He removed his coat. “If Madeline’s dead, I’m risking your safety for nothing. That’s what bothers me.”
“We don’t know she’s dead. We have to assume the best. It might be the only chance she has. You said she would never willingly abandon her child.”
But, even if she was alive, would he ever be able to find her? Or was he grasping at thin air?
Probably the latter, but he couldn’t extinguish the hope that burned so brightly inside him—the desire to achieve her forgiveness and, more than anything, restore his nephew’s mother.
“I’ll give it another week,” he said. “If we don’t find her, or something that gives some indication that we can expect the best possible outcome, I’ll go to the police with what I know.”
Finally, she rolled over. “And what do you know?”
“Not enough,” he admitted. That was the problem. The police would come. Thanks to who he was, they might even perform an investigation. But Max had no confidence their efforts would amount to anything, or he would have handled the situation that way from the beginning. He had been living with Jack for three weeks and hadn’t yet found the answers he sought. What more could they do? And if he went that route, Abby could still be in danger. Thanks to his deception, she might be in even more danger, because if Jack learned the truth, it would only provoke him. It wouldn’t be unlike Jack to use Abby to hurt Max.
Stifling a sigh, he piled his waistcoat and shirt on the chair where he had just draped his coat, and climbed into bed. It had been a long day and what had happened with Tom’s brother left him uncertain that he had chosen the most prudent course, especially when it came to Abby.
“I never liked Tom,” he said, voicing what had been going through his mind since Peter showed up with that pistol. “But I can’t help feeling sorry for him. His background played a big role in the type of unfortunate adult he turned out to be.”
“He was weaker than Jack and Jack preyed on him. That’s why you pity him. Tom deserves justice the same as Madeline.”
“I hope we can get that justice.”
He could see the fat rope her braid made in the moonlight and couldn’t help remembering what her hair had felt like, falling freely across his chest.
“Are you cold?” He hoped she would say yes so he would have an excuse to provide her with his body heat.
“I’m fine,” she said stiffly.
He could tell that, no matter what he did, she wouldn’t allow him to touch her, not after what he had told her earlier. She wanted his heart as well as his body—and that was what he couldn’t provide.
“Do you think Emmett’s in gaol?” she asked.
“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t come here to let us know, had he escaped the cemetery.”
When their eyes met, she pulled the blankets up that much higher. “I’m worried about him.”
“I am, too—and yet I can’t help being relieved that he inadvertently distracted those men at St. George’s. I doubt we would have gotten away otherwise, and I shudder to think what they might have done to you.”
They certainly wouldn’t have been able to squire off the corpse they had disinterred.
“Why doesn’t Emmett board here like Tom did?” she asked. “He seems so young. How does he get by on his own?”
“Emmett’s willing to work with Jack; he’s not willing to live with him.”
“Tom would’ve been smart to stay elsewhere, too—with his brother or, failing that, at a common lodging house. Why would he subject himself to Jack’s abuse?”
“Who knows? Emmett’s life, hard though it has been, has probably been easier. At least he’s been able to make friends. I don’t get the impression Tom ever managed that. And Peter isn’t any more stable than Tom is . . . or was, if he’s no longer alive.”
When she didn’t say anything, he almost reached for her. He longed to forget everything that had transpired between them that day, wished they could go back to the night before. After the liberties he had taken, it felt so natural to draw her to him. He wanted to slip off whatever she had on and kiss her until he could no longer think about Madeline or Jack or anything else.
But every time he shifted, she inched away from him, as if she was opposed to encountering him even by accident. He feared if she moved any farther she would fall out of bed.
“It surprised me that his room was so neat and clean,” she said.
“That’s probably another reason he’s not willing to live here.” Max hated living in such squalor.
“Does he have a sweetheart?”
“From what I can gather, he prefers a good whore to anyone he might become responsible for.”
“How admirable.”
At the sarcasm in her voice, Max wished he hadn’t been quite so candid. After all, she hadn’t had the best experience with him—and he was her only experience. He didn’t want to poison her against men. “You have to remember who he is. He doesn’t know any better. He spends most of his time just figuring out how to fill his belly each day.”
“I’m ready to return to the college.”
He had finally convinced her that she would be better off there. So why, despite all his talk to the contrary, was he so reluctant to see her go?
Stifling a sigh, he moved onto his back and tried to fall sleep. But it didn’t happen right away. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then he turned to watch Abby sleep.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in love with someone else?” she asked at length.
Apparently, she wasn’t sleeping after all. He was glad—until he reached over to smooth her hair back, and she recoiled.
“Because love has nothing to do with it,” he said and dropped his hand.
“Are you awake? We need to get up.”
Abby felt as if she had barely closed her eyes. “Why so early?” she grumbled.
“It’s not early. It’s midmorning.”
It didn’t look like midmorning. When she rolled over to face the window, she saw that it was a dark and dreary day. “It wasn’t all that long ago that we went to bed.”
“I have to check in with my clerk. I prefer to do that while Jack’s sleeping. With Tom . . . gone”—she noticed that he didn’t say dead, even though that was what they both believed—“Emmett likely in gaol and Bill home with his domineering wife, there will be no one to follow us.”
“Fine. I’m coming.” She didn’t want to be left behind with Jack—or locked in the room. Besides, maybe she could learn something from Max’s clerk. She couldn’t get a word out of Max about the woman he planned to marry. Who was she? Where did she think he was? Did she know he was sharing a bed with someone else? What was their relationship like?
Abby certainly wondered—especially when she pushed the blankets away and Max’s gaze riveted on what the thin fabric of her chemise revealed.
Covering her breasts with her hands, she gave him a starched look. “Is there some reason you feel free to ogle me, Mr. Wilder?”
He frowned, obviously disappointed by her reaction. “If I can’t touch you, at least let me look.”
“You can look at your fiancée.” She smiled with feigned sweetness. “Have you told her about me, by the way? Or are you excusing your behavior because you have pleasured me with your mouth and your hands but have saved your cock for her?”
“Don’t provoke me, Abby,” he growled. “I preserved your maidenhead for your sake, not hers.”
“Still, I’m sure she will appreciate your restraint.”
“My fiancée and I aren’t exclusive. I can take my pleasure wherever I like. What she and I have is more of a . . . a business arrangement.”
“And that’s supposed to make what we have done less of a betrayal? Or is it designed to make me want to spread my legs and stupidly beg you to take me as I have done before?”
A muscle moved
in his cheek. “Only if you feel, as I do, that taking advantage of this time, this chance to be together, is better than walking away with nothing.”
“From what you have said, I will walk away with nothing. Isn’t that what you have been trying to convey?”
He lowered his voice in entreaty. “I have been trying to convey my honest limitations. Anything short of that would be unfair to you.”
She slipped off her chemise and let him look, secretly gratified by the hunger in his eyes. “So now that I know I will be cast aside, your conscience is clear and I can throw myself onto the rocks if I want to?”
“It wouldn’t be like that.” He stepped forward, no doubt eager to convince her, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“I appreciate your generous offer. But, surely, someday I will meet a man not promised to someone else who might want to touch me here”—she ran her own fingers over the tips of her breasts and moved lower—“and here.”
“You want what I want,” he insisted.
She turned away to wash with the pitcher and bowl. “I want what I can’t have. And now, so do you.”
Chapter 20
This time Max let Abby join him in Mr. Hawley’s office. She was wearing the dress she had fashioned out of Max’s coat in place of her gypsy rags, and the mark he had left on her neck was almost gone. In her own estimation, she had to look a lot more respectable. But, like before, Mr. Hawley didn’t take much notice of her. She could only hope he remained as oblivious of the tension between her and Max—although she couldn’t imagine how that was possible. There was so much emotion flowing under the surface they could scarcely look at each other.
“I’ve found a few things,” the clerk announced, getting right to the point.
“It’s about time we have a change in fortune,” Max responded. He was in no mood for further disappointment, and Abby could easily tell. “What have you learned?”
“That woman who died? The one you were worried about being murdered?”
“With the glass eye?” Max slid forward in his seat and Abby caught her breath.
“Her name was Anna Harper. She was a widow who boarded with a Mr. Bolstrum and his wife.”
“How do you know?”
He rubbed his hands in apparent eagerness. “I found a shopkeeper who recognized her description.”
“You’ve spoken to this Bolstrum and his wife, then?”
“I have. They claim she fell ill and passed unexpectedly.”
“In their house?”
“Yes. In her own bed.”
Max’s gaze strayed to Abby. He was obviously eager to celebrate this small victory with her. At least they had discovered something about the woman, something that might lead them further. But then he must have remembered that they were at odds, because he jerked his attention away. “Then how did Jack gain possession of her body?”
The door slid open with a bang, and a stocky, tattooed sailor came into the warehouse. Mr. Hawley got up to see what he wanted, gave him directions since he seemed to be in the wrong place, and returned. “Mr. Bolstrum said her family lives in India,” he told Max. “She has stacks of letters from them, which he showed me. He said that of course they couldn’t wait for someone that far away to make arrangements for her burial. It would take weeks just to notify them.”
“So they did . . . what?” Max asked.
“She was a member of a friendly society. After paying twopence a week for the past several years, she should have been afforded a decent funeral—an elm wood coffin with a coffin plate and handles, a velvet pall, even hatbands, hoods and scarves for the attendants.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke with Mrs. Shrewsbury, who runs the society she was in.”
Max took a moment to digest Hawley’s response. Then he asked, “Why didn’t Anna Harper get what was due her?”
“Mr. Bolstrum claims he contacted the society and they came for the body. As far as he is concerned, she did get it.”
Abigail couldn’t stop herself from jumping in. “How long did she live with the Bolstrums?”
“Ah, your mind is going where mine did.” Mr. Hawley didn’t seem the least put off that she would be the one to ask this question. He was too pleased that he had an answer. “I wondered the same thing, so I asked him for his rental records.”
“And he complied?” Max asked wryly.
“He was eager to convince me that he had nothing to hide.”
“What did the ledger show?”
“She had been staying there since October of 1827.”
“After three years, he and his wife should have known her quite well,” Abigail mused. “Wouldn’t they be aware of her funeral? Wouldn’t they have wanted to attend?”
“Mr. Bolstrum mentioned that it was difficult to endure her company,” Mr. Hawley replied. “They weren’t on speaking terms at the time of her death.”
Abby looked to Max but only briefly, as he had looked at her before. “So it’s Mrs. Shrewsbury who sold her body to Jack?”
“It sounds like she would certainly have been in a position to do so.” It was Max who answered her question and yet his attention remained on Mr. Hawley.
The clerk seemed oblivious to the fact that they were so hesitant to engage each other directly. “I don’t think it was her,” he said. “Mrs. Shrewsbury insists she was never notified of Mrs. Harper’s death.”
“That merely makes it Bolstrum’s word against Mrs. Shrewsbury’s,” Max pointed out.
Mr. Hawley dipped his head in agreement. “Still, I believe Mrs. Shrewsbury—”
“Why?” Max broke in, sounding slightly irritated. “We can’t assume she’s honest just because she’s a woman.”
“Although a woman is probably more reliable than a man,” Abigail added.
She had spoken under her breath, but Max heard—and scowled at her. “You can’t intimate that I haven’t been honest with you.”
“That depends on your interpretation of honest. What you have told me came a bit late.”
The clerk’s eyes widened at this exchange.
Max arched his eyebrows. “And she’s the daughter of a surgeon,” he said as an aside. “Presumptuous, isn’t she?”
Provoked by his condescending manner—as if it was beyond shocking that she would dare speak to a successful man of business when she was merely the daughter of a surgeon—Abby regarded Mr. Hawley with a level stare. “Mr. Wilder has his own flaws.”
“The most grievous of which is the fact that I have a fiancée,” Max added dryly.
Abby gaped at him. “I wouldn’t want you, anyway!”
When Mr. Hawley coughed, Abby realized that she had gone too far. Finally feeling some of the embarrassment she would have felt much sooner, if not for the jealousy that poked her like a sharp stick, her cheeks flushed hot. “But . . . continue,” she said, trying to back away from the scene she had just caused in front of Max’s employee. “I will . . . I will say nothing more.”
There were several moments of silence. To Abby they felt as if they stretched on for an eternity, so she attempted to guide the conversation back to where it should be. “You were saying you believe Mrs. Shrewsbury and not Mr. Bolstrum,” she murmured to Max’s clerk.
“Right. Yes. So I was.” He seemed to be having difficulty getting over what he had just witnessed but, to Abby’s relief, he managed to resume. “It seems logical to me, given that it is Mr. Bolstrum who lives down the street from Bill Hurtsill.”
Thankfully, this piece of news was sufficient to propel the conversation forward, beyond her gaffe. Not that anyone was likely to forget her behavior, especially Abby.
“So after they left the Lion’s Paw, Bill, Emmett, Tom and Jack probably walked past Bill’s house on their way home,” Max said. “No doubt they expected to drop him off and continue. Instead, they received t
he ‘happy’ news of Mrs. Harper’s death, paid Mr. Bolstrum a few shillings and took her off his hands.”
“That’s a plausible scenario,” Mr. Hawley said. “Perhaps Mr. Bolstrum assumed, with her family in India, he could do as he pleased—and might as well make up for the rent he would lose while he advertised for a new boarder.”
Max studied his clerk. “He didn’t like her anyway.”
“He admitted as much.”
“So you don’t think she was murdered . . .”
Mr. Hawley kept his attention on Max. Abby couldn’t blame him. She had embarrassed them all with her outburst. Max had, to a point, provoked her. But she had overreacted.
“So far, we have no proof either way,” he said. “Given what you have told me about the London Supply Company, and Mr. Bolstrum’s apparent lack of feeling where Mrs. Harper was concerned, it is just as likely that they killed her and agreed to split the money her corpse could bring.”
A frown tugged on Max’s lips. “Jack told me that someone supplies him with a body here and there. That makes Mrs. Harper’s appearance at Farmer’s Landing sound like more than sheer luck. He even mentioned paying this person. That’s a business transaction. So what we need to learn now is whether or not he was speaking of Mr. Bolstrum.”
“Indeed,” the clerk said. “If we can discover a link between Mrs. Harper’s landlord and anyone else recently deceased under questionable circumstances, we might have our answer. Such a coincidence would be suspicious, to say the least.”
Worry and hope appeared on Max’s face. “Did you ask him about Madeline? Could it be that she boarded there?”
“Bolstrum claims he has never met her,” Mr. Hawley said.
“But . . .” Max prodded.
Even sitting there in abject misery and shame, Abigail could tell by the clerk’s inflection that he wasn’t convinced of Bolstrum’s verity in that regard any more than how Anna Harper had died.
“I got the impression he was lying.”
“Mr. Bolstrum is a stranger to you, Hobbs.”
Abigail hadn’t heard Max call Mr. Hawley by his nickname before. But, seeing how they interacted, she got the impression they had known each other a long time, which only made all she had said worse.
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 21