For a fleeting moment, he had considered admitting to it. Admitting that he had stolen from Abigail to punish her for her heartless games. It would have been a joy to see the look on her face. But where would such a thing have led? There would have been a brief moment of satisfaction when he’d watched her face fall, but it would have quickly been replaced with a prison cell. Perhaps the hangman.
Abigail Gresham was certainly not worth going to the hangman for.
The life he and Martha were beginning to build would remain no more than a dream. He couldn’t let such a thing happen.
And so: “Martha Flatley,” he’d said. “She knows where the money is hidden. I told her one day.” He had taken the suspicion from himself and planted it squarely on Martha, a woman he knew Abigail had no time for. A part of him had hated tarnishing Martha’s name this way. But he knew it was for the best. Martha, the lowly seamstress would become the thief while Gid remained firmly ensconced as Abigail’s trusted advisor. Right where he needed to be.
That night when Abigail was sleeping, he crept from the house and took a cab to Martha’s tenement in Whitechapel.
She looked surprised to see him. But her surprise gave way to a smile, as he came forward and pulled her into his arms. He kissed the side of her lips.
“There’s been a development,” he told her as they sat together at her crooked table, their knees pressing close to one another’s. The room was freezing. The night air was gusting through the broken window. Their breath plumed out in front of them.
This wouldn’t be forever, Gid reminded himself again. Soon they would be together in a home much finer than this. For not the first time, he felt glad he was stealing from Abigail.
“A development?” Martha repeated, frowning. The candle in front of her hissed and spat with a fresh gust of wind.
“Abigail knows some of the money is missing,” he met Martha’s eyes. “I blamed you.”
Her lips curled up in amusement, “Did you now?”
Gid told her of all that had transpired. By the time he was finished, Martha was nodding.
“Yes,” she said. “It was wise to blame me. You need to keep her trust secured.”
Gid nodded. “You can’t come back to Haverstock House,” he said. “Ever. Abigail wants to confront you herself. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she were to have the police waiting.”
Martha stood and began to pace. Gid could almost see the thoughts churning behind her eyes, “Even if I don’t come back to Haverstock House, she will likely send the police for me anyway.” The floorboards groaned beneath her as she continued to march from one end of the apartment to the other. “I can’t go back to the seamstress. Abigail will know exactly how to find me.”
Gid lowered his eyes, “Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Martha shook her head dismissively, “I’m not sorry. We’ll have our own business to run soon. I don’t care about the seamstress.” She sat back at the table and gripped Gid’s hand. “Abigail needs to believe me dead,” she said. “It’s the only way she’ll not come after me.”
Gid raised his eyebrows. Yes, he realised, Martha was right.
A sly smile curled her lips. “Influenza,” she said. “Went straight through the tenement. Took me within a week.”
Gid shuddered, “Don’t joke about such a thing. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
Martha kissed the tip of his nose, “I thought you had a stronger stomach than that now, Gid.”
* * *
“We’re here,” Martha announced. Gid threw open the carriage door excitedly and climbed out into the street. He offered his hand to help her from the coach.
Ahead of them stood a large, two-storey house, painted in dark grey with neat white trimming around the windows and door. A sign hung from the awnings.
Cobbler’s Undertakers
Gid’s heart leapt. He could hardly believe this was real. He turned to Martha and grinned. “It looks wonderful. You’ve done such a fine job.”
She gripped his hand, pulling him towards the front door. Her dark skirts rustled noisily. With her dark veil swinging, she looked every bit the mistress of a funeral parlour. “This way. I’ve so much more to show you.”
* * *
They had begun their plans for the business one wet and windy day in the kitchen at Haverstock House. Abigail was at her monthly board meeting and Gid knew they’d not be disturbed.
“Funerals are a big business these days,” he’d told Martha, speaking the very words her father had told him the day he had been brought back from the workhouse. “If they are done right, of course.” He met her eyes. “By the right people.” It was just days after they had buried Mrs Graham and her smart, well-presented funeral was still fresh in his mind.
Martha nodded slowly, “Yes. There’s a fortune to be made in undertaking. My father knew that. Unfortunately, my fools of brothers did not.”
Gid traced his finger gently over her thumb, “I’ve been thinking about what to do with the money. And it makes sense that we do what we know best.”
Martha tilted her head, “A funeral parlour.”
“The very best funeral parlour,” Gid said. “Better than James Corker’s. Only the finest woods for the coffins. Polished until they shine. The finest flowers. The most graceful horses. Personal greetings to each mourner. Stationery. Tea and cake on arrival.”
“And a mute who doesn’t speak,” Martha said, a smile playing on the edge of her lips.
Gid laughed.
Martha slid her fingers through his, “You truly believe we can do such a thing?” Her grey eyes were shining. Gid felt something move in his chest.
“Of course. We’ll hire the best people. Use the best suppliers,” he lowered his voice. “All funded by Miss Abigail Gresham, of course.”
* * *
Martha’s hand was tight around Gid’s as she led him through the parlour.
“I told the painter white and gold,” she said, waving a hand at the wall. “Classy, but not too elaborate. We want to look high class, but it still needs to be appropriate for a funeral, of course.”
Gid nodded, “It looks brilliant.”
“We’ll serve tea over here to those who need it,” said Martha. “A cup to steady themselves before the procession. Served in the finest china, of course.”
Gid grinned, “Of course.” What they might serve the tea in had never crossed his mind. He was glad he had left Martha in charge of the details. She was truly brilliant. She had the brains while he just had the light fingers of his thieving father.
Light fingers that had served him well.
The tour continued into the open space that would become their workshop, then into the cold room behind the house.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the workhouse,” Martha told him. “Apprentice the boys. You and I can train them ourselves.” She looked up at him. “Three boys to work in the cold room, and one to act as the mute. And I’ve placed an advertisement for a carpenter to make the coffins.”
Gid walked with her out of the cold room to the stables that stood behind the house. He peered inside. He could smell the lingering scent of hay, but there were no animals inside.
Martha stood close, her shoulder pressed against his. “I thought I’d leave the horses to you,” she said with a smile. “I know how much you loved Midnight and Shadow. I wanted you to find animals you’d care for just as much.”
Gid planted a kiss in her hair. “I’ll go looking tomorrow.” He let out his breath. This was just as they had imagined that day in Abigail’s kitchen. It felt as though they had dreamed it into existence.
He wrapped his arms around Martha, pulling her into him. “It’s perfect,” he told her. “Every inch of it. You’ve done such a fine job. With you in charge, this will be the finest funeral parlour in all of London.”
Martha raised her eyebrows. “With me in charge?” she smiled crookedly. “This is Cobbler’s Funeral Parlour, Gid. It belongs to you.”
He grinned. Th
is place belonged to both of them and Martha knew that well. There had been an unspoken agreement between them that, when all this was done, she would become his wife.
After all, it was what this whole adventure was about– securing a good life for the two of them. Securing a good life for the two of them, while showing Abigail he was not a man to be played.
But Gid could see Martha would no longer settle for the agreement to be unspoken. He gripped her hands and pulled her close.
“Marry me,” he said, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Let’s make this our home.”
Chapter 31
Abigail sat in the armchair in her study, her feet bare and her knees pulled to her chest. How empty the room felt. How empty the house felt. For the first time since her aunt’s death, she imagined the place populated by the ghosts of her dead family. There was Papa and Uncle Charles, and dull old Aunt Elizabeth. And there was her mother fixing her with hard, disappointed eyes.
I told you never to let a man take advantage of you. I told you never to let a man have the power.
And when Gid Cobbler had walked from Haverstock House with his suitcase in hand, he had taken her power with him.
Abigail had waited, certain he would return. Sure this uncharacteristic show of strength would dissipate, and he would be back on her door step with apologetic eyes before the day was done. By nightfall, they would be back in the study drinking brandy, she had been sure of it. But night had fallen long ago and still he had not returned. With each hour that passed, Abigail felt more and more certain that she would never see him again.
She felt empty inside. She felt the loss of her power, yes, but she also felt the loss of him. This was an emptiness she had not been expecting. Gid Cobbler was nothing but a workhouse boy, a mute turned butler. How dare he make her feel so tiny, so damn worthless?
She glanced over her shoulder at the brandy bottle on the desk. And she longed for him. Longed for him to pour her a glass, to sit opposite her, their knees touching. Longed for him to tell her she was beautiful, she was powerful, she was worthy. Longed for the feel of him beneath her fingers.
Slowly, Abigail rose and poured herself a glass. She returned to the chair and cradled the brandy to her chest. She felt tears stinging behind her eyes.
What was this? She had not cried since the day she had buried her mother, back when she was thirteen years old. How could the mute’s leaving elicit such a reaction in her? She tried to blink the tears away, but they slid unbidden down her cheeks.
Her chest ached.
She longed for him. She loved him. The realisation swung at her suddenly, making her breath catch and her tears fall harder. She loved that damn, pliable little mute. And now it was too late.
Never again would he sit here with a glass of brandy in his hand, his knees pressed to hers and his eyes wide with adoration. Never again would she whisper teasingly into his ear and feel his breath against her nose. And never again would she return from her board meetings to find him waiting to console her.
Abigail covered her mouth as a sob welled up from deep inside her. She had done all her mother had asked. Had fought to keep the upper hand. She had imagined such a thing might make her happy. But no, her chest was aching, and tears were flooding down her cheeks. She had found that which would have made her happy, she could see that now. And he had marched out her door with his suitcase in his hand, determined never to return.
* * *
In the morning, she went to the cemetery and stood before her mother’s grave. The flowers she had placed there two days earlier were beginning to droop against the stone.
This time, Abigail didn’t speak. She just stared at the headstone with cold eyes. She had barely slept, and her legs were aching with exhaustion, her eyes burning with old, dry tears. She had never felt lonelier in her life.
Did she blame her mother for this? Perhaps. Perhaps she ought not to have listened all those years ago when Christine Gresham had gripped her hand and told her never to let a man win.
How might things have been different had she stood in this graveyard and said: yes, Gid, we can be together now?
There would have been shame, of course. She would have had to admit to the world— and to herself– that she loved a lowly butler. But beyond that? Might she have woken each morning to find adoring eyes on her? Given him adoring eyes in return? Might she have had arms around her at night? Had someone to share her secrets with, to dream of a future with?
She let out an enormous sigh. What was the point of thinking such thoughts? Gid Cobbler was gone. There was no point wasting time thinking of what might have been.
Abigail turned away from her mother’s grave. She did not want to be here any longer. She had only come out of bitterness and anger. Had only come to try and convince herself that someone else was to blame.
But instead of walking towards the gate, she found herself heading for the girl’s grave. There was that single red rose, stark against the grey of the graveyard.
Abigail bent and snatched at the flower in anger. And she read the name on the worn headstone.
Margaret Cobbler.
Beloved mother.
Abigail squeezed the rose in her fist. Its petals disintegrated in her fingers, releasing a powerful burst of scent. This was not the girl’s grave. It was the mute’s mother’s.
Perhaps she ought to feel relief. He had not been laying a rose at the grave of Martha Flatley after all.
But Abigail could feel no relief. Because she began to see a hidden truth. Martha Flatley was not dead. She felt suddenly, strangely sure of it. Martha Flatley was with the mute. Martha Flatley was the one the mute loved. The thought of it made Abigail’s stomach knot. She cried out in anguish, the sound vanishing into the silence of the graveyard.
Abigail flung the remains of the rose over the grave, the crimson petals fluttering down and resting on the stone like drops of spilled blood.
Chapter 32
“A small wedding,” Martha had said. “We ought to put every penny into the business.”
Gid loved her devotion, her determination to make their funeral parlour a success. But he wanted his wife-to-be to have the wedding day she had always dreamed of.
Martha laughed, “This is exactly what I’ve dreamed of, Gid. Marrying a man I love, and then returning to run our own business. You know I’m not one to worry over fancy dresses and parties.”
And as he stood beside Martha in the chapel at St Stephen’s, Gid realised she was right. This was all they needed. Just each other and a priest to marry them. Nothing in the world could have been more perfect.
The priest pronounced them man and wife and Gid felt his heart swell. How long ago his infatuation with Abigail felt. How distant. How foolish.
He held his lips to Martha’s. “And now, my dear wife,” he said. “We have somewhere very important to be.”
Martha grinned, her eyes shining, “Indeed we do.”
He bustled her into the coach and gripped her hand tightly as they rattled through the streets.
It had not been Gid’s intention, of course, to conduct their first funeral the afternoon after their wedding. But it seemed strangely fitting.
Martha leapt from the carriage before it had even stopped moving and hurried into the house. Moments later, she appeared in the parlour. She had changed from the simple white dress she had been married in, to the sombre black gown she had worn in the churchyard.
Gid smiled at the sight of her.
This place was perfect, Gid thought. The hearse, the two beautiful black horses that reminded him so much of Midnight and Shadow. And there, milling about the parlour, with a shine in her eyes was his beautiful wife. He felt a swell of love. A swell of gratitude.
The mourners were making their way into the parlour. Gid stood by the door in his wedding suit, shaking their hands and bowing his head in greeting.
“Perhaps a little tea to settle you?” he heard Martha ask a woman who was sobbing quietly in the corner. She
ushered her into the grand armchair in the corner of the parlour and brought out a tea cup of finely painted china.
The mute was standing by the coffin, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and his skeletal hand wrapped around the wand. How much he reminded Gid of himself— that unruly scruff of blond hair, those wide, frightened eyes.
Gid felt a small smile in the corner of his lips as he remembered his first night at the Flatley’s. Remembered creeping through the workshop with the lamp in his hand, feeling his heart thump at the sight of the coffins.
He walked slowly towards the mute. The boy looked up at him with wide, apprehensive eyes. Gid gave him a small smile. He would be a firm manager, but he would not be a beast. He would not treat the boy the way Mr Flatley and the twins had treated him.
He looked down at the boy. “Just remember,” he said. “Everyone must believe you a mute. You’re not to give them any cause to believe otherwise.”
The boy nodded obediently.
Gid cast his gaze over the crowd of mourners gathering in the parlour. “I spoke to a young girl once,” he told the boy, “When I was not supposed to. And it took my life down a very strange path.”
The boy nodded again.
“So not a sound,” confirmed Gid. “Not a murmur. Not a single squeak.”
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