Prologue #2
McDowell Inn and Tavern.
Eli slipped an envelope from his coat pocket and read the hastily scribbled address on the paper:
31 McDowell Street
Baltimore Maryland
America
Could it be this simple to locate her—or at least the last place he’d known her to reside? Someone inside must remember her. His grandfather used to regale Eli with tales of her—the way she lit a room, the way she commanded attention, and the way every man hung on her every word.
The driver turned onto a narrow lane and brought the hack to a stop. “Five cents.” He held out his hand and awaited his coin.
Eli fished around in his trouser pocket for the American currency he’d traded his British shillings for aboard the ship and retrieved a half-dozen shiny cent pieces.
“Is this McDowell Street?” Eli held the envelope out for the man to see. “Thirty-one McDowell Street?”
The driver glanced at the number on the envelope and over at the sign hung on the inn. “Yep. Finest inn and tavern this side of the Atlantic!”
Elijah looked back to the large building before him, noting the discarded rubbish that lingered in the small yard, several piles raked up against the actual building.
Paint peeled around the door and window frames.
The riotous sounds from inside escaped through several missing windowpanes on the first floor.
This close to the dock, he supposed it was the finest inn within hackney distance of the Atlantic, though it did not appear to be an establishment any proper woman would enter—let alone call home for almost a decade.
He had no more grabbed his bags and jumped to the ground when the driver pulled away, his laughter rising above the commotion coming from the inn.
The late marquis—his grandfather—would have enjoyed a few hours among the rambunctious crowd within McDowell’s.
Sharp pain etched through Eli once more.
His grandfather was gone. Elijah was now Lord Ridgefeld, a marquis.
It was a title he’d been raised to inherit, but not this soon, and certainly not in this fashion.
He sighed.
For Eli, a warm bath, a decent meal, and a soft bed were in order.
Then he would seek more information.
Until then, his mind could not be trusted to work properly.
Hoisting his bags once more, he pushed through the small gate, which creaked loudly and hung from one hinge, the other having rotted clean through.
He lifted the hanging gate back into place and made his way to the double doors.
A bell sounded above his head when he entered, but it was unlikely anyone would hear it over the shouting, and—was someone playing the piano?
—singing coming from deep within the inn.
This dilapidated, rowdy tavern and inn was the last thing Eli had expected to find at thirty-one McDowell Street; however, it was the only clue he had.
He prayed it was enough, and the voyage had not been a complete waste of his time—and his grandfather’s final days.
“May I help you, sir?” A man, obviously the proprietor, judging from his neat garb and combed hair, looked Eli up and down as he walked behind the high counter. “Are you here for a meal, a drink, or a room?”
“All three,” Eli replied.
The scrutiny left the man’s expression, and a welcoming smile settled. “I’m Joshua Jenkins. You’ve come to the right place. One room left for the night.”
“It must certainly be my lucky day,” Eli mumbled. The last hack of the day at the docks, and now, the final room at the inn. If his luck held, he would attain what he’d journeyed to America for and be homeward bound by the following night.
Certainly, everything could not be this simple.
“This way, sir.” The innkeeper started down the corridor in the direction of what must be the tavern room. “The cook is here for another few hours if you are hungry. You’ll need to eat in the tavern. Right through that door there.”
The man gestured toward a set of double doors, pushed open wide to reveal several tables, a long bar counter littered with empty pint glasses, and a piano—every available seat was taken.
“Busy night?” Eli asked, pausing to have a look inside.
The stench of stale liquor and unwashed bodies assaulted him—likely he gave off as pungent an odor as the crop of men gathered in the tavern.
“Every night is a busy night,” the man said. “Finest inn and tavern this close to the Atlantic.” Jenkins slipped his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. “Even the fine mayor of Baltimore frequents my tavern.”
As if to prove his point, Jenkins stepped forward and pointed to a man sitting close to the piano—a woman on his lap. “That is Mayor George Stiles right there.”
Eli whistled through his teeth, hoping he displayed the appropriate measure of appreciation for Jenkins’ elevated status.
America and its citizens took no stock in British titles, but apparently they treated elected officials as their upper class.
To think, a man could be born a dirt farmer and be elected as mayor of a great city with hard work and dedication.
It was an enlightened concept. One he and his grandfather had debated the merits of on more than one occasion.
The woman on Stiles’ lap laughed and hurried to her feet when the mayor attempted to slip his hand beneath her skirt.
She turned toward the door, calling something over her shoulder to Stiles before acting as if she would flee the room, but the good mayor grabbed her skirt and pulled her back onto his lap.
She landed with a giggle, her back pressed to the man’s chest as his hand slipped around to cup her breast.
As Eli stared, her gaze met his—
Eli took a step back. It could not be… certainly, this was not she.
The bags he carried slipped from his shoulder, and Eli kneeled, riffling through the contents of one until he found what he sought.
A miniature portrait—a smiling woman, a baby in her arms, and a large hound at her side.
The woman had aged considerably since the portrait was commissioned; her once ebony hair was now shot through with grey, her skin no longer the pale color preferred by the English, and her hips were considerably more rounded. But still, it was she.
She laughed and turned back to the mayor when Eli attempted to hold her stare.
Alice Watson.
Elijah’s mother.
And the woman who’d fled England a month after his birth in pursuit of a man—leaving behind her the memory of Eli’s father who’d died before his birth. She’d abandoned her only son—leaving him to be raised by his grandfather.
Undoubtedly, she’d done well for herself if she was wed to the mayor of Baltimore.
Eli continued to stare at her—a woman he’d known through sporadic letters, a few portraits, and his grandfather’s stories.
The mayor noted his glare, whispering something to Eli’s mother and nodding in his direction.
“Do you know Ally?” Jenkins asked in surprise.
But Eli remained silent as he watched his mother disentangle herself from the man’s lap and move in his direction.
She stopped before him and placed her hands on her hips, taking in Eli’s appearance from head to toe. “Can I help you, sir?” Her British accent had lessened over the years, but it was still detectable. “It is insolent to stare at a person as you are.”
His heart sank further than it had in the long days since his grandfather’s passing—if that were possible.
Eli had always assumed that when he came face-to-face with his mother, she would know him—that deep down, a mother would always recognize the child they’d given birth to. But not a hint of recognition crossed her face as she frowned at him, tapping her foot with impatience.
“Have we met?” Her tone rose a notch in irritation, yet her stare scrutinized his face. Did she notice his resemblance to the generations of Ridgefeld men who’d come before him?
“We certainly have, Mother.”
Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing on his face as if she studied his every feature—but then Stiles called for her.
“I will only be a moment, love,” she called over her shoulder, but the merry tone in her voice had disappeared.
The room grew silent as his mother continued to assess him, her expression going from disbelief to inquiry to horror.
“Will you not introduce me to your husband, Mother?” Eli glanced toward the piano where the mayor had stood and was now headed in their direction.
She flinched when Stiles arrived at her side and held his hand out for Eli to shake it. “I’m Mayor George Stiles,” he greeted. “Is there trouble, Ally?”
“No, I—“ His mother stumbled over her words, looking between the pair.
“My mother was preparing to introduce her son—the one she abandoned in England over twenty years ago—to her husband.”
“Her husband?” Jenkins and Stiles exclaimed in unison.
“You are married?” Stiles turned to Eli, his mouth gaping.
The man certainly must jest. If Stiles were not his mother’s husband, then why was she here… with him… sitting upon his lap?
Elijah’s stomach churned—it could not be… Alice, his mother, would not lower herself to such a deplorable level…
“Tell me you are married!” Elijah fumed, prepared to avenge his mother’s honor. “Mother?”
“Elijah.” She stumbled over his name as if she’d never spoken it aloud.
“You must leave. Go back to your grandfather and England—where you belong.” She grimaced, averting her eyes and inching closer to Stiles.
“Come, Georgie Pie.” She turned, running her fingers down the mayor’s sleeve in invitation as she sauntered back to the piano, her hips swaying with each step.
Stiles leaned in close and whispered, “Find your own ladybird.” He laughed. “Or, if you can wait a few days, I just might be done with old Ally, and you can have her.”
Elijah stood frozen as the pain in his chest almost pulled him to his knees—the immense agony could only mean one thing. His heart, fractured from his grandfather’s passing, was now completely shattered.
The man leapt and ran after Eli’s mother, pinching her posterior as he moved past her, inciting a round of laughter from the other men in the room, including Jenkins, who stood behind Elijah.
Alice Watson had abandoned her only son to move to America—the land of opportunity and dreams—to become a common strumpet, nothing more than a courtesan.
She’d rather live the life of a harlot than be a mother to him.
“Your room, sir?” Jenkins ventured up a narrow staircase farther down the hall.
“I’ve changed my mind. I will not be needing a room this night.” Elijah kneeled, pushing the portrait back into his bag and closing it tightly, then slinging both onto his shoulder once more.
“A meal or a pint?”
Jenkins’ inquiry echoed through the corridor as Eli retraced his steps and fled out the front door and through the hanging gate—not bothering to right it on its broken hinge.