's secretive Latin studies, the enjoyment that she had derived from assisting Robert in his practice, and her bitter disappointment over Robert's choice of bride. Robert's letter explained that Mr. Bennet had been the originator of the idea that Mary "escape" from Longbourn and had insisted that Robert take all of the credit for it. Robert was quite glad to be taking off this mantle of responsibility now and had assured Mary that her father had been proud of her accomplishments at Cambridge.
Such a revelation was difficult to swallow all at once. Mary had found herself returning to his letter time and time again, trying to recall an instance of her father's particular regard for her. During childhood, it seemed that all of his attention and pride was given to Elizabeth, something that Mary still could not recall without a twinge of jealousy. She wished that her father had told her that he valued her own abilities as much as he had Elizabeth's sparkling wit and sharp tongue.
Perhaps if their father had made an attempt to be more fair and forthcoming in his praise of all of his daughters, Mary wouldn't still feel such an estrangement from Elizabeth. It was as if they weren't able to get past a childhood spent in competition for the affection of a distant father. And it would have been much easier for Mary if she could think of her sister as an ally, rather than an adversary at this time -- especially since Elizabeth was one of the few people who regularly came to sit with her upstairs.
Mary's list of approved guests was quite small. In fact, the only visitor that was not a family member was Arabella Barrow. Mary was quite grateful to that lady for coming frequently, especially since she seemed to be the only person who could give her any information about Seth Shackleford and how he and John Barrow were progressing on his problem with resurrectionists. The situation appeared to be giving them nothing but trouble and confusion and was consuming the time and energy of both men as well as several of John's associates. Mary understood that Tim Scoggins was still attempting to discover the identity of the night visitors and that Willie Barton was enduring daily meetings with that man so that he could report back to John on anything that he had learned.
And then there was that cryptic and perplexing note that had come from John just a few days ago. Mary had responded quickly to it -- an anatomist would indeed be able to tell whether or not a woman had given birth to a child, regardless of the amount of time that had passed -- but had not known how this piece of information fit into the puzzle.
The next day, Mary had been distraught to hear that the night visitors had returned to Seth's church yard and had succeeded in digging up Mary Sutherland's body while he had slept. Mary, like Arabella, couldn't imagine what the supposed resurrectionists would want with the clothes instead of the body and was distressed to hear that Seth had been the one to discover the defilement of the corpse. Mary knew how much this must have upset her friend. But she was glad to hear that this, if nothing else, had convinced Seth that he needed to keep a companion in the parsonage with him. Arabella had told her that Seth finally agreed to borrow Daniel Kitwell, the Barrow's footman, until the problem with the resurrectionists was solved. Mary breathed a sigh of relief when she had heard that. Daniel Kitwell seemed like a very strong, quick-thinking sort of a fellow. She was glad that Seth would have someone for company, since she could no longer provide that for him.
In darker moments, Mary wondered why Seth hadn't come to visit her. She knew that he was being kept very busy by all of the difficulties that he was experiencing at the parish -- but she did think that they had been good enough friends for her to expect some attention from him, regardless of the falsehood that she had allowed him believe. And, truth be told, she missed him deeply.
He had been the only constant in her life for the last six years.
Mary's new constant appeared to be her niece Marianna, who generally came to visit before her aunt was awake in the morning and stayed until her mother found her and pushed her daughter back into the schoolroom for her lessons. Marianna seemed genuinely intrigued by the 'Auntie Mary' who had disappeared before her birth and had just been found. A child's sixth sense had informed the young girl that Auntie Mary must have had quite a few interesting adventures while she was away. There had to be a good reason why Auntie Mary had shown up in Mr. Barrow's carriage with a large cut running down her right side and there was probably another good reason why Auntie Mary didn't seem to need Dr. Folsom to take care of such a wound for her. Marianna was also quite sure that there was an additional good reason why Auntie Mary kept her hair as short as a boy's. Unfortunately for Marianna, her mamma had not been forthcoming with such interesting reasons, so Marianna had to content herself with sitting by the invalid's bed, hoping that Auntie Mary would eventually tell all.
Marianna didn't seem to understand why everything needed to be kept secret from her and -- to be honest -- Mary wasn't quite sure why it needed to be that way either. Elizabeth had made it clear to Mary that she was not to tell Marianna any stories from her life as a man, or even that she had lived as a man! Mary didn't think that her niece's mind was so suggestible that she might actually decide to run away from home and live as a boy if she was told that her aunt had done so, nor that what Mary had done was so corrupt, but had respected her sister's wishes when it came to Marianna.
Since their conversation was limited in this regard, Mary generally asked Marianna to read to her and complimented the young girl on the progress that she was making in the school room. Marianna appeared to be a quick study and it was evident that she enjoyed reading. It was also evident to Mary that her niece enjoyed being the oldest Darcy child; she routinely bossed her younger brothers around in the same way that Mary remembered ordering Kitty and Lydia around. It was also evident that the younger brothers were quite used to doing whatever they wanted to do, regardless of their older sister. John Thomas was especially naughty when it came to ignoring the wishes of his elders.
A week and a half after having been brought to the Darcy townhouse, Mary was busy changing the dressing on her wound and listening to the quiet voices of the children emanating from the nursery.
Just as she had finished with the bandage and was pulling on the bed jacket that her sister had given her to use, Mary heard her niece scream. "John Thomas!" Marianna shouted in terror and, regardless of her state of undress, Mary was out of her room and into the nursery in an instant.
There Mary found little John Thomas and Georgie holding onto the skirt of their nurse's dress and Marianna kneeling near a overturned table, sobbing and cradling her right arm tightly against her chest. Marianna flung herself at her aunt as soon as she came into the room. The nurse stammered out what had happened. It appeared that she had just lit the candles for the evening and John Thomas had become fascinated by one of the flames. He had pushed a chair towards the table where the candle was located while the nurse was engaged in lighting in the wall sconces. Before anyone realized what he was doing, John Thomas had climbed onto the chair and managed to pull the tablecloth towards him, upsetting the candle and catching the cloth on fire. Young Marianna had pushed John Thomas away from the spreading fire and had managed to become burned by it as she did so. The nurse quickly doused the flames with the water that had been brought up in the pitcher.
"It hurts," Marianna mumbled incomprehensibly at her aunt and Mary acted quickly. "Is there no more water?" she asked the nurse, who shook her head vigorously, and Mary was out of the nursery in an instant, rushing back to her own room with Marianna for the water pitcher that had just been brought up for her to use to clean her wound. She poured all of it out into the bowl and made Marianna immerse her entire arm into it.
By this time, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam had made their way from their second floor dining room and began to interrogate Mary and the nurse as to what had happened. Mary let the nurse explain while she looked closely at her niece's arm. Part of her hand had begun to blister over, but -- luckily -- it wasn't a very large area.
As soon as Elizabeth understood that her daughter had been burned, she rushed over and pulled Marianna's hand out of the water. "Butter," she shouted at the nurse, "Go get some butter from the cook!"
"You don't want to put butter on it!" Mary gasped in horror, "That's the very last thing that you want to do to a burn! Put her arm back in the water!"
"I know how to take care of my daughter, thank you very much!" Elizabeth snapped, continuing to hold onto her daughter's arm, eyes flashing dangerously, "Nurse! Do as you're told!" she said to the woman cowering near to the door.
Mary grabbed onto Marianna's elbow and tried to maneuver it gently back into the water, "Elizabeth, please! I do know what I'm doing!" she said, trying to make her voice sound as reasonable as possible.
"Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth cried, not listening to Mary at all, "We need to send for Dr. Folsom! Marianna's starting to blister!" Elizabeth touched the red, puffy area and Marianna cried out in pain.
"Don't touch it!" Mary shouted at her sister, "She's going to be fine -- but you need to put her arm back into the water!"
By this time, Marianna's hand was hurting so much that she decided to do exactly what her Auntie Mary was suggesting and put her own hand back into the bowl. It hurt less when it was in water and that was all that she cared about. "Marianna! Do as you're told!" Elizabeth shouted in dismay, as her daughter continued to sob and let her body go slack against her Auntie Mary.
By this time, Fitzwilliam had seen enough to make his own judgment. "Elizabeth, let Mary take care of Marianna," he said quietly, going over to his wife and putting his hands on her shoulders. "I believe that she's the only one in this room who knows what she's doing."
"But --" Elizabeth began to protest.
"Elizabeth, your sister was trained as a physician," he reminded her gently, "Were you? I certainly wasn't!"
"But we should send for Dr. Folsom!" Elizabeth continued.
"Why? So he can agree with Mary's diagnosis and treatment?" Fitzwilliam shot back. "Mary is certainly as intelligent a physician as Dr. Folsom is, and we are going to take advantage of her expertise!" And he looked at his wife significantly, and Elizabeth seemed to know that it was pointless to argue.
"Papa," Marianna whimpered sadly and Fitzwilliam turned towards his daughter, kneeling next to her on the floor and allowing Mary to shift some of Marianna's weight onto him. Marianna turned her head into the lapels of her father's jacket, completely exhausted. "I want my Mamma too," she went on as Fitzwilliam began to stroke his daughter's hair.
Something like a sob seemed to catch in Elizabeth's throat, and she was on the floor next to the three of them in an instant, "I'm here, dearest," Elizabeth comforted and Mary made way for her, allowing both of Marianna's parents to hold their daughter.
"Shall I go get the butter, Mrs. Darcy?" the nurse asked in confusion, not exactly sure what order she was to follow. "Should I send for Dr. Folsom?"
Elizabeth answered her question, eyes fixed on her sister. "No, let's see what Dr. Bennet wants us to do next."
Had Mary had a free moment to think about what her sister had just said, she might have started weeping with gratitude at Elizabeth for finally accepting her abilities. But she didn't have a free moment. She had to go prepare something that would soothe her niece's burn.
Chapter 7
For the fourth time that evening, John Barrow went over to the hearth and poked at the fire, rearranging it completely and creating bursts of sparks. He could not seem to remain still, and, since the fire appeared to be the only matter that could be successfully dealt with, he gave it his full attention before returning to his chair and sitting down heavily. Normally, John looked forward to these quiet moments after dinner, spending time in the parlor with Arabella before retiring together to bed, but this night was different. He felt like growling in frustration as he noted the lack of progress that he had made in the week since Mary Sutherland's grave was unearthed and her clothes stolen from it. Nothing of use had been discovered by Willie, Tim, or himself and they were all beginning to run out of leads to pursue. Tim Scoggins still hadn't been able to learn the names of the men responsible for the act -- although it wasn't for lack of trying. Scoggins complained to Willie each morning, relating each of the ridiculous stories that he had heard the evening before, none of which seemed pertinent. John didn't feel sorry for Scoggins however; it was past time for this man to learn that sometimes the only way to discover anything useful was to sift through a large amount of superfluous information.
Willie was having his own difficulties with his investigation of Mr. Richard Percy. While he had been able to prove that the man had attended Oxford as a pensioner, taken orders at the conclusion of his studies, and been sent over to India to convert souls to Christianity -- that seemed to be all that there was to know. No one acquainted with Mr. Percy seemed to know where he had been before Oxford. He was a man without a background. His landlady, a woman that Willie had no difficulties charming into revealing what she knew of her tenant's secrets, had never heard Mr. Percy talk about family or childhood friends nor did he receive mail.
John always became suspicious when men appeared not to have a past. No one -- not even himself -- was without some measure of heritage. The absence of this early history just made John want to delve even further into the man's life before informing Fitzwilliam that he was harmless. He suggested that Willie take advantage of his contacts on the docks of the East India Company in an attempt to find out more about the man. Surely no one could keep to themselves throughout a long voyage to the other side of the world. John understood that close quarters promoted a higher degree of intimacy?
Regardless, it was something for Willie to do. Any direction to follow, any lead to pursue was better than nothing.
And John would be following his own regrettable direction tomorrow in the hopes of discovering something useful about the mystery surrounding Lord Rodale's birth. Regardless of the fact that the night visitors had not taken Mary Sutherland's body for an anatomical dissection as he had assumed, John could not stop believing that the two events were somehow connected. It was too great of a coincidence to be ignored. John had even considered suggesting to both Mary Sutherland's sister and Seth that they have Mary's body dissected before they buried her again, but it seemed too great of an indignity to visit upon a body that had already suffered much at the hands of strangers. And the only thing that they would have discovered was either the likelihood of Mary Sutherland being Lord Rodale's true mother or not -- a dissection wouldn't have provided the proof that John required, although it could have ruled her out as a prospect.
The absolute proof upon which Lord Rodale's future was hanging was still to be discovered, and John assumed that he would only find it out by learning even more about Captain James Linson. He had been discreetly following that man's movements for a week now and had recently learned that Captain Linson was looking for an appropriate valet to replace his less than suitable military batman. This, John assumed, could be an indicator of the fact that Captain Linson contemplated a change in his life circumstances. And, while John as a valet could never be termed appropriate, he thought that the opportunity that an interview would provide was not to be passed up. John often found actual conversations with the subjects of his inquiries quite invaluable for eliciting the type of information that couldn't be learned from hours of observation and, while he hated the idea of falsely presenting himself as a potential servant, it was a very effective and innocent-seeming ruse.
"I'm surprised that we haven't seen Mr. Shackleford tonight," Arabella mentioned as she continued to resew the hem of a pillow that had begun to lose some stuffing. She looked up from her task. "That will make it the first night in a week that he hasn't come to visit."
John consulted his watch. It was well past eight. Seth wouldn't consider coming so late in the evening. "You're right," he remarked to Arabella, wondering about the whereabouts of his friend. Seth had become a frequent visitor to their house ever since Mary was returned to her family and, while he tried to mask his true purpose for coming to their home with many questions about their own health and that of Little Charlie's, they both knew that his only reason for coming was to ask about Mary. Arabella, fortunately, visited that lady as often as Seth visited them and was generally able to give him fresh news of her recovery. She was making good progress in terms of her wound and was generally up and out of her room by the time that Arabella arrived for her visits.
Mary's state of mind was more difficult to make out. After a week of low spirits brought about by the Royal College's decision to take away her credentials and having nothing else substantive to occupy her time, Mary had been given a distraction that appeared to reanimate her. Her little niece Marianna had burned her hand badly and her aunt had undertaken the treatment of it. While Arabella was very sorry to hear that the poor child had been injured, she couldn't help but recognize the fact that it gave Mary something to do besides think of all that she had lost. Arabella was very glad to see that Elizabeth was allowing her sister to treat her child and was further pleased to see that a bond between aunt and niece was being built. Marianna absolutely adored her Auntie Mary. And there was another advantage to this forged bond: Arabella didn't think that Mary would be able to run off and leave Marianna now, however much she might wish to leave London now that she couldn't practice medicine in the city.
Then again, Arabella was of the opinion that Mary would never leave London while Seth remained. After a week of visiting the young lady, Arabella was now quite convinced that Mary had been in love with her friend for most of their six year acquaintance and continued in love still. Mary never failed to ask how Seth was getting along at his parish and was quite grateful to Arabella when she told her that he had finally accepted their offer of Daniel Kitwell as a companion and protector.
"Poor Seth," Arabella shook her head sadly as she thought of all that this man had been through in the last week. "At least Daniel's with him now."
John looked over at his wife and smiled. Sending Daniel Kitwell to stay with the unfortunate rector had been her decision, hadn't it? Seth couldn't refuse to have a companion stay with him after the second disturbance to Mary Sutherland's grave.
"Are you going to visit Elizabeth and Mary tomorrow?" John asked as he put his watch away.
Arabella nodded, "In the afternoon, if you won't need the carriage at that time."
John laughed somewhat harshly, "No," he said, "It would not be a good idea for me to arrive at my appointment tomorrow in my own carriage. I'll have to keep up appearances by going on foot."
"So, you're still planning on letting Captain Linson interview you for a position as his valet?" Arabella teased lightly. "Are you sure that you can play that part? Servanthood isn't quite your style."
John rolled his eyes and made a protest, "I can be an excellent actor when acting is necessary!"
Arabella put her pillow down and went over to him, kneeling down next to his lap, "Well," she said, looking up at him sweetly, "Just make sure that you don't create such a convincing portrayal that he actually chooses to hire you," Arabella reached up and stroked the corner of his chin, "Charlie and I are in great need of your services here."
John smiled and thought that it might be time for them to retire for the evening.
Seth surveyed the destruction that had been done to the church yard by the iron works wagon and decided that the damage had been worth it. Seth didn't care how rutted the ground had become from the wheels of the wagon and the hooves of the horses while the men from Edward Little Bridgman's factory delivered their heavy, cast iron coffin with the sledgehammer deflecting lid -- the body of Mary Sutherland was going to stay in the ground this time! It also didn't matter to Seth how much it had cost him to purchase such a coffin or what he had to do in order to pay for such an expensive deterrent to further theft -- he felt as if he owed it to Mary Sutherland to ensure that her eternal sleep was not disturbed again.
But it had been a difficult compromise for him to make. While using his own family's funds was something that he promised himself that he would never do, yesterday Seth had actually visited the bank where his family's funds were kept and had withdrawn enough bills to cover the cost of the coffin. He had come to the conclusion that there were no other options. The parish's coffers could never handle such an exorbitant expense and he was barely able to provide sustenance for himself on his own meager salary. The officers of the bank were quite surprised to see him, especially looking quite poor. How was it that a man who had inherited thousands of pounds would show up at his own bank looking downright threadbare and disrespectfully untidy? Seth could see by the looks on their faces that they also couldn't understand why he had chosen to take out such a small, very specific amount. He also hadn't made any further plans to withdraw other sums of money from them -- although it had been apparent that he could have used additional funds. They had even gone so far as to suggest that he let them set up accounts with a few respectable tradesmen so that he wouldn't need to concern himself with his own bills. They had been very attentive and solicitous, but all that Seth really wanted was to be away as quickly as possible with just enough money to pay for a better coffin for Mary Sutherland.
Now that Mary Sutherland's body was buried once again, Seth felt lighter and freer than he had in quite some time. It was as if a great burden had been taken off his shoulders and he could attempt to resume as normal a life as possible. He could begin sleeping through the night once again, rather than taking his a shift as a sentry beside the upstairs window that overlooked the grave yard. The press has also stopped hounding him as well. After a week of continued curiosity over the odd 'Miss Townsend's' disappearance, the men at Fleet Street had moved on to topics almost as salacious and certainly more easily researched.
Seth turned away from the church yard, returning to the parsonage where John's footman, Daniel, would be attempting to make some sort of a bachelor's supper for the two of them. Thankfully, that man had spent some time in the kitchen when he was but a humble bootblack and, while he considered preparing food to be 'women's work', he wasn't about to see either himself or Mr. Shackleford starve. And Mr. Barrow had made it very clear to him that he was to be of whatever use he could to the man at the parsonage.
With all of this unhappiness behind him and the prospect of a good meal to look forward to, Seth found himself in very cheerful spirits as he entered the house and sat down to take off his boots. He wouldn't need to go out again tonight, would he? He wouldn't even need to make his almost nightly pilgrimage to the Barrow townhouse to inquire about Miss Bennet's continued recovery. He would be able to judge that for himself tomorrow. After a week and a half of keeping himself away from his friend, Seth was finally going to allow himself the opportunity of visiting Miss Bennet. He planned to set off early tomorrow morning -- before anyone could visit him at the parsonage with their own concerns.
Seth actually whistled as he went into the dining room, looking forward to whatever dinner Daniel had managed to provide.
"Well, if it isn't Tim!" the woman exclaimed in surprise as she opened the door further and allowed the caller to come inside. "Fancy that! 'Ello Tim, Wherev' you been?"
The blonde with a figure that could only be called buxom folded her arms over her chest as she closed the door and leaned back on the door jamb, eyeing her visitor skeptically, as if wondering what excuse he would use to explain the reason why he hadn't been around to see her in nearly two weeks.
But this time, it was the truth that he offered, regardless of how flimsy and evasive it sounded. "Been 'ard at work, Bette," he replied seating himself on the only chair in her room, "Been working on a very difficult job." Scoggins stressed the word difficult and felt that it barely described half of the trouble that he had experienced. It had turned into more than just a difficult job. Tim Scoggins had spent a frustrating week and a half attempting to track down the identities of the men who had broken into Mr. Shackleford's church yard and stolen Mary Sutherland's clothes from her body. No one in London seemed to know who was responsible for the theft. The parish constable had seen nothing from his sentry station on the nights when the visitors had appeared, nor did the roving watchmen who had been sporadically patrolling the street near the yard. The lamp lighters saw nothing out of the ordinary as they went about their own business earlier in the evening as well. As far as they all were concerned, there couldn't have been three nights more innocent and unremarkable.
Scoggins had gone back and looked carefully at each team of resurrectionists after the night when Mary Sutherland's body had been successfully unearthed and had -- once again -- been able to account for their whereabouts the evening before. It was painstaking and tedious work, the kind that Tim liked least. After that, he had made the rounds of London's public houses and inns, spending time at the bars nursing tankards of ale and encouraging the keeps to become loquacious. Scoggins had already heard his fill of odd stories involving resurrectionists and anatomists, dead bodies being surreptitiously shuttled naked through the streets of London, occasionally being secreted in awkward places like water-filled horse troughs or fish monger's push carts. He had even heard a story about one intrepid pair of resurrectionists who frequently brought a spare suit of clothes with them so that they could re-dress a body so that they could parade it past the constable's watch station without him becoming the wiser. The barkeep had laughed himself silly as he recalled how those boys would place the body's arms over their shoulder's and drag it though the streets, pretending that it was a friend who had just a bit too much to drink on that evening.
If was all very diverting -- but Tim had little patience for it. So, after a week of doggedly wading through tales told with a large dose of cheer, but little moderation or reference to reality -- he felt as if he had earned a night off.
And was there a better way to spend a night than with his good friend Bette? Scoggins, at least, could not think of one. Tim looked over as Bette raised a blonde eyebrow under her wild mane of equally light curls, "Oh, who you been working fer? That gent wot employs you to wait on that corner, I s'pose."
"As a matter of fact -- yes," Scoggins returned the gesture with a strong measure of suggestion in his voice. He had forgotten just how attractive she could be when she acted put out by his terribly erratic visits. This current iciness was just a ruse, she would warm to him soon enough. It was what she did best.
Bette smiled and moved towards him, rounding the corner of his shoulder and placing her hands on the nape of his neck. She pressed her fingers strongly into his flesh, "Keeps you busy, does 'e?" she questioned, kneading the knot of muscle with her hands.
Tim relaxed into her, "You 'ave no idea," he murmured. She continued her ministrations as he closed his eyes and bent over, exposing more of his back that was in need of her skill. "I would've come to see you last week, Bette..." he said, beginning to feel an emotion that he might have termed as guilt, had he ever experienced such a thing before.
"Thass all right," she breathed into his left ear. "You're 'ere now." She left him on the chair and walked over to the bed, pulling down the covers and plumping up the pillows. "You always come back." she continued, confidently seductive.
He went over and joined her on the mattress, "There must be somethin' about you, Bette."
She smiled at him, eyes looking through lashes. "Or about you."
Then, she bit her lip and something that Tim might have called regret, had he ever experienced that either, flashed through her eyes. "You, at least, always come back."
"Is there someone who didn't?" Tim asked, somewhat surprised by the degree of unexplainable jealousy that he suddenly felt. Was there someone else in Bette's life? Scoggins had to admit that this was an absurd question considering the young woman's current line of trade, but he liked to fancy himself the only man in her life whose sporadic visits she looked forward to with a degree of pleasure.
Bette nodded her head sadly and then immediately corrected herself. "Not me, of course!" she replied. "I meant the girl wot used to live down the 'all."
"Her fella didn't come back?" Scoggins asked, feeling somewhat curious, but more relieved, glad to know that it was not Bette who experienced such painful regrets.
Bette slid back on the bed, resting her head on one of the pillows. 'E 'ad ter leave her -- left England for a bit -- promised that 'ed return, promised that 'ed write -- never did."
"Mebbe 'e got 'imself killed?" Scoggins suggested.
"Mebbe," Bette agreed. "But I thinks that 'e jus' found 'imself summin better somewhere's else. She wasn't the most attractive lass around -- big boned and pasty skinned, I never 'ad a moment of worry over my business when she was around, although there was summin about 'er."
"Whaddya mean?" Scoggins asked.
Bette shook her head again, "It's 'ard to explain if you'd never met 'er. She jus' seemed to 'ave a certain way about 'er. You always wanted to be around 'er once you got to know 'er."
Scoggins was puzzled by that. He couldn't imagine the girl that Bette described at all and was beginning to be tired of listening to yet another story.
But Bette was just warming to her topic. "She 'ad real beautiful hair, though -- long and thick -- the color of -- oh, I dunno wot! It was sort of a red, but not quite there. Luvley voice, too -- certainly not from around 'ere."
"From Ireland?" Scoggins suggested.
Bette shook her head, "I don't think so," she said, remembering. "Anyway --" Bette looked at Tim as she held out her hand and began to stroke the side of his face. "It doesn't matter now, does it? Poor Mare caught a fever a year ago and died before her young man could come back and take her away," she looked down, "I wish that she hadn't a died. Roslyn's in 'er old room now and 'as pretty as they come."
"A little competition, eh Bette?" Scoggins asked.
"Nothin' I can't handle!" Bette smiled back and Tim knew that this was true. Bette herself was as 'pretty as they come' and this poor, dead girl with the wandering beau had nothing on her when it came to having a certain unexplainable something.
She certainly made a man want to be around her once you got to know her.