by Diana Davis
To do any of that, he needed far more of an income than charity cases would bring.
When Owen looked up, Beaufort was watching him. “Come,” he said. “We meet at the coffeehouse again after the hunt. The others should be there soon.”
As Beaufort had predicted, the other hunters reconvened at the London Coffeehouse on the corner of Front and Market streets, where they’d met before the hunt. Beaufort directed Owen to a table and introduced him to the men seated there: Duane McMullen, a delegate who seemed a bit heavyset to have been riding through the countryside, and Ambrose Sibbald, a local merchant Owen knew by reputation. He was no Beaufort, but he certainly had a fortune.
As soon as Beaufort introduced Owen as the top apprentice to Josiah Hayes — a generous introduction indeed — Sibbald perked up. “A lawyer, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any experience in civil matters among merchants?”
“Some.” It was Hayes’s particular area of expertise, really, but Owen had assisted him on a number of trials and contracts.
Sibbald leered like a lion that had captured its quarry. “Well, if you’re half the lawyer Hayes is, you should certainly overwhelm John Vanost. And it will reward you handsomely.”
Owen shook Sibbald’s hand and cast a glance to where Beaufort sat with a self-satisfied expression. Owen bowed from the neck, and Beaufort returned the courtesy.
McMullen excused himself as Owen got into the particulars of the case. Beaufort stopped by to deliver a quill, inkpot and paper — how had he known? — and waited even after the rest of the delegates and hunters filtered out. Owen was one of the last to leave, and Beaufort caught up with him in the street. “You have no idea how many times Sibbald has complained to me about Vanost.”
Owen laughed. “Appears as though that works in my favor.”
“Yours and mine both, if it gets him to stop talking to me about it.” Beaufort walked with him until they reached Third Street. “Randolph,” Beaufort said. “Can you get a message to Temperance today?”
“Certainly.” He’d deliver it himself if necessary. And probably also if it wasn’t necessary.
“Arrange for her to meet you at the office tomorrow. Can you be there at . . . three? Elizabeth should be up by then.”
He had little else to do on a Sunday afternoon. “Certainly. But why does your little one need to be there?”
“She doesn’t. I just anticipate screaming, and I wouldn’t want to wake her.”
Owen stared at Beaufort, but he was already continuing down High Street.
He would have to find out tomorrow, then. He headed south on Third, toward the Hayeses’.
Saturday afternoon, a knock sounded at the Hayeses’ door. Temperance left her knitting when Ginny showed Owen Randolph in. “Good afternoon!” She couldn’t hide the pleasure from her voice. He’d worked faster than she’d expected.
He bowed to her and took the seat beside her when she gestured. Temperance couldn’t help herself; she grasped his arm immediately. “Well? How was the hunt?”
“Um. The fox went to ground.”
She had only a vague idea what that meant, but she hardly cared about the hunting results. “But did you gain any information?”
“Yes, actually.”
She patted his arm. What a good job he’d already done! She scanned the drawing room; Patience was absorbed in some law volume, Constance in a novel, and Verity and Mercy in a game of nine-man morris which they had rudely not invited Temperance to play. At least she didn’t have to distract them now. Temperance lowered her voice and leaned closer. “What did you find?”
“Well, I met Mr. Sibbald, who hired me to —”
“Wait.” Temperance withdrew her hand to hold it up, cutting him off. “Tell me you found out more about Winthrop’s case.”
Owen grimaced.
“What does Mr. Sibbald have to do with anything?”
“Oh, Beaufort introduced me to him, knew he needed a lawyer.”
“At the hunt.”
Owen looked away. “We went to the coffeehouse afterwards.”
Temperance folded her arms. “You’re off hob-and-nobbing with Lord David?” And what had he just called him — Beaufort? “Tell me you’re not . . . friends.”
“No, no, nothing like that.” The way Owen wrung his hands, however, was hardly convincing.
“Owen, I trusted you with my most intimate secrets.”
The wringing continued in earnest, and Owen’s gaze remained fixed upon the bookshelves behind her.
“Please tell me you’ve done more than ride ponies and drink coffee with him!”
“Yes, of course. In fact, I think I have it all sorted out.”
Temperance squinted at him. He didn’t sound at all convincing, but he’d left off the wringing and even met her gaze. “You have?”
“Yes.” He glanced at her sisters, none of whom seemed to care he was there. “Come round to your father’s office tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock.”
Temperance studied him. “Are you certain?”
He nodded. That did not instill the greatest of confidence in her, but she wanted this so much she had to put her faith in him. “I’m trusting you, Owen.”
Owen met her eyes, and his were clear and warm and very blue. He took both her hands in his and stared at them. “I thank you for your trust. I would never want to betray it.”
Temperance squeezed his hands together and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are a good man, Owen Randolph.”
Owen blushed like a schoolboy and shrugged in a very modest way.
“Thank you,” she continued. “You’ve no idea how much this means to me.” On an impulse, she threw her arms around his neck before she sent him on his way.
Temperance pondered over the possibilities of what Owen had found that day as she knit. Even Constance and Verity’s attempts at conversation didn’t distract her long.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would finally know what had happened to Winthrop.
Tomorrow she would be able to show Owen, Papa — everyone — that Lord David was the villain lurking in their midst, that he deserved to be punished, that he needed to pay for what he’d done to Winthrop.
Tomorrow, her life could finally begin again.
By the time she was called to supper, the thumb of her fingerless mitt was nearly four inches long. That was easily remedied — another day. She tucked away her knitting and skipped to the dining room.
Papa gave Temperance and each of her sisters a kiss on the cheek before taking his place at the head of the table. The other end remained empty.
“Is Mama not feeling better?” Mercy asked, her voice small.
Papa shook his head without meeting any of their eyes. “She wishes us to eat without her.”
Temperance glanced at the ceiling. Mama’s spells seemed to be coming more and more often. That was another dream she’d had to let go of when she lost Winthrop, being able to take care of her sisters if something happened to her parents.
Papa asked Verity to say grace, which she did after only a little grumbling, and Polly brought the bread and cheese and beef to the table.
“Papa?” Temperance began. “How long has Owen Randolph worked for you again?”
“Three years, now. Remember when you were children?”
She nodded, not bothering to suppress the smile. They had been only five when her family moved to the apartment, but once she and Owen had met at Christ Church, they’d been inseparable, playing in the alleys and gutters between their homes. She shuddered to think how filthy they must have been.
He was the only good thing from that time of her life. He helped her forget the fear on her parents’ faces, the hunger in her belly, and the crowding into bed with her sisters — Constance woke every two hours and stole blankets, and Patience kicked in her sleep.
Well, Patience might still kick. It was the entire reason she’d been gi
ven the extra bed once Cassandra and Helen moved out.
“Owen is a good man,” Papa said, drawing her back to the present. “I’m very proud of him.” Papa buttered his bread and paused again. “You know, it would be easy to discount Owen because of his humble circumstances, but he’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever known. No money to go to his head.”
Temperance pushed aside a twinge of guilt. It was obviously not her fault that Papa’s financial circumstances had righted themselves and they’d moved away, while Owen’s father had died.
“Are you trying to cast aspersions on David?” Patience asked with a sly grin.
“Oh, no.” Papa laughed. “Just to say that money is no guarantee of character. As we well know.” He gave Temperance a meaningful look.
Yes, she couldn’t agree more. And soon they would all know even better.
Temperance clasped Mercy’s hand as they approached Papa’s office. Once again, she’d brought the most reliable witness she could conscript because she was certain Owen had done it. In two short days, Owen had managed to find the conclusion to the case — justice that had eluded Lord David, the magistrate, and even poor Papa.
It would not bring Winthrop back, but it would bring him justice.
The bells at Christ Church rang the hour, and Temperance hurried her steps. It was time. This was happening.
She had been so right to trust Owen.
Temperance opened the door to the office, and they stepped inside. It was unusual to see her father’s workplace so quiet. Today, only Owen stood in the room, hands behind his back. Temperance crossed to him and offered her hand; he bowed over it.
Was it merely her own nerves influencing her, or did Owen seem nervous?
Whyever for?
Lord David descended the stairs, carrying his little girl bundled up in a bright blue shawl. He met the gazes of Temperance, Mercy and Owen — and looked chagrinned? “Best if I step out for a bit,” he told them, and did just that.
Temperance whirled back to Owen. “What was that about?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Good afternoon,” a woman behind them greeted. Temperance turned back to find her cousin Helen on the doorstep, heavy with child. “Won’t you come up?” She gestured to the stairs to the flat. Lord David’s flat.
“Oh, no,” Temperance said. “I’m not here —”
“Yes,” Owen spoke over her. “We’re on our way there now.”
Before Temperance could object, Helen’s husband Nathaniel appeared, filling the doorway. He, too, ushered the three of them upstairs.
With each step, Temperance’s heart sank — and her stomach sank further.
If Owen intended for them to go upstairs . . . If Helen and Nathaniel were here . . . If Lord David was expecting them . . .
This was not what she’d hoped. Not at all.
She clutched Mercy’s fingers even tighter.
Westing showed them into the drawing room where two strangers waited on the couch. No sign of Lady David, and Helen had disappeared, too, leaving Nathaniel to chaperone them, his expression more stern than she’d ever seen, and that was saying quite a bit.
Temperance looked to Owen, who gave a tiny shrug. She resisted the urge to reach for him as well. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“I don’t know — Beaufort said —” He glanced around. “Perhaps we should go.”
Nathaniel moved to cut off their escape route, his usual black coat making him seem ominous. “You should stay until you hear what they have to say.”
Temperance turned back to the strangers, a man and a woman. They were dressed shabbily and sat close enough that they must know one another well, but not close enough to assume they were married. The man there seemed familiar. “Have we met before?” Temperance barely dared to venture.
“I was Winthrop Morley’s driver.”
“I see.” So this was about Winthrop after all?
The man gestured to the woman by his side. “My sister, Jenny.”
She nodded a little greeting but didn’t quite meet Temperance’s eyes.
Helen bustled in, carrying a bundle. “Here you are,” she said, handing the bundle to Jenny. “Nice and snug.”
Too old to be a baby, the little one slept peacefully, nuzzling against his mother’s breast. A shock of red hair poked out of the blanket and tugged at Temperance’s heart. Winthrop had had red hair.
Everyone in the room seemed to be looking at Temperance, and she shrank back. What had she to do with any of this?
“What’s his name?” Helen asked gently.
Jenny bounced her boy. “John. After my father.”
Her brother placed a hand on her shoulder, but she refused to acknowledge him.
Temperance moved closer, peering at the child, and Jenny moved slightly to show him better. He was older than she’d realized — older than Elizabeth, old enough to toddle about, were he awake.
He shifted slightly, revealing a cowlick along his hairline, a C-shaped curl in the same place as —
“His whole name,” the brother urged.
“John Winthrop Morley.” She didn’t look up. “After his father.”
No. Temperance backed up two steps until she bumped into someone behind her. She grasped for Mercy, unable to take her gaze off the baby. A hand — not Mercy’s — gripped hers, kept her upright. She stared at the boy.
At Winthrop’s —
No.
No.
He’d written her letters for over a year. Even if he could be — he couldn’t. “When was he born?” Temperance barely managed.
“Last July.”
This baby had come along while Winthrop had been courting her. The whole while.
“He choked to death,” the brother said — Winthrop’s driver. “He was drunk. He vomited. There was nothing I could do.” He stared Temperance in the face, absolutely no remorse at all. “I watched.”
“But Governor Morley —”
“Didn’t listen to me.”
A knock came and Westing answered again. “Oh, thank you ever so much,” a familiar voice gushed.
Euphemia Goodwin? Of all people on earth to witness this humiliation, this defamation, it had to be Euphemia?
“I’m so sorry I’m late! It took me ever so long to find the letters. I couldn’t imagine why Papa had wanted to save them, and I had to hunt through practically every drawer in the house to find them! You have no idea how difficult it is to be sneaky in that household.”
Every eye turned to the sound of prattling, but Euphemia was addressing all this to Westing. He smiled down at her until he presented her to the room.
“Oh, good afternoon, Temperance.” Euphemia curtsied, suddenly withdrawn. Temperance had never seen her voluntarily hold her tongue before.
Euphemia tentatively crossed the distance between them and held out a packet of papers. “I was told to give you this.”
Temperance untied the ribbon binding them together with shaking fingers. She tried not to acknowledge the familiar wax seal, still crisp. Unlike the ones on hers, which had been worn down with a year’s worth of handling.
She broke the seal and paused a moment. He had touched this with his own hands, he was the last to touch it, and now she was touching it. Then she unfolded the paper.
The handwriting stole her breath, as if she needed any further confirmation this was from Winthrop. She scanned the page, but more than the handwriting was familiar.
I can’t wait for our dance tonight. It will be exquizit.
You must walk with me in the garden tonight. I must behold your beauty in my arms in the moonlite.
I need you more than any man has ever needed a woman. Tell me you’ll be myne tonite.
She dropped the letter as if it were a snake. As if he were a snake.
“What does it say?” Euphemia asked. “Papa said I wasn’t allowed to read it.”
Temperance surveyed t
he room. The driver who had watched him die. Euphemia, whose letter said the same words as hers, her precious profession of love.
Jenny. Holding his son.
For a long minute, she could hear nothing but the rushing in her ears. Euphemia, Owen, Mercy, Nathaniel, Helen, even Westing seemed to press against her, steady her, keep her upright.
She shoved the closest person away. She snatched up the letter from where it had fallen. She ran from the room, from the flat, from the office.
By Fourth Street, she’d lost both shoes. By Chestnut, her cap. By Locust, her hair roll.
She didn’t care how much of a fright she looked. She didn’t stop until she reached her house, her room, her wardrobe drawer. She turned out all the clothes, flipped the false bottom out, snatched up her own letters.
She cast Euphemia’s letter and her own into the fire and watched them burn.
Temperance didn’t move from the grate when Constance and Verity arrived in their room moments later. The papers had long since burned to ashes, but she stared into the flames.
Constance petted her hair and her back. Verity cleaned up the spilled clothing. They asked no questions. Temperance wouldn’t have answered.
She went to bed though it was not yet four. She remained fixed upon the wall when Mercy returned and crawled in bed with her, hugging her until darkness fell. She ignored Ginny when she came up to inform them that Lord and Lady David had come, Helen and Nathaniel had come, Euphemia had come, Owen had come. Asked after her. Waited for her. Gave up.
She said nothing when Mercy moved to her own bed with Verity. Constance sensed Temperance needed space and took the empty half of Patience’s bed. One by one, each of her sisters’ breathing grew deep and even.
Quiet footsteps padded through the room. Temperance didn’t have to turn away from the wall to know it was her mother.
“You should be resting,” Temperance said, her voice cracking under the weight of emotion.
“I should be here.” Mama sat down on the bed next to her and began unpinning her gown, undressing her as she had when Temperance was a little girl.