Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  The vehicle shook as the wheels traveled over the macadam, dirt, and cobblestone roads that wove through Maidenhead. Kendra focused her attention on the buildings rather than the street below. The town was a mixture of architecture cobbled together from different centuries. She recognized Jacobean, Tudor, and the more modern Georgian styles. Kendra had never been to Maidenhead in her own timeline, but she imagined glass and steel would eventually replace some of the stone and stucco that she saw now.

  Sam expertly steered the gig through streets congested with wagons, horseback riders, and carriages. Pedestrians—working-class folks, mostly—were going about their daily chores. Maybe because Maidenhead was both a travel center and a market town, where food and goods were brought in several times a week to be bartered, Kendra didn’t see the grinding poverty that was so prevalent in London.

  The Pascoe residence was a picturesque, whitewashed, two-story cottage with its door and shutters painted a shiny lapis. The roof was steeply angled and thatched, the straw old enough to have gone gray. Kendra hopped off the vehicle before Sam could come around and assist her, but waited for him to help Molly down, then hobble the horse.

  The gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they walked up the path. A chilly breeze swept down on them, stirring the honeysuckle and rose bushes.

  “Gor, we’ve ’ad an uncommon cold spell,” Molly complained, pulling the collar of her coat closer. “Oi ’ope it gets warm soon. Everybody is comin’ down with the snuffles. Cook and Beth were laid up just last week.”

  “Aye,” Sam agreed as he lifted his hand to grasp the plain brass knocker. “ ’Tis goin’ around London Town too.”

  “It ain’t natural, ter be freezing in the month of May,” muttered Molly.

  It was actually completely natural, Kendra knew. The colder than normal temperatures would one day be traced to the previous year’s volcanic eruption of Mount Tambora, half a world away in Indonesia. In history books, this period would one day be called the Year Without a Summer.

  She kept that all to herself.

  The cottage door opened to reveal a young girl about Molly’s age wearing a beige linen mobcap and servant’s garb. She gazed at them curiously. “May I help you?”

  “Is this the Pascoe residence?” asked Sam.

  “Aye.”

  “I’m Mr. Kelly and this is Miss Donovan.” He didn’t bother introducing Molly, who’s status as a servant was obvious. From his coat’s deep pocket he pulled the gold-tipped baton that identified him as a Bow Street Runner. “We need ter speak ter your master.”

  The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the baton. “The master ain’t home yet. He’s still at school. But my mistress is in the kitchen. Come inside, and I’ll fetch her.”

  They followed the girl into a well-appointed parlor off the foyer, where she bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried out of the room. Light streamed through the bow window, touching on the slew of books that filled the shelves and sturdy mahogany furnishings in deep browns threaded with ambers and oranges. The room was as cold as outside, but the fireplace remained unlit. Unlike the Duke’s wealthy household, most people didn’t waste precious coal or wood to heat rooms that were unoccupied.

  Kendra moved over to one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles. The Pascoes’ reading material was diverse, ranging from several Henry Fielding novels to works by Thomas Paine and Jonathan Swift. Kendra was reminded that Mr. Pascoe taught at a boy’s school here in Maidenhead. Her gaze fell on a small miniature of an attractive young man with a mop of curly, dark blond hair.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Kendra turned to survey the woman who’d appeared in the doorway. She was a tiny, round woman, wearing a serviceable, high-necked, long-sleeved brown wool dress. Tendrils of medium brown hair escaped the undyed linen mobcap she wore and drifted around an unassuming face dominated by large, light brown eyes magnified slightly by gold-wired spectacles. Like most women in this era, who had spent a lifetime protecting their complexions from the sun, Mrs. Pascoe looked younger than her age, with only a few lines around her eyes and bracketing her mouth. Kendra suspected she was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, but she based that deduction more on the age of her son.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Sam bowed. “My name is Mr. Kelly, and this is Miss Donovan.”

  Mrs. Pascoe tsked as she looked at them. “Martha should have taken your coats and things and asked you to be seated.”

  “Apologies, ma’am,” the maid said, coming up behind her mistress. “I’ll take them now.”

  Mrs. Pascoe waited for the servant to collect their outer garments, though Kendra kept her reticule (and the muff pistol concealed within).

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Pascoe said, indicating the chairs. “Do you want tea? Ale?”

  Kendra said, “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Pascoe looked at Sam, her expression anxious. “Martha said that you were a Bow Street Runner. Does this have anything to do with Jeremy? Do you know something?”

  “Nay. He ain’t here, then?”

  “No.” Worry dug a notch between her eyebrows. “Mrs. Gavenston came here yesterday to inquire about his whereabouts. Did she… did she speak to you?”

  Kendra leaned forward. “She asked us to look for your son,” she said carefully. “We have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Mrs. Pascoe’s frown turned to puzzlement as she regarded Kendra. “Forgive me. Who are you?”

  “Kendra Donovan. I’m an acquaintance of Mrs. Gavenston’s.” As of that morning, but she didn’t feel the need to point that out. “She’s concerned about Jeremy.”

  The other woman nodded. “She told Mr. Pascoe and me that he didn’t come in to work yesterday. Mr. Pascoe said we ought not be concerned, but it is not like Jeremy. He has always taken his responsibilities very seriously.”

  “When was the last time you saw your son, Mrs. Pascoe?” asked Kendra.

  “I suppose it’s been nearly a month. He came for Sunday dinner.” She clasped her hands together, shooting Sam an apprehensive look. “Do you think something has happened to him?”

  “We’ve got no reason ter think that,” Sam said, adopting a reassuring tone. “There’s plenty of reasons why a man might take off for a day or two.”

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Pascoe nodded. “Writing.”

  Sam and Kendra exchanged surprised looks.

  “Writing?” asked Sam.

  “Jeremy is a writer.” She beamed at them, all motherly pride. “Poetry. He is a great admirer of Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Shelley. Oh, I know Lord Byron is all the rage these days, what with the females swooning over the rogue. But Jeremy said that is more about his wicked conduct than his prose.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought he was a clerk at a bank before he became Mrs. Gavenston’s business manager at the brewery.”

  “Well, one must make a living, you know. Mr. Shaw—he’s the bank manager—approached my husband to inquire whether Jeremy would clerk for him after Jeremy finished with his schooling. Jeremy is quite good at mathematics. Mr. Pascoe… my husband is a schoolmaster here in Maidenhead. Even though it’s a Bluecoat school, as one of the schoolmasters, my husband was allowed to teach Jeremy. He was adamant that Jeremy excel in all subjects. Jeremy was an excellent student.”

  Kendra remembered Mrs. Gavenston mentioning the school. “What exactly is a Bluecoat school?” she asked.

  “ ’Tis a charity school,” Mrs. Pascoe replied with a smile. “The boys wear blue coats.”

  Kendra had forgotten that a school system during this time was pretty much nonexistent for the poor and lower middle classes. The upper classes or wealthy merchants sent their boys to boarding schools like Eton or tutored them at home.

  Mrs. Pascoe went on, “Anyway, how could Jeremy turn down Mr. Shaw’s offer? Still, writing has always been his true passion. He told me that he found himself inspired in Cookham. ‘When I look out my window and see the rolling green hills and woolbirds lo
lling about, my mind takes flight,’ that’s what he told me. Isn’t that lovely? My Jeremy has always been clever with his words.”

  “Woolbirds?” wondered Kendra aloud.

  “Sheep,” Mrs. Pascoe and Sam said in unison. The older woman grinned at him, but her smile faded as her worry returned.

  “I know Jeremy tends to have his head in the clouds when he’s scribbling, but he wouldn’t miss a day of work,” Mrs. Pascoe said. “That’s not like Jeremy at all. He is quite conscientious. I know Mr. Shaw was distressed to lose him from the bank when Mrs. Gavenston offered him employment as her business manager.”

  Kendra asked, “When you last saw your son, how was his mood? Upset? Depressed?”

  “No. In fact, he was in excellent spirits. I had hoped he’d developed a tendre with one of the young ladies in Cookham. I have begun to despair that he will ever marry. I had thought a few years ago he and Miss Rogers—the vicar’s daughter—might make a match of it, but she ended up running off with the blacksmith. Silly creature. Caused quite a scandal. Poor Jeremy was downcast for months.” She let out a sigh. “I do so long for grandchildren.”

  Sam offered an encouraging smile. “I imagine you ain’t alone in your wishes, Mrs. Pascoe. Is Jeremy your only son?”

  “He is our only child.” She unclasped her hands, allowing her fingers to pluck nervously at her skirt. “God will uplift.”

  Kendra eyed her. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh—that’s what Jeremy means. God will uplift. I have a fondness for researching the etymology of names. ’Tis my hobby. When Jeremy was a boy, we would do it together.”

  Kendra thought about what Mrs. Gavenston had said regarding Pascoe’s love life, that he hadn’t appeared to be interested in anyone, but she still asked, “Did Jeremy say he’d developed a tendre for someone? Is there a young lady we should speak to?”

  “Jeremy said no when I quizzed him, but I suspect there is someone fluttering their lashes at him enough to turn his head.” She smiled. “He is someone any young lady would set their cap at—Miss Rogers notwithstanding.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m not familiar with the young ladies in Cookham.”

  “What about his job at the brewery? Was he upset for any reason? Mrs. Gavenston said that they argued the other day over her decision to bring in machinery.”

  “He made no mention of it when he was home last month. But I can imagine how that would upset him. These are difficult times. I’ve read about the hostilities in the north, with lost wages because of the new machines. I would hate for that to happen here.” She pursed her lips. “He did speak of tension in that household. I think it upset him.”

  “What household?” Kendra asked, “Mrs. Gavenston’s?”

  Mrs. Pascoe nodded.

  Sam looked at her. “What was that about? Did he say?”

  “Something to do with Mrs. Gavenston’s family wanting more involvement in the brewery. Still, whatever the problem, what could it possibly have to do with Jeremy?”

  Kendra was more interested in why Mrs. Gavenston hadn’t mentioned those tensions. She’d felt the other woman hadn’t been completely up-front with her. However, Mrs. Pascoe was right; what would that have to do with her son?

  “If he was upset, do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Kendra asked.

  Mrs. Pascoe lifted her hands. “I would think he would come home. He knows he is always welcome.”

  Kendra nodded, and pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Pascoe. If Jeremy contacts you, I’d appreciate it if you could send word to the Duke of Aldridge’s address, Number 29, Grosvenor Square.”

  Mrs. Pascoe’s eyebrows shot up as she hastily got to her feet. “You are connected to the Duke of Aldridge?”

  “He’s my… guardian.” Would that word always stick in her throat?

  “Oh, I see,” Mrs. Pascoe said, and surveyed Kendra with something approaching awe. “I didn’t realize. What will you do now, Miss Donovan?”

  “Go to Cookham. Maybe your son has returned home.” Kendra walked to the bookshelf that held the miniature portrait. She picked it up. “Is this your son, Mrs. Pascoe?”

  She smiled automatically. “Yes.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed it? If your son isn’t at home, this will help in trying to find him. I promise to return it.”

  “Of course. I shall have Martha bring your things.”

  Mrs. Pascoe hurried out of the room.

  Sam studied the portrait. “Good thinking, lass. I’ll take it around ter the hostelries and public houses ter see if he got on a stagecoach.”

  “If we don’t get a lead today, I will have Rebecca make a copy of it, so I can return the original to Mrs. Pascoe.”

  Mrs. Pascoe and Martha returned with their outerwear.

  “Thank you for your time,” Kendra said as she put on her pelisse and tugged on her gloves. “We’ll be in touch.”

  She didn’t offer anything more. No assurance that everything would be all right. She’d been an FBI agent too long to make that kind of promise.

  7

  Cookham wasn’t bustling with commerce like Maidenhead, but it was busy enough. Half-timbered and redbrick buildings, many of which probably dated back to the Elizabethan era, rose up in heavy concentration along its high street. A handful of men were unloading barrels from a wagon, while young boys pelted down the street, laughing, with two dogs yapping excitedly at their heels. Sam drew the gig to a halt next to the wagon and asked the men for directions to 1 Milton Lane. Kendra knew that in London such an inquiry would have been met with hooded, suspicious eyes, but here she only saw bright curiosity. They didn’t hesitate to supply the information.

  Kendra thought about the villagers near Aldridge Castle. If a stranger had come around asking questions about the Duke’s family, would anyone have thought twice about answering? It wouldn’t have been a direct question, but a conversation. Casual. Probably at the village tavern. People talked more when they were drinking, not even realizing how much information they were divulging.

  The gig jiggled to a stop outside a charming, buff-colored stone cottage nearly identical to the other stone cottages along the tree-lined street. Thin strips of greenery and gardens—pops of purple from buddleia, lilac, and hydrangea bushes, pale yellow primrose and daffodils, brilliant red roses—separated the houses from the pavement. The air was heavy with the syrupy scent of flowers.

  They walked up to the door. Sam used the brass knocker crafted into a lion’s head.

  “Looks like Mr. Pascoe still isn’t home,” Kendra said after several attempts of knocking. She reached down to twist the knob. When it didn’t open, she frowned. “I didn’t think to ask Mrs. Gavenston for a key.”

  Sam said, “She probably thought you’d come and get it from her. She lives around here, you said.”

  “White Pond Manor.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Kendra was already drawing two long pins from her hair, which earned a squeak of dismay from Molly.

  “Oh, miss…” the maid muttered woefully, clearly more upset about having her creation destroyed than what Kendra was about to do.

  Kendra bent to insert the pins into the keyhole and worked the tumblers. She released a sigh of satisfaction when she felt the lock give way. Straightening, she turned the knob again, and smiled when the door swung inward.

  “You have a right interestin’ skill, lass,” Sam murmured as he watched her remove the hairpins from the lock, and randomly shove them back into her chignon.

  Kendra grinned at him. “It serves a purpose.”

  Inside, the cottage was small, the layout simple. The entrance hall was narrow, with a staircase at the other end, bisecting the drawing room on the right and the dining room on the left. By unspoken agreement, Kendra and Sam separated, with the Bow Street Runner angling toward the left, and Kendra walking through
the door on the right. Molly drifted behind her.

  Kendra scanned the drawing room. A brown brocade sofa and two leather chairs were arranged in front of an unadorned fireplace. A desk was shoved against the wall opposite the fireplace, flanked by heavy walnut bookshelves. A single mullioned window allowed the sunshine to stream in, dust motes dancing in the beams. The dark wood floor was covered by a brown woven area rug. Except for a thin layer of dust that Kendra could see on the furniture, the space appeared tidy.

  She walked to what she considered the most interesting thing in the room—the desk. On its polished surface was a tray filled with foolscap; a brass inkwell stand that held two crystal inkpots, half-full; a quill pen; a container of sand; a candelabra, its four tapers burnt down to stubs; and three books stacked neatly on top of one another. Kendra picked up the first book. Songs of Experience, a collection of poems by William Blake. Her gaze dropped to the next book. John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Below that, Alexander Pope’s Dunciad.

  Kendra imagined the aspiring poet spent many evenings at this desk.

  Kendra began searching through the drawers, and found the usual assortment of stuff—for the 19th century. Nibs separated from their quills. A couple of graphite sticks. A penknife to sharpen the nibs or the graphite. A box of wax wafers for correspondence. More paper—but not the blank pages that were in the desk tray. Almost every square inch of these was covered in writing. Some of the words were crossed out, with arrows pointing to the notes in the margins or at a diagonal.

  This was what writing looked like before the age of computers, before you could delete, add, rewrite with a stroke of a key. Chaotic and messy.

  “Nothing in the dining room or kitchen,” Sam said, coming into the room. “What’ve you got there, lass?”