Still, none of that should have cost Madeline the safety and security she had so briefly enjoyed. She was an innocent party.
“See this locket?” Agnes pulled a gold locket out from under her shawl. “She sold me this, she did. Needed the money to help her son.”
Max felt sick at the sight of his sister’s mourning locket. He knew it contained some of their father’s hair. It had been Madeline’s most treasured possession.
“It’s beautiful,” Abby breathed.
Max couldn’t seem to say anything.
“I got it for two shillings,” Agnes bragged.
Even setting aside the sentimental value, it was worth much more than two shillings. Was that the extent to which this woman was willing to help a child? Max wondered.
The way Agnes had taken advantage of Madeline’s desperation disgusted him. But he was upset with no one more than himself. Madeline had come to him for help, too. He had given her money and sent her on her way. But he should have done more, should have kept in contact with her and made himself more approachable, so she would feel free to come back when she encountered such need. Only now did he understand how dire her circumstances had been—that she had done everything she could before she ever approached him.
“I love it,” Abby said.
“We were friends,” Agnes responded. “She and I talked often about her son and how she missed him. Being a mother myself, I could relate to her. And no one knows Jack better than—”
“Enough about Madeline and my brother.” Bill lifted a hand to cut her off, but his wife was having too much fun as the center of attention.
“She knew people,” Agnes volunteered, ignoring him, “important people.”
“Why doesn’t Jack ever talk about her?” Max jumped in, hoping to direct the conversation away from those important people. “If she meant so much to him,” he added, to justify the question.
Bill pulled on the loose skin beneath his neck. “What’s the point? She’s gone now.”
“He thinks she stole his money, reclaimed her son and ran away,” Agnes explained.
This answer wasn’t one Max had expected—but it helped ease his anger and upset, gave him hope that maybe what he had assumed had happened to Madeline was wrong. “Some money went missing, too?”
“Quite a bit,” she confirmed.
“It’s not like Jack to let that go,” Max said. “Why hasn’t he tried to find her?”
“He has.” This time it was Bill who spoke. “We fairly tore Wapping apart looking for her, and every town around it.”
“But she was nowhere to be found,” Agnes said.
Could he be wrong about Jack? Max wondered. Why would Jack bother looking for Madeline if he had killed her—or knew she was dead?
“You said she talked about her son often. Where was he?” Abby stepped in again, trying to keep the conversation going. “Did you check there?”
“We would have, if we could,” Agnes confided. “But she never said exactly where he was staying. And it’s a good thing. Angry as Jack was, who knows what he might have done.”
The way Jack had ogled Abigail the first night they met didn’t make him appear too distraught over Madeline. Something didn’t add up—but maybe Jack was only capable of caring so much. As the days went by, he was probably angrier about the money than anything else. If Madeline had indeed stolen from him. But that didn’t seem like her.
“How much did she get away with?” Max asked.
“I’ve never had the bollocks to ask,” Bill said. “You know how Jack is. Anyone who gets him riled up is a fool.”
“Things were bad there for a while,” Agnes agreed. “Jack was fairly mad with rage and anything could set him off.”
Did that mean that Madeline was alive? Had she taken Jack’s money and abandoned her child, as Bill and Agnes seemed to believe? Set off to make a better life for herself?
She wouldn’t be the first unmarried mother to do so. There were stories circulating all the time of destitute women abandoning illegitimate children—or worse.
But Madeline had planned to marry a man she didn’t love, or even respect, for the sake of her child. If she robbed Jack, it was to be able to help Byron. She wouldn’t leave him in dire straits and flee town.
“Hopefully she’ll turn up,” Max said.
“If she does, she’d better have that money with her,” Bill responded and shut the door.
Chapter 22
Max sent Abby to the lodging house corresponding to 205 Flower Street—and again waited for her a block away. She was to use the same story that had worked so well with the charwoman at the Bolstrum’s. If that didn’t bring the results they were hoping to achieve, he would pay Gertrude a visit himself. That gave them two chances.
While she waited for someone to answer her knock, Abby prayed Gertrude would be at home. Max had done so much, and risked so much, to find his sister. He deserved to have the answers he craved.
It was just after noon, so the chances of catching a “working girl” where she resided should be fairly favorable. But there were no guarantees. The poorer prostitutes typically had to take whatever business they could get. If Gertrude had regulars, she could be up and on her way to a midday rendezvous.
An older woman with smudged face paint and a dress that revealed almost all of her bosom answered the door. She held a blanket to one side that had been hung across the entrance to stop any draft the warped panel let in.
By the irritation in her expression, she wasn’t pleased to be disturbed. She had obviously been asleep. Once she saw Abigail, however, she glanced up and down the street as if checking to be sure Abby was alone. Then her expression cleared. “You’re a pretty thing,” she said. “If you’re looking for work, I can see that you get it.”
Abigail smiled at the compliment but was chilled, at the same time, by what that work would entail. “I’m afraid that . . . that’s not why I’m here,” she said. “I’m looking for a woman by the name of Gertrude. I was told she lives at this address?”
Her former impatience returned. “Gertie’s asleep. Come back later,” she said and closed the door.
For Max’s sake, Abigail summoned her nerve and knocked again.
The woman didn’t reappear, but someone—it sounded like the same person—called out, “Oh, bugger off!”
Since she had just learned that “Gertie” was inside, Abigail began calling out. “Gertrude?” She banged on the flimsy wooden panel, which was nearly enough to break it. “Are you there? Gertrude, please! I would like to speak with you about Madeline.”
After the mention of Madeline’s name, it took only a few seconds to bring Gertrude to the door. She peered out, her long hair tangled from sleep, her large, dark eyes filled with a mixture of hope and concern. “Who are you?”
“A friend of a friend of Madeline’s. She . . . she wrote me several months ago, said I could come to her, that she would help me find lodgings here in London.”
A hint of skepticism shadowed her pale face. “And your name?”
“Abigail. Abigail Hale.” Abby saw no reason not to use her real identity. There was no way this woman would ever recognize it. They had no knowledge of each other—and would very likely never meet again.
“I don’t remember her ever mentioning you.”
“Have you talked to her recently? The charwoman at the Bolstrums’ said she hasn’t been seen in some time.”
“That’s true,” she said. “I fear . . . I fear something terrible has happened.”
“So you have no idea where she could have gone? Where she might be?”
“None. The last time she visited me, she was so excited to tell me that she would finally get to raise her son. I thought she had found a way to be happy. Byron means everything to her. But when I went to check on her not long ago—at the address she gave me on Farmer’
s Landing—she wasn’t there. The man she was supposed to marry told me she ran off.” She ran her fingers absently through her hair in an effort to work out the worst of the tangles. “But I don’t believe it for a second. She would never leave Byron.”
“Of course she wouldn’t.”
“I’ve been out searching since then,” Gertrude said. “But no one has seen or heard from her. She’s just . . . gone.” She choked up and had to wipe the tears that rolled down her face.
“You don’t think . . . that the Bolstrums did anything to her, do you?” Abby asked.
“No, they would never harm her.”
“Anna Harper recently died in their house.”
“Did Margaret tell you that?”
“Margaret?”
“The charwoman.”
“Oh, yes,” Abby said, because how else could she have learned? She didn’t want to make Gertrude suspicious of her.
“I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry about that. I met Anna once and liked her—but she was ill for some time. I’m not surprised she has passed.”
“So there’s no one else who has died there.”
“No.”
Again, Abby got the feeling if anyone had harmed Anna Harper or Madeline, it had to be Jack. “That’s good to hear. I was, of course, fearing the worse for Madeline.”
“She left. Margaret would say if it was otherwise. If she was harmed, it had to be at that house on Farmer’s Landing. Even if she’s alive somewhere, for some reason she’s not able to help her son. So I’ve been trying to save enough money to . . . to give to his caretakers,” Gertrude said. “I can’t stand the thought of him being turned out, of what might become of him. But in my current situation”—the tears came faster now—“I barely earn enough to survive. I-I haven’t had anything to offer the poor tyke. I haven’t even dared to inquire after him since I first learned she left for fear . . .”
When emotion choked off her words, Abby changed her mind about continuing to pretend she was a “friend of a friend from out of town.” Gertrude was so distressed over Madeline’s disappearance she deserved the truth and whatever solace that truth might bring. “Don’t despair. I can assure you her son is fine.”
She sniffed and dried her face again. “He is? Because I have been so worried. Madeline was like a sister to me. I miss her every day.”
Abby reached out to squeeze her arm. “Don’t give up hope. We’ll find her.”
“Who? You and me?” she scoffed. “What can we do? We have nothing. If only her family cared enough to get involved. Yesterday I spent what little coin I had to take a cab to her brother’s town house in Mayfair. I wanted to plead with him to . . . to at least take in her son! She might be a bastard, and the boy, too—but, to a certain extent, they all share the same blood. That has to count for something! How can one live so high and the other so low?”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Abby murmured in an attempt to comfort her. “What did they tell you when you went to Mayfair?”
“I was turned away at the door. The butler stared down his nose at me and claimed the master was ‘not currently in residence.’ ”
If Max lived in Mayfair, he was as affluent as Abby had guessed. That came as no surprise. But it bothered her that Gertrude would think so poorly of him when he was doing all he could. “What the butler told you is true,” she said. “Her brother is not in Mayfair—he is right here in Wapping. And he does care. He has been risking life and limb searching for her.”
Gertrude’s eyes narrowed in skepticism. “How do you know this?”
“Because I have been helping him.”
Shocked, she overcame her tears and spoke clearly, stridently. “You’re saying the Duke of Rowenberry is here? In Wapping?”
“Did you say duke?” Abby shook her head. “No, that can’t be true.”
“Exactly. He has never been receptive to Madeline.”
“Then I must be helping a different brother.”
This seemed to surprise her more than anything. “Or no brother at all. She has only one. His name is Lucien Cavendish and, when the old duke died a few years ago, he inherited the lands and title.”
Abby gaped at the girl. She started to reject what Gertrude said . . . but Max had mentioned that his sister was illegitimate. So were Lucien and Max the same person? If so, he wasn’t just a merchant. He was a member of the bloody aristocracy!
No wonder he had been so reticent about his real life. All of London would be agog if they knew the great Duke of Rowenberry was posing as a body snatcher. How could he have risked his safety and his reputation like this?
Suddenly intense and desperate again, Gertrude leaned closer. “But if it’s true, if you do have his ear, will you tell him about little Byron? Please . . . plead with him to rescue Madeline’s child.”
“He has already done that,” Abby responded, but she was speaking mechanically, merely keeping up her end of the conversation while her mind raced down other avenues—and her heart broke. In some secret corner of her soul, she had been holding out hope that maybe, by some miracle, Max would become enamored with her and break off his engagement. He readily admitted that it wasn’t a love match.
But now she knew that would never happen. What could she, a virgin with aspirations of becoming a medical student, possibly have to offer a duke? Maybe her father was being considered for knighthood, but he had no lands, no proud heritage, no special bloodline or anything else to recommend her. She would be nothing but an embarrassment to someone of Max’s ranking.
No wonder Mr. Hawley had been so shocked by their exchange at the warehouse. I wouldn’t want you anyway. She had said that to the Duke of Rowenberry!
“Is something wrong?” Gertrude peered at her in concern.
“Excuse me, what?”
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Would you like to come in and sit down while we sort this out? I don’t have much space, but—”
The smell of the doss-house alone would have been enough to discourage her. “No, I’m fine. Truly.”
“You’re sure?”
Madeline liked this woman, wished she had an easier life. “I’m sure. And I will tell Madeline’s brother . . . er . . . His Grace that you have been very helpful.”
“I’m so pleased for Byron. I pray they will treat him well, better than they treated Madeline.”
“He’s a child. Of course they will.”
“The duke might. But not his mother.”
Abby didn’t know how to respond to that. Max hadn’t told her much about the family dynamic. She just knew he suffered great regret. “I’m sure he will protect the boy.” The man she knew certainly would. “And we haven’t given up on Madeline.”
“Good.”
After that, Abby promised Gertrude that she and Max would let her know what they found out, and she told Gertrude to deliver a message to Mr. Hawley at the warehouse if she heard anything that might help. Then, feeling as if they were already friends themselves, she embraced the woman and hurried away.
But her footsteps slowed as soon as she reached the corner. Max, who’d been watching for her, stepped out of a chandler’s shop.
“How did it go?” he asked, his expression anxious. “Has she seen Madeline?”
He was truly concerned for his sister. Deeply. Look at all he has done. “No.”
His face fell. “This woman, Gertrude, had no information? No place for us to look?”
“I’m afraid not. She’s as worried as we are, has been searching everywhere, all to no avail.”
With a sigh, he rubbed his forehead. Abigail watched him, wondering if this Max she had come to care about could really be such an important man. So out of reach. He seemed the opposite of how she had always pictured a duke—a person almost equal in importance to a prince. Not only was Max accessible and human and warm, he seemed to share the sam
e concerns everyone else had.
“Then this has been a waste of time,” he said, clearly disappointed.
“Not completely,” she said. “At least it has taught me a few things.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Is it true—what she told me?”
His eyebrows slammed together. He could tell by her tone that she was no longer talking about Madeline. “Is what true?”
“Are you the Duke of Rowenberry?”
He muttered a curse as if she had just asked him the hardest question in the world.
“Are you?” she pressed.
“Would you believe me if I said no?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Abby. I’m sure you feel . . . misled. But you understand why I would keep such a secret.”
Of course she understood. It was just that she had indulged in so many hopeful imaginings where he was concerned, felt such . . . infatuation. She had fancied herself in love with him, although she dared not call it love now. “I’m sure if word of your identity were to get out, it would cause quite a stir,” she said stiffly.
“Indeed.” He seemed relieved and eager to leave it at that, but she wasn’t done with him yet.
“And you included me in the ruse because you, apparently, couldn’t trust me—while I trusted you with my life.” Although she tried to walk off, he caught her.
“Abby, stop. Trust has nothing to do with it.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell me? You told me that you weren’t really a body snatcher, that you were a man of business, that you were engaged. Why not all of the truth?”
He seemed to grapple for the right words. “I was simply trying to keep that identity, my real identity, separate from this one so that . . . so that—”
“So that what?” she demanded. “Were you afraid I might be so bold as to count you among my friends? That I might embarrass you by my familiarity if I encountered you later or . . . or be presumptuous enough to impose upon you?”
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 23