Page 14 of Taken to the Grave
“You were listening at the drawing room door, weren’t you?” Audrey guessed.
“Yes,” she said softly with a slight grimace of remorse. “But for a good reason. I want to tell you the truth.”
Intrigued, Audrey gave the young girl her full attention. “Which is?”
“Bethie didn’t elope with that man.”
She stepped closer to Flora, peering at the door again. It wouldn’t be long until her absence went noticed. “How do you know this?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “My sister thinks just because I am young, I don’t have ears. But I do, and I heard Bethie talking about a sanctuary.”
Sanctuary? The word put Audrey in mind of a church or some other safe haven.
“Bethie told Gwen not to worry, that she wanted to go to the sanctuary. That she was ready for it.”
“Ready for what?” Audrey asked. But the girl only flipped up her hands and shrugged.
“I don’t know, she just said ‘it’. Gwen tried to tell her not to go, but Bethie doesn’t ever listen to anyone.”
So, Gwendolyn did know more than she was saying. If not for the presence of her mother and the harsh scolding she would receive, she might have eventually revealed more.
The front door to the home opened, and a startled maid peered out. “Miss Flora!”
Audrey winked at the girl. “Thank you, you’ve been most helpful, but it’s not my glove. I do hope you find its owner.”
Flora gave a small curtsey and winked in return before she turned and hurried back inside.
Chapter
Five
Unlike the pampered individuals of London’s upper crust, the working class did not sleep in most days until noon. They were setting off to their jobs or businesses when the sun touched the spires of the city and chased away night shadows. Costermongers set up their carts, shops lifted their awnings and opened their doors, newsboys hawked morning editions on corners, and in the case of Lucy Givens and countless other women living in the East End like her, so began a new day of monotony and struggle as she tried to care for her children.
Sir’s mother was likely no more than thirty years of age and yet the few times Hugh had met her, she’d appeared at least a decade older. Her thin frame gave her a hollowed-out appearance, and there were usually yellowing bruises or fresh purple ones peeking out from under her shawl or cuffs.
Hugh stood on a short close, off Fenschurch Street, preparing to meet with Lucy Givens. Tyne and Stevens would have either paid her a visit last night or sent a constable to escorther to Bow Street. If they had not alerted her to her husband’s death, then Hugh was hopeful Sir had.
He hadn’t been at Bedford Street when Hugh and Thornton arrived there the evening before, and Basil had not seen him either. The valet had looked stricken upon hearing the news of Givens’s murder and Sir’s misfortune of seeing the body, and though at midnight, he’d said he was going to bed, Hugh had heard Basil shuffling about well into the early morning hours. Hugh remained in his study, lamps lit, an ear peeled for any sound near the kitchen, where Sir always let himself in. Of course, Hugh had imposed some rules for Sir to adhere to while living under his roof, and when he’d stopped being his ‘assistant’ and increased his tutoring sessions with Mr. Fines, the rules had become even stricter.
Sir was not to stay out past nine o’clock at night; if Hugh was not present, he was to leave word with Basil or Whitlock or Mrs. Peets about from where he could be fetched; he was not to associate with anyone connected to the Whitechapel gangs he’d once been connected to; and he was not to spend a single farthing of his weekly allowance on gambling or illicit substances.
All night, Hugh had clung to the theory that Sir must have gone to his mother. And when dawn crested over the city, he had dressed and hailed a hack to Fenschurch Street. It was moderately better than where Sir had grown up in Whitechapel. Though Hugh had offered to pay the monthly fee, Sir insisted it would be his own allowance that would keep the place. The smart lad paid the landlord directly, rather than giving the money to his mother, who would, undoubtedly, have lost it to her husband if he ever got whiff of it. Men like the unfortunate Harlan Givens could scent a coin as powerfully as a bloodhound could scent its quarry.
Hugh ascended the common stairwell to the third floor and brought his fist down upon the door. The wailing of a child and the chattering of other children came through the walls clearly, even before Mrs. Givens opened it to see who’d come calling. Her expression wasn’t any more drawn or dejected than usual, and for a moment Hugh worried she did not yet know the news. That he would be the one required to give it. But then a weak smile touched her starched lips.
“You’ve heard about Harlan, then, my lord?”
Heard.He removed his hat, thinking over her comment quickly. She didn’t seem to know that he had been there at Vauxhall when her husband was found. Which meant Sir had most likely not been here yet.
“I have,” he said. “I’ve come to give my condolences and see if there is anything I can be of assistance with.”
She stepped aside, a gesture for him to enter. He did, entering a small space packed with wash hanging from drying racks, baskets of waiting wash, minimal and cheap furniture, and gray, bare walls. The air in the entry room, which doubled as kitchen, dining space, and recreational area for the children, was hazy from coal smoke in the small brazier. But there were small signs of modest luxury: the wash consisted of new linens and clothing. One of Sir’s younger sisters sat in a chair, peeling a small orange, of which there were several more in a bowl on the table. The other sister, slightly younger, held a porcelain doll that was certainly not secondhand. Lucy Givens herself brought the fine shawl she wore tighter around her, her fingers drifting over the still vibrant velvet.
Hugh’s other rule for Sir had been that he must save at least some of his allowance for himself, and not spend all of it on his mother and sisters. But, of course, Hugh could not regulate that, and he also could not fault the boy for wanting to take care of his family. It seemed he had.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hugh said, turning away from the young girls and lowering his voice.
“You know what kind of man my Harlan were,” she replied, her voice tight and unemotional. “It were only a matter of time ‘fore he riled someone stronger than him.”
