by Betina Krahn
“Thank you for your concern. The flowers are lovely. And I am feeling well enough,” Lauren said as Caroline took her hand and patted it with what could only be called affection. “I might ask the same of Rafe. He did suffer a nasty blow to the head.”
“He slept well and long, I believe, but his father has him up and about now. He has always had a strong constitution. They went to the warehouse to check on some cargo or other. I tried to get him to rest and leave business for another day, but he insisted.” She smiled. “He can be a bit stubborn.”
“I’ve noticed.” Lauren returned her smile. “Though sometimes what is called stubbornness is merely determination mislabeled.”
She noticed the way Caroline softened. “That is kind of you to say, considering your recent differences.”
She sighed. “I think our conflicts come from the fact that we are more alike than different.”
Caroline’s smile broadened. “He has a good bit of his father in him. I have always believed he needs someone spirited enough to withstand his many opinions and natural authority.” She paused and produced a knowing smile. “I think you may be just the ticket.”
After Rafe’s mother left Lauren sat for a while in the parlor, relishing the quiet and thinking. His mother was a dear. His father was a nightmare. Little wonder that Rafe turned out to be so puzzling. Strong, opinionated, intelligent, and willing to trade physical blows when the occasion called for it. He was determined and principled and not quite the selfish son of privilege she had believed. Aboard the ship she had found herself enjoying his company and their prickly banter. Not to mention the kisses. Was that closeness merely the effect of having to join together against adverse circumstances? Now that they were back in their usual world, would he remember that time as warmly as she did? Would he think about those kisses and recall the feel of their bodies touching?
To keep from dwelling on that part of their adventure she rose and headed for her father’s study. She had questions that needed answers.
Lawrence was standing behind his desk gathering documents into a leather folder when she entered the study. He glanced up and smiled at her.
“Papa, I have a question for you,” she said as she came to lean against a nearby chair.
“How are you feeling?” he said, pausing with documents in his hand. “No fever or stomach complaints? Harbor water is so filthy . . .”
“No, I’m fine. Just tired,” she answered, straightening. Reassured, he went back to stuffing his folio with documents.
“I want to know about my inheritance from Mamma.”
“Yes? What about it?” he said, slowing but not looking at her.
“Well, what are these entailments it contains? Some time ago you told me there were conditions, and while we were aboard ship I realized I know nothing about them. Do you have some documents or papers I can read?”
Her father stopped sorting and closed the folio sharply.
“I have no idea. I mean, I am certain our solicitors keep copies of them.” He glanced around the study. “I doubt if I have anything here. We would have to check with Willingham and Boswell. The funds themselves are in the hands of trustees at the bank.” He expelled a heavy breath.
“Honestly, I don’t have time just now. I have an important meeting in a short while.” He checked his pocket watch and seemed jolted by what it read. On his way out he paused to give her a kiss on the forehead as he had when she was a little girl. “Be sure to get some rest.”
She frowned as she watched him leave. He didn’t remember the details of her mother’s inheritance? He was a consummate businessman, a titan of commerce. Surely he would have taken an interest in his wife’s financial resources. But then, it had been a stressful few days, and she knew he was deeply concerned about matters affecting his business merger and their finances. An unsettling wave of insight broke over her as she drifted out of her father’s study.
She watched him take his hat and gloves from Weathersby and stride out the front door into a world she hardly recognized.
For the first time she realized the burdens he carried as a father, a man, and a force in the world of business. With that awareness came an abrupt and somewhat disorienting expansion of the world she had known. Suddenly she understood how he saw her concerns about child welfare and universal education and fair wages. Causes that had always seemed such a simple and obvious good to her no longer seemed as simple or as obvious. As he dealt with laws, institutions, and the immovable weight of nations and governments, she began to understand how her concerns and causes must seem small and inconsequential.
Then she thought of Jims and his family, to whom she now owed a debt. She thought of his sweet face, his curiosity, his game way of engaging a bruising world. How could his hopes and welfare not matter?
Why didn’t others care about—she stopped with a hand to her head.
Here was something she didn’t like thinking: others like her father were busy thinking about the wider, messier world outside the necessities of children’s empty bellies and bare feet and need for schooling. Someone had to think about those wider things, she supposed. But why couldn’t they spare a bit of time for more personal good—for kindness and sharing—for making the world better for real, individual people?
Her head was spinning and her stomach started to churn. She dragged herself up the stairs to rest, wondering if she had swallowed more harbor water than she realized. But deep in her core she sensed it was more than just fatigue or stress . . . something deeply personal and vital in her had just shifted, and she wasn’t sure if it was for good or for ill.
* * *
The kitchen cooked for two that evening, because her father had declared he would be working late and would have a bite of dinner at his club. On her way downstairs to the morning room where she and Amanda took simple suppers, Lauren saw Amanda standing in the upper hall. Her aunt was staring with a puzzled expression on her face through the doorway of the upstairs parlor.
“What is it?” She paused beside Amanda and tilted her head to learn what had absorbed her aunt’s attention.
In the brief silence she heard voices and moved into the parlor.
“There are people in front of the house,” Amanda said as she followed Lauren to the front window. “Some seem to stroll by, others have paused. Some left flowers at the gate and one even lighted a candle.”
“A candle? Whatever for?” she said, sinking onto a knee on the window seat as she watched one lady near the gate bow her head.
“I believe it’s for you,” Amanda said in a constricted voice.
“Me?” She looked at her aunt in dismay.
“You’ve been declared ‘London’s Angel.’” Amanda turned to her needlework chair and returned with penny papers in hand. “And by recent accounts you’re missing.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She sat down on the window seat with a plop and took the papers. Each was open to an article that had been circled . . . an article announcing that the beloved Angel of London had disappeared during the riot on the docks and hadn’t been seen since—even by her family.
“Rupert brought one to the house, saying they were all over town. When I read this one I sent him out to find some others.”
Lauren held up one particularly lurid account in disbelief.
“I was gone two days and they make it sound as if I died.”
She froze for a minute, then looked at her aunt and down at the people lingering outside their gate. They believed the stories and they’d come to . . . pay respects? . . . mourn?
“This is intolerable. I cannot let them continue to think such a thing for a minute longer.” She rose and tossed the papers aside.
“What are you going to do?” Amanda stepped in front of her.
“Tell them I’m home and safe . . . to go home and not believe anything they read in those blasted papers!”
“Wait.” Amanda grasped her shoulders. “They may not understand that you’re not responsible for those stories
that call you a saint or claim that you’re missing and in peril. Let me go and see what can be done to send them off.” She turned back at the door. “Whatever happens you stay here. You’ve already been in one riot this week.”
Lauren rushed down the back stairs to tell an anxious Weathersby that her aunt would deal with the group at their gate and that she suspected dinner would have to be held for a bit. She spotted parlormaids at the front window watching the people but didn’t bother to chide them because she was bound back upstairs to do the same.
She spotted Aunt Amanda’s favorite shawl when her aunt emerged from the alley beside the house and strolled through the knots of people keeping vigil on the pavement. Across the street several others stood in the park, watching and pointing at the house. She lowered herself on the window seat and peered at the scene from between pillows.
Amanda paused to chat for a moment with each small group, and Lauren watched her work her considerable charm on them. With a few words, a touch on the arm, or a smiling nod, she sent them off toward their homes. Soon the score of folk wishing for the Angel’s return were gone, except for one lone woman by the gate.
Whatever the woman said to Amanda, she could see it had an effect on her aunt. She held her breath, waiting for the woman to leave. Instead, Amanda took the woman’s arm and led her to the alley and down toward the kitchen entrance.
What the devil was Auntie A doing?
Lauren hurried down the main stairs and through the house to the kitchen stairs, where she found her aunt escorting the woman up to see her.
Spotting her confusion, Amanda quickly introduced them.
“Lauren, this is Mrs. Trimble. I’m not sure if you recognize her, but she says you saved her and her daughter’s lives not long ago.”
Lauren was thunderstruck. The woman’s face was familiar, but the strain the widow had suffered since their meeting seemed to have etched additional years onto her face. The widow twisted a handkerchief with reddened hands and had trouble meeting Lauren’s eyes.
“Of course I remember.” Lauren nodded and managed a smile. “Has something else happened? Why have you come?”
“I heard you were . . . I was afraid . . .” The handkerchief now looked like a rope. “Maybe I’m being a foolish old woman . . . but when I heard something had happened to you . . .” She looked from Lauren to Amanda, as if for help. Whatever she had come to say had to be difficult indeed.
Lauren took charge and ushered her into the main salon, where the gaslights were turned low and the atmosphere was more conducive to a personal exchange. She settled Mrs. Trimble on a settee and squeezed her hand. It was cold. She rang for some sherry, and after Amanda pulled a chair over to join them, the woman relaxed a bit.
“What troubles you enough to bring you out alone and after dark?” Lauren asked.
“I was worried about you. And your family.” She took a deep breath and her chin quivered. “You know I am a widow. My dear husband died in an accident three months ago. Since then, I find it difficult to sleep, and I walk the floor at night.”
“I am so sorry for your loss.” For a moment she shared the woman’s feeling of grief. “But why would you worry about me, Mrs. Trimble?”
“Four days ago I had a visit from Gilbert’s head clerk. What he told me makes me think things are not right at Gilbert’s company. And I know that Gilbert was worried . . . before his accident.” Her eyes watered and she dabbed them with her tortured handkerchief.
Just then Weathersby arrived with the sherry. He poured three glasses and offered the first to the distressed widow. She took a deep breath, sipped, and produced a sad little smile. When Weathersby exited Lauren urged her to continue.
“Gilbert said some odd things in his last days . . . about . . . if anything should happen to him, we would be taken care of. I thought he was just overly tired and lacking sleep. He was sometimes called out in the night to admit goods and cargo to the warehouse.”
“What was Gilbert’s position?” Lauren asked, glancing at her aunt. The mention of “cargo” and “warehouse” focused her attention.
“He was the warehouse manager of Consolidated Shipping. They have facilities down by the docks. He was always diligent in his duties and kept meticulous records. But Merrell Hampstead, his head clerk, recently told me that he had been troubled by goods that appeared where they shouldn’t and other goods that disappeared before they’d been sold. Their tallies were in shambles and it was giving Gilbert ulcers.”
Lauren looked to Amanda, who nodded, acknowledging that “cargoes” and “warehouses” were too much of a coincidence to ignore.
“Mr. Hampstead told me that we were supposed to have Gilbert’s pension from the company. There was to be a death benefit, too. A lump sum . . . which was never paid to us. Merrell brought me some papers showing that Gilbert had indeed arranged a surety for us, but the company won’t even talk to me about it.” She took a ragged breath. “I don’t think these new owners are honest.
“Worse still, Merrell seemed anxious himself. He has been given many of Gilbert’s duties and was told by the owner’s agent to be less ‘particular’ than Gilbert in his handling of cargoes. That they didn’t want him ‘having an accident,’ too.”
Lauren leaned closer to Mrs. Trimble. “Who are these new owners? Do you know their names?”
“All I know is that it is a group of men who each put up funds to buy the business.” She struggled to remember as she took another sip of sherry. “He didn’t know their names, just the agent who brings orders from them. A Mr. Murdoch. Obadiah Murdoch.” She gave a shiver, as if the very name fouled her mouth, and finished her sherry in one gulp. When she put her empty glass on the tray her hand was shaking.
“How can I help you?” Lauren asked, intercepting the widow’s elusive gaze. “I can give you the names of honest solicitors to help you get the money you are owed.”
Mrs. Trimble’s shoulders sagged. “That is wonderful of you, Miss Alcott, but I”—she looked down—“don’t have funds for a solicitor.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something. I can contact them about taking your case.”
“That is generous, but that is not really why I came.” She glanced to Amanda and back. “I was worried about you. And your young man, that Mr. Townsend. I know you weren’t happy with him that day on the river. Is he still your intended? The papers weren’t clear about that.”
“We are still betrothed.” Lauren frowned, surprised by her mention of Rafe and her desire for clarification of their relationship.
“Well, Mr. Hampstead—Merrell said that these new men who bring in goods and unload wagons, they’re imbibers. And when they drink they talk. He heard them laugh about the Townsends, saying ‘they think they’re so smart.’ One said, ‘How smart can they be when their warehouses are piles of dry wood?’”
“Why would that—implying that wood is—” Lauren stiffened. “Dry wood is vulnerable because it burns? Was that a threat?”
Mrs. Trimble winced. Clearly she and her husband’s head clerk considered it so, and the weight of that, combined with her financial distress, had disrupted her sleep for days. “I vowed if I could find you, or your intended, I would ask you to tell him to be watchful.”
Lauren took both of the woman’s hands in hers.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trimble. You’ve done the right thing, bringing this to us. If there is a threat to the Townsends’ warehouses, they can take measures to prevent it.” She struggled for composure. “Now, I want you to go home, get some rest, and see our solicitors as soon as possible. I’ll write a note this very night to let them know you’re a friend and should be shown every courtesy.”
Teary-eyed again, Mrs. Trimble ignored the bounds of propriety to hug Lauren tightly and mutter, “Bless you, dear angel. God bless you.”
Lauren went immediately to her father’s study for pen and paper to write down the names of the solicitors for Mrs. Trimble. She had Weathersby call for a cab to take the widow home, bade her
goodbye, and then hurried back to the study to write two notes, one to the firm of Willingham and Boswell and the other to Rafe, telling him that she urgently needed to speak with him.
Before she sent the second note she paused to think of Rafe’s reaction to such a request. Would he just dismiss it as her overactive imagination? Perhaps if she went in person she could convince him of the seriousness of the threat.
Fifteen
Rafe stood at the top of the steps outside the warehouse office of Townsend Imports, looking out over huge stacks and shelves of goods from around the world. This was the newest and largest of their locations, the hub of their expanding enterprise. On the floor below constables in their dark uniforms and distinctive helmets stood watch to ensure that none of the cargo was removed from the premises.
His father had been spot-on two days ago to predict that Customs officers would be pounding on their doors the morning after the “rescue” of their cargo. Inspectors from that office arrived in force the next morning and bulled their way past the old watchman to search for contraband. They demanded to see the warehouse records and checked every container in the warehouse for signs that they had been in harbor water.
Barrels and crates that showed the slightest moisture were dragged into the center of the floor and stacked where they could be examined and cataloged. The chief Customs officer said this inventory would be checked against the manifest his inspectors had taken from the Clarion’s captain ten days before. Horace blustered and threatened legal action and the chief officer countered with a threat of criminal charges for smuggling contraband and evading lawful taxation.
Now they were stuck with police guarding their cargo from them.
A commotion at the main door sent him down the stairs and rushing through aisles of stacked bales and crates. He stopped dead at the sight of his mother and Lauren Alcott in the double doorway. Each carried a large, cloth-covered basket on her arm and they were trying to convince the officers at the door to let them enter. Rafe arrived in time to either prevent or participate in whatever mayhem lurked behind his intended’s smile.