Section I, Next Section
Prologue Posted on Friday, 21 January 2000
"I'm looking for a Bible -- a very specific Bible." And with that, a white-gloved hand pushed a small note across the counter towards the bookseller. "This one." The lady belonging to the white-glove pronounced with certainty. "Do you have it?"
"I'll check at once, madam." The bookseller had already sized up the lady making the request and had deemed her to be someone who would not easily be kept waiting. Even though a large bonnet and heavy veil obscured her features, he could see that she had the advantage of age, wealth, and fashion. He glanced at the note and instantly looked up in confusion. "But this Bible was published nearly twenty years ago! Surely you'll want a more recent edition? Especially if you are planning on presenting the volume."
"I am planning on making a presentation," the woman agreed before going on. "But it must be this particular Bible."
"I'm not sure if we can..." The man began to shake his head.
"Surely," the woman interrupted, layering her voice with a certain amount of charm. She was well practiced in this art. "Surely a bookseller such as yourself knows how to procure even the most difficult of volumes?"
"But we have quite a few other editions that might suit," The bookseller attempted again, gesturing over to a section on the wall.
"No," the woman cut him off emphatically. "I need this particular one! No other will do!" The portion of kind consideration that she had recently bestowed on the man was cut off in an instant. "If you cannot assist me," she began, eyes steely, "please tell me now so that I may go discover someone who can." She certainly meant it. Her plan would be nothing without that particular Bible, flawed during publication in 1802 and carrying with it just the right degree of portent. It was a fitting sign to the man responsible for harming her dear child seven years ago.
Not that she had always cared so deeply about the wound that had been inflicted by this criminal. There had been too many distractions just after it happened, too many things to claim her concern. She had ignored the loss, but -- instead of healing over the years since it had occurred -- it had only grown even rawer, festering in her mind worryingly until she knew that the only way to remedy the pain was to seek justice for her child.
But the road to justice was not an easy one. She had spent the better part of last year attempting to identify the man who had committed the crime. It had not been easy to locate the one witness to the act, the one person who had seen the man surreptitiously walk away from the scene without even an interested backward glance and it had been several months before she worked herself into a position where she could do something about it. The only thing left to do after that was to learn as much as she could about the man, finally discovering a weakness that could be exploited.
Everyone has at least one weakness.
"Can you assist me or not?" The woman questioned the bookseller again.
He hesitated momentarily as if weighing the trouble that it would take him to procure the particular book against the possible monetary award. And the possibility of further business if he were successful. Did she look like a woman who bought books?
She did. "I shall look into it myself, madam," he said smiling widely.
The woman returned the gesture. "Good."
Chapter 1, Part 1
The lock was easily picked. It clicked open after a moment of work by the well-trained thief. Tim Scoggins silently pulled open the heavy wooden door and walked in, shaking his head somewhat at the incompetence of whomever had ineffectually attempted to bar it against intruders. It was almost as if they wished to be robbed of their possessions! In this case, however, Tim didn't think that he'd be lifting anything away from this particular building. In fact, the only reason why he had come at all was to steal a glance at someone who he knew was within. He had seen her walk into this church, hand resting demurely on that overgrown boy's arm.
Not for the first time, Tim wondered if this wasn't just Bette Maberley's latest little attempt to make him active with jealousy.
Tim let the door close behind him and walked forward, his feet placing themselves without a sound on the hard stone floor and his hands feeling along the wall. He didn't need to be so cautious; the music was sufficiently drowning out any noise that he might be making. It was a loud chorus of voices accompanied by an organ belting out a rather sickening, repetitive melody. Tim nearly cringed at the sound, but went further.
He stopped moving when he realized that he was quickly approaching the place where the organist sat. He regarded her for a few moments, just long enough to realize that she appeared to be completely engrossed in the notes on her page. He thought that he could move forward a few more feet without fear of discovery and attempt to view the congregation over her shoulder. The area behind the organ was just dark enough to ensure that he remained invisible in the shadow.
It was a good vantage point. He had a clear view of the entire sanctuary and his eyes rapidly flew from face to face until he found the one that he was seeking. And there she was -- the third bench on the left. Her bonnet was effectively shading her face and the blond curls that seemed to be constantly falling out of their restraining pins, but he still knew that it was she. And she was sharing a hymnal with that young pup Robert Smith! Tim Scoggins' keen blue eyes narrowed as he watched them together, not liking the rather admiring glance that the overly tall child was giving his Bette. He had to find a way to separate them.
Unfortunately for Mr. Scoggins, that appeared to be quite impossible at the time. Miss Elizabeth Maberley just happened to work for Mr. Robert Smith and his older brother James at their shop on Cheapside Street. She had already proven herself to be quite an asset to their small establishment. In the year that she had been working at Smiths, she had become a great favorite with many of their regular customers -- and these gentlemen showed their appreciation by running up even larger bills than they had in the past. And in the year since she had started working for them, she had become a valued member of the family as well. She lived over the shop with the family and had proven herself more than willing to share in all the household tasks, especially the ones that involved taking care of Baby Frank. She doted on that little one, the child of James and his wife Martha.
But the family member who seemed to admire her the most was definitely Robert. That was evident enough in his awkward glances towards Bette and the strange way he had of stuttering whenever he spoke to her. And the only thing that was left to him was to wonder how Bette felt about young Mr. Robert Smith in return. It was not nearly as easy for Tim to come by this little piece of information -- especially since she was no longer speaking to him.
It had been a week since Bette had told Tim that she was giving up and had decided that seeing him it was no longer worth her while.
Tim let out a silent sigh of frustration and leaned his cheek against the cool surface of the stone wall beside him. He still didn't fully comprehend what had led to his demotion from a cherished intimate to a stranger she could treat indifferently, nor did he have any idea as to how he could rectify the situation. Bette was beginning to seem as distant as a high born young lady living in her family's Mayfair mansion. It didn't seem to matter that she was only a humble shopkeeper's assistant and had been living as a prostitute up until a year ago -- the gap between them seemed just as great as if she had actually become an earl's daughter while he remained a former rat-catcher turned paid informer and occasional thief.
In short, Bette was now respectable and Tim was not. And that was the reason why he found himself stalking around the rear of a church sanctuary watching from afar while someone else sat in a position of privilege next to her.
It wasn't as if he had not considered becoming more respectable. He had actually given the matter a good deal of thought, but had come to no conclusions. He had to make money in some way and the only job in which he had actually been trained in was thievery. He was quite proficient at it, having the sharp instincts and natural grace to invade a place without being detected. Such abilities did not translate into other fields.
And the more obstinate side of Tim's soul questioned whether or not he would actually enjoy any other line of work. He knew himself quite well and realized that he required a large degree of freedom in his daily occupations. He didn't take to having his schedule dictated to him by anyone -- although he had made a grudging exception for 'JOHN Blevins'.
John Blevins was actually the professional name of a rather exclusive agent of inquiry who was known as John Barrow in his personal life. Several years ago Barrow had discovered Tim Scoggins' natural talent for recalling pages of text from a very brief study and had used that skill to his advantage in several cases. While still illiterate, Tim had proven himself to be useful enough for John Barrow to keep on a permanent retainer. This retainer was paid to him regardless of whether or not Barrow happened to require his help. In order to collect his salary, Tim simply had to be present on a certain street corner at a certain hour of the morning. If Barrow or his assistant Willie Barton happened to walk by on that day, Tim could expect to have an assignment. If they didn't, he could consider his time as his own.
It was a good enough situation and it certainly kept Tim Scoggins housed and fed, but it didn't pay well enough for him to be able to support a wife. That hadn't mattered to Tim when they had begun his relationship with Barrow, of course. When he was younger, Tim was content with the occasional companionship of any well-favored young lady who just happened to pass his way. His interest in them was generally short-lived, never advancing much longer than it took him to find another, even more intriguingly attractive woman. That all changed when he met Elizabeth Maberley.
It had all begun innocently enough. Bette was a working girl with a penchant for taking walks in the afternoons before getting ready to go out for the evening. She was quite youthful, with an ample figure and a very pretty face set under a profusion of blond curls. She was entirely the type of girl with which Tim enjoyed becoming acquainted. He lost no time in seeking her out, assuming that his appreciation for her would be just as brief as it had proven to be with others in the past.
To his surprise the months went by and he continued to remain interested. He wasn't exactly sure why. It may have been her pretty face. It might have been her cheerful, unaffected manner. It might have been the way in which she managed to make him feel as if he were the most interesting person she had ever met. It could even have been the way she never expected more than he was able to offer. Bette was generous, intelligent, and remarkably independent. She acted as if she didn't need him at all, which was something that was completely shocking to him at the time. He had met generous and intelligent women before, but never ones that had an independent streak as well. He found himself visiting her with a regularity that he had never before exhibited. And, while he still was quite sure that he didn't want to commit himself to her or have her commit herself solely to him, he discovered that he felt fond enough of her to choose to purchase a gift for her: a small, bloodstone hat-pin for her to wear on her bonnet. The hat-pin had the added advantage of being rather sharp and dangerous and he considered it to be a suitable weapon for a girl in her situation. Instead of giving it to her immediately, however, he chose to delay -- putting off the presentation until he could be certain of his feelings. It was a bad decision on his part. Before he was able to offer her the gift, she was attacked by a customer who left her bleeding and unable to move. Tim found her a day later and had taken her immediately to the Barrows, where Mrs. Barrow herself nursed her back to health and assisted her in finding a different job.
Tim's relationship with Bette changed after that. No longer willing to receive him whenever he chose to drop by, she expected to be courted properly. This was very new territory for Tim and he didn't handle it very well at all. After a year of attempts and fumblings on Mr. Scoggins' part, Bette had given up hope. Tim was never going to be able to live up to her idea of respectability and Bette felt as if she was running out of time. She wished to get married and have a family with someone who had a steady, legally acquired income.
It was the legally achieved part that stymied Tim. There were only so many opportunities open to a man of his background and he considered most of them to be quite demeaning. He wasn't cut out for a life of service, would never be able to endure the boredom of a job as a clerk, and would never be trustworthy enough to find work in a shop.
She had thought that he was dragging his heels, while he knew that he was moving as quickly as he could. But change was not something that came easily to Tim, especially when he didn't truly understand the need for it. He was quite happy with his life as it was -- all except for not having Bette.
The hymn ended and the congregation began to collect their belongings. Tim was a bit surprised: the service hadn't lasted as long as he thought that it would. The organist began to slide herself towards the edge of the bench so that she could twist herself around the end, all of her movements slow and labored. Tim regarded her more closely and realized that she was with child.
"What are you doing?" A strangely familiar voice sounded from behind, startling him. On guard, Tim turned, expecting to be confronted by the newcomer. Instead the man just walked past and went directly to the organist. "Why didn't you wait for me to help you?" The man's white surplice flapped around his ankles, touching Tim as he went by. Tim shrank back from the contact, recognizing the man. It was Seth Shackleford, John Barrow's clergyman friend. The last time Tim had seen Mr. Shackleford, he had been wearing a dress in an attempt to trick someone into confessing to being a jewel thief.
Trust fate or Bette Maberley to lead him into the church where Seth Shackleford was the rector. Tim shook his head, wondering why he didn't remember that this particular parish was under that man's care.
"I'm not an invalid, Seth!" the woman behind the keyboard laughingly replied. "And you know that you're supposed to be outside greeting the parishioners as they leave!" And now Tim recognized the woman as well. It was Mary Bennet, the doctor who had scandalized all of London by turning out to be a woman disguised as a man. The last time he had seen her she had been wearing a suit. They had made quite a funny pair at the time: the overly tall Mr. Shackleford with his bonnet pushed back from his head, passionately kissing a diminutive Miss Bennet in her dark pants and coat. He hadn't thought that the uptight reverend had it in him to display such ardent, unbridled affection. He had seemed quite squeamish and too much of a prude to begin to act on his desires and she hadn't been any better than he when it came to a show of proper feeling. To Tim, Mary Bennet had seemed too headstrong and independent to actually fall in love.
They certainly had come a long way since then, hadn't they? Tim had learned from John Barrow that the couple had married but he didn't know that they were already in the family way. And--by the look of Mrs. Shackleford--they were expecting that addition quite soon.
Tim momentarily wondered why Barrow hadn't thought to mention that the Shacklefords were expecting a child, but then he realized that his employer was probably too taken up by his own particular blessed event: Alexander Hardison Barrow had made his entrance into the world three months ago, right before Christmas. For his part, Tim thought that the name for the new babe was a bit high flown, especially considering that it had been given to a second son. He suspected that Barrow half agreed with him. There was a large degree of mirth in Barrow's eyes when he had pronounced the name to Tim for the first time. Scoggins simply assumed that Mrs. Barrow was probably responsible for it.
Personally, Tim didn't put much stock in the naming of infants, but that view was probably just consistent with the fact that his own name had been handed down to him from someone who no longer had any use for it. The first Tim Scoggins had died at the end of a rope after a brief, but glorious career as a thief. The kidsman who had found the unknown, dark haired four-year-old wandering namelessly through the streets of London thought that the moniker might bring the child an interesting kind of invincibility. Surely the odds were slim of two Tim Scoggins' hanging in a public square?
Tim didn't expect his name to bring him a greater degree of immunity; that would have been quite fool hardy! And Tim was not a fool. He was always careful about watching his own back since there was no one else to do it for him. This did not bother him in the least; he required no help.
And now, Tim watched as Mrs. Shackleford laughingly tried to protest the fact that she needed her husband's assistance to get off the bench, but the man would not be swayed from his mission. The good reverend refused to go to the entrance of the church without her.
"You fuss over me too much," she sat on the edge of the bench shaking her head, which caused a lock of brown hair to release itself from where it had been pinned underneath her tidy little cap. Absently, she pushed it behind an ear. Tim watched as Shackleford teased the lock of hair out again and kissed it gently before allowing it to rest on her shoulder. She smiled at her husband as he took his display of affection one step further by kissing her on the nose.
"Thank you for playing today, Mary," he whispered as he placed yet another kiss on her forehead, causing Tim to wonder where he was going with all of these little kisses. They certainly didn't seem to be leaving the room! "I'm not sure what I would have done had you not been willing to play today."
"Let's just hope that Mr. Thompson is well by next Sunday," Mrs. Shackleford responded to him. "For I'm a very poor organist."
Mr. Shackleford protested this very kindly by saying that he was quite amazed by her musical talents and was only sorry that he hadn't learned about them sooner. "In fact," he said. "I think that Mr. Thompson might find himself out of a job if he chooses to shirk his duties for another week."
"I wouldn't send him off just yet if I were you," Mrs. Shackleford reminded. "I don't think that I'll actually fit behind the keyboard next week. She patted her enlarged stomach tenderly. "The baby kicked through the entire service as it was. I'm not sure if our little one liked the hymns that you selected."
"Heaven forbid," Mr. Shackleford murmured good-naturedly, planting another kiss on his wife's nose, which led to one on her forehead and another one on her cheek until Tim knew exactly in what direction Mr. Shackleford was heading and he wasn't in the mood to stand idly by while the couple became more free with their affections. He decided that they were sufficiently engaged by one another for him to make his escape. He shoved himself off the wall and moved silently to the left, working his way out of the room in the same manner that he had shuffled into it. Only this time, he discovered a stack of hymnals that had been placed on the floor. His foot bumped into them and they tumbled over noisily.
"Who's there?" Shackleford shouted, immediately on guard.
Tim swore under his breath, cursing the hymnals instead of his clumsiness and walked forward. "Me," he said, somewhat defiantly.
"Tim?" Shackleford stared in open-mouthed surprise. Tim stared back, almost daring him to think the worst of him. Of course, the worst would be easy enough to assume. Was Tim criminal enough to steal from a church? What other explanation could there be for his presence at the back of the sanctuary? The truth would not be credible at all, so he wouldn't even offer it as an explanation.
Explanations, however, seemed to be the last thing that was on Shackleford's mind. He actually appeared to be pleased to see Tim. "What an odd place to find you," he exclaimed, "But I'm very glad to see you all the same!" He clapped him warmly on the back, "I never did have a chance to thank you for the service you rendered me a year ago. I don't know what I would have done had you not come to my rescue!"
"Oh, twas nothin'," Tim negatived, shaking his head as he recalled that evening a year ago and the two drunk men who had set themselves upon the disguised clergyman, thinking him a rather large, but attractive bird just ready for bagging. Shackleford hadn't been able to fend off their advances without revealing his cover so it fell to Tim, watching closely from the other side of the street, to come to his aid.
"Oh yes it was!" Seth grinned, "The whole trap would have been sprung prematurely had it not been for you." He looked back over at his wife, who was smiling her agreement. "And who knows where Mary and I would be right now had it not worked." He took her hand as he said this.
Tim thought that they would have found a different way to muddle towards one another had it not been for him, but if they wanted to feel gratitude towards him -- so be it. He would not stop them.
But it did make him feel rather awkward to be thanked. While he did like to be appreciated -- he certainly didn't have enough of that in his independent life -- he didn't know what to do with such overt feelings. "Well, I --" he began stumbling for a way to quickly accept their thanks and then leave.
"But why didn't you join the rest of the congregation for church, Tim?" Shackleford went on to ask. "I can assure you that the view is much better from the benches and it's a bit more comfortable as well."
"Bette was out there today, wasn't she?" Mrs. Shackleford pressed further. "Why did you not sit with her?"
"That's right!" Shackleford affirmed, "The Smiths have been bringing her to service very regularly. I'm sure that they would have been pleased to share their family pew with you."
"Well--," Tim started again, now trying to figure out a way to explain that he and Bette were no longer keeping company with each other and that he really had to leave.
"Seth, don't you think that we should invite Mr. Scoggins to take Sunday supper with us?" Mrs. Shackleford suggested to her husband.
"What a wonderful idea, Mary!" Shackleford agreed, turning to look at Tim expectantly. "Why don't you join us?"
"No!" Tim blurted out before thinking, horrified by the though of having to mind his manners during a meal with the parson and his wife.
"I can assure you that we won't try to convert you, Tim, " Shackleford pressed. "And there's no one else who is planning on joining us. We shall confine ourselves to neutral territory."
Neutral territory. Tim wondered if there could be any topic that would fit into this category. He suspected that there were not. Except for a few shared acquaintances and old memories, there were no interests that they had in common.
"Thanks, but -- I'm act'ally on a job fer Mr. Barrow right now," he lied badly, "An' I've gotta get back ta it."
"You choose to take your breaks inside a church?" Shackleford raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Oh all th' time!" Tim responded emphatically. "It's th' only place where I can be alone wit' me thoughts!"
"Well," Mrs. Shackleford must have decided that it was best to let Tim have his way with this. "You'll have to come to supper some other time, then."
"Thanks," Tim accepted half-heartedly.
"And say hello to Barrow for us," Shackleford added.
"Although we're going to see him ourselves later in the week, Seth," Mary said.
Shackleford looked at his wife in confusion.
"For dinner?" She attempted a reminder, raising an eyebrow at her husband's forgetfulness.
"Oh yes, that's right," Shackleford turned to his wife, seemingly ready to engage her in further conversation. "I think that we should attempt to engage a chaise for the trip, don't you? It's too far for you to walk in your condition." Mrs. Shackleford started to protest this and Tim saw his opening and decided to take it. He would be already out the door by the time that they had turned back towards him.
He was quite good at disappearing while backs were turned.
Chapter 1, Part 2
Bette wanted to wait for Tim. Sure that she had earlier seen him skulking around the park as she walked into church, she dawdled after the service, walking with hesitant steps while the rest of the family paced purposefully towards home. Robert -- who insisted on escorting Bette to everything, including Sunday service -- found himself delayed as well. Martha and Frank soon outstripped them.
"I fear that my brother and sister have left us behind," Robert commented to her quietly.
"Oh!" Bette already knew that they had and wished that Robert had chosen to join them as well. She wondered if he might not act on a hint. "Would you prefer to catch up with them?" She asked. "I can assure you that I am perfectly able to find my own way home." That is, she would find her own way home just as soon as she had an opportunity to speak with Tim. She was positive that he would reveal himself to her just as soon as she was rid of Robert.
But Robert either didn't catch her meaning or he did and had decided not to act upon her suggestion. "Of course not," he said politely. "I'd much rather stay with you."
What a kind man, Bette tried to make her smile not turn into a grimace as she found herself once again wishing that the younger Mr. Smith weren't so attentive. It wasn't that she didn't like Robert. In the year since she had come to live with his family and work for them at their store, she had developed a wholehearted respect and value for him. He was a good man with a careful mind for figures and a sensible and cautious approach to business.
But he was as boring as a blade of grass.
She had yet to discover if there were any artistic endeavors that excited his interest. He suffered quietly through a tour of the National Academy's last show, seemingly unable to find beauty in the paintings, fell asleep during a park concert that featured the music of Mr. Handel, and couldn't be persuaded to even consider going to the theatre. He gave the excuse that the latter cost too much money and gave little in return. But he couldn't use the same protest for the two former, for they were free!
Given these limitations, Bette found that there was very little upon which they could converse with ease. Especially when one considered the fact that Bette could not even speak about her own history. While the Smith family was fully aware of her past -- their cousin Mrs. Barrow had apprised them in it -- they thought it would be best for all if she didn't dwell on it. They thought it a dark chapter in her life's story, better never revisited.
But the past was not all depravity and pain and, while she recognized the fact that she was much better off these days and wouldn't go back to the old ways for all the tea in China, there were elements of it that she truly missed.
Chief among these elements was Tim Scoggins. Tim had been a remarkably bright presence during those days, pleasing in his desire to enjoy life and relentless in his pursuit of amusement. He was even charming when he wanted to be, as full of humorous tales as he was a large degree of pride. He thought well of himself, but it wasn't without cause. He was remarkably intelligent and cunning, gifted in ways that Bette didn't even know were possible. She had never met a man like him and was not completely sure that his equal existed in the world.
He was simply amazing and was certainly entitled to a greater share of fortune and consequence than he had at present. He deserved to be comfortably established in his own home rather than boarding in a house kept by a rather indifferent landlady. He deserved an income larger than the one he earned by being John Barrow's chief line of information from London's seedier side. He deserved to have his gifts widely acknowledged and appreciated!
But none of this would come if he wouldn't work towards a greater degree of respectability and responsibility. Bette had been acting on this deeply held conviction when she had told him that she did not wish to see him until he had taken some steps towards this goal. She had thought that such a carefully worded ultimatum would have encouraged him, but it only seemed to offend. His indignant response to it was very memorable. He had said that he really had no problems leaving off visiting her now that she had grown too good for him. She had protested that this wasn't the case, but to no avail. All he had heard of her attempt at encouragement was that she did not want to see him any more. The fact that the word 'until' was a part of her statement didn't register with him at all.
And now it seemed as if it were too late to repair the damage. Bette's eyes hunted behind every tree trunk and lamppost in the hopes of seeing Tim secreted, just waiting for an opportunity to speak with Bette alone. By the end of the walk, she had decided that he must have given up his vigil. He was nowhere to be found.
Resigned, Bette continued to walk home with Robert Smith, wishing that she knew of a way to reach out to Tim.
Chapter 2
Edward Linson, Viscount Rodale, made an effort to straighten his cravat before he alighted from his own carriage and joined the throng of people preparing to enter the well-lit mansion. He could tell that the evening's party was already underway. He cringed inwardly; it appeared to be a very well-attended gathering: there was a solid line of revelers waiting on the steps for their opportunity to be welcomed by the hostess. They were all smiling brightly and chatting overly loudly and Edward couldn't help but shudder at the sheer number and noise of the people. He hated large parties and found himself needing to gather his resolve before he would be able to go inside. Exactly what did he despise more -- he questioned himself -- the idea of being in the company of a score of individuals he could not like for an hour or two, or remaining a veritable hermit for the remainder of his days on this earth, learning to accept the knowledge that the man who would inherit his estate after his death was nothing but a blackmailer?
His choice was clear; he had to create his own heir and for that he needed a wife. Therefore, he would attend this ball and he was going to do everything in his power to make himself agreeable!
Edward had not always been so determined to enjoy his share in London society. In fact, he couldn't tell whether or not this new-found decisiveness was born more from a long winter spent alone and nearly friendless on his estate in Yorkshire or a recent conversation that he held with his solicitor. They had both been quite devastating in their own way. Years spent living in the warm clime of Barbados had made him forget just how cold and isolating the moors around his family home could become during the winter season. This acute sense of being alone was compounded by the fact that there was no longer anyone alive from his immediate family. His parents had died long ago and his elder brother -- Talbot Linson -- had followed them to the grave just last year. This was the reason why he had left Barbados in the first place: to take over the estate and title from Talbot, who had never married and had left no heir.
Edward had spent many a long winter's evening fearing that the same fate might be his if he did not doing something about it soon. Edward had chosen to remain unmarried well into his thirties and was now entering his forties without a wife or children. This certainly left his estate in a very precarious position. In fact, his solicitor assured him during that recent discussion, if Edward did not get married and have a child soon, he would see his estate entailed on to his cousin -- James Linson. And dear God, Edward just simply could not bear the thought of that! His blackmailing cousin James as his heir apparent? That thought was beyond imagining!
James Linson was the son of his father's younger brother and Edward's nearest living relation. When James came of age, his father had purchased a commission for him in the army. Captain Linson wound up spending many of his adult years fighting with regiment in India. His return to England coincided with Edward's own return from Barbados. James had contacted Edward and scheduled what Edward believed would be a joyous reunion of two long-separated family members. What actually occurred was very different. James revealed to Edward that Edward's own mother -- Lady Augusta Rodale -- had not given birth to him. He then went on to explain that Edward's real mother had been the governess at Rodale House at the time and that he had irrefutable proof of it. He intended to publish the information, which would certainly have called into question Edward's right to the title. The only way that Edward would be able to stop such a plan was to transfer his entire Barbados estate to him.
But Edward had not been in a position to give up his Barbados holdings; he needed the money from their sale to pay for the repair of Rodale House. Unsure of what to do, he had eventually hired a private agent of inquiry to look into the matter. The man, who went by the name John Blevins, was almost miraculously able to discover the truth behind James' blackmail attempt and had assisted Edward in having his unscrupulous cousin arrested. James had been brought to trial, but, unfortunately, the charges could not be proved. The law turned out to be extremely vague when it came to blackmail. And it said nothing that would make James lose the right to inherit. James had been allowed to go free and was still considered eligible for the entail.
Edward had heard nothing from him since then, which -- he believed -- was for the best.
Edward still wished that things had turned out differently. He had no other family left living and it had pained him to discover that James had grown into such a scoundrel.
But none of this could be helped now, and Edward chided himself to keep such things from overwhelming his thoughts as he mounted the stairs that led to the entrance of the mansion. Cousin James had disappeared, the Barbados plantation had been sold and the proceeds of the sale were already being used to refurbish Rodale House. A Rodale House that -- if Edward did well this season -- James might never master. That was what was in the present. That was what mattered. That was what must concern him completely.
Nervously, his fingers raked back his hair from his brow -- thick and black but now shot with far too many strands of gray -- and focused his dark eyes forward. He was all too apt to brood over old history, wasn't he? He frequently mulled over events from too long ago -- attempting to make sense of what had never been understood and could not now be explained.
For instance, he still wondered what he had done to offend Miss Mary Bennet last year. Edward shook his head as if trying to clear that thought from it, but it continued to intrude. His first conversation with Miss Bennet during dinner at her sister's home had begun so promisingly that he had been sure that she was as interested as he was in furthering their relationship. She seemed to be a remarkably intelligent young woman, who was more than eager to help her sister Mrs. Bingley entertain her guest. They had shared a very intimate and somewhat candid conversation while the rest of her family played at cards, but she barely spoke to him the next time that they met and almost appeared afraid of him during that second meeting.
Edward had no idea what he could have done to offend her so greatly, but was thankful that she was still willing to grant him a dance during the ball held at her other sister's house. During the course of the evening, he had believed that she was being roused out of her disinclination towards him during it, only to see it return by the end of it. He remembered her distant manner as she bade him farewell.
Then again, it had been an evening of many oddities, not the least of them being John Blevins' arrival. He and his associate, Willie Barton, had burst in on the party and revealed the truth behind James' blackmail attempt. James was arrested later the same night, taking Edward's title, fortune, and reputation out of danger. He had even been present when the warrant was served his cousin. With such weighty concerns to occupy him, he supposed that he had barely noticed that Miss Bennet had taken herself out of his sphere as well.
In retrospect, he believed that he could have been very happy with her. She would have made an ideal companion for him: gentle, but with a good degree of spirit, and intelligent, but without being too sharp in her manner.
He had heard that she was now happy with someone else and Edward -- from his heart -- wished the couple well. He couldn't help but envy the man who had finally claimed Miss Bennet's hand. If it were not self-indulgent to do so, he'd wish the same for himself.
But now, he could at least attempt to put himself in the way of a similarly blissful state, and that was the only reason why he was now exerting himself to greet his hostess with his most charming and hopeful smile. "Mrs. Ashby, how wonderful to see you again!" He took her hand, wondering if she would remember him.
"The pleasure is all ours, Lord Rodale, I assure you." Mrs. Ashby returned simperingly, her gracious smile widening further. Edward was very glad to see it. He was somewhat relieved to see that his name still had the power that it appeared to command last year when every society matron was eager to have him on her guest list.
"I hope that we shall see more of you this season than we did last," she added.
"I believe that you shall," Edward agreed amenably, conscious once again of how he had kept London's society at arm's length last year. Unsure of himself and uncomfortable in large groups; he had only accepted about one invitation in four and often spent his evenings alone in his own home. He had spurned many overtures from families of quality last year -- including Mrs. Ashby's. It was almost a wonder to him that he appeared to be just as welcome into her circle this season as he was last. Then again, he was quite wealthy and money and a title seemed to engender a large degree of forbearance.
Regardless of motive, he was grateful to Mrs. Ashby for overlooking the slights that he must have dealt her last year and would have made one final comment about his desire to share in all the joys of this London season had not Mrs. Ashby been distracted by a rather well-timed cough coming from the lady next to her. Mrs. Ashby turned and recognized the lady. "Oh! Penelope, you're still here!" Mrs. Ashby said, obviously surprised by the other woman's presence. Edward supposed that the lady had already been greeted and should have moved away from the hall.
"Yes, we are," the other woman said in a voice that politely asserted herself further.
It appeared to be very clear to Mrs. Ashby that her friend was waiting to be introduced and that she was not going to be put off easily. Resigned to this fact, she turned back to Edward. "Lord Rodale," she said, "May I present Mrs. Aintree and her daughters Miss Aintree and Miss Verity Aintree?" The introduction was given with an almost imperceptible hint of an apology on the part of Mrs. Ashby -- as if to say that she would have protected him if she could.
This made Edward wonder if he was in need of protection from Mrs. Aintree and her daughters. "Ladies," he bowed politely and attempted to observe them more closely. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."
"As are we, Lord Rodale," Mrs. Aintree agreed, while Edward felt himself grimace somewhat uncomfortably. He was still not used to hearing himself referred to so formally, and the note of appreciation that Mrs. Aintree had added to it had made it sound even more so. She was obviously impressed by the title, but if it were up to him, he would have continued to be known as Mr. Linson. Society wouldn't have easily understood that, however, and he feared that he would have been continually correcting people to the point of eccentricity. At times, Edward had rationalized, it was best to let people have their own way.
But Mrs. Aintree had continued to speak and Edward had to remind himself to attend. "It's always a joy to make a new acquaintance," she had said, smiling over at her younger daughter, Miss Verity. "Although this season already holds a good deal of joy for us." It was an enigmatic statement and Edward wondered if she should already known to what Mrs. Aintree was alluding. Edward found himself glancing from the mother to the younger daughter to the eldest, perplexed. The eldest's face was beginning to blush with some degree of embarrassment and her eyes were turned away from her companions.
"Miss Verity is going to be married at the end of the month," Mrs. Ashby offered an explanation at last.
"And I have another daughter who is most happily settled as well," Mrs. Aintree added before Edward could offer his congratulations.
"Yes," Mrs. Ashby interjected, somewhat tiredly. "Miss Constance was wed last year." She then glanced over at the eldest Miss Aintree with a look that was quite readable. It was a very certain blend of concern that bordered on pity. Edward knew at once what Miss Aintree's situation must be. Society felt that it was a very bad thing to have younger sisters marry before the eldest was wed. Edward found that his eyes had turned toward Miss Aintree with his own sympathetic stare. He wondered why she hadn't married sooner. He looked at her and couldn't detect any reason for Miss Aintree to have been left behind while her sisters were walking to the altar. Her features were perfectly regular -- if a little small and hidden under a rather improbable hairstyle. It was all ringlets and height -- as if someone had attempted to recreate the fashion of a Roman matriarch on the head of a delicate English fairy. Edward recognized that fashions for ladies were being rather classically influenced these days and that the young lady's hairdresser might have thought that the style would add a degree of consequence to her mistress's appearance.
Edward believed that Miss Aintree would have looked better with her hair dressed more simply. Its color alone would have created a degree of interest -- being a pale shade of brown that he likened to honey dripping off of a spoon. Another moment gave Edward a reason to believe that Miss Aintree agreed with his supposition that her hair was not shown off to its best effect; she reached up and tugged in frustration at a curl that had dislodged itself from the mass.
Absently, Edward smiled at the gesture.
Miss Aintree, seeming to realize that he had been watching her, turned towards him, eyes flashing her disapproval. She seemed quite angry with him for watching her show of discomfort and, had they not been in the company of other people, he wondered if she might have said something. Regardless, her silent reprimand completely discomposed Edward. He wasn't sure what to say or where to look next.
"Dear, don't fuss," Mrs. Aintree murmured to her older daughter, hand reaching up to pat Miss Aintree's head. "A lady never fixes her hair in public." This last was delivered in a whisper, but it was loud enough for all to hear and it certainly seemed to embarrass Miss Aintree further. That embarrassment, however, only seemed to make her brown eyes grow even darker. She appeared determined not to be laughed at.
But Edward had not been laughing at her. He wished that there were a way to communicate this to the deceived young lady, but couldn't think of a method for doing it without appearing awkward.
Just then, he hit upon a brilliant idea. He could ask her to dance. They were -- after all -- at a ball and they were both unattached, or so he assumed. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that he rather liked the idea. It was a very gallant thing to do. "Miss Aintree," he addressed himself to her. "If you aren't engaged for the two first, would you do me the honor of standing up with me?" There, he thought, that was well said. Any young lady should be pleased with such an attractively worded petition.
But it seemed to have the opposite effect on Miss Aintree. She colored deeply and looked down in a way that went past simple modesty. "I thank you, sir, but..." Miss Aintree began her refusal somewhat clumsily, but was quickly interrupted by her mother.
"She'd be honored, Lord Rodale"
Edward thought that he heard one of the other ladies gasp in response. He looked around and saw that they were both staring in open-mouthed surprise. Chagrined, he could not tell who's behavior they were censuring, Mrs. Aintree's, Miss Aintree's, or his own.
What was clear was that Miss Aintree did not approve of her mother's behavior. "Mamma, please!" she hissed.
"It's only a pavane, dear," Mrs. Aintree tried to soothe, "A simple...slow...pavane." She lifted one eyebrow significantly. "And I'm sure that you'll find Lord Rodale an excellent partner." She lifted her other eyebrow in sympathy with the first. Edward watched in amazement. He had never seen anyone do such a thing before. It gave her an oddly owlish look, but whether she was as wise as her expression remained to be seen. He was sure that she meant to covertly communicate the fact that she would not only find Lord Rodale an amiable dance partner, but an ideal prospective husband as well. It was too obvious to be kept a secret. With both brows still soaring above her eyes, Mrs. Aintree dipped her chin and looked down her nose towards her daughter. She couldn't have communicated a more explicit command had she actually used words. She expected her daughter to accept Lord Rodale's offer.
Edward and the others looked back over at Miss Aintree, wondering what was to happen next. "Very well, madam," Miss Aintree said, eyes disproving the idea that she was acquiescing to her mother's wishes; they still flashed troublingly. "If you say that we must, then we must." With that, she held out her hand toward Edward. Completely discomposed now, he was slow in taking it. If Miss Aintree really did not wish to dance with him, he would have preferred that her mother not force her into it. But he couldn't see how either one of them could back out of it now. He attempted to smile reassuringly at Miss Aintree while ruing his poor attempt at gallantry.
Miss Aintree smiled back, but it was not at all a similarly comforting expression. It was, if anything, rather venomous. It made him instantly wary -- as if she were plotting something and was daring him to put a stop to it. "Shall we set off?" He asked her uncertainly.
"Yes, we shall," Miss Aintree agreed, with a dark glance towards her mother. "Mamma has decreed that we must." With that, she set off moving almost jerkily forward, one foot seeming to hop rather than to step smoothly. Edward looked over at her in surprise.
She was limping!
She returned his shocked expression levelly and he momentarily wondered if she weren't attempting to fake such a physical impairment just to spite her mother, regardless of the embarrassment that she would suffer as well as inflict on her partner. This thought was quickly dismissed, however. Walking seemed to cause her some degree of pain. He could tell that she was attempting to hide small winces as she plodded forward.
Edward was sure that even the finest actress could not have given such a subtly nuanced performance. The suffering had to be genuine and -- therefore -- so must be the condition. There was little doubt in Edward's mind now: Miss Aintree was lame. This made her initial refusal to dance with him completely understandable. What was more difficult to discern was why her mother would have accepted for her and then insisted that she dance!
"Perhaps," Edward began, but couldn't think of what to say next. He didn't want Miss Aintree to dance if she were going to be pained by the experience, nor did he want her pride to be hurt by his suggestion that they not join the set.
"Yes, perhaps we should not join the dance after all," Miss Aintree agreed quickly. "If you would be so kind as to deposit me in the next room..." she began a suggestion.
"Of course," Edward moved in that direction.
"And you'll have time to choose a more adequate partner," Miss Aintree went further.
That assumption took Edward by surprise. He actually considered his time as engaged by Miss Aintree and hadn't thought of leaving her until the dance on the floor had ended. He had lived long enough in London's society to learn what was required of him. "But will you not need me to bring you some refreshment?" He had watched enough other gentlemen pay court to young ladies in that way.
"Why? Do you think that just because I limp that I'm not capable of balancing my own glass?"
"Of course not," Edward stammered.
"Or perhaps you fear that I cannot make it over to the table on my own power?" She asked further.
"I am quite certain that you are capable of..." he attempted badly.
"Well, you can save your pity for the more deserving, Lord Rodale -- and your efforts! I do not need them." With that, she walked off with as much dignity as she seemed to be able to muster, leaving Edward to stare after her, wondering what he could have said that wouldn't have offended her to such an extent. It bothered him to have anyone think so ill of him, especially without cause, but Miss Aintree's displeasure seemed to have a sharper edge to it. He couldn't brush her criticism off lightly. He watched her back disappear into the crowd, her head still held quite high, and felt some emotion towards her that was indefinable and awkward. He supposed that it must have been pity, for she had told him that he pitied her.
Edward tried to examine his thoughts further on that score. He supposed that he did pity her -- or at least harbored some degree of sympathy for her plight. He could summon up a degree of understanding for her awkward condition, for he himself had once felt just as unacceptable to society as she must feel. He remembered his days as a penniless younger son all too well. No one had been willing to dance to him then, had they?
He was still regarding her retreating figure when a familiar voice addressed him. "How is it that I find you all by yourself at a ball, Lord Rodale?"
Edward turned in the direction of the young lady and recognized Miss Drusilla Tottenham. He found himself grinning with relief as he bowed. Miss Tottenham was not nearly as difficult to understand as Miss Aintree was; her motives were always easily understood. He watched as she returned his bow with a demure curtsy of her own -- all downward glance and timid smile, face momentarily hidden under a mass of well ordered brown ringlets. It was all an act and he knew it, but it was a very good performance given by a very attractive young lady. Edward had made the acquaintance of the beautiful Miss Tottenham last year; he had even asked her to dance on a few occasions. Or -- he should say -- he allowed himself to be flattered by her on a few occasions for that's what a dance with her constituted: a prolonged opportunity for her to say all that things that she believed would eventually induce him into making her the next Lady Rodale. He didn't want to fulfill her wish, however. Miss Tottenham was just entering into her twenties while he was quickly leaving his thirties. She seemed much too young for him last year.
Of course, she was a year older now, wasn't she?
Regardless of her age -- this year's or last's -- Edward found himself in great need of Miss Tottenham's not necessarily unique way of offering her attention. Miss Aintree's rather abrupt departure had done much to deplete his own supply of self worth. "I do find myself at a loose end just at the moment, Miss Tottenham," he admitted, before going on rather deprecatingly. "I'm afraid that I managed to say something to offend my partner."
"You? Give offense?" Miss Tottenham's violet eyes blinked in a perfect show of disbelief. "That could never be!"
Edward found himself smiling -- guiltily grateful to Miss Tottenham for attempting to assuage his injured feelings even as he recognized the fact that she chose to do so only because of his title and fortune. He would only allow himself to be partially taken in by her act.
Miss Tottenham returned his smile with some degree of assurance. "No," she continued, "I would have to say that your partner is the one who has given offense." She looked over towards the archway through which Miss Aintree had passed into the other room. "I saw it all," Miss Tottenham admitted to him. "Our Miss Aintree should not have misrepresented herself to you."
"Misrepresented herself?" Edward thought that he understood Miss Tottenham's meaning, but was curious to see just how she would explain it.
"Well, she offered herself as an acceptable dance partner even though everyone in London knows that she can't dance!"
"Not everyone," Edward negatived. "And she didn't offer herself as a partner. I asked and her mother insisted."
"Oh," Miss Tottenham nodded. "That explains it. Her mother would stoop to anything."
This suggested that Miss Tottenham had a degree of familiarity with the Aintree family. He wondered what she would be able tell him about them. And -- for some reason -- he was curious to know more. He asked her if she was acquainted with the Aintrees.
"Oh!" Miss Tottenham said, instantly warming to this new topic in a way that Edward had expected. She had proven herself to be an inveterate gossip last year. "Yes, the youngest Miss Aintree and I were in school together." She seemed to make a point of distancing herself from the elder. "Miss Verity Aintree," she named, "And the other two oldest to a lesser degree." She shook her head sympathetically. "It is simply tragic what happened to Miss Aintree. Simply tragic."
Edward sensed that she didn't think that it was necessarily so tragic in the eyes of Miss Tottenham, nor that she felt any sympathy for her. He believed that she mentioned it so that he could ask her about it further. "Tragic?" Edward echoed questioningly.
Miss Tottenham attempted to look momentarily surprised. "I suppose you wouldn't know, would you? You must have been in Barbados at the time of the accident."
"Accident?" Edward did not have to fake a level of interest this time.
With one more sad shake of her head -- she seemed to relish her role as the teller of such an unhappy tale -- she began. "It must have been about seven years ago," she said. "I was just a girl at the time. I hadn't come out in society and neither had the youngest two Aintree sisters. It was the eldest's first season, however and -- from what I understand -- she was having a very successful time, luckily for her sake. Her mother is the widow of an army colonel; she seems to have nothing better to do than to worry about marrying off her three daughters. Mrs. Aintree was ridiculously pleased when her eldest had accepted the offer of a very attractive gentleman with a large estate in the north." She stopped to look over at Edward. "I wonder if you know him? A Mr. George Stanhope of Everington?"
Edward shook his head. He didn't recall that particular name.
"Anyway," Miss Tottenham continued, "Miss Aintree's life seemed to be working out just as anyone could wish. She was lovely, accomplished, and engaged."
"So what happened?" Edward prompted.
"The entire family was coming home from theater one evening -- the mother and the three daughters. At the theater, someone had given Verity a rose and she was busy toying with it, sniffing it, casting it around, fingering the petals... she was even holding it outside the window to watch it wave in the breeze."
Edward failed to see how this could be leading up to Miss Aintree's accident and was on the point of asking Miss Tottenham to get to the point, when she went further.
"Verity dropped hold of the flower and it fell in the street."
Edward began to imagine what could happen next.
"It dropped in the street and -- instead of simply letting the thing go -- Verity kicked up such a fuss that, eventually, Miss Aintree asked for the driver to stop the carriage. And, rather than simply ask one of the footmen or the driver to go retrieve the item, she went herself.
"She left the carriage?" Edward asked, an image of a younger Miss Aintree alighting from her coach and rushing out into a dark street coming instantly to mind.
"She went to get the dropped flower," Miss Tottenham agreed.
"Was she not careful about the traffic on the street?" Edward fumbled for the next part of the story.
"Oh! No, she was quite careful about that." Miss Tottenham said. "She waited for traffic to give her a large enough opening for her to run out and pick up the rose."
Edward pictured Miss Aintree successfully picking up the flower from the middle of the street, cradling it to her chest, and rushing back to the side of the road.
"She went back to the walk and was returning to the carriage with it in hand when someone -- a man -- ran out from a side street and pushed her directly into the path of an oncoming cab."
Edward heard himself gasp and he closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the image that had been drawn in his mind. He was unsuccessful. He could imagine Miss Aintree as she fell before the fast pacing cab.
Miss Tottenham didn't bother to stop her story on account of his distress. There seemed to be more to be told. "She was caught under the wheels," Miss Tottenham continued. "The bones in her ankle were broken instantly."
"What happened then?" Edward asked, sickened by the thought of shattered bones.
"There were other injuries, of course." Miss Tottenham said. "It took her the better part of a year to recover from them. And she never will regain the full use of her left leg." She shook her head and then turned philosophical. "I suppose that the fact that she's walking at all can be labeled a victory. And without a stick!" She turned back to Edward. "She abandoned her cane last season."
Edward nodded numbly to that.
"Of course, there are some other losses that she will never be able to recoup." Miss Tottenham admitted sadly.
It was then that Edward realized that she still hadn't married her fiancé. He tried to think of the name of the gentleman so that he could ask Miss Tottenham about him.
"Mr. Stanhope," Miss Tottenham reminded, seeming to read Edward's mind, "He chose not to marry her after the accident."
"He left her?" Edward's ire rose, directed towards the man who was coward enough to leave an injured fiancée.
"How he could he marry her after what happened?" Miss Tottenham shrugged her shoulders. "Her condition was quite dire at the time. No one knew if she was ever going to walk again. No one is quite sure if she can still bear children."
Edward was momentarily shocked at such a view, but realized that Miss Tottenham was only voicing what most Londoners would have thought at the time and would continue to believe. They were only being pragmatic. Miss Aintree had been irreparably damaged and had become of no use to anyone, especially a fiancé who expected a wife to bear him an heir.
"Where is her fiancé now?" Edward asked. "Did he ever marry?"
"No," Miss Tottenham shook her head. "Although I wouldn't say that this was in deference to her. From what I understand, he flirts with every woman he fancies." Edward watched as Miss Tottenham's coloring rose tellingly. Edward wondered just how often this Mr. Stanhope found himself fancying Miss Tottenham, and if Miss Tottenham fancied him in return. This might account for her earlier words against Miss Aintree. Edward's knowing glance must have made Miss Tottenham realize that she needed to be more guarded in what she said and allowed to show on her face. "I've heard darker things about him as well," she admitted. "In fact, I've heard that he can be quite a damager of reputations. That is -- when he's not busy indulging himself in the company of ladies who's reputations are already quite soiled."
"Really?" Edward hadn't been expecting that. Was Miss Tottenham implying that this Mr. Stanhope enjoyed paying for the company of women? He had assumed that this Mr. Stanhope was just an idle -- but harmless -- dandy. He didn't know how to ask for clarification, however. Miss Tottenham, for all of her bold honesty, was still a genteelly proper young lady. She shouldn't even know about such things, much less discuss them with gentlemen that she barely knew. "Then perhaps Miss Aintree is better off without him." He commented, rather than to have to continue the dangerous topic.
She smiled wanly, "I suppose that she is," she responded.
"Was the man who pushed her ever brought to justice?" Edward asked.
"No," Miss Tottenham said. "They said that he disappeared just as quickly as he had appeared, retreating back into that black part of the city where only thieves and criminals go." Edward listened as she waxed poetically about Miss Aintree's unknown attacker, wondering if she thought the darkness of it rather romantic in the way of a Gothic novel. He had pegged Miss Tottenham for a reader of such sensational drivel. But Miss Tottenham's attention seemed to have momentarily moved away from him. She was glancing towards the archway that led into the other room. Edward followed her glance and saw that Miss Aintree had returned and appeared to be regarding them from a distance. She turned away quickly when Edward looked up, and began to limp back further into the other room. Edward couldn't help but feeling somewhat pained as he watched her walk off. "What a disappointment to overcome." He whispered, not meaning to speak aloud.
"It is very sad," Miss Tottenham agreed. "And almost bitterly ironic."
"Bitterly ironic?" Edward couldn't see how. He hated labeling things as ironic when they were not, but Miss Tottenham might not share such a sentiment with him and feel free to use the term loosely.
"Well, her name," Miss Tottenham said, looking up at him.
"What about her name?"
"Don't you know it?" Miss Tottenham was surprised.
"No," he said, realizing that he hadn't heard what name she had been given. He thought back to the other Aintree sisters who seemed to have been named rather insipidly after values like truth and constancy. He momentarily wondered if they lived up to those high flown qualities.
Then he wondered if the eldest Miss Aintree had been named similarly and if she could emulate hers.
Miss Tottenham shook her head, as if to negative this unshared thought. "Grace," she pronounced. "Her name is Grace."
Chapter 3, Part 1
Saturday morning Tim woke up, mind numb with a nearly palpable sense of being bored. He felt as if he were absolutely drowning in boredom; thick and thought slowing like a fog. He tried make his way through and broke into a cloudy consciousness.
Had it really been another week?
Tiredly, he counted back through the days. Sunday was the only one that stood out clearly. That was the day that he had followed Bette into that church and had been accosted by the Reverend Shackleford and his prim little wife. After that, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday melded into one large, indistinct blur -- all days similar in that he had begun them by waiting in vain for John Barrow to give him something useful to do. He had ended all of them in like fashion, unable to fall asleep instantly, images of Bette's face playing maddeningly through his mind as he wondered about her. What was she doing now? Did she miss him? And what could he have done differently to keep her from pushing him away?
He knew the answer to the last question: there was very little that he could have done differently. A hundred small assumptions and judgments tied his hands. He simply wasn't capable of being the person she expected him to be.
And he certainly couldn't be that person when his only legal way of earning a living appeared to be drying up! Tim knew that it had been over three weeks since John Barrow had needed him on a case.
Or at least it had been over three weeks since he had last seen either Mr. Barrow or Willie Barton, his insufferable assistant, walk past a particular street corner during a certain hour of the morning.
He was beginning to suspect that Barton was behind this sudden decline of cases that required Mr. Scoggins' assistance. Willie Barton had never liked Tim or respected the work that he had done for Barrow. And -- likewise -- Scoggins had a deep and abiding distrust of Barton. Tim could never forget that it was young Willie who had been with Barrow on the night when his throat was slashed. Barrow almost died that night and -- if he had -- Tim would have made sure that it was Barton who paid for his lack of vigilance. As it was, Tim made sure that the man actually responsible for harming Barrow paid dearly for his impertinence. No one who attempted to destroy Tim Scoggins' bread and butter would be allowed to get away with it.
Scoggins had been watching John Barrow's back ever since that little incident, which was a great deal more difficult when he didn't have a good sense of that man's plans!
Tim laid back in bed and wondered if Barton might be attempting to find his own sources, perhaps finding that it was easier to gather his own information than to petition difficult Mr. Scoggins to find it for him. He had never made their conversations easy for the boy and always treated any acceptance of work from Barrow as if he were choosing to grant a favor to Barton. Heck! Tim always gave the impression that listening to Barton for a minute and a half was an act of extreme condescension.
Perhaps Tim had gone too far, but -- quite frankly -- he didn't think that the boy had it in him to branch off on his own in this way. He seemed a little too inexperienced and weak-kneed to deal with the type of contacts that Tim was used to.
Tim did know that Barton was quite ambitious and eager to have Barrow think well of him, however.
Frustrated by that thought, Tim jumped out of bed, natural litheness slowed by lethargy, and walked over to his one window, the better to study the state of the weather outside. It was raining again. Tim swore loudly as he stared down at the street from the vantage of his garret room, chosen because it gave a rather ample view of the streets in that neighborhood. Tim liked to keep his eye on his environs. He had even filched an excellent spyglass from a very drunken Naval man on leave from his ship. Tim thought that those Navy boys were supposed to be able to hold their liquor better than that. He pulled out the spyglass and tried to examine the street further, but found that the raindrops were severely limiting his vision. He nearly growled as he realized just how wet his wait was going to be today. It wasn't as if there was a shelter for him to stand under as he kept his futile vigil for either Barrow or Barton to show. And it wasn't as if he ever used an umbrella to protect himself from the elements. He didn't even like wearing hats, much less use an umbrella to keep his head dry.
Right. Tim came to a decision. Today would complete the third week since he had last seen Barrow. If he didn't show today -- and Tim didn't have any reason to expect that he would -- he would give up waiting. Let Willie go ahead try to find his own information! Or, better yet, let him try to locate Tim in order to beg his pardon!
That would remind them that he was a man not to be trifled with!
Tim returned to the foot of the bed, where his belongings were kept in a chest. He opened the lid and looked around for a clean shirt to replace the one that he had slept in. Picking one out, he glanced over at the door. He wasn't surprised to see that a fresh pitcher of water had not been brought to his room. It was a rare day when his landlady -- Mrs. Marchand -- was sober enough to manage her household's duties. She was too fond of her gin to be very effective in the morning. Not that Tim minded much. Mrs. Marchand's frequent drunkenness was another reason why Tim had selected this particular house to patronize and why he had chosen to stay for so long. Mrs. Marchand was too soused to ask questions of her boarders or recall much information about them. Unlike other landladies, she was never truly sober enough to become a busybody.
Tim couldn't have abided there if Marchand had shown the least bit interest in his affairs.
Of course, this lack of interest did have its downside. Tim picked up the empty pitcher and opened the door that led to the hall, meaning to go downstairs to the pump so that he could fetch his own clean water, but was stopped by the appearance of Molly standing on the landing.
"Oh!" The girl jumped back, nearly upsetting the tea tray that she carried, unkempt ends of her dark hair fluttering around her face and wide brown eyes growing even larger.
"Molly?" Tim questioned.
"I brought ya yer tea," she proffered the tray timidly.
Momentarily forgetting to be in a sour mood, Tim bestowed one of his rare smiles on the young girl. He had no idea how much that simple gesture lightened the shade of his blue eyes. It made him seem not nearly as dangerous and almost approachable. "We're gettin' awfully fancy 'ere, aren't we?" He commented. "Tea service to th' rooms? Since when did th' missus become disposed enough to organize breakfast?"
"Since never," Molly admitted, passing into Tim's room so that she could lay the tray on the small table that Tim kept next to his bed. "I jes' thought it'd be..." she searched momentarily for a word and seemed to settle for a weakly pronounced, "nice."
Tim looked at her skeptically and watched as she began to blush.
But then, she blushed a great deal, didn't she? Molly was too shy by half for Mrs. Marchand's establishment, but there didn't seem to be any choice for her to make. Orphaned at as young of an age as Tim had been, Molly had worked as a scullery maid in Marchand's boarding house for as long as she could remember -- cleaning, fetching, and generally enduring Mrs. Marchand's frequent abuse. The last galled Tim. Molly was inordinately thin and waifishly small, hardly looking as if she had lived the twelve years that everyone supposed that she had. She was barely able to withstand the blows that Mrs. Marchand rained down upon her. Tim did his best to deflect some of this abuse by making sure that Mrs. Marchand's account was kept good at her favorite gin shop. He had found that a drunken Mrs. Marchand was less of a threat to her servant than a sober one.
And Molly was too good of a soul to be injured, as evidenced by her decision to bring Tim a cup of tea that morning. He walked back into the room and sat down on his bed, placing the empty pitcher on the floor next to the table.
"I'll fill that up fer ya," Molly said, hastily picking it up from the floor where he had set it.
"Thanks," he said reaching for the tea. "Is th' missus up and about this mornin'?"
Molly shook her head. "I thought I'd let 'er sleep in." She stood by the doorway watching Tim as he drank from the cup, as if reluctant to leave the room. "Are ya goin' out in th' rain, then?" She said eventually.
Tim nodded, "I go out every day. You know that." He wondered if Molly had another purpose for hesitating from leaving his room. "Molly?" he asked. "Anythin' wrong?"
Molly shook her head quickly. "No, nothin'" She said quickly and, as if reminded that she really didn't need to stand there any longer, turned to scamper back down the stairs. "I'll get yer water fer ya!" she shouted back as she descended quickly.
Tim didn't know what to make of that and felt annoyance creep up. He had enough people in his life exhibiting frustratingly odd behavior; first Bette, then Barton or Barrow -- he wasn't sure which one was responsible -- and now Molly.
Was there no limit to the maddening changes that he was to endure?
An hour later saw Tim waiting on his usual corner, trying not to look obvious even though he was one of the few people on the street that didn't appear to be in a hurry to get out of the incessant rain. He didn't even bother to buy a paper to hide behind because he knew that the paper would get soaked instantly. He pulled out the rather elegant pocket watch that he had not purchased a few years ago and calculated just how much longer he would wait for Barton before giving up. As he considered the minutes, a passing umbrella struck him, knocking his cap over his face. "Watch it!" he scoffed angrily at the pedestrian, looking up just in time to see John Barrow smiling back at him, comfortably dry and smug under a large, black umbrella. Seemingly sure that he had gotten Tim's attention, he turned back and continued to walk down the street.
"Right," Tim said, raking his dark hair out of his eyes and jamming his cap down a little further on his head. He could see Barrow's tall figure walking purposefully down the lane as if he could not care less whether or not someone was attempting to follow. His black form was quickly becoming indiscernible between the other darkly clad individuals walking in the same direction; Tim would have to hustle through the crowd if he were to not to lose his man.
A few minutes later, Barrow led him to a chophouse, where he took a table at the back. Tim hesitated outside. Was Barrow inviting him to luncheon? That was something new. While Barrow always attempted to vary the places where he and Tim met, even occasionally employing the use of a coffee house for their meetings, he had never selected a place where they would be forced to sit across from each other for a more extended period of time. Tim wasn't sure if he wanted to talk to Barrow for an extended period of time. He wasn't even that hungry.
Well...yes he was hungry. Molly's kind offering of tea had only sustained him through the first few hours of the morning.
He peered into the window, squinting into the dark in order to look at his employer and found that Barrow was staring right back at him. Barrow motioned him inside with a degree of impatience. Resigned, Tim opened the door and attempted to shake some of the rainwater off of his coat and cap before he joined Barrow in the back.
"I would've thought that you'd have found yourself an umbrella to use by now, Tim," John commented wryly.
"Don't like 'em, They're always catchin' on the side of someone's 'ead!" Tim retorted as he sat down across from Barrow, dropping his coat and hat, still dripping, on the chair next to him. Barrow, he saw, had left his own articles on the hat tree and umbrella stand by the door, which could either be taken as a sign that Barrow was too gullible to realize that there were thieves waiting to filch his items or that he was wealthy enough to purchase new ones. He assumed that it was the latter. Barrow, he knew, was as astute as he was wealthy.
John looked somewhat rueful. "I'm sorry about that, but I had to do something to get your attention. Was I supposed to walk twice down the same block just to get some recognition from you?"
"P'rhaps," Tim agreed, voice laced with sarcasm. "Considering that I 'aven't seen ya in weeks, I might've forgotten wot ya looked like!"
"Has it really been that long, Tim?" John inquired as the chophouse keeper came to take their order
Tim allowed John to select lunch for both of them before he answered the question. "Don't you know 'ow long it's been?" Tim accused, sounding nastier than he meant. "P'rhaps time moves more slowly fer ya? Or 'ave ya simply been too busy to consult yer calendar?" Tim's indignation was rising now that he had someone to vent to. "Although I was beginnin' ta think that p'rhaps business hasn't been too good lately. Fewer cases than usual?"
"Plenty of cases, Tim," Barrow acknowledged.
"Jus' ones fer which you don't need my services?" Tim winced as he heard the note of hurt in his own voice. What did it matter to him if Barrow required his assistance or not?
"You get paid whether I need your help or not, Tim," Barrow reminded him somewhat gently.
"And, wot do ya need today, then?"
"Nothing," Barrow admitted with a small grin, causing Tim to roll his eyes.
"'Oo, is this a social call, then?" Tim scoffed.
"Actually, it is," Barrow said, eyes shifting down with discomfort. Tim thought that he understood that and tried to brace himself for what discussion might lie ahead. Like himself, Barrow hadn't ever been inclined to discuss private matters. The closest John Barrow had ever gotten to sharing a confidence with Tim Scoggins was to order him to stake out the Smith establishment on Cheapside Street, keeping a careful watch for the return of Barrow's beloved Miss Smith as well as protecting her father Mr. Smith from thieves like himself. Tim hadn't enjoyed playing nursemaid to her father's shop for the months that Miss Arabella had been in Hertfordshire, but had endured the boredom for Barrow.
And the closest that Tim had ever come to sharing a similar confidence with Barrow was to bring an injured Bette to his doorstep. The Barrows hadn't hesitated to bring the girl into their house and nurse her back to health.
Didn't these incidents seem to prove that they were both men who were much more comfortable acting on their emotions than speaking of them? Apprehensively, Tim waited for Barrow to speak, wondering what had created this willingness to be more candid.
He listened as Barrow took a breath and launched into an explanation. "I happened to be having dinner with Seth and Mary -- the Shacklefords," he corrected, "two days ago and they mentioned the fact that they had seen you on Sunday."
"I wasn't gonna take nothin!" Tim rose up from his chair, instantly beginning to defend, assuming that Barrow was getting ready to warn him away from that particular church.
"I didn't say that you were and neither did they," John held up his hand to stop Tim from making any further protests. "Although you must admit that the back of a church is a rather odd place for you to be."
"Mebbe I'm finding religion." Tim said, voice falsely light as he sat back down.
"I sincerely doubt that." John stared back at Tim, seeing through that spurious excuse instantly. "They, of course, mentioned to me the fact that Bette happened to be worshipping in the congregation."
"Was she?" Tim shrugged, feigning innocence.
"You know that she was." John said, continuing to look very pointedly at Tim as he went on. "They, of course, were curious to know why you didn't choose to sit with her in the benches."
"Mebbe I wasn't invited." The note of hurt replacing the lightness in his voice.
John nodded at that. "Maybe you weren't," he agreed.
Tim looked away. It unsettled him that Barrow was so willing to accept the fact that Bette hadn't invited him in the first place.
John went on. "So then I just happened to be at Smiths earlier this morning," he stated.
"Were you?" Tim continued to attempt disinterest. "Did you finally run out of walking sticks?"
"Not exactly," Barrow smiled deprecatingly, shaking his head. Even he knew that he had already purchased more walking sticks than he could ever use during his courtship of his now wife. "But while I was there I happened to notice that your Miss Bette looked a bit..." Barrow searched for a word. "Forlorn," he stated eventually.
"Ya know that she isn't exactly my Miss Bette," Tim tried to say noncommittally, even as a part of him rejoiced to hear that she wasn't comfortable. Could it be that she was even as unhappy as he was?
But another piece of him didn't like to hear of her being so...forlorn.
And he simply detested the fact that he was hearing about her from another party!
"I asked her if she had spoken with you lately, and she seemed quite reluctant to answer." Barrow went on. "In fact, she actually chose to change the subject instead."
"Did she?" Tim leaned in, curious now. He didn't know how to interpret that. Had she really cared for him so little that he had been easy enough to forget?
John nodded. "She started talking on and on about how she and the Smiths planned to attend the season opening of Vauxhall tomorrow." Barrow gave a small smile. "I guess that she's never been to the pleasure gardens and has been saving up some money all winter just for the excursion. It all seemed rather novel to her. Her excitement made her really natter away about it."
"Wot?" That baffled Tim further. It didn't make sense at all. He knew that Bette had been to Vauxhall Gardens several times in the last few years. He had taken her himself! It was one of the few places where they felt comfortable going. Bette adored hearing music and was particularly fond of the work of Mr. Handel. Tim managed to be a patient listener during the concerts in the orchestral pavilion, knowing that his forbearance would be rewarded later with a rather enjoyable pacing of the secluded and aptly named 'dark walk' while they waited for the fireworks.
And -- even if he didn't know that Bette had intimate knowledge of Vauxhall Gardens -- the Bette he knew hardly ever changed subjects, nor did she use to 'natter' away in such an insipid manner!
But then, perhaps she was undergoing more changes than even Tim realized.
But Bette turn into an empty rattle of a person? It was not comprehensible!
"Yes," John affirmed. "She kept going on and on about Vauxhall Gardens, asking if I had ever visited it with Mrs. Barrow or the children, and if I had managed to lose Mrs. Barrow or the children on one of those darkened paths. She seemed quite interested in the idea that the Garden had quite a few secluded walks."
Tim stared at John in confusion. What was going on in Bette's head?
"Only after saying this much did she ask me if I planned to meet with you this morning." Barrow said, raising one eyebrow significantly. "And then asked me to be sure to give you her compliments."
Tim squinted at Barrow. Barrow's raised eyebrow seemed to signify that there was something there that should have meaning to him. But he couldn't make sense of it at all!
John shook his head in some exasperation. "Well, I believe that she was trying to send you a message, but if you can't figure it out..."
"Figger out wot?" Tim nearly exploded in frustration.
"That she hopes to meet you on some secluded path of Vauxhall Gardens tonight!" John spelled it all out for him, leaning back in his chair, continuing to shake his head in disgust.
"Ya got all that from her goin' on about a concert in some park?" Tim was surprised. Even with the fact that she lied about having never been to Vauxhall before, he wasn't sure if he could read that far into it. "Mebbe she was just tryin' ta make conversation."
John shook his head. "You know as well as I that Bette is a plain speaker. She doesn't ask about the state of some pleasure garden just because she can't think of anything else to say.
"Yeah, well she used ta be that way when I knew 'er" Tim attempted.
"I believe that she was hoping that you might just happen to ask about her during the conversation that she knew I was to have with you and wanted to make sure that I would have something useful to say." Barrow said, seeming to ignore Tim's comment.
"Seems like a stretch," Tim scoffed again, "Mebbe she shoulda jus' sent along a note."
"If she saw you regularly, she wouldn't need to be sending messages through me at all!" Barrow seemed to be growing more candid as he lost patience, and Tim flinched uncomfortably. And it really bothered him to have to hear about Bette through an intermediary! "What's happened between the two of you, Tim?" John asked, concern sounding in his voice.
"Nothin'!" Tim refuted quickly.
John shook his head again and seemed to be trying to form a response. He appeared to be having some difficulty. They sat for several minutes in silence while the plates of food were brought and set before him. Tim looked down and realized that he had lost his appetite.
Barrow didn't seem to have one either. He left his food untouched as well. "Look Tim," he began. "I don't know what is going on between yourself and Bette right now nor do I feel a great need to know, but I can easily see that neither one of you is very happy right now."
Tim didn't even bother to say anything to refute that. Barrow was right. He wasn't happy. And Tim -- on closer inspection -- honestly didn't like the fact that Bette wasn't either.
Barrow picked up his fork and began to examine his meat pie disinterestedly. "Listen Tim, I'm not in the habit of offering advice, but -- if I were you -- I would go speak with Bette tonight."
"Oh would ya?" Tim said defensively.
"Yes, I would," John stated with a degree of resolution, allowing his fork to drop back on the table with a clatter. He rose from the table. Pulling out his purse, he counted out enough money to pay for their meal. Barrow put the coins down on the table and leaned towards Tim. "I would take this opportunity and talk to her," Barrow said smiling slightly at Tim. "For you don't know if I'm going to be as willing to play messenger the next time Bette needs to send you a hint."
With that, Barrow walked out.