In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  Nothing to put shadows of worry beneath her eyes, and nothing to distract him from the pure pleasantness of her serenity. And he thought of her hands stitching his wound back together, and the low, teasing, soothing note of her voice as she spoke, a mere voicing of thoughts and observances that were both artless and probing.

  But he only got up from his desk, refilled his glass, shaking loose the subtle but maddening call of Miss Murdock before his mind could dwell on the further activity in his bedchamber that had nothing to do with stitches or even talking. He returned to his desk and focused his mind instead on the tasks that would need to be done that day.

  He would need to go to his barrister and instruct him to dig back and ascertain how much stock his father had held in the East India Company at the time of his death. If possible, he needed him to also discover who had significant holdings in that company in the same period of time. If what he suspected were true, he should find a large share holder who was also an intimate of the Queen, probably holding a high position in the running of her affairs.

  He would need to send someone to meet with Steven's mother, Lucy Crockner, at the undertaker's address he had given her (and praise God, Miss Murdock in her mistaken notions had seen fit to direct Tyler and Andrew to take that fallen man to an undertaker! For wouldn't he have felt even more like scum if he had told Lucy Crockner her husband were rotting in a mew?) and to find out what, if anything, was in Dante's power to be of assistance to her.

  He debated for a moment on who he should send, decided that Tyler would make her the most comfortable, for all of his brusqueness, he was gentle enough, and he had no fine airs to put her ill-atease. Although he imagined Tyler would be most unhappy about being assigned to what he would call a fit of folly sentimentalism on St. James' part (He were gonna kill you, weren't he? Damn near did. If he got's a bawlin' widow now and a heartsick son, really 'tis none of your concern). But he would go all the same, he always did, and if he spat his chewing tobacco with more force than necessary, and aimed with insolence toward his lordship's boots upon hearing his orders, St. James was certainly not going to take him to task over it.

  After these items were taken care of, he would have to closet himself with Tyler and decide how one or the other or both of them were to find 'Red's Pub' and enter it without being marked for what they were: a duke of the realm and his groom.

  He made several notes to himself, wrote a short, rather cryptic note to Queen Victoria to be delivered to her promised man in the event he should show up while St. James was out. It read simply: With the utmost respect, I question the security and confidentiality of your correspondence. Please advise if this notion should be disregarded, and accept my apologies if it should be so. Your humble servant, St. J. If he had made some inaccurate assumptions, he imagined this note would bring down upon his head a rather severe reprimand from the Queen herself (and who could blame her, as he was rather impertinently questioning her ability to keep her affairs private?), but if he were correct and she suspected the same, it would let her know that he had sniffed upon a trail that may interest her. And if her security had been breached, was possibly still being breached, he was quite certain she would be very interested indeed.

  He sat back in his chair again, his eyes very heavy with tiredness, and gave himself over to letting his thoughts roam from the pointed avenues they had been on for the past few hours to where ever they would, and it should not be surprising that they settled onto the memory of a rather disheveled Miss Murdock lying beneath him in his bed as their thought of choice.

  But then he must have dozed, for the clock was suddenly striking

  five strokes and there came tapping on his study door.

  “Enter,” St. James called with weariness.

  And Applegate, his butler, entered to announce that the morning paper had arrived. He came across the room to hand his employer the paper, and stood for a moment nearby as St. James opened it with purpose to the social page. There, as Bertie had seen to it, was his announcement of engagement to Miss Sara Elizabeth Murdock, daughter of Squire Edward Murdock, of Chestershire. He studied it before laying it aside, and with the reading felt at last that his night's work was finished.

  “Send a tray up to my room, would you Applegate, for I think I shall turn in for an hour or two.”

  “Certainly, milord,” Applegate replied and as he left, St. James opened the top drawer of his desk, replaced his father's letters, the letter from Steven's mother that had been misplaced and not found until it was quite useless, and his notes to himself, and locked them away. The note he had written for the Queen he placed in an envelope and took the time to put his seal upon it, so she should know if it had been disturbed, and he pocketed it to give to Effington. Then with a final glance at the newspaper in front of him, he withdrew his letter opener, used the sharp point of it to cut out around the brief banns of his engagement, folded it. He took out his pocket watch, opened the back of the casing that was there for no other reason, that he had ever been able to discern, but for just such romantic little items and placed the clipping inside.

  He left his study and climbed the stairs to where Effington would once again have the dubious honor of undressing him and putting him to bed as though he were some overgrown baby. And if St. James were less than happy about this circumstance, he also admitted he was too tired and in enough pain from his abused stitches that he was in no condition this morning to tweak his valet by denying him his rightful duties.

  At about the same time as St. James was being met by Effington at his door as he returned home, Bertie, Lord Tempton, was crouched in some shrubbery and exclaiming in a whisper to Miss Murdock beside him. “Now where in the blazes, I wonder, could he be going at this hour of the night?”

  It was Andrew's coach passing by them that caused his wonderment. They were hidden in the landscaping beside the mew, the second time that they had been forced into undignified retreat during their now hours long vigil, and ironically, it had been Andrew's movements both times. The first when he had returned from his cousin's townhouse to his grandmother's home. Miss Murdock had thought to hail him then, but she could not see having him waiting out in the cold and the dark with them when there was no guarantee that their endeavor would bear fruit. And as he had ridden in on his mount, and she had seen his face, he had also looked exhausted. It caused her to wonder all the more that he should be leaving again now, instead of getting some much deserved rest. It explained the carriage, at any rate, for he must plan to sleep on the road. But all the same, what was so urgent that he should be leaving now at all?

  “Are you certain that it is Andrew's carriage?” she asked. Her teeth were clenched with cold, despite her wearing St. James' heavy coat, and her legs had gone quite numb.

  “Yes. It must be Earl Larrimer for the Dowager has her own coach and I can't imagine Lady Lydia being about this late.” Bertie's voice was thoughtful as well as perplexed and Lizzie turned to look at him.

  In sudden fear, she asked, “Oh, Bertie! You don't think that St. James has been—?”

  He placed a hand on her arm. “No. And be quiet. Someone is approaching.”

  She quieted, fretting. Bertie continued in a low voice even as his eyes remained focused on the mouth of the mew. “It is not St. James Andrew is going to. He would have had to get word and no one has ridden in, for we would have seen them.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Miss Murdock said, relieved. Then, as she too studied the entrance to the mew, said, “Someone is there. But I can not tell if it is Steven.”

  “Nor can I as of yet. Stay still until we know for certain.”

  The figure at the mouth of the mew hesitated. He was as slight as Steven, but this figure's stance was different. The shoulders sagged, suggesting someone older, and his head was down, in sharp contrast to the audacious adolescent that Miss Murdock had come to know. The figure started forward, his arms clutched about his thin body in an attempt to warm himself, and Miss Murdock wished that he would r
aise his head so that the street lamp at the corner might catch his features.

  Bertie's hand was still on her arm, steadying her, but when the slight figure stopped just below her bedchamber window, looking up, and made as if to make his climb once again, her doubts vanished. It was Steven.

  She pulled from Lord Tempton's grasp, stumbled forward, heart beating fast, and called to him. Even then she was afraid he would flee. “Steven! It's Miss Murdock. We have been awaiting you.”

  He whirled at her hushed voice, located her in the darkness. In unexpected fervor he ran forward and threw himself into her arms. A great hiccupping sob escaped him.

  Miss Murdock held him anchored to her, feeling his shoulders shake, and soothed him as best she could. Lord Tempton arrived out of the bushes beside her and she gave him a grateful look over Steven's head that he had allowed her to test her theory that Steven may return to her window a third night in search of her and of comfort.

  “We have been so worried for you,” she told the crying boy. “I should have never left you alone.”

  He sniffled into the shoulder of St. James' coat that she wore. “You left me t'go t'him,” he said, and she could not tell whether he was accusing her or merely stating a fact.

  She pulled back from him so that she could see his face, but she held his shoulders so that he could not bolt. “Yes, I did, Steven, for he was in a very bad way.”

  He put a child's dirty hand to his face, gave a harsh wipe down across it in a gesture of a full-grown man very much ashamed of his tears. “Coo, I know's it, Miss. And if he had died, t'woulda been me fault, for I left him when they needed me. I been too shamed t'go to me ma, an' tell her I seen me da die, and was t'reason St. James killed him. An' too shamed t'go to St. James, for 'bandonin' him when he were 'bout to die.”

  “Oh,” Miss Murdock exclaimed. “You can not feel that way, Steven! For you were doing your very best to help his lordship and had no way of knowing that your father was involved in this! And St. James has been very grieved to learn that it was your father, and beside himself with worry for you. And what of your mother? She does not know what happened to your father, and now does not know what has happened to you either, and she must be sick with the worry and her fears. Oh, Steven, now that you are here, we must let everyone know that you are safe, and indeed, I am so glad that you are.”

  Steven blinked and she hugged him to her again, but he did not cry any longer, only told her on her shoulder, “Me mother knows now, Miss, that me da is dead and that St. James killed 'im.”

  “How do you know that, Steven?” Miss Murdock asked with surprise.

  “I seen 'im meet with her tonight. He told her 'n all.”

  And Miss Murdock let out an exclamation as she held the boy back away from her again, but before she could question him further, Lord Tempton laid his hand upon her shoulder and told her, “We can't just stand here and talk, Miss Murdock. You two are already making enough noise to bring the whole household down upon our ears!”

  She said, “Yes, of course you are right, Bertie. But whatever shall we do with him now that we have him?” And when her eyes met Lord Tempton's over Steven's head, she realized that they were in a fix indeed. She could not possibly go to St. James' home and force his already strained valet into hiding her in milord's bedchambers once again. It had been a small miracle that she had not been discovered before, and she could not think that particular ruse would work for any further length of time. Neither, she admitted, was she looking forward to the certain wrath of her new fiancé when he found that she and Lord Tempton had gone contrary to his orders.

  The expression in Bertie's eyes seemed to confirm her fear on that point.

  “You can't stay here at the Duchess's, Miss Murdock,” he told her, as though having already discarded the idea of her going to St. James out of hand as complete and thorough lunacy.

  “And well I know it, since I am supposed to be at my father's and would have a good deal of explaining to do as to where I have been for the past twenty-four hours if neither there nor here.”

  “I'd take you to my home, but—”

  She made a little motion with one hand, releasing Steven's patient shoulder as she did so. “No. No, of course not. The last thing we need to do is involve another household and risk another score of servants discovering me. That is hardly any better than going to St. James.”

  “I could take you to your home in Chestershire,” Bertie said with a brightening look. “St. James need never know that you weren't there quite as promptly as he expected.”

  “But whatever shall we do with Steven?” Miss Murdock countered. “I can not haul him up there with me and leave his poor mother to continue worrying about him. Let alone St. James.”

  “S'cuse me, Miss,” Steven interrupted. “But I'd go see me mother first, that is, if you'd and m'lord Tempton would go with me,” he added, looking a little self-conscious.

  Miss Murdock looked at Bertie, and Bertie looked at her. “Well,” he said, trying to fumble his way through to a conclusion. “That'd take care of one worry.”

  “And I could send a note 'round to St. James,” she added. “And although it seems cowardly to not tell him to his face that we didn't do as he asked, it mayhaps would be better. And surely he can not be too angry when he has discovered that we found Steven, or rather, Steven found us,” she amended, for if he had not come to her that night, they obviously would not have had a clue where to look for him, “and that we will be shortly headed for where I was to be to begin with.”

  Lord Tempton grasped on to this idea with enthusiasm. “Just the thing,” he said. “A note. You are very sensible, Miss Murdock. By the time I have to see him again, he should have enough other things occupying his mind that I should get nothing more than a mild dressing down.”

  Miss Murdock laughed at this obvious attempt to elude St. James' ire on Bertie's part, but as she was feeling rather relieved herself to not have to immediately face him, she could not blame him. “Steven,” she said. “You seem to have hit upon a solution to our problem. I only hope that we can help you as well as you think we should with facing your mother.” Then she added, her voice more sober, “I think she will understand, so do not fear.”

  Steven gave a glum nod. Bertie said, “Well, we should gather the horses and set off then.”

  Steven said, “Coo, m'lord, don't think ya should take t'horses. There be no place t'stable them, and if'n ya leave them on t'street, they'll be stoled 'fore we ever reach t'door.”

  And that was the first inkling that Miss Murdock got that Steven's home was perhaps not a place that St. James would be happy to see her or Bertie visiting, but as she could see no other option, and indeed, she did want to help Steven, and be assistance to his poor mother, who must be in a state of shock at this point to have learned that her husband had been killed, she only said, “We shall walk, then, Steven, if you think that is best.”

  “Aye, miss. Have no fear, though. For I know's the best and safest way to get there.” He opened his coat as he spoke and said, “I have milord's pistol, also.”

  “Good God!” Bertie exclaimed. “Never tell me you've had that since last night?”

  “Aye,” Steven nodded. “For I first thought I'd kill St. James himself with it, but then I come t'realize, he'd never shot me father if it hadn't been for him thinkin' me da was 'bout t'stab me. So t'was my fault and not his.”

  Miss Murdock did not say anything to that, and Bertie was silent also. But they again met each other's eyes over Steven's head, and Bertie's gaze dropped away, and Miss Murdock's gaze was very troubled.

  And so they set out, in the cold and the dark and the foggy night, and Miss Murdock was grateful that her new riding boots had low heels, but they were stiff with their newness, and they chaffed at her ankles. Bertie looked to be making out rather less as well, as he was not used to any more exertion than he deemed absolutely necessary, and they had not gone far before he began to voice some regrets.

  Steve
n walked ahead, and it was clear that he was familiar with the city, especially those routes that were less traveled, and he did not seem the least put out by the dark or the fog. Miss Murdock recalled his saying that he had been on less honorable jobs than waking a female in her bedchamber, and from his sure navigation, she was now certain that he had not been exaggerating.

  But he seemed if not in light spirits, at least a great deal calmer, and as she had the suspicion that it had very much to do with her accompanying him, she blithely tuned out Bertie's low-voiced mutterings of complaint.

  As they progressed, their surroundings deteriorated. Miss Murdock was not familiar with London, of course, and she had no more than a basic sense of direction, but something about the steady dampening smell of the air led her to believe that they must be approaching the Thames.

  Bertie's rather vague complaints turned more explicit. “Not a good neighborhood, Miss Murdock, to be in, not even in the day, let alone, middle of the night.”

  And Miss Murdock frowned, for she could well see that this was so, for the buildings they passed were derelict, and the rats rustled around with enough boldness that she nearly had to kick one from beneath her booted feet. “Well, we should not possibly meet anyone that would know us, then, should we, Bertie,” she pointed out. “For if we were on a more fashionable street, however would we explain my being about in the night with only you for protection?”

  “I have t'duke's gun, Miss,” Steven reminded her from a pace ahead of them.

  “Indeed, yes,” she replied. “And a comfort it is to me to know that I have a messenger boy with a weapon as well as Mr. Tempton for protection.” She said it lightly enough that Steven should not be offended, but she was certain that Bertie should pick up on her point at any rate. She continued, “So you see, Bertie, although I feel very safe, I am afraid that if we were to meet someone we knew, that the propriety of all this should mayhaps escape them. I think Steven is doing a splendid job of making sure that does not happen by this route.”