Page 21 of What Cannot Be Said

Veronica gave a strange, hollow-sounding laugh. “How many women of our station are truly ‘happy’ in the marriages their parents arrange for them?”

It was a telling statement. “Content, then,” said Hero. “Do you think she was content?”

The widow gave a vague, dismissive jerk of one shoulder. “She didn’t seek to escape it, if that’s what you’re asking.” She hesitated, then added, “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Would you know?”

Veronica’s brows drew together in a frown. “Honestly? Perhaps not. Laura kept a great deal to herself.”

“Did she ever tell you that Sir Ivo hit her?”

Veronica stared at her. “Good heavens, no. Did he?”

“So it appears, yes.”

“No, she never said anything to me about it. Oh, poor Laura. If only—” She broke off as her stout, middle-aged butler appeared carrying a heavy silver tray with tea things and a plate of small cakes, which he set with a flourish on the table before them.

Hero waited until he had withdrawn, then said, “When was the last time you saw Laura?”

Veronica reached for the teapot and began to pour. “Last week. It was either Tuesday or Wednesday, although I can’t recall precisely which.”

“How did she seem? Troubled in any way? Worried?”

“I wouldn’t have said so, no. I’ve been helping her to organize a benefit concert for the Foundling Hospital, you see, so that’s mainly what we discussed. She was telling me about the musicians and singers she’d convinced to volunteer their time; that sort of thing.”

Hero took the teacup held out by her hostess. “Have you always helped her with the concerts?”

“No, this was the first time; I was still in half mourning for Mr.Goodlakes last year. She’d been coaxing me to do it for years, but Mr.Goodlakes refused to countenance it. He used to say that while a nobleman’s wife could enhance her image as Lady Bountiful by lending her prestige to such an institution, a shipbuilder’s wife needed to take extra care never to be seen consorting with the low born.”

Even when the shipbuilder’s wife is herself a nobleman’s daughter? thought Hero. Interesting. She took a slow sip of her tea. “What about Laura’s efforts to convince Parliament to change the laws regarding apprenticeships? Were you involved in that?”

The widow had the grace to look vaguely discomfited and glanced away. “No. Given the circumstances, it didn’t seem wise.”

Hero was itching to ask What circumstances? but refrained. Instead she said, “I’m told Laura had run-ins with the directors of some of the parish workhouses. Would you happen to know which ones?”

“No, but if I had to guess, I’d say St. Martin’s was one of them. I mean, they’re the ones who apprenticed that poor little boy to Dobbs in the first place, then turned around and gave him another child when the first one died.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

Veronica was silent for a moment, her tea forgotten in her hands, her gaze fixed unseeingly on something in the distance. Then she gave herself a little shake that was more like a shiver and looked over at Hero again. “I still can’t believe this happened. Laura was always so full of energy, so determined, so full of life. And now she’s... dead. And in such a senseless, frightening way.”

“You said you’d known her since you were at school together. Do you know if she ever had anything to do with a woman named Julia Lovejoy?”

“The woman who was killed in a similar way out at Richmond years ago, you mean? I don’t think she knew her, but obviously I could be wrong. It was so long ago now.”

“Fourteen years,” said Hero. “At the time, Laura would have been—what? Twenty-four or twenty-five?”

Veronica nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“Do you have any idea how old this fellow Dobbs is?”

“Forty or fifty, I’d say; something like that. He’s a short, stocky man with graying dark hair and a crooked nose.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Oh, yes. I was with Laura one time when he confronted her. We were coming out of Hatchards in Piccadilly, and he walked right up to her and said—” Veronica broke off, her eyes widening.

“And said—what?”

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