William breathed a quiet sigh and looked at the lights through the window. Sarah was feeling some guilt over preferring Mr. Knight’s sermons over Vicar Sharp’s, and he was feeling some guilt for wishing Mr. Knight had been assigned to some other parish, for she did tend to go on about him at times. Some birthday, he thought.
“Good night,” Aunt Naomi and Sarah said at Mrs. Blake’s front door. The two men stood at the bottom of the steps and wished them the same.
“I’ll see you at church,” William added. When the door was closed, he turned to Mr. Rayborn. “You still live on Surrey Street?”
“Still?” the tutor asked.
“Haven’t you mentioned your address before?” William said evasively.
“Perhaps so. I don’t mind being last, by the way.”
“I’m on Farringdon, actually a bit beyond.” William gave the driver instructions and allowed Mr. Rayborn first into the coach. The man took the undesirable rear-facing seat. My aunt’s not here, so you can stop being such a gentleman, he thought and felt guilty in spite of his misgivings.
When they started moving, William studied the dark outlines of his own hands and considered how to form his question. But Mr. Rayborn spoke first.
“I believe I’ve said something to offend you, Mr. Doyle.”
“It’s not anything you’ve said,” William said, looking up. “But I’ve discovered something very troubling about you.”
If there was surprise on the man’s face, the dimness of the coach concealed it. “Are you referring to my dismissal from King’s College for drinking, Mr. Doyle?”
“Actually, I didn’t know about that one.”
Mr. Rayborn smiled. “Then I suppose it’s too late to say I was joking. . . .”
William almost smiled as well. It was difficult to maintain ill feelings toward someone who could bring humor to a confrontation. “Does Mr. Mitchell know?”
“He does. Mrs. Blake as well.”
It was obvious he spoke the truth. But what William had learned was still worse than being sacked for drunkenness. “I paid a visit to Scotland Yard on Tuesday to instigate charges against a chemist who’s been twice caught adding opium to infant’s colic syrup. I asked the desk constable if he had any knowledge of a Daniel Rayborn or of his wife’s suicide.”
“Go on,” Mr. Rayborn said with a faint edge to his voice.
“He did not, even after looking through his files. But he directed me to the London Times. Are you aware that they keep an expanding catalogue of every name that appears in their newspaper, as well as the dates when their articles appeared?” It was used when certain long-running stories required updating, William discovered, but he didn’t think Mr. Rayborn would care to learn more about the process at the moment. “For sixpence per article, a clerk will bring out the corresponding newspapers from the archives. Today I spent my lunch break there.”
Folding his arms, Mr. Rayborn said, “And so you read the details of my wife’s suicide.” Sadness dulled the edge in his voice.
He hasn’t the right to any sympathy, William had to remind himself. He could go after the scoundrels who adulterated foods and medicines without flinching. Why did he feel almost as if he were the one who had done something less than honorable?
He cleared his throat. “Your own father-in-law said that you kept your wife a virtual prisoner because you were ashamed of your infant daughter . . . who had a crippled left hand.”
William heard the sound of a long breath being released. Light from passing gas lamps painted Mr. Rayborn’s face in alternate colors of sickly yellow and dark gray.
After a space of tense silence, the tutor said, “My father-in-law was bitter because I did indeed keep him away from my family. And he is the one to blame for his daughter’s death.”
“The newspaper didn’t say anything—”
“The articles were one-sided because I refused to talk with the reporter who hounded me at my wife’s funeral. I did not wish our family tragedy to be played out like some stage melodrama. In retrospect, I can see that made me appear guilty.”
“Why do you blame him for her death?”
The man sighed again. “From the day she was old enough to understand shame, she was accused of causing her mother’s death in childbirth. I think, now, that she married me simply because I was the first to ask, and she desperately wished to escape him. But we were happy until she began carrying a child herself and started dwelling again on the horror of the past. And when the child was born physically less than perfect . . .”
“Her mental state worsened?”
Mr. Rayborn’s face was an amber mask. “Obviously.”
All of this had the ring of truth, yet the major issue still loomed large in William’s mind. “Did Mr. Mitchell discover all of this when he investigated you?”
“No. Because I had admitted them to him beforehand.”
“And does he know the rest?”
There was a silence, then, “What do you mean?”
“Your daughter’s body was never discovered, was it?”
He did not reply, so William continued. “It struck me, after reading the articles, that Sarah more closely resembles you than Jeremy Blake’s portraits. And the crippled left hand . . .”
Finally Mr. Rayborn spoke. “Surely you’ve come across other coincidences during your lifetime, Mr. Doyle.”
“There are too many here for comfort, Mr. Rayborn. The whole household knows of your wife’s suicide, yet a daughter has never been mentioned, which means you did not share that information with Mrs. Blake. Why would you tell her about the wife but not the child? And the fact that Sarah came from an orphanage lends evidence to my theory.”
That Mr. Rayborn did not ask him to explain his theory was proof enough for William. He spoke on. “I believe there was somehow a mix-up at Saint Matthew’s a long time ago, and you’ve recently discovered your daughter is an heiress. That’s why you haven’t told anyone who you are . . . because it’s obvious Mrs. Blake will not live too much longer. If you wait, you’ll be in control of a fortune.”
That is, if you can convince Sarah not to tell anyone else, William added in his thoughts. But Mr. Rayborn did not know his own daughter well, for she would not keep money left to her under false pretense, no matter how much. He became aware of the cessation of movement.
The coach door opened, and the driver stuck his head through to say in an annoyed tone, “Sit here all you wish, gents, but it’s going to cost you extra. I can’t make a living if I ain’t out looking for fares.”
“Very well,” William told him. “Give us another minute, please.”
When the door closed again, Mr. Rayborn, his shadowed face as bleak as William had ever seen it, spoke. “You should come inside, Mr. Doyle. This may take a while.”
William had worked long enough in his profession to understand that there were men who would kill for money, if not by assault, then by stealth, slowly, with poisons as their weapons. And some looked as decent as schoolmasters, so just because he did not feel threatened meant nothing. If his theory was right, Mr. Rayborn would have reason to wish him to disappear from the face of the earth.
As if reading his mind, the tutor nodded grimly and said, “Then look up Mr. Mitchell and tell him what you’ve discovered. Only please don’t mention this to anyone before you speak to him—you can’t imagine how important that is.”
“We’ll talk inside,” William told him, reaching for the coach’s door and hoping that his name would not soon occupy the D catalogue drawer in the archives of the London Times.
Two hours, four cups of tea, and a half tin of stale lemon biscuits later, William rose from the kitchen table almost totally convinced that Mr. Rayborn spoke the truth. But at the door he turned to say, “You understand that I’ll still need to speak with Mr. Mitchell.”
Mr. Rayborn nodded. “I would do the same if I were in your shoes.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sunday after breakfast Naomi stood in
front of her mirror and studied the six-year-old gown of pale lavender gingham, which looked almost new again, since she had replaced the cotton lace, added a row of pearl buttons down the front, and gathered the overskirt back into a modest bustle. Satisfied that she did not look as if she had just waded through a rag barrel, she pinned the straw hat trimmed with silk violets over her thick chignon, fluffed the fringe over her forehead with her fingers, and took up her reticule to go downstairs.
She looked into the servants’ hall, hoping that William had arrived early. Sure enough, he sat sideways in a chair, pillowing his head along the back in the crook of his arm. “William?”
He raised his head, blinked at her, and smiled. “Good morning, Aunt Naomi.”
“Did you have trouble sleeping last night?”
“A little.” Getting to his feet, he said, “You look very nice. New dress?”
So you’ve decided to be in a good mood this morning, Naomi thought. “Refurbished, but thank you for the compliment. Come with me, William.”
“Where?”
“I don’t want anyone walking in on us.”
He pulled an anxious face. “What have I done?”
“Now, please.” She led him through the kitchen and into the pantry. Naomi left the door open about eight inches to allow a little light, then turned to deliver in a low voice the speech she had composed while stirring buttered eggs this morning. “William, you must understand that just because I have some feelings for another person, it doesn’t diminish the love I have for you.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Then it’s true.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re in love with Mr. Rayborn.”
“I didn’t say ‘love,’” she corrected hastily.
“Very well.” William’s expression was a mixture of skepticism and amusement. “Is that why you brought me in here? You think I’m jealous of you and Mr. Rayborn?”
The conversation was beginning to remind Naomi of two locomotives passing each other on separate tracks. “But isn’t that why you gave him those hard looks last night? And I can only imagine how you must have treated him after you dropped us off.”
“Aunt Naomi,” he said, then sighed. “I’ve wanted you to find someone for—”
“Sh-h-h!” She had to steady the swaying bottle of Lea & Perrins’ Worcestershire Sauce on the shelf beside her after accidentally brushing it with her hand. “But if you weren’t jealous . . .”
William’s dark eyes became evasive. “I’ll admit I may have misjudged him, Aunt Naomi. There is something I have to do first, just to be sure.”
“What do you mean . . . do, William?”
“I can’t explain just yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.” When her frown did not abate, William patted her shoulder. “I will, Aunt Naomi, I promise.”
****
“Mr. Garrett, you are a godsend,” Daniel mumbled at his desk while reading the perfectly typed chapter explaining correlation of growth. A knock sounded. Crossing the parlor he passed the side table where the Remington sat as lonely as a deserted ship amidst a stack of research books and papers. He was not surprised to see the figure on his doorstep. “Come in please, Mr. Doyle.”
The young man stepped into the parlor. Hands in his coat pockets, he did not quite look into Daniel’s eyes. “Mr. Mitchell and I spoke this morning. I worked through lunch to make up for the time.”
“Then you must be ravenous.” Daniel realized he was as well, though he had feasted on a fine Irish stew at Berkeley Square. “I’ve some bread and cheese in the kitchen . . .”
“No, thank you. I’ll not stay long. I just want to apologize for doubting you.”
“Mr. Doyle, my opinion of you has been raised tenfold because you cared enough about Sarah to investigate.” He moved some books from the seat of an upholstered chair, motioned his guest into it, and pulled the chair out from his desk for himself. “There is no apology necessary.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Doyle said. “And you don’t have to worry about my telling anyone.”
“I appreciate . . .”
“Except for Aunt Naomi.”
Daniel stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Under the circumstances, she has to know. But you’ll not have to worry—she’s the soul of discretion. Why, for months she was the only person in the house aware that Mrs. Blake was looking for her granddaughter.”
But Daniel’s mind had latched on to only one phrase. “Under what circumstances, Mr. Doyle?”
“Surely you know, Mr. Rayborn.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
The young man blew out a breath. “I was so certain . . .” He cleared his throat and shifted his dark eyes to stare at the rug. “Please forget I ever mentioned . . .”
But a warm ray of optimism had pierced Daniel’s confusion. “Are you saying . . . she likes me?”
Another wince, and, “Can’t you tell?”
Daniel had hoped he wasn’t imagining the intimacy of spirit between himself and Miss Doyle. But she was so kind to everyone that he wasn’t certain. “Has she said anything?”
Resembling more and more a small boy who has accidentally laughed aloud in church, Mr. Doyle muttered, “I’ve said too much already, Mr. Rayborn. Please stop asking.”
“Very well.” But Daniel had heard enough for a smile to curve his lips. Marvelous!
Even so, he considered trying to talk the young man out of telling her the secret. The more who knew, the greater the possibility of someone making a slip of the tongue. Yet another part of him argued that Miss Doyle wasn’t just anyone and that even a fledgling courtship should be based upon honesty.
It was something he would surely toss to-and-fro mentally were he in a more somber frame of mind. But somberness was far from him, so he ended up insisting upon taking Mr. Doyle out for supper down the street instead.
****
On the morning of Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of April, Sarah and Mr. Rayborn discussed her composition on “The New Toryism in the Late Eighteenth Century” and were about to proceed to calculus when Sarah frowned at the papers on the table. “I don’t understand.”
Her tutor gave her a little smile. “What don’t you understand, Miss Matthews?”
She sighed. “How could George IV try to divorce his wife right after Princess Charlotte was born? And then put them aside as if they were never his family?”
“He was an incredibly selfish man, Miss Matthews. And there was still tremendous pressure put on royalty to bear sons. The old ‘Henry the eighth’ disease.”
“I still can’t see how a man could not want to take part in even a daughter’s life. Probably half the orphans in Saint Matthew’s wouldn’t be there if their fathers would have claimed them.” She had to blink the salt from her eyes and look away from his kindly stare. You haven’t thought about him in months . . . why now? He had put her out of his mind before she was even born. Why couldn’t she do the same? Especially knowing how heartless he was toward her mother and even her grandmother.
“Miss Matthews.”
Turning her eyes again toward him, she made a weak effort at a smile.
“Most fathers love their children,” he said gently. “With all their hearts.”
She nodded, though unconvinced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rayborn. Studying King George reminded me of my own father. He didn’t love me with even part of his heart.”
“You have nothing for which to be sorry.”
With difficulty she swallowed. The thought flitted across her mind that one day, when she was in a better mood, she would ask Mr. Rayborn for a physical explanation of how lumps happened to well up in the backs of throats during times of distress. “I wouldn’t even have noticed that he was evil if he would have read stories to me and patted my head once in a while.”
“It was your father who lost the most, Miss Matthews.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh, but he did. And one day yo
u’ll understand just how much.”
Mr. Rayborn had not even met Jeremy Blake, other than seeing his portrait in the sitting room. But he spoke with such conviction that Sarah found herself halfway believing him. It would be nice to understand one day.
“Thank you, Mr. Rayborn.” She was able to smile with a little more sincerity. “We can move on to calculus now.”
****
Two evenings later Sarah sat on the terrace under a half-moon with the servants, except for Marie, who was out with her sisters. Mild breezes scented of crab apple blossoms, hyacinths, damp grass, and even a trace of earthy, but not unpleasant stable aromas bathed Sarah’s face, and swayed gently the crab apple limbs as they wafted through the propped-open French door. Mr. Duffy, coaxed by Claire into fetching his harmonica, played folk tunes and hymns by request.
“Play ‘The Bonny Lighter Boy,’ please,” Susan asked. “My mum used to sing it on washdays.”
“I’ll play it if you’ll sing it.”
She ducked her head, grinning. “Oh, not by myself!”
“I’ll wager Naomi knows it,” Trudy said with a nod toward the chair next to Sarah. “Do give us a song, both of you.”
“Very well,” Naomi said to silence everyone’s pleading. And when the music started again, she sang in a voice as clear and unwavering as bell chords,
It’s of a brisk young sailor lad, and he apprentice bound,
And she a merchant’s daughter, with fifty thousand pound,
They loved each other dearly, in sorrow and in joy:
Let him go where he will, he’s my love still, he’s my bonny lighter
boy.
Susan joined in, her high voice missing the occasional note, but the combination was pleasing to Sarah’s ears.
Her father, he being near her, he heard what she did say—
He cried Unruly daughter! I’ll send him far away;
On board a ship I’ll have him pressed, I’ll rob you of your joy—
Send him where you will, he’s my love still, he’s my bonny lighter
boy!
“Very good!” The voice came from the doorway after the applause died down. Heads turned toward Marie, who came out to sit in the chair Stanley brought over for her.
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