This was not Bellerose with its numerous rooms and Florrie, Sam, and Annie running about. This was a two bedroom flat with just her and Clayton.
Depositing her bag on a chair she slipped off her hat and gloves.
“Are we far from your warehouse?”
“No, only over the river down by the docks.” Clayton’s brow creased and he tamped a hand over his eyes. “Since Edward disappeared in the middle of the night, I expected he’d be here, or at least leave a message. Where the hell is—” Clayton turned from the window to face her. “What’s going on, Maggie?”
“Perhaps he’s delayed.”
Clayton slipped off his heavy tweed coat, depositing it with hers on the chair. She reached for it and found a nearby coat cupboard with a few hangars and hung up both garments.
“I don’t know what to do, Maggie.”
She closed the cupboard door. “Of course you do. Go to the factory and talk to your staff.”
Worry colored his expression. “You mean out there.”
“Of course.” Maggie faced Clayton straight on, hands on her hips.
“Is that one of your ‘or else’ looks you’re giving me, Miss Francis?”
“It could be.” Her mouth softened, and she dropped her hands to her side and stepped closer.
Close was a mistake. A sizzle sped up her spine. This shouldn’t happen. It was wrong. She wasn’t allowed to have feelings for Clayton Abbott. The man was her employer.
Shoving those thoughts right back where they belonged—nowhere in her brain, Maggie took a few steps back. Distance would be her savior.
“You’ve managed this far, Clayton.”
“And nearly scared the daylights out of a child and received pity as soon as the driver truly witnessed my caricature of a face.”
“But you’re here, and you’re still breathing.”
“Barely. I’ll probably expire soon enough. That bloody scarf is so tight around my damned face, I’d be better off…”
“Stop! Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to. You’re breathing. That will be enough. We’ve made it this far. It’s a start.” Maggie looked to their suitcases still waiting to be unpacked. “Those can wait. I think it’s time you showed me your empire, Mr. Abbott.”
“I don’t want to…”
“Are you scared?”
Clayton’s lips pressed into a white line, his nostrils flaring. “Terrified.”
“Don’t be. We’re in this together, remember.” Silently, she passed him his coat and scarf. He didn’t hesitate in taking it. She understood. Right now it was his crutch, but sooner or later, everyone tosses aside crutches. It would just take time.
Rugged up once more against the wintery day, she didn’t say a word as they stepped back out into the feeble sunlight. Clayton hailed another taxi and as it drew away from the curb, their driver prattling about the goings on in a city rebirthing from four years of war. Maggie sat with her back ramrod straight, her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Suddenly, Clayton took one of her hands in his. “I do wonder if I could appeal to you for comfort at this moment.”
His request was simple enough, but Maggie knew that in truth it was for her benefit as well as his. With her hand in his, she eased back into the seat and as the taxi traversed the uneven road, the tension rolled off her and her breathing eased.
Clayton held her hand securely in his, his thumb idly circling the top of her hand. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Was it?
Maggie surreptitiously stole a look at her hand in his. It felt right.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the wishful thoughts that kept infiltrating her brain. But they would not go away.
As they neared Canary Wharf, the stench of rotting fish amplified. They exited the taxicab, and Clayton paid the driver, while Maggie surveyed the area. Alongside the few moored boats, several men, their muscles straining and sweat dripping from their brows, hauled wooden carts loaded to the brim with an assortment of fish slathered with ice.
Turning from the workers she caught sight of the Yeoman’s Public House across the street and stilled.
She recognized this place. She didn’t want to, but there was no escaping it. This was where she’d said goodbye to Toby. The last time she’d seen him. His kind smile. Felt the soft touch of his kiss on her cheek.
Oh, she’d known he’d wanted more, he’d blatantly hinted the closer it had come for him to leave for the front. She’d denied him. Wanted to wait until the war was over. Everyone said it would only last six months. That was all, and then he’d be home.
That had been four years ago. Four years of waiting, receiving letters that barely said anything and then the letters stopped arriving. Then the telegram came. Toby gone. Dead in the quagmire of a forgotten war field.
“Money, miss.” A hand tugged at her skirt, and she snapped to attention, forcing a smile on her frozen lips.
“A few pennies for a starving soldier.”
Maggie’s attention pivoted from Clayton to the beggar positioned by the wide slate steps leading into Bellerose Trading. He shoved his cap back on his head, scratching a filthy finger across his matted hair. His sad, pleading eyes stared at her.
The beggar’s attention switched to Clayton, and he squinted, staring.
Clayton stiffened beside her.
The man scrambled to his feet, tugging his cap from his head and offered a lopsided salute. “Captain Abbott, is that you?”
Horror etched across Clayton’s eyes and he stumbled back, hand clutching the thick scarf to the lower half of his face. “Private Smith?”
If the ex-soldier noticed his hesitation, he said nothing. He reached for Clayton’s free hand and pumped it. “I’d ‘av recognized you anywhere, sir.”
“You recognize me?”
“Sure, your voice and, of course, those emerald eyes of yours. Hard to miss ‘em.” The man smiled and despite his thinness, the light in his eyes glowed with happiness. “Sure is great to see you, sir. It’s a hard life after shooting at the Hun.”
Clayton dug deep into his pocket and handed the man several shillings. “Get yourself some warm food, Smith.” He reached for a business card from his coat pocket. “Take this to Chester Barrow in Notting Hill. He runs a small business of mine. Yesterday he was asking for more staff. Tell him I sent you and if he has any problems have him contact me.”
The man’s eyes rounded to saucer-like proportions. “Food and a job. I knew you were a good ‘un. Shame you missed out on the fun at that last sortie, though I sees they gave you a memory to keep.”
Automatically Clayton lifted a hand to his scarf.
Private Smith shrugged. “Makes no difference, though. Lots of us got bits missing.” He pulled up a trouser leg to show a wooden stump attached to the base of his knee. The peg leg fit into a boot that had seen better days. “I reckon the Hun got it just as bad as us, but then they shot that bloody gas in our direction...” His voice trailed off and the color leeched from Clayton’s face. She reached for his hand and linked her fingers with his.
He didn’t pull away.
Smith slapped a hand to his wooden attachment. “I reckon losing this leg of mine saved my life in some ways. I fell earlier than the others and so only got a whiff of that stuff, whereas the others...well…” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “’nuf said.” He nodded toward Clayton’s facial scarring. “Never reckoned I’d be glad to lose a leg so I could stay alive, Captain, and I bet you’re same. We’re the lucky ones.”
“Lucky.” Clayton’s toneless voice parroted.
Maggie tugged at his arm. “I think we need to go inside.”
It took a moment before he came out of a seeming trance. He turned to look at her; the fugue of a man lost to past memories staring directly at her.
“Clayton?”
He released his hold on her, shoved passed her, and charged up the steps.
“He’s in a sudden hurry.”
“I think
the past just got too close."
The man’s knowing gaze shifted from Clayton to her. “None of us can forget it, or escape it, Miss.” The ex-soldier bent toward her. “He’s got those bloody scars, and I got me a wooden leg. No getting away from it, but we’re both breathing and that’s something to be thankful for, ain’t it?”
Maggie smiled, comforted to hear such positivity.
Private Smith nodded toward Clayton. “It’s only flesh and blood in a different shape, that’s all. Tell him better that than being six feet under or rotting in some Hun field as fodder for the crows.”
“Absolutely.” Maggie took the steps to where Clayton held the door open for her.
“What did he say?” Bitterness scored his tone.
Before answering, Maggie cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the man still on the street. He gave her a wink and she waved at him. “That you were a good man and that wounds do not make the man. It’s what is inside that matters.”
Clayton’s brows rose. “All that in a matter of seconds?”
“Call it paraphrasing.”
Housed in a huge brick building taking up most the block, Maggie had expected the hustle and bustle of business to greet them; instead, silence echoed.
“Where is everyone?”
Standing at the entrance, Clayton listened. But there was nothing. Not even the drop of a pin could be heard, or a whisper. “That’s what I would like to know.” He took off down one aisle after another, and quickly Maggie raced after him, adding a skip every now and again to keep up with him. Given his knee injury, his speed proved rather remarkable and she couldn’t help but be pleased. Perhaps the enforced walking regime was showing results, after all.
Crates of all sizes and shapes towered high into the rafters on every aisle, producing an air of claustrophobia.
A sudden cackle of laughter sliced the silence and Clayton halted abruptly. “Where the hell are they?” He took off again, forcing Maggie to hoist her skirts as she skipped two strides to every one of his.
At the end of the corridor she spied the illumination of a bulb glowing through a single grimy window in the upper half of a door. Clayton elbowed the door open and the cacophony silenced in a heartbeat. “What the hell is going on here? Surely there are shipments arriving so why are you not at work?”
A half a dozen men sat around a scarred wooden table.
A man at the head of the table stood, shoved his cap on his head and rested his thick sausage-like hands on his hips. “And who the hell are you?”
Chapter Eight
Clayton straightened to his full height. “I’m your employer.”
The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then guffawed, offering a toothless grin. “Nah, Abbott went off to play with the Hun. War’s ended and we ain’t seen ‘im. Probably kicked the bucket.” The man wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“And I told you I’m Clayton Abbot, your employer. Don’t you believe me?”
The man looked to his fellow workers, a sudden nervousness washing across his puffy features. Shoving back the wooden chair behind him, the scrape of its legs over the floor imitating chalk on a black board, he pushed away from the table and took several steps toward them.
Maggie tensed, and though Clayton didn’t move she was aware of a palpable tension rolling off him.
The man stopped barely a foot away from Clayton. “Prove it.”
For several heartbeats silence circled the room. Clayton stood rigid at her side, and then slowly he reached up and clasped his scarf in his fist.
Maggie snatched at his hand, stalling his progress. “You don’t have to do this.”
He turned slightly to her and though she could not see his mouth, she saw his eyes, his beautiful green eyes that reminded her of a field of summer grass. “Yes, I do.” He took his hat off, and then drew the scarf from his mouth.
For a moment Maggie couldn’t breathe. She waited. Watched. Prayed. Was this the moment when he stepped truly back into the world?
“Bloody hell! I’d know those eyes anywhere, Mr. Abbott and that smile of yours. Course it’s a tad crooked now. Hope that the Hun who gave you that lot, got it right back in full force.”
The pulse in Clayton’s damaged cheek twitched, then he wrapped himself behind his scarf once more.
“Clayton, what are you doing?”
“I did what I needed to do to prove I’m their boss. That this is my business. That’s all. I do not intend to parade myself to the world again.” His mouth thinned, jaw hardened. “Once was quite enough.”
“Look lads, it’s our Mr. Abbott back from the dead, so to speak. I reckon a drink is in order.”
They spent the next short while drinking tea and someone produced the last few crumbs of a fruitcake. After living through hell, and losing much, these people were still prepared to share the little they had. As she watched them talk animatedly, a sense of pride swelled in Maggie’s heart. Londoners. Her Londoners.
No. Not hers. Never again.
Maggie pushed such thoughts away. This was not about her, but about helping Clayton and about making a new life for herself away from bad memories.
And what about the diary?
She reached into her coat pocket where she’d stuffed the unusual button she’d found. To her mind the diary had gone, leaving only a button that had not been there before.
Her lips pursed. She so wanted to read more and find out about Josephine.
Clayton’s conversation with Charlie Piper, the blustering man who was, it seemed, the foreman, caught her attention.
“Glad to have you back, guv’nor.”
“It is good to be back.” Clayton jabbed a thumb toward his scarf-clad face. “I’m afraid this held me up from coming back to the land of the living for a while.” He cast Maggie a glance and for the first time in the weeks she had known him, she witnessed the flush of hope in his eyes. Her heart swelled to see it and she smiled back at him.
He took a deep breath, and then exhaled in a rush. “I’m back now.”
This didn’t make sense. In one sentence he said he was back, but then he had whispered to her he wasn’t about to parade himself and had masked his face again.
What was going on?
“We were sure proud you fought those bloody Huns off, but when you didn’t come back we thought you had bought a German bullet.”
Clayton grimaced. “Partly true.”
“Aye, I can see. The bastards.”
For a moment Clayton remained silent, idly fingering the edges of his scarf. He suddenly snapped too. “You’re right. Now, you know I’m not dead, there are things I need to sort out.”
Charlie beamed. “About bloody time. There’s been some comings and going here, for sure.”
Worry beetled Clayton’s brows. “Such as?”
The foreman shuffled from foot to foot, glancing over at his workmates, then back to Clayton. “Odd deliveries at odd hours.”
“What sort of odd hours?”
“Middle of the night.”
“Good Lord, what on earth for? Hang on, how do you know it’s at night time?”
Charlie reddened and his gaze dropped to the floor.
“Aw, go on Charlie, tell Mr. Abbott the truth.”
Charlie shot the other man a cutting glare. “Can’t you keep your nose out of my business, Ted Davies?"
Clayton looked from one man to the other. “Charlie? Ted? What’s going on?”
Feet shuffling back and forward, Charlie twisted his tweed cap in his thick-fingered hands. “Well...it’s like this. Me wife, Mavis, she’s a stickler on no booze, and well I kinda broke the rule.”
“’E only bloody went home drunk and she turfed him out. Nowhere else for him to go, Mr. Abbott. These nights are cold and ‘all.”
“So what did you do, Charlie?”
“There’s small storeroom out back, not used much. I was cold and wet and Mavis wouldn’t let me in. She said it was my just desserts an’ all that.”
“So
you stowed away inside, I gather, to dry out in more ways than one, I presume.”
The man’s brows wriggled. “Aye, I’m real sorry sir, but I had nowhere to go until I could convince her to take me back.”
Clayton patted Charlie’s shoulder. “Not a worry. We do what we must, though I suggest you cease over-imbibing in future, otherwise your Mavis might throw you out for good.”
“Oh, no that’s all sorted now. Me Mavis is expecting.”
It took Clayton a blink of an eye for Charlie’s words to register. “A baby. Congratulations. That’s definitely added inducement to stay away from too much ale.”
Charlie beamed. “Aye, it sure is.”
“I gather you witnessed something during your nights in the store room.”
“Aye. The carts would come and unload in the dead of night for several hours each time.”
Clayton frowned, and for the first time in public, though Maggie believed he didn’t realize his actions, he idly tugged his scarf further away from his face. Beneath the single radiant bulb his wounds were clear for all to see and yet not one man winced, nor was there an ounce of pity or horror in their eyes.
Thank you, God.
“Surely Bellerose carts carrying our goods don’t unload until dawn at the earliest.”
“Don’t think these are Bellerose carts, sir.”
“Then who the hell do they belong to?”
Charlie scraped at the thin wisps of shaggy curls on his bulbous head. “No idea. They come, and they go, silent and always under the cover of darkness.”
Clayton sat back in his chair, reached for his teacup and swirled the dregs in it around and around. He turned to her. “Mysterious deliveries and always under darkness. It seems to me Detective Brownley was telling the truth—unfortunately.”
“So where is Lord Hindmarch? Perhaps he can enlighten me as to what is going on.”
Charlie shrugged. “We ain’t seen him for days.”
“He was staying with me the last day or so up at Bellerose in Derbyshire, then he left…suddenly. I expected him to be here.”
“That may be, sir, but according to Freddie Salter, Lord Hindmarch is spending a lot of time at that Dinner Club on St James Street. They got a room out the back for them that thinks they’re high flyers.”
Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Page 9