Chapter 19
“No, I can’t show it to you, cos it’s not here with me.” Libby Clifford glared at Ralph, obviously annoyed this time that he had dared to visit her at the theater with no warning. “An’ I have to go on stage in an hour. So I don’t have time for tittle-tattle.”
“She sent you a copy of the letter, love,” said buxom Dolly, who was currently dressing her friend’s hair. “You already know what it says.”
“I already know what you say it says,” said Ralph, careful not to make his statement too inflammatory.
His irritated lungs spasmed, and he coughed into his hand.
The trip to London had been filled with damp sheets, dirty rooms, and late spring rain.
Ralph had contracted a noisy chest cold along the way.
“If the original letter contains the same information, then it is clear Will is the father of your child. I shall find a way to support you—”
“To make an honest woman of me?” said Libby archly. “But then you can’t marry me, can you, since you already made an honest woman of the other one.” Both the women laughed in a vulgar way.
Ralph stiffened. So, Libby Clifford did know about his marriage to Helena and about Helena’s pregnancy.
Was it possible that Will had bragged about his seduction of Helena to these Cyprians?
There was no comparison between the naive Helena being tricked out of her virtue and this “rose of the world” sharing her charms with every man who knocked on her dressing room door.
“If you wish to give up the child,” said Ralph, “I will see that the baby is provided for in a good home.”
“An’ what about me?” said Libby. “Who’ll provide for me? I’m the baby’s mother, ain’t I?”
Ralph gritted his teeth and coughed again. “Perhaps a small stipend can be arranged. But I must see the letter first.”
“Lud, you legal men are all the same,” said Dolly. “And not even a thought that a mother might want to keep her child.”
“I’ll need the blunt this week,” said Libby, ignoring his stipulation.
“Danvers saw me in my wrapper yesterday and told me to stop eating so much and putting on flesh—it won’t be long before he discovers I’m increasing, an’ then it’ll be out on the streets for me until I can convince ’im I’ve gotten rid of the brat.
Maybe he’ll take me back, and maybe he won’t.
But it won’t be a plum role, that’s for certain. ”
Ralph reached into his pocket and pulled out a card with the address to his lodgings. “If you would be so good as to forward me the letter, Miss Clifford, I can set events in motion.”
He did not know yet what events he would set in motion.
Perhaps it would be better for the child if Miss Clifford were to surrender it for a sum of money.
She seemed to have less care for her own child than her friend Dolly did.
He could find an upstanding farmer’s family to foster the baby, rather than leaving it in the hands of a woman with no morals or scruples.
He suspected that for the right sum of money, Elizabeth Clifford would give up her child with barely a qualm.
He would need to return to London again when the child was born, find a wet nurse, and find an adoptive family.
He hoped that Miss Clifford’s child was born far after Helena’s—although, if Will were the father to both, they could not have been conceived at too distant a timeframe from each other.
“Maybe I will,” said Libby, taking the card, “or maybe you’ll just have to come back at a more convenient time for me.”
Ralph felt his irritation rising. He began to cough uncontrollably as the actresses looked at him with annoyance.
Whatever could Will have seen in this brash, immodest creature?
The contrast between her and Helena could not have been more marked.
Regaining mastery of his lungs, he offered a parting shot.
“I shall not be in London long, Miss Clifford, so the sooner we can get this resolved, the more it will be to your satisfaction.” He tipped his hat to the actress and her dresser.
“Good day to you both.” Then he stepped out into the corridor and shut the door with the gaudy flower painted on it.
By the second week of Ralph’s trip, Helena was almost ready to admit she had been wrong and ask Lady Compton to prepare her a room at the Hall.
There were only so many hours she could dedicate to the pianoforte, and pining at the windowpane for Ralph to return had not borne any fruit so far.
Listlessly, she wandered down the stairs to the kitchen to see if there were some herbs she might make into a tonic or tincture when she caught sight of Mrs. Mabley, drying her tears on her apron.
The cook’s snub nose was red with crying, but she tried to put on a cheerful face as she saw her mistress approaching.
“Mrs. Mabley,” said Helena delicately. “Are you happy working here at the guest house?”
“Oh, yes!” said the woman hurriedly. “I’m honored you chose me, ma’am, and I hope I’ve done my best by you.”
“Indeed, you have,” said Helena. “But is there something that we might do to cheer you up? I cannot help but notice that you often seem sad.”
Mrs. Mabley hesitated. “It’s only that I miss my family, ma’am. They’re fifty miles south of here, they are, an’ I don’t know when I’ll see them again.”
“Do you have a husband and children?” asked Helena.
“Not exactly,” said the cook cautiously. “Many cooks become a missus when they gain their own kitchen.”
“Oh, I see,” said Helena. She gave the cook an encouraging smile. “And housekeepers often do the same.”
“That’s right,” said the cook, sniffing to hold back any further tears.
“Did you live with your parents before you came here?”
“With my sister. She’s a mite older than I and has several bairns.”
“I daresay you miss being in a busy household full of life and children.”
Mrs. Mabley nodded, and her lip began to quiver again. She began to play with the edge of her apron.
“Please, what is your first name?”
“Ellen, but they call me Nell.”
“That’s quite close to my name,” said Helena. “And Nell is a lovely way to shorten it. Why did you take the job so far north of your family?”
“I couldn’t find work close to home, and I needed the money to send for Samue—” Mrs. Mabley gasped and clapped the edge of the apron against her mouth.
“Samuel’s your son, isn’t he?” asked Helena, realizing almost instinctively what was wrong with her cook. “How old is he?”
“Eight months,” said Nell Mabley, with a moan as forlorn as wind in a bramble bush.
“My sister has a bairn almost the same age, so she can nurse them both. I can cook. I’ve always been able to turn out a tasty pie and a lovely gravy.
But no one would hire me down in Ridsdale, not with a child to my name and no husband to take me to church. ”
“Where is Samuel’s father then?”
“Och, I’ve no way of knowing.” The cook cast her an embarrassed look. “He was a traveling tinker. I thought I could be the one who convinced him to stay in one place.”
Helena laid a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder.
She had made the same mistake as Nell Mabley, but at least Will had done the right thing and offered to marry her.
And after his demise, Ralph had baffled all expectation and offered her marriage as well.
Her own child would grow up without the stain of illegitimacy, and she would not be required to give up the babe as Mrs. Mabley had done.
“Do you want to have Samuel here with you?” asked Helena, with a rush of maternal feeling.
“Here with me?” repeated the cook.
“Yes, here at the guest house?”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Aldine, but I don’t know as how I could. Mr. Aldine wouldn’t like it, I daresay. And once he gets his feet under him, he’ll be all kinds of underfoot in the kitchen. I don’t know as I could do my work with him here.”
“I don’t think Mr. Aldine would object,” said Helena, feeling that she knew her husband well enough that she could speak for him. “And we could hire a girl from the village to mind him while you were cooking. Perhaps she can watch two babes?” Helena rested a hand on her curving belly.
“Oh, ma’am!” The cook’s face was flushed with delight. “If it could be done, I would be the happiest woman alive!”
“It can,” said Helena simply. “We will see to it when Ralph returns. It should be only a few days, and when he comes, he can arrange travel for you.”
As Nell Mabley pressed her hand, Helena’s mind drifted off to that other happy news.
Only a few days now, and Ralph would return.
The dull ache around her heart began to throb with painful excitement.
The pain of his absence abated momentarily as the prospect of his return dangled in front of her eyes.
She wanted his calm, cheerful presence at the dinner table.
She wanted his strong, steady arm under hers on an outdoor ramble.
She wanted his kind, unflinching conversation in the tiny confines of their parlor.
And, most of all, she wanted his lips upon hers once again—sweet and tender and complete with a declaration of love.
Letting go of Mrs. Mabley’s hand, she turned to leave the kitchen. “I love you, Ralph,” she whispered, so practiced now in the sentiment that it passed her lips a dozen times a day. If only he would return sooner than he said so that the words could reach his ears.
An insistent knock sounded on the door of Ralph’s flat.
Bleary-eyed, he stumbled out of bed and began to cough uncontrollably.
Blast this lung inflammation! What was the time?
He peered out the window. The morning sun had not yet risen—no doubt the young wastrels of London were still prowling from gaming club to gaming club, without a thought yet for their beds.
The knock came again, hard and unsympathetic to the sleep of working folk.
Ralph opened the door. “Mr. Pevensey,” he said in surprise, staring into the freckled face of the red-haired Bow Street Runner.
Beside the man whose aid he had consulted was another man bearing a glowing lantern and glowering in the dark.
He was taller than Pevensey and had a streak of light hair running through the rest of his grim locks.
“I have some questions I need to put to you,” said Mr. Pevensey.
“At this hour?” Ralph was a patient man, but this seemed a breach of privacy that could not be overlooked. “Is this about the matter I hired you for?”
“Tangentially,” said Pevensey, his response enigmatic.
“Looks like he’s awake!” said the other fellow in stentorian tones.
“I certainly am now. What do you want from me?”
“A murder’s been done,” replied the red-haired man in a quiet voice.
“Murder?” Ralph’s heart caught in his throat. “Who?”
“Miss Elizabeth Clifford of the King’s Theatre.”
“As if he didn’t know that,” scoffed the man behind Pevensey.
Ralph froze. “The actress? Libby Clifford?”
“Yes,” said Pevensey, his keen eyes observing Ralph, weighing his every reaction.
“When?” asked Ralph hoarsely.
“Tonight, after her performance. We were told you were the last to see her.”
“What? No. I saw her earlier today. Before she went on stage.”
Pevensey’s eyes continued to scan his face. “Did you return to the theater later?”
“No. I came back here. It’s been a long day of travel. I secured some food and medicine for my cough and came home and went to bed.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course, I’m certain.”
“Did anyone see you come into your flat?”
Ralph shrugged, feeling more helpless than ever before. “I don’t know.”
“Well, Mr. Aldine, there’ll be an inquest to determine if there’s enough evidence to press charges against you, or anyone else. In the meantime, you’ll need to stay close in London—”
“Now see here, Pevensey,” said the man with the streak of gray in his hair. “Shouldn’t we take him into custody? Don’t you think he’ll do a bolt?”
“No.” Pevensey’s face was impassive as he replied to his colleague. “Mr. Aldine is a solicitor. He is familiar with the law and with Bow Street’s ability to find a man if he does decide to disappear.” He looked back at Ralph. “Do I have your word to remain at this address?”
“You do.” Ralph coughed spasmodically. I will either be here or in Mayfair at the house of my brother-in-law—Geoffrey Angiers, the Duke of Tilbury.
” Ralph could not resist dropping Geoffrey’s title for the sake of Pevensey’s colleague.
It would be well for him to know that Ralph was not without connections.
“Thank you,” said Pevensey. “We’ll let you get back to sleep, Mr. Aldine.”
“If you can,” said the taller man snidely. He gave a laugh.
Ralph felt the urge to cough violently in the man’s face, but instead, he simply closed the door.
Once alone inside the flat, he leaned his back against the door and gradually sank lower and lower until he was seated on the floor.
He buried his head in his hands. Libby Clifford murdered?
What kind of perverse joke was this? And the Runners thought he was the last to see her?
He could only suppose they had found his card in her dressing room.
But surely, that was not enough evidence to place him in her rooms right before the murder?
He could have left it there weeks ago. This was all some ghastly mistake.
He would go to the inquest, find out how the woman had died, and explain that he had nothing whatsoever to do with it.