Page 8 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I reached across, giving her arm a light squeeze. “You’re a remarkable woman, Sister Margaret.”
She smiled faintly, brushing away the compliment with a wave. “You’re kind, Lady Rosalynd.”
“I’m doing what I can to help bring the Society behind you.” I retrieved an envelope from my reticule and handed it to her. “Here’s proof, with more to come.”
“Thank you, child. It will be put to good use,” she murmured, accepting the offering and locking it into a desk drawer. “Now then, let’s have you meet some of the lasses.”
In the common room, Sister Margaret introduced me to a group of three young women seated by the fire—Mary, with soft brown hair; Sarah, dark-haired and shy; and Ginny, a red-haired girl with freckles and an open, infectious smile. All wereunmistakably expecting, their rounded bellies evident beneath their plain dresses.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” I said warmly, folding my hands before me. “How are you feeling?”
Mary spoke first, her eyes shining. “Better now, milady. Before I came here, I’d been on the streets a month, no place to go. I don’t know what I’d have done if the sisters hadn’t taken me in.”
Sarah ducked her head but added softly, “It’s warm here. There’s food. We look after one another.”
Ginny laughed, her freckles dancing. “Sister Margaret’s got a sharp tongue if you cross her, but she’s got a big heart. We’re lucky to be here, milady. Lucky you and your Society care enough to help keep the place goin’.”
I felt a lump rise unexpectedly in my throat. “Thank you for telling me that. You’ve shown great courage in coming here and giving yourselves and your babies a better chance.”
Mary smiled faintly, brushing a hand over her stomach. “Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you’re worth helpin’, milady. And here . . . they do.”
Sister Margaret next guided me to the sewing room, where several women bent over their mending. In the corner, by the window, sat a slender figure I hadn’t yet met — pale, slim, her dark braid slipping loose over one shoulder, her delicate hands working intently on a tiny hem.
“That’s Elsie,” Sister Margaret murmured softly beside me. “Quiet little thing, but she’s got a rare gift for needlework. She’s set to start an apprenticeship at Madame Noëlle’s in a fortnight, once her six weeks are up.”
I approached gently, offering a kind smile. “Elsie, I’m Lady Rosalynd. May I sit with you a moment?”
Her wide brown eyes flicked up, then down again, her fingers twisting the fabric nervously. She gave a tiny nod.
“I hear you’re very skilled with the needle,” I said softly, admiring the evenness of her stitches.
A faint, hesitant smile touched her lips. “I like workin’ wi’ cloth, milady. I’m lucky to have the apprenticeship.”
“And your little one?” I asked gently.
Her hands stilled. The shadow in her eyes deepened. “A boy. I gave him up. We’re not told who takes ’em—part of the rules, so we don’t go lookin’.”
She brushed her cheek with trembling fingers. “He had a little birthmark right here. The midwife said it might fade, but maybe not. I just . . . I just want him to be safe.”
I reached out and pressed her hand. “You’re very brave, Elsie.”
I could only imagine the strength it took to let go of someone you loved that much.
As we made our way back toward the front door, Sister Margaret shook her head faintly. “Elsie’s a good girl—quiet, hardworking. But there’s a shadow over her. She’s holdin’ something back, I can feel it. I’ve asked, but she won’t say.”
“Maybe she’ll share more another day,” I murmured.
Sister Margaret smiled at me, her tired face warming. “You’re a good woman, Lady Rosalynd. Not many in your position would trouble themselves here, but you do. It means the world to them that a ‘proper’ lady cares for them.”
After another half hour, during which Sister Margaret insisted on showing me the financial ledgers, I bid farewell to St. Agnes. As the carriage rattled home through the cold, rainy dusk, I watched the blurred lamplights and gray silhouettes of pedestrians hurry past the window. I should have felt satisfied, knowing the Society’s help was making a difference. But all I could think of was Elsie—her thin shoulders, her darting eyes, her tightly held silence.
Whatever she had fled, it hadn’t yet let her go.
Something deep inside told me I would be crossing the St. Agnes threshold again sometime soon.
Chapter
Five
