The Sweetest Touch

by Marie Higgins

  “Indeed, my dear.” The older woman excused herself from the others and stepped into the dining room. “What is it?”

  Taking a deep breath, Louisa twisted her hands against her middle and prayed she could convince the other woman for help. “I have had some confusing memories of late, and I feel I need to force myself to remember. I need to return to the place I had been when Lord Kensington hit me with his curricle.”

  Worry etched the housekeeper’s brow as she patted Louisa’s hands. “Are you certain this will help?”

  “I’m hoping it will, which is why I need your assistance. First, I need to have someone care for the twins while I’m gone.”

  Mrs. Smythe nodded. “I will fetch my niece, Horatia. She has helped Mrs. Jacobs from time to time.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smythe. That would be most kind.”

  “What else is it that you need?”

  “Well,” Louisa hesitated, clutching her fingers until they turned white, “I need to know where exactly I was when His Grace hit me.”

  The housekeeper frowned. “I don’t know the exact location, but I do know where the wooded area is located.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  As Mrs. Smythe explained to Louisa, apprehension grew in her chest. From the terrible memories she’d discovered already, she didn’t think she wanted to know more. Yet, she must. This was the only way to help Trevor and his children.

  “Thank you again, Mrs. Smythe. I truly don’t know what I would do without your help.”

  The kind woman smiled. “I’m just happy I can be of some assistance.”

  “Before I leave, I must tell His Grace where I’m going.”

  Mrs. Smythe shook her head. “He’s already left the house.”

  Surprised, Louisa hitched a breath. “This early? He arrived home late last night.”

  “We all thought the same. But whatever he’s doing, he’s determined.” She grinned. “That’s the way he’s always been.”

  “Well, I suppose I can write him a note to let him know where I’m going.”

  “Not to worry, Louisa. I shall tell him upon his return.”

  She sighed with relief. “Bless you, Mrs. Smythe. You have been a godsend.”

  Louisa hugged the housekeeper before making her way back up the stairs to her room to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Nervousness shook through her body as she shrugged on her outer garment, tied the ribbons of her bonnet, and left the house.

  A small wind blew from the east, but if she stayed in the sun, she wouldn’t get cold. As she walked past the stable, she debated whether or not to take one of Trevor’s fine horses, but in the end, she didn’t. The walk would do her good, and hopefully, the fresh air would rejuvenate her memory.

  From the few things she had remembered, she must have had a normal childhood with loving parents and a friend she could rely on—and cry with. But some time after the age of twelve, something must have happened that landed her in Macgregor’s devious clutches. She supposed her family must have died, but she still needed answers.

  The chirping birds lightened her heart slightly the more she walked. Peacefulness settled in her mind as she glanced over God’s beautiful land. Closing her eyes, she smiled. She must have come from a family who strongly believed in God, because she knew without a doubt, He would help her along life’s journey.

  She sighed and opened her eyes. Unfortunately, she was having major stepping-stones in her journey now. The Lord wouldn’t give her challenges she couldn’t handle…but He must think highly of her now to believe she could handle these trials.

  As she walked by a fruit tree orchard, she picked a couple cherries before continuing on her way. To keep herself busy, she tried to expand on the memories of Macgregor that she’d had thus far. Even if she didn’t want to think of how frightened she’d been in his presence, she must remember everything about him.

  Slowly, bits and pieces from her past with him emerged. She recalled the first time she ever picked a gents pocket and took his watch. That night, she’d cried herself to sleep on her bedroll. Those times she didn’t want to steal, Macgregor punished her by not feeding her. In misery, she had to watch the other children as they ate. Emotions surfaced, and she remembered wanting to die several times.

  Once while she was teaching her friend, David, they had discussed running away from Macgregor. But talking about it was as far as they had planned. Neither of them had homes except for with Macgregor. If only the orphanages would have taken them.

  Louisa stopped suddenly as a thought invaded her mind. Why would the orphanages not take them?

  Closing her eyes again, she rubbed the throb starting in her forehead. Something on the tip of her memory wanted to break through. She just knew it. Orphanages usually took children who didn’t have a family. So why did she think she—or David—couldn’t go to one?

  The distant rumble of a carriage coming up the road pulled Louisa from her thoughts. She quickly moved aside so she wouldn’t get hit. As she stood against a large oak, she plopped a few more cherries into her mouth, waiting for the conveyance to pass so she could continue her trek.

  The large coach swayed as it neared. There was something familiar about the black and gold painted vehicle with the driver on top. But it wasn’t until Louisa saw the lady riding inside and the coat of arms painted on the door, when her heart hammered wildly. Why did the coach seem familiar? And pray, why did the woman inside look like someone Louisa should know?

  Louisa pulled away from the oak tree and followed after the coach, even though it moved faster than she did. Concentrating on the woman who looked about her own age or slightly older, Louisa tried to figure out why the lady seemed so familiar.

  Finally, another memory parted through the fog clouding her mind. Louisa stopped and focused.

  Eliza Watson. The dearest friend Louisa had in school. Red ringlets framed the girl’s round face, and contrasted greatly with her pink cheeks right after they’d chased each other playing favorite childhood games.

  Louisa and Eliza collapsed in a grassy field, laughing. In the distance, the other girls in their school class played another game.

  Just like it all happened yesterday, the scene opened wider in Louisa’s mind.

  Sitting in the grass, Louisa laughed at something Eliza just said. Out of the corner of her eyes, a tall, thin man strode toward them.

  “It’s my uncle.” Eliza jumped up and ran to him. They hugged and chatted for a brief moment before Eliza turned back, her eyes full of tears.

  Something wasn’t right. Eliza always had a chipper attitude and rarely ever frowned.

  “Louisa.” Eliza’s voice broke.

  Heart pounding in worry, Louisa slowly stood and held her hands out for her friend to take. “What’s wrong?” She switched her gaze to the tall man who wore a forlorn expression.

  “Louisa, this is my uncle, Mr. Featherspoon,” Eliza whispered.

  Louisa curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Miss Louisa, I fear I have come with disheartening news.” The man’s Adam’s apple bounced. “It’s about your family.”

  “What…what’s wrong with my family?”

  He shook his head and rubbed his sad eyes. “I’m sorry to inform you that there was a fire in your home. Your family perished in the burning house, I’m afraid.”

  Ice-cold shock vibrated through her as emptiness filled her chest. No! This couldn’t be right. “There…there was a fire?”

  “Yes, Miss Louisa,” Mr. Featherspoon answered. “Early this morning. Not one person in the house survived.”

  “D—dead? My family is d—dead?”

  The older man nodded. Eliza clutched Louisa’s cold hands. She tried to focus on her friend, but her vision blurred with tears.

  “Oh, Louisa.” Eliza wrapped her arms around Louisa in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. But you need not worry. My uncle will take care of you.”

  “No…no.” Louisa pushed her friend away. “I cannot believe this
. They are not dead. They are alive, I can feel it.”

  Confused, she turned and ran—nowhere in particular—just needed to get away to absorb the news Mr. Featherspoon had delivered.

  Her family couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t have burned in a fire. Their servants were not that careless. Nothing made sense…and she couldn’t possibly take this man’s word even if he was the uncle of her friend. Images of her family perishing in scorching flames, screaming in agony, and crying out for help, brought more tears to Louisa’s eyes and made her limbs weak…and frigid cold. In fact, her whole body felt cold, and weary like wet rags.

  Off in the distance she heard her friend’s frantic voice. “Louisa, get out of the water. Don’t go another step. It’s too deep.”

  Slowly, Louisa sank to her knees in the water she didn’t remember entering. Her cloak tugged her in further until the water covered her face. Closing her eyes, she didn’t care.

  A man’s arm wrapped around her and yanked her out of the water. Dazed, Louisa didn’t speak as Eliza pulled off the wet cloak and wrapped Louisa in her uncle’s overcoat.

  “Louisa, my dear. Do not fear. I shall be here. Always. My uncle will take good care of you.”

  Louisa wiped her tears, her heart still aching because of the memory. Her family had died. But…the question still remained, who were they?

  Looking down the road, she forged ahead, determined to catch up with that coach. Eliza, her childhood friend was in that vehicle, and Louisa would find her.

  * * * *

  Trevor jumped off his horse, and gazed upon the meager cottage before him. Shutters were broken, and the place needed a good painting. Weeds took over the yard, and made Trevor wonder if anyone really lived here.

  After spending a few hours this morning asking around, he was given the information he sought, which led him to this run-down cottage. Now, he just prayed he’d receive some answers while he was here.

  He climbed the four broken-down steps to the front door and rapped hard. Perhaps the occupant would still be asleep, but Trevor didn’t care. He hadn’t come all this way to be put off.

  No noise came from inside, so Trevor pounded on the door again. Finally, feet shuffled on the floor mere moments before the door creaked open. A man, perhaps in his late fifties, squinted against the sunlight falling upon Trevor.

  “Pardon me for coming at this early hour,” he explained, “but I am in desperate need of finding Mr. Percy Featherspoon. I was told he lived here.”

  “What do you want with him?” the man barked with a slight slur.

  Trevor peered closer into the man’s glassy eyes, and took a whiff of the strong alcohol scent enveloping him. This must be him. After all, Trevor had been told the man was constantly foxed. “I have some questions to ask. Are you Mr. Featherspoon? My informants gave me a description of the man, and from what I can see, you resemble him quite a bit.”

  Shaking his head, the man pushed his fingers through his thinning crop of graying brown hair. “It’s very early—”

  “Indeed it is, but I have traveled a long way.” Trevor reached in his pocket and withdrew a moneybag filled with coins and shook it. Upon hearing the clicking of the coins, the other man’s eyes widened—just as Trevor had been told they would when offering money. “I beg you. Please answer some questions, and I shall make the time worthwhile.”

  “What is your name?” Featherspoon inquired.

  “Trevor Worthington, the Duke of Kensington.”

  The man’s eyes widened even more and he stumbled backward to open the door. “Please come in, Your Grace.”

  Upon entering, Trevor could see the furnishings once had been of fine quality. Not now. Most of the chairs were either broken, or the fabric was soiled and barren. The wooden floor held no rugs. And chips of paint from the walls were noticeably visible. Apparently, the man had fallen on bad times. Regardless, Trevor didn’t want to sit on anything the man had to offer.

  “Forgive me for the mess,” the man muttered. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I don’t plan on staying long, I assure you. I just need some answers.” Trevor folded his arms. “Are you indeed Featherspoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you used to live in Scotland?”

  “I have another house there, yes.”

  “What occupation is it that you do, may I ask?”

  “I…um, well, you see, my lord, I take in orphaned children and place them in other homes.”

  “How very interesting. Tell me, Featherspoon, how do you know these children are orphans? Have you firsthand knowledge their families are dead?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “So how is it,” Trevor said as he slowly circled the older man, “that Norman Boyd’s family is still alive? I assume you remember Norman Boyd from three years ago?” The man slowly nodded. “Splendid. Now I want to know why you told the boy his family had died in a house fire when that was false information.”

  At first Featherspoon’s eyes widened in panic, then his face reddened. “What are you accusing me of, Your Grace?”

  “I’m accusing you of lying. I stumbled across a vagabond yesterday by the name of Norman Boyd. He explained you were the one who told him about the demise of his parents before taking him to Scotland. Yet, when the boy told me where his family had lived, I took him there and they were alive. Even the house you had told him burned down, still stood.” He stepped closer, not taking his stare off the older man. “So now I wonder why you lied to him.”

  Featherspoon huffed and squared his shoulders. “I did not lie, my lord.”

  “Then please tell me why I was able to reunite Norman with his family last evening, after being separated from them for three long, miserable years.”

  “Apparently, I had gotten the wrong information about the boy.”

  “From whom do you get your information, may I ask?”

  “From…from the local constable, of course.”

  “Do you work directly through one man?”

  “Of course not. I work through many.”

  Trevor scratched his chin, not removing his eyes from the pathetic creature in front of him. “Tell me, do you remember assisting a lovely girl by the name of Louisa several years passed? Apparently, her family had died in a house fire, similar to the story you gave Norman.”

  Featherspoon waved an unsteady hand through the air before stumbling toward a half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table. “I’ll have you know, my lord, that I help several…many children a year. I do not recall anyone by the name of Louisa.” He grasped the liquor with an unsteady hand, placed the bottle to his lips and drank.

  “She is probably in her twentieth year now.” Trevor growled and clutched the man’s shirt, pulling the man’s attention back to Trevor instead of the bottle. “You had better start remembering or I will not give you a shilling of what’s in the coin bag.”

  A bead of sweat formed on the man’s face and he gulped. “I faintly recall a girl by the name of Louisa, but I do think her family really died.”

  Trevor tightened his fingers in Featherspoon’s shirt and glared. “And how am I to trust your word when you gave Norman false information?”

  “I—I—I don’t know what to tell you, my lord.”

  “The truth! That’s what I want.”

  “I don’t remember.” Featherspoon shook his head.

  Cussing under his breath, Trevor pushed the man away. Featherspoon fell to the floor, landing on his buttocks. The bottle dropped out of his hands and rolled, liquid spilling in its journey.

  Trevor expelled a pent-up breath as he scrubbed his face. Pacing the floor, his mind scrambled to think of other things to ask. Then again, the man lied. How would Trevor ever know the truth?

  He stopped in front of Featherspoon still on the floor. “How much does Macgregor pay you for these children?”

  Within seconds, the color of the man’s skin changed from an angry red to a panicked white. “Macgregor?”

&nbs
p; “You heard me,” Trevor snarled in aggravation. “Norman told me you sold him to Macgregor. Even Louisa had worked for the lout.” He reached down and grasped the lapels of the man’s waistcoat and jerked him to a standing position. “You cannot lie to me about Macgregor. I know you sold children to Satan’s spawn.”

  “Macgregor knew I couldn’t possibly find all the children a good home. He assured me he would help.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I don’t believe that for one moment. You knew what kind of man Macgregor was. You knew what kind of life those children would have.”

  “No…no. You must believe me. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Why? Was Macgregor blackmailing you?”

  “I—I—I…”

  “Tell me,” Trevor barked.

  Featherspoon broke down and sobbed like the pathetic—foxed—man he was. Trevor dropped him back on the floor. Standing over him, he rubbed his forehead as the man curled up and cried like a babe. Trevor was helpless, and he hated feeling this way. But apparently, shaking the man and making threats weren’t going to do a thing.

  “Tell me one more thing,” Trevor said a little more calmly. “Where can I find him? If you are not man enough to put a stop to the man’s sick ways of raising children, then I will. I am not afraid of Macgregor.”

  “I—I don’t know.” Featherspoon sniffed and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “Macgregor never stays in one place for very long. He could be anywhere—even back in Scotland for all I know.”

  “He’s here in England, I assure you. I have come across three members of his band of thieves already.”

  The blubbering fool wouldn’t answer Trevor. Featherspoon kept shaking his head and saying he didn’t know. Perhaps this was not the best time to talk with the man since he was sick with the morning effects from his drinking spree. However, Trevor wondered if he could catch Featherspoon sober at all.

  “When your memory clears,” Trevor told him, “locate me and we shall do business. I’ll pay well to find this man.” He turned and marched out of the house, more frustrated now than when he’d entered.

  He mounted his horse, but before riding away, glanced around the barren land. If Macgregor paid Featherspoon for each child, where did the money go? No, there had to be more to the story. Obviously, Featherspoon was not getting paid well, which meant Macgregor was blackmailing.