Page 37 of Where the Heart Leads
Miss Martin glanced at Penelope’s hand, then hesitantly took it, shook it, then added a bob for good measure.
“No, no.” Penelope moved farther into the shop, drawing Miss Martin with her. “There’s no need for any ceremony. You’ve been very kind in agreeing to help us find our missing boys. I truly am very grateful.”
Following Penelope inside, Barnaby could see the “Us?” forming in Griselda Martin’s eyes. When her gaze shifted to him, he smiled reassuringly. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Martin. I’m a friend of Stokes’s and like Miss Ashford—who is the administrator of the Foundling House where the missing boys should have gone—am most sincerely grateful for your assistance.”
Stokes stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He caught Miss Martin’s eye. “I hope you’ll excuse this invasion, Miss Martin, but—”
“The truth, Miss Martin,” Penelope cut in, “is that I jockeyed Stokes into allowing me to come to meet you, together with himself and Mr. Adair. I’m absolutely determined to rescue the four boys who’ve been taken, and I gather you have a plan to go into the East End and search for clues to the burglary school in which they’ve likely been enrolled.”
Barnaby had a sudden sinking premonition that allowing Penelope to talk freely with Miss Martin would lead to disaster. But then Miss Martin frowned, and he hoped he was wrong.
Penelope hadn’t taken her eyes from Miss Martin’s face. In response to the frown she nodded. “Indeed. I daresay you’re wondering why a lady of my station is so interested in the welfare of four East End boys. The answer is quite simple. While they may not have been handed over to the Foundling House, as was intended, they were, nevertheless, made into our care. Those boys are our charges, and as the administrator of the house, I will not simply turn my back and let them be taken, denied the life that their parents arranged for them, to be instead inducted into a life of crime. That wasn’t their intended destinies, and I will move heaven and earth if necessary to return them to their proper course.”
Watching her face, Barnaby understood that when she said “heaven and earth,” she meant it literally. The fierceness that lit her dark brown eyes and tightened her animated features bore testimony to her resolution, her unwavering determination.
Then she smiled, banishing the image of a warrior-goddess. “I hope you understand, Miss Martin, that I can’t simply sit at home and wait for news. If there’s any way at all I can help in locating these boys and rescuing them, as I believe there is, then I must be here, doing.”
Behind him, Barnaby heard Stokes shift restlessly. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Penelope’s appeal to Miss Martin, much less its fervor. Despite being able to see quite clearly just where Penelope’s persuasion was going to land them—with her going into the East End in disguise—Barnaby had to, albeit grudgingly, admire her honesty, as well as her strategy.
Miss Martin had remained silent throughout Penelope’s declaration. She was studying Penelope’s face; the frown on her own had faded, but remained in her eyes.
Barnaby was tempted to say something, to try to mute Penelope’s appeal, but sensed if he spoke, he might well achieve the opposite. He was sure Stokes felt the same; with her characteristic directness, Penelope had shifted the discussion onto a plane on which they, mere men, held much less clout.
Everything hinged on how Miss Martin reacted to Penelope’s words.
Penelope tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on Miss Martin’s face. “I hope you can set aside any reservations you might have over my social status, Miss Martin. No matter the relative quality of our gowns, we are women before all else.”
A smile slowly broke over Miss Martin’s face. “Indeed, Miss Ashford. So I’ve always thought. And please, call me Griselda.”
Penelope beamed. “If you will call me Penelope. Now!” She turned to survey Barnaby and Stokes, then glanced at Griselda. “To our plans.”
Barnaby exchanged a thin-lipped look with Stokes; Penelope had won that skirmish before they’d fired a shot. But the battle wasn’t yet over.
Miss Martin—Griselda—waved to the rear of the shop. “If you’ll come up to my parlor, we can sit and discuss how best to manage things.”
She led the way past the counter and through the heavy curtain. Beyond lay a small kitchen, the space all but filled with a large deal table on which feathers, ribbons, lace, and beads lay spread.
Penelope surveyed the feminine clutter. “Do you decorate all your bonnets yourself?”
“Yes.” Griselda turned to a narrow flight of stairs. “I have two apprentices, but they’re not working today.”
She climbed the stairs, Penelope followed close behind. Barnaby went next; the stairs were so narrow he and Stokes had to angle their shoulders.
At the top of the stairs, Barnaby stepped into a cozy room that extended in a bow window over the front of the shop. At the other end, opposite the bow window, a wall cut across the space. Through an open door he glimpsed a bedroom, with a narrow window looking over the rear yard.
He followed the ladies to where a sofa and two mismatched armchairs were arranged before the small fireplace. A mound of coals was still glowing, throwing off a little heat, just enough to ease the chill. Barnaby eyed Penelope’s pelisse; it was still done up—she was warm enough. He and Stokes had opened their heavy greatcoats, but kept them on as they sat.
Griselda Martin, a woolen shawl about her shoulders, sank into one armchair as Penelope claimed that end of the sofa. Barnaby sat next to her; Stokes took the other armchair. Barnaby caught Griselda’s eye. “Stokes has explained the situation, and that we need to gain information about the individuals he’s identified, but that we must do so without raising any suspicions, not those of the individuals nor indeed of anyone else, or we risk losing the boys forever.”
Griselda nodded. “What I was going to suggest…” She glanced at Stokes; he nodded for her to go on. She drew breath, then said, “There’s markets in Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane. Most of the men my father named work in and around those areas. Both markets will be in full swing tomorrow—if I go and pretend to look over the various wares, it won’t be hard to slip in a question about this man or that here and there. People ask after others they know all the time at the market stalls. Because I have the right accent, no one will think twice about me asking—they’ll answer freely, and I know how to jolly them along to get anyone who knows something to tell me all.”
She glanced at Stokes. “The inspector has insisted that, as it’s a police matter I’m assisting with, he will accompany me.” She looked back at Penelope and Barnaby, and her expression was concerned. “But I honestly don’t think it would be wise for either of you to come with us. You’ll never pass. The instant people see you, they’ll know something’s afoot, and they’ll watch and say nothing.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope. He intended to accompany Stokes and Griselda—Stokes had seen him in disguise and knew he could pull the transformation off. But if there was any chance Penelope would accept Griselda’s warning and agree not to go into the East End…there was no reason to mention his plans.
Penelope met Griselda’s eyes, held them. “You’re a milliner, so you know how different bonnets can change a woman’s appearance. You know what makes women look drab just as much as you know how to make them appear stunning.” She smiled, a swift, engaging gesture. “Think of me as a challenge to your skills—I need you to fashion a disguise that will allow me to move through the East End markets without anyone thinking I don’t belong.”
Griselda met her gaze, then openly studied her. Her eyes narrowed, considering.
