“What was the essay?”
“A Vindication of the Rights of Women, by Mrs. Godwin.”
“And she was reading this at breakfast?” That seemed to Miss Tolerance enough to put anyone off their meal. “Her father disapproved of young ladies forming political opinions?”
“He disapproved of young ladies forming opinions contrary to those of their parents.” More moderately Miss Nottingale added, “He could be…harsh in expressing his displeasure.”
“Was Lord Lyne’s disapproval that morning so ferocious it would have moved the girl to run away?”
“Oh, no. His manner that morning was stern, that is all. Nothing like his rage—quite understandable, of course—when he learned what Evie had done. His voice shook when he read her letter to us! Although—” Miss Nottingale was thoughtful. “I was surprised that he showed no softer feeling, sorrow or anxiety. Not that he should not have been angry; what Evie has done is very grave.”
Miss Tolerance’s own father had been singularly lacking in softer feeling even before her elopement. She had no certain idea what the appropriate reaction of a more affectionate father might be. “Will you tell me the events of the day? In order, please?”
The governess chewed thoughtfully on her lip, as if marshalling her memories to be as exact as possible. “We went for a walk on the green that morning. Evadne stopped to buy a bottle of scent in King Street—she had saved her pin money for the purchase, and was quite delighted with it. We meant to visit the subscription library, but Evie had forgotten the book she meant to return.” Her expression was of affectionate amusement. “So we came home. I ordered a bite for the child to eat. Evie went to write some letters and I—” Miss Nottingale’s voice sank. “I took a nap. I had a cold; I was tired.”
“Of course.” Miss Tolerance hoped the woman would not begin to cry.
“I was wakened by Lady Brereton looking for her sister. But we did not know then what had happened, of course, so Lady Brereton showed me the hat she had bought—white straw, with a green silk poke and a cluster of yellow roses, very pretty. And then—” Her mouth pinched as if to contain a sob. “Then Lord Lyne called us all together.”
“Before that point had there been any concern about Miss Thorpe’s whereabouts?”
“Concern? The worst thought I had was that she was sitting in the kitchen eating bread and jam. I blame myself very much that I did not know when she left the house. Perhaps we might have overtaken her—” Miss Nottingale’s mouth pursed again.
“Did someone try to overtake her?”
“Oh, no. I am sorry, I am telling my tale roundabout. No, I was asleep for an hour or a little more before Lady Brereton returned to the house and woke me.”
“And Lord Lyne was out that morning?”
“No, I think he was in his office.” Miss Nottingale smiled. “But you must not think that he told me, Miss Tolerance. I was little better than a servant, and not privy to Lord Lyne’s comings and goings. Is this necessary for you to know?”
“I am only trying to fix the whereabouts of all the family. Mr. Henry Thorpe would have been—”
“I am not certain. Mr. Thorpe has his own rooms in Albemarle Street, although he is sometimes at the house.”
“He would have had no callers in Duke of York Street?”
“It is very unlikely. Lord Lyne does not like his friends.”
Well, Henry Thorpe had said as much. “Was he in the house when Miss Thorpe’s absence was discovered?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Mr. John Thorpe was; he had come from his work at the alms house in Pitfield Street. Unitarian,” she added. As the sister of an Anglican clergyman Miss Nottingale was clearly torn between disapproval of Mr. John Thorpe’s unorthodoxy and approval of his good works.
“So: Lady Brereton woke you, you spoke, you wondered where Miss Thorpe was. Did anyone go to look for her?”
“I went myself to the schoolroom, but that was empty. She was not in her room or in the little parlor where her pianoforte is. Lady Brereton sent one of the maids to look in the garden and in the kitchen to see if Evadne was there. I think her ladyship was more cross than worried.”
“Did the girl often disappear?” This was something Lady Brereton had not suggested.
Miss Nottingale closed her eyes. “Disappear? No. But she was of that age when young people sometimes need a moment alone. That is a far cry from elopement, though!”
“Then no one was very much concerned until Lord Lyne raised the alarm. What happened? Did he find a note from Miss Thorpe?”
“I do not think so. I believe it must have been delivered to the door; Pinney brought it in to Lord Lyne’s office. A little time after the bell rang I heard a door slam and Lord Lyne called us all downstairs to hear what Evie had written.”
“And when he had read the letter to you?”
Miss Nottingale flushed. “Lord Lyne looked to Lady Brereton—I believe Sir Adam was with her—and swore that the girl was dead to them all from that moment. He looked around the room, and when his eye fell upon me he pointed, saying my laxity was to blame for Evadne’s ruin. He ordered me from the house within the hour. Poor Lady Brereton looked her sympathy, but she could not come to my defense. And of course,” the governess raised her chin, “if Evadne was gone from the house there was no point in my continuing there. But to be practically accused of conniving at her elopement was a very grave blow.”
“I see it must have been. Only a few more questions, Miss Nottingale, and we may stop revisiting these unpleasant memories. Was there any man—young or old, in city or country, for whom Miss Thorpe might have had a partiality?”
“I know of none,” Miss Nottingale said flatly. “Her drawing teacher was a fat old Italian man with a wife and several children, and snuff upon his waistcoat. He was an excellent teacher, but no figure of romance. The dancing master was younger and more presentable but—” Miss Nottingale leaned forward—”I hope I do not shock you, Miss Tolerance, but he was not the sort of man who marries, or even contrives liaisons with women.”
“He preferred the company of men. Well, even such men have arranged elopements for the sake of a fortune.” Immediately Miss Tolerance feared that she had shocked Miss Nottingale. The governess’s eyes grew wide, but she gave the idea some thought before refuting it.
“Her dowry wasn’t enough to tempt anyone; Evadne herself knew that. A matter of a few thousand pounds—surely a fortune hunter would not exert himself for a hundred and fifty pounds per annum! In any case, Mr. Benson’s manners were not those calculated to endear him to a young woman.”
“No brothers of her friends? No young men met at parties or in the park?”
“Miss Tolerance, I know my duty. Miss Thorpe did not meet young men in the park. She was not yet out, and could have met no one at a party. I had cudgeled my brain and can think of no one—”
“I do not doubt you, Miss Nottingale. Only sometimes we do not know what we know until a questions is asked; thus, I ask. Now: if the girl had wished to sell some of her jewelry would you have known of it?”
Miss Nottingale’s eyes widened. “Of a surety! She did not have much, only those articles which are suited to a girl not yet out. And how would she have sold them? She was constantly in my charge.”
“Someone else might have done it for her.”
“Oh. I suppose Mr. Henry would know all the places to go for that sort of thing, with his debts so great. But—” she realized where the inquiry was tending. “You mean her—the man—he might have done it?”
“I must consider the idea.”
“That would argue a hardness of purpose I honestly cannot attribute to her, Miss Tolerance. And nothing was missing but what she wore.”
Miss Tolerance’s nose twitched. Something was burning in the house. At the same moment Miss Nottingale sniffed the air. “Oh, dear. My niece is learning to make muffins.” She rose. “Have you all the information you wished? Forgive me, but—”
“Of course, ma’am.
Thank you exceedingly for your assistance. And—”she brought out her pocket-book and extracted a note from it—”I have it in my power to give you thanks that may be more useful to you than mere words.”
Miss Nottingale stared at the five pound note Miss Tolerance had extended to her.
“Please take it, ma’am. Whatever your parting with Lord Lyne, Lady Brereton would not wish you to be in difficult straits, and she would surely appreciate your help.”
Miss Nottingale took the note. “Thank you. My brother has a full household, as you see. An extra mouth to feed is hard on him; this will certainly help.” She looked as if she might say more, but a wailing rose from the back of the house. Miss Nottingale gathered her skirts and ran.
Miss Tolerance showed herself to the door, stopping at the church long enough to leave a substantial donation in the Works box.
The sun was bright but there was a cool breeze. Miss Tolerance had promised to return to Mr. Glebb and see what he could tell her. She reclaimed her hired horse and rode through the pleasant streets of Bethnal Green and thence back to the river and the Liberty of Savoy, deep in thought. It was curious that no one had any idea of Evadne Thorpe’s lover. A girl of sixteen might be as virtuous as she pleased and still pine romantically for the baker’s boy or a friend’s brother—or her brother’s fencing master. But how many sixteen-year-old girls were able to keep such a secret? Miss Tolerance considered her own past: who had known her passion for Charles Connell? Her brother had known she was fencing; her maid had giggled with her over the flirtation, although Miss Tolerance had said nothing when the affair became earnest; it was very likely that other servants had seen the two of them together. If only I could persuade Lord Lyne to let me speak to his servants.
When Miss Tolerance reached the Strand she turned the horse onto Ivybridge Lane, looking ahead to the whitewashed walls of the Wheat Sheaf, and urged the horse forward. Instead the horse faltered. Miss Tolerance looked down to see a man’s hand on her bridle, and the man himself glaring up at her with every evidence of loathing.
“What is this? Loose my horse at once, sir!”
“Won’t,” the man said. He was square-headed, a hat mashed down on the back of his head; he wore several days’ growth of beard. From the evidence of his bloodshot eyes he had been drinking heavily and for some time. “Not ‘til I—you’re that fil-fithy bitch—Took my money and I’ll ‘ave it back!”
Miss Tolerance snapped her crop against her boot in warning. “I do not know you, sir. I have not got your money, and I sincerely urge you to loose my horse and let me pass.”
“You and the mick, that sharper,” the man continued, quite as if Miss Tolerance had never spoken. “In league agin me. I’ll not ‘ave it. Unnatural b—”
Miss Tolerance brought her crop sharply down on the man’s hand. This caused him to release the bridle. It unfortunately had the simultaneous effect of outraging the horse, so for the next moment or so, while the stranger crumpled to the ground, keening drunkenly over the welt on his hand, Miss Tolerance had to regain command of her startled mount and urge it on toward the Wheat Sheaf. She was alert to any sound of pursuit; hearing none, when she reached the Wheat Sheaf she gave the reins and a ha’penny to the child waiting there to watch the horses and went inside.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Boddick. How are you today?”
Boddick shrugged. “I’m well enough, miss, for the heat. What will you ‘ave?”
“Ale, please. And draw one for yourself and—your brother Bob, is it?” She looked over at the man who sat, as he had the day before, near the fire. Today he had something less of the aspect of misery which had characterized him the last time she saw him.
“That’s kind of you, Miss. You got time for it. Mr. Glebb’s busy as always.”
She took her ale and tasted it. “Excellent. Your brother looks better today.”
Boddick drew off another tankard of ale. “‘E is, miss. Pothecary ‘ad some bark for sale; turns the fever ‘round quick as Canby.”
“So I have heard.” Miss Tolerance raised her tankard to her lips for another sip. The ale was warm and nutty.
“Whore! You! I want me money!”
Miss Tolerance sloshed ale on her coat sleeve.
The drunkard from the street stood in the doorway, brandishing a cudgel. He was red-faced and unsteady, his attention entirely upon Miss Tolerance. As he staggered two steps into the room Boddick started out from behind the bar. Miss Tolerance gestured to him to wait.
“Sir, you are disturbing everyone here,” she said quietly. “Let us take this discussion outside.”
“You think I care for them? I want what that mick sharper took from me! I want me seventeen shillin’”
It was the the sum which recalled to Miss Tolerance her would-be assailant.
“Mr. Wigg! From Mr. Blaine’s fencing salle.” Wigg took another step toward Miss Tolerance, blinking as if to focus his eyes. “I do not have your money, sir. Nor am I in any way—”
She did not finish the thought. Wigg charged at her, cudgel raised. Miss Tolerance ducked under his arm, pivoted and seized it, and twisted the arm hard behind his back. The stick dropped with a clatter. She shoved the man belly-first into the bar. Air bellowed out of him in a foul rush, and Wigg sprawled across the bar, wheezing. A few feet away Bob Boddick’s face split into a grin.
“Neatly done, mate,” he said. “That bruiser ain’t going to trouble you no more. Oi, Tom, want me to remove this from the premises?” he asked Boddick.
“Go to, Bob,” Boddick said.
“Give me just a moment if you will, sir, and then, thank you.” She turned back to Wigg. “How did you know to find me here?” she asked. To encourage his answer she drew his arm a little further up his back.
“Find you ‘ere? I din’t find you. Look up and there you was, ‘igh and mightly on yer giddyap. Cost me a chance to get in a game—a good game wi’ a batch of gulls, would ha’ made me fortune. But no, I hadn’ the ready for it on account of that mick—”
“Mr. Wigg, if you wish to be an object of sympathy you cannot brag that you would have played cards to cheat a group of stupid young men had you not been cheated out of your own funds. It defeats your authority. Now, know this: I do not have your money. I do not play at dice, and you need not apply to me for funds to fleece others as stupid as yourself.”
“You wiv’ that cheese-toaster—”
“I did not use a sword this time. Please leave me alone, Mr. Wigg. We will both be the happier for it.”
Miss Tolerance released Wigg’s arm. Bob Boddick, looking as lively as Miss Tolerance had seen him, hustled the man out the door. When he returned a few minutes later he appeared exhausted by the exercise, but also much cheered by it.
“Thank you, sir.”
Bob Boddick nodded. “Best bit ‘o fun I’ve had the day.” He had a shyer manner than his brother.
“You’re looking much more fit today. I am sorry to see so brave a fellow invalided in his nation’s service.”
“Ain’t ‘ardly a glorious thing, is it though? A fortnight at Walcheren and I’m ruin’t forever. And I was a lucky one! Privateer sailed up a few days after I took ill, carrying a hold full of cinchona bark. Army paid top price for it, I had me doses, ‘ere I am to tell the tale, where many of me mates ain't. Still, I won’t never be right again.”
“I hope you are wrong.”
“When I’ve got the bark I do well enough, but when I don’t! Fever and sweats and pukin’—them as ‘as the sellin’ of that stuff must make a fortune, just on men like myself what was at Walcheren.”
Brother Bob returned to the symptoms of his fever, and Miss Tolerance gradually ceased to listen. Unlike his brother, his conversation appeared limited to this one topic. Mr. Boddick, apparently noting the glazing over of Miss Tolerance’s eyes, called his brother off on an errand.
“Sorry, miss. ‘E’s as good a fellow as any in England, but since Walcheren… Now, if the War Office ‘ad thought through what th
ey was doin’—” Boddick took up his usual criticism of the government prosecution of the war.
Miss Tolerance had nearly finished her ale, and Boddick had moved from the Peninsular campaign to his own service in Holland with Cornwallis, when Mr. Glebb caught her eye and waved her to his table. Miss Tolerance thanked the tapster and made her way across the room.
Mr. Glebb smacked his lips as if he tasted something bitter, and the habitual drop of fluid at the tip of his nose trembled with his disapproval. “I enjoy our meetings, miss, but if bruisers like that are going to follow you in and offer vi’lence—”
Miss Tolerance was contrite. “A hazard of my work, Mr. Glebb. I am very sorry for the disturbance.” She took out her pocketbook and laid it on the table.
“Now, sir, am I wrong in thinking you have information for me?”
Glebb eyed the pocketbook. “Yon Baron Lyne’s a busy fellow. Had you asked me two years ago I’d have had a different tale for you.”
Miss Tolerance was intrigued. “Different in what way, sir?”
The old man smiled and dabbed at the drop on his nose with a damp, crumpled handkerchief. “I’d have said he was done up, not much hope of recovery. Properties mortgaged—his older son’s of the expensive variety, I’ll have a word to say about him. Nor marryin’ off daughters ain’t cheap. And he’d some nasty reversals in business. Twice cargo from Lyne’s plantation in South America was taken by the French; there was concern the property’d be seized outright. And there was some sort of revolt on his property in India, and one of his debtors defaulted on a loan and dined upon ‘is pistol, which cuts down the likelihood of repayment.”
The Sleeping Partner Page 11