“No. But I am ashamed to say that I ran away.”
“Don’t be ashamed! You ran for your life! And what better place to come to than London.”
“Well, that part was not intentional.”
Rosalyn explained how she’d ended up on the train to London, and related the things that had transpired after she had arrived—including Nate’s intervention and how she had misunderstood his intentions.
When she began to speak of the brothel and the ugly events that followed, Jessie sat next to her on the couch and drew one of Rosalyn’s arms into her own. “This is why I felt moved to befriend you this evening. I just know it.”
This display of sympathy and affection startled Rosalyn. She realized she had not had a friendly embrace since the day she’d last seen her sisters.
“Now I understand why you were willing to go home with Nate Moran tonight. It seems he truly was just trying to help you.”
“Do you know anything about this charity home for women that he spoke about?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. The actors don’t really have much interaction with the stagehands—not from snobbery, mind you! It’s just that we are all so busy with our own jobs. But Patrick always struck me as a friendly and helpful sort. We all felt sorry for him when he got hurt. On the other hand, I don’t know what to think about Nate. He is much quieter and keeps to himself. I suppose I’ve been viewing him as a dangerous sort of fellow.”
“Dangerous! Surely not.” But hadn't she initially seen Nate that way as well?
“He is a battle-hardened veteran,” Jessie replied dramatically. “But it could be good to have such a man on your side.”
“He does seem a friend now.” In fact, Rosalyn still felt a bit guilty at turning down his offer to stay with his family. He’d seemed oddly disappointed. Had she somehow hurt him by refusing his help a second time?
“I’m your friend, too,” Jessie reminded her. “And I’ve some grand ideas for helping you out of your tough situation. But let’s sort everything out tomorrow, shall we? Even the worst of circumstances can look better after a good rest.”
Nate let himself in quietly, replacing the latch with care.
“Is that you, Nate?” Patrick called in a low voice from the parlor.
“Aye.” Nate shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door. He removed his boots, too, for rain had come in the last hour, and the streets had turned to mud. He padded to the next room to find his brother seated in the best armchair, his splinted leg propped up on a stool and a small bundle close to his chest. The room was lit only with the glow from a small but cheerful fire. “You’re up late.”
“Tommy was giving his mum a hard time, so I thought I’d take him off her hands for a while. I was awake anyway.”
Patrick was definitely the night owl in the family. Nate, on the other hand, never cared to see the back side of midnight unless he was on guard duty. He took a seat on the sofa and leaned back, exhaling a long sigh as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
“You look tired,” Patrick observed. “More tired than normal, I mean. I can’t thank you enough, you know. It means the world to me, what you’ve done.” He gestured to the child in his arms. “To us.”
Nate met his brother’s gaze. “It’s no more than you’d have done.”
He meant it, too. Despite Patrick’s carefree demeanor, he was a man of integrity. He’d taken on many responsibilities at an early age—even going to work as a messenger boy in a theater when he was twelve years old to earn money for the family. Nate couldn’t ask for a better brother.
Patrick rocked his son gently and sang an old lullaby that Nate well remembered from their childhood. Although Patrick sang with great tenderness, he was also—as always—off-key.
“If you want him to sleep, I’d go easy on the singing.”
This helpful admonition only brought a grin from Patrick. “How did things go tonight?”
“Fine, I guess. Except Sam has a cold. It gets him sneezing at inopportune times. I think they could hear him all the way up to the galleries.”
“Sam always has a cold. Comes on in October and doesn’t leave until spring.” Patrick shifted slightly, wincing from the effort. “I’ll be glad to get back. How I miss all the fellas.”
Nate closed his eyes, enjoying the crackle of the fire and the play of firelight on his closed eyelids. The peacefulness of the room provided a welcome respite after a very long day. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away several minutes. Nate ought to be going to bed, but his muscles felt too tired to move. His mind was, paradoxically, too awake. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, as if that might calm the restlessness of this thoughts.
“Something on your mind?” Patrick asked.
Nate opened his eyes to see that his brother was eyeing him curiously. He sat up and blew out a breath. “I was thinking about something that happened at the theater tonight. Something rather extraordinary.”
Patrick’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m intrigued.”
“Yesterday at the train station, I met a woman.”
“So I heard. Ma told us all about it.”
Nate shook his head. “I should have known.”
“She wanted us to pray for the woman, which we dutifully did prior to saying grace before supper.”
“Well, it worked. She walked into the theater this afternoon, safe and apparently unharmed.”
“Praise God!”
This comment came not from Patrick, but from the direction of the parlor door. Nate turned to see his mother, a heavy shawl thrown over her nightgown. Nate couldn’t resist a sly comment. “Is the whole household awake, then?”
She crossed the room and took a seat next to him on the sofa. “No, they’re all asleep—now that he is.” She indicated the baby in Patrick’s arms. “But what is the news about the woman?”
Nate related to them how he’d spoken with Rosalyn when she’d arrived at the theater, and about what had happened after the show.
“That Jessie’s a generous soul,” said Patrick. “Wears her heart on her sleeve, especially for downtrodden women.”
“That may be so, but she is still an actress,” Ma said. Over the years, Ma had come to accept that Patrick had made a life in the theater. But she retained a certain distrust of actors and their Bohemian lifestyle. “Nate, I don’t think it was right of you to let Rosalyn go with her.”
“What did you expect me to do—grab her by the arm again? That worked really well last time.”
The baby made a grunt of discomfort and shifted in his father’s arms. Patrick readjusted the child and rocked him gently, whispering a few soothing words. He looked over at Nate. “If you get him crying and wake the rest of the family, you’re liable to find yourself homeless.”
Nate took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t say what had caused him to react so harshly. Nor was he particularly comfortable with the way his mother was looking at him. It signaled that more things were going on in her head than she was speaking aloud.
“You needn’t worry, Ma,” Patrick said. “I believe Jessie is about to leave for New York, so Rosalyn is not likely to stay with her long. She may well end up at the charity house after all.”
“Well then, we’ll just continue praying for her. She seems safe enough for the moment, and that’s what’s important, eh?”
She patted Nate’s knee and rose from the sofa. Crossing the room, she touched the back of her finger, featherlight, to Tommy’s cheek, her eyes filled with tender love for her grandson. “Sleep well, everyone,” she murmured, and left the room.
“There is one thing you didn’t tell us about this woman,” Patrick said as the sound of their mother’s tread on the stairs slowly receded.
Nate rubbed his eyes. “And what’s that?”
“Is she pretty?”
Nate looked up sharply. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Even in the semidarkness, he could see a slow smile spread across
his brother’s countenance. Patrick knew him too well, understanding that a stern rebuke usually meant he had hit upon something.
Still, Nate wasn’t going to give him any ground. He leaned forward, trying to meet his brother’s eye. “Patrick, the sooner you stop trying to pair me off with women, the happier all of us will be.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You’re not in the marriage market. You’d rather remain bitter over the loss of a woman you don’t even love anymore.”
Nate hated when his brother tried to broach that subject. “Patrick, I’ve told you time and again—I am going back in the army. I will not be taking a wife with me.”
“And I’ve told you I don’t understand your reasons for either decision,” Patrick returned. “You know it will break Ma’s heart to see you go away again. And what about your injury?”
“Ma is resilient. And she has you. And my hand—” Nate bit off what he’d been about to say: that it was the distraction of a woman that had led to his injury in the first place. “Yesterday at drills I was nearly able to load and fire in the acceptable time.”
“Nearly.”
“Patrick, you know my stay here in London is only temporary.”
“Is it? I thought you were seriously considering becoming a policeman. They’re always looking for good men—especially veterans who are decorated heroes.”
Hero. Nate hated that word.
“No. My becoming a policeman was your idea.” Nate spoke through gritted teeth, trying to put force behind his words without waking the baby.
Patrick gave an annoying, nonchalant shrug. “If you say so.”
He wished his family could just accept his decision and let him be. As much as he loved his brother, Nate could not disclose the real reason he was returning to the army. It was better if they believed he was a hero returning to active duty, not a failure trying to make amends for his past mistakes. And if he was going to be successful, there could be no woman interfering with his heart and thinking. It was painful for Nate to keep that secret, but he still felt it was the right thing to do.
He stood up. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
As Nate left the room, he could hear Patrick’s off-key crooning starting up again. Surprisingly, the baby seemed to enjoy his father’s terrible singing. Nate paused for a moment as his heart did a weird, squeezing turn in his chest. There was a time when Nate, too, had looked forward to having a son and to forging such a special bond. He’d since resigned himself to the idea that it would never happen. It was only at odd, unexpected times like this that it seemed to hurt.
CHAPTER
8
SLOWLY, GROGGILY, Rosalyn became aware of footsteps and the rustle of a skirt near her ear. She gave a start as she gained consciousness, disoriented.
“It’s only me,” Jessie said gently. Rosalyn’s eyes focused on Jessie, who stood next to the sofa, fully dressed and looking down at her. “How are you?”
Rosalyn sat up, feeling a stab of pain in her neck from her awkward sleeping position on the sofa. “I’m a little stiff,” she admitted. “But I feel a thousand times better than yesterday.”
Jessie smiled and placed a teacup in Rosalyn’s hand. “My apologies for waking you, but I need to go out soon, and I’m afraid you’ll have to go with me.”
The tea was hot, the bergamot fragrance of Earl Grey wafting into the air. What luxury. She inhaled, savoring the scent. “Where are you going?”
“To St. Peter’s Italian Church in Hatton Garden. Don’t you remember? Of course you don’t, poor thing. You were exhausted last night.”
“What time is it?” Judging by the sunlight and the noise of traffic piercing even the closed window, Rosalyn was sure the morning was pretty well advanced.
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Eleven!” Rosalyn was dismayed to have slept so late. “Surely the service has already begun.”
“It’s not for the service but for an afternoon concert. We have plenty of time.”
Rosalyn wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or to feel guilty for missing a worship service. From the day she and her sisters had arrived at Müller’s orphanage, Rosalyn had never missed a Sunday at church.
“It’s a program of sacred music,” Jessie explained. “I will be on the program with two other soloists.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“I think you’ll enjoy it,” Jessie said, briefly lowering her gaze in a theatrical display of modesty. She winked and smiled. “The songs are lovely, and a Sunday concert is one way for a poor singer to keep the Sabbath holy and yet still earn something toward the rent.”
“Thank you for inviting me to come along.”
“To be honest, my actions are not entirely altruistic. I don’t for a moment distrust you, for I believe I am an accurate judge of character. However, you must see why I need to take the cautious route and not leave you alone in my lodgings.”
“Of course.” The idea of disturbing Jessie’s belongings, much less stealing anything, would never have occurred to Rosalyn. But this was London, and she’d already learned the hard way that people here must always be on their guard.
Jessie took her empty teacup and set it aside. “Let’s see how we can get you dressed. I can loan you some fresh undergarments, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wear your own gown. I would gladly give you one of mine, but I’m at least three inches shorter than you, and there isn’t time to let out the hem.” Her mouth quirked to a cheeky grin. “You’d likely cause a sensation in church if your ankles were on full display.” She picked up Rosalyn’s skirt from where it had been draped over a chair. With a frown, she gave it a shake and scrutinized it. “We can brush off the dried mud and give it a quick press with a flatiron. That will make you presentable, at least.”
Within an hour, Rosalyn was dressed and had eaten a generous breakfast of bread, cheese, and cold sliced beef. Jessie ate only bread and tea, explaining that she never ate anything else before a performance.
“But we shall have a nice supper afterward,” Jessie assured her, although Rosalyn had not asked.
Once they had left the boardinghouse and were walking down the street, Jessie said, “I’m glad we did not see my landlady, Mrs. Kramer, on the way out. She watches the comings and goings of her boarders very carefully, and there isn’t time to explain to her what you’re doing here.”
“Will she object to my staying with you?”
Jessie gave a dismissive shrug. “Not to worry. We’ll get it all sorted out later.”
She sat just four rows ahead of him. Nate could see her fine features in profile as she turned toward her husband to read the words from the hymnal he held.
Last night Nate had not acknowledged Patrick’s statement that he no longer cared for Ada. He wasn’t entirely sure that was true. He was resigned to it—after all, what choice did he have? But try as he might, he still felt resentful when he saw the two of them together. Ada’s letter telling Nate she’d fallen in love with someone else had arrived in India just in time to be the catalyst for disaster. How could he help but think of that with anger, especially when he saw her now, without a care in the world?
To avoid looking at her, Nate carefully studied the back of the older gentleman seated in front of him. Only to realize he was the police inspector Patrick kept trying to get Nate to speak to. Patrick would not let go of this idea that Nate should stay home and become a bobby. It was a course taken by many veterans, but it held no interest for Nate. The army was the life he had chosen, and one he was honor-bound to continue, even if no one else understood that.
Surrounded as he was on all sides, he felt the same agitation as last night. Even Patrick’s question about Rosalyn still bothered him. Is she pretty? Yes, she was. Any man would have to be blind not to see that—not to notice her expressive brown eyes or her high cheekbones. But Nate disliked the insinuation that he’d been moved to help her for only that reason. Why shouldn’t he want to help someone in need? Even now, the minister was pr
eaching on the Christian’s joy in service.
He did find himself wondering what Rosalyn was doing this morning. She’d likely follow whatever Jessie’s plans were. Nate didn’t think Jessie was the type to attend church regularly—most actors preferred to sleep late on Sunday morning after being at the theater so late on Saturday night. And yet he had to admit she had shown tremendous generosity by taking Rosalyn home with her. Or was Jessie motivated only by the idea that she was rescuing Rosalyn from Nate? Her actions could just as easily be ascribed to her distrust of men as to Christian charity.
It took the movement of the congregation rising to sing the final hymn to bring Nate’s mind back to where he was. He joined in robustly, as though that might atone for the way his thoughts had been wandering, but it led only to an amused smile crossing the face of his mother, who stood next to him. Even Patrick, propped up on a stick for support of his splinted leg, sent a curious glance in his direction.
After the minister gave the benediction and dismissed the congregation, Nate joined his family as they walked down the center aisle toward the door. Nate knew without even having to look that Ada was not far behind, perhaps even hurrying to catch up to him. He deliberately kept his face forward, taking his mother’s arm to help her navigate the uneven floor.
Of course, he should have known she would not be dissuaded that easily.
“Nate!” Ada called.
He would have kept right on walking, but his mother stopped, forcing him to stop, too. She turned, and Nate had no choice but to do the same. Ada was smiling, her arm firmly affixed to her husband’s. Matthew Wilkins beamed at Nate pleasantly, the two of them acting as they had since he returned to London—as though by being nice to him they could easily repair the hurt and mortification they had caused him.
“Good afternoon.” He didn’t bother to keep the frost out of his voice.
Undaunted, Ada pressed her gloved hand into his. “How are you? You look tired.”
He withdrew his hand. “I think I’m most tired of people telling me I look tired. It happens when a person works two jobs.”
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