Chapter Seven
Ealing
“T he simplest thing,” said Jake, “would be to just ride up to the front door and demand to know what is going on.”
“You were a better scout than that,” Captain Harraway scoffed. “No, we’ll find out what they know about the lady in the village.”
Jake saw the captain beginning to turn and managed to stop rolling his eyes before the man could see his face.
Mind you, he wouldn’t put it past the captain to have guessed his reaction.
They’d been together for five years, and if he knew Captain Harraway better than anyone on earth, the captain knew him just as well.
“Good thinking,” he said. If you want to make a game out of it. To be fair, if the captain was having fun that didn’t involve a bottle or a gaming table, Jake was all for it.
The captain’s smirk hinted that he knew some of what Jake was thinking, but he didn’t comment. He just headed his horse past the first inn in the village and turned in at the second, as instructed by the horses’ owner.
Step one was handing over the horses and asking to hire two for the return trip to London in two days’ time. Step two, the captain secured a room for the night. Step three, he asked about the nearest bake shop, and thank goodness for that. Jake’s gut thought his throat had been cut.
They followed the directions into the village main street, which ran at an angle from the London highway where the inns were.
It was lined on both sides by a smattering of cottages, some with shop signs.
“We’ll buy a pie or a bun each,” Captain Harraway decreed, “and ask about big houses in the area.”
Jake nodded. It was a good strategy, and tempting smells were wafting from the place with the loaf of bread pictured on the sign. The words “Parsons Bakery” confirmed the function of the place, if the picture and the odors had not been enough.
Captain Harraway had a great way of setting people at ease and encouraging them to chat, and he had soon worked his magic on the baker.
Friendly, relaxed, casual, he mentioned that he and his servant were taking a brief break from the city to enjoy the country air and perhaps manage a painting or two.
“Can you recommend any particularly lovely landscapes?” he asked. “Or great houses, perhaps?”
The conversation that followed involved every customer who came into the shop in the next thirty minutes.
Everyone had a scene they wanted to see immortalized in paint.
The village common was a favorite. The River Brent also had its supporters, with various stretches touted as the loveliest the captain would find anywhere.
As for great houses, there were several lovely manors within easy walking distance, and the captain listened with every evidence of interest as the features of first one and then another were listed, along with the names and character of the inhabitants.
At last, someone mentioned Carr Abbas.
The captain, who was very good at this sort of thing, showed no special interest in the estate he owned.
He didn’t need to do so. The inhabitants of Ealing were keen enough to tell him all about the beautiful house and estate, the previous owner, the nephew who had inherited but had never come to view his property, and the lady who had recently arrived, though no one knew whether she was the wife of the absent owner, his sister, or perhaps his widow.
Then a lady, or perhaps an upper servant, entered the bakery, followed by a footman. The baker’s greeting dropped into a sudden silence. “What may I do for you today, Mrs. Kirby?”
“You have an order of pies for Carr Abbas?” The lady phrased it as an inquiry. “I promised to collect it, since we were coming into the village. Cook says she does not have your hand for pastry, Mr. Parsons.”
“They are cooling in the kitchen, ma’am. I’ll box them up for you,” said the baker. He waved a hand at the captain. “We were just telling this gentleman about Carr Abbas,” he said. “He is looking for places to paint, and Carr Abbas has some pretty views.”
Jake had seen this housekeeper before.
Mrs. Kirby had come to the Miller house a year after Jake joined the household. In fact, she had been the one to stop the other servants from calling him “Ratty”—“Rat” being the only name Jake had been called since his earliest memory.
He was to be addressed as Flynn, she had decreed, and though he had only taken the gang boss’s surname when he took up his footman role, Flynn he had been ever since.
Mrs. Kirby’s smile at the captain was no more than polite, and her eyes assessed him and then widened as they regarded Jake. Nonetheless, her words were pleasant enough. “It does. The crocuses and primroses are splendid this year, and the vistas are always worth painting.”
The captain swept a bow. “Mrs. Kirby. Do you think your employer would mind if I visited these crocuses and primroses, to see them for myself?”
Jake knew Mrs. Kirby recognized him. It was in the look she gave him, the same look he’d received when she caught him in the pantry with sugar crystals around his mouth. The look that said, “I know you have been stealing sugar, Flynn, and I am disappointed in you.”
The housekeeper said nothing to him, though, instead turning her attention to the footman who accompanied her, and saying, “Well, Fivepenny? You know our lady better than I. Would she mind?”
Jake, following her glance, saw the man assess the captain, frowning uncertainly. He looked enough like Kat to be a brother. Or like Kat would if she dressed as a man. Could it be?
While Jake had been pondering, the footman was saying, “I suggest you call on our lady, sir.” Even his voice reminded Jake of Kat, though it was deeper.
“And your lady’s name is…?”
“Lady Ellen Miller,” said the person who might be Kat. Suspicion firmed into near certainty. The coincidence of names was too much. Mrs. Kirby was housekeeper at the captain’s house and the house had a servant called Fivepence and a mistress called Ellen Miller? Could such happenstance be real?
“Lady Ellen?” said the captain. “I know her. Please give her my card.” He extracted one from his card holder and handed it over.
Fivepence read it and bowed. “Captain Harraway. I shall let Lady Ellen know to expect your call.”
The housekeeper had been paying for the pies. She accepted change from the baker and said, “Come along, Fivepence. We have more errands today.”
“I’ll carry that,” said Fivepence, taking the box that Mrs. Kirby had been about to collect. He—or rather, she, as Jake was near enough convinced the man was, in fact, Kat—already had the other two dangling by their string from his other hand.
“I am not merely decorative, Fivepence,” said the housekeeper. “I can carry one box.”
“You pay, I carry,” said the footman. Mrs. Kirby chuckled at his sally before dropping a shallow curtsy to the captain. “It was nice to meet you, Captain Harraway. Thank you, Mr. Parsons. Have a pleasant day, everyone.”
Then, as she led the way out the door, she made a comment to her footman that confirmed everything Jake had been suspecting. “If you get tired, you must tell me and let me carry something. Promise that you will, Kat.”
It was Jacob. The man in the shop, the one who seemed to be the gentleman artist’s servant. Kat was almost sure of it. Not completely certain. Men change a great deal in the eight years between fifteen—the age he was when Jacob went off to find his fortune—and twenty-three, which he would be now.
His hair was still an unruly mop of brown, and brown, too, his eyes, but the rest had changed. He was taller, for a start. His shoulders were broader and his chin more square, though the ghost of the half-grown youth peeped out in the shape of his eyebrows and the way he moved.
He looked older than twenty-three, mind, but perhaps he had been to war.
Men who had returned from the wars did look older than their peers, Kat had noticed.
This man had the same hard-eyed chiseled look, as if the things he had seen had burned years off his life and left him expecting danger at any moment.
The master was the same, but with the air of command that was natural to officers.
Had Jacob joined the army, then? They had been unable to keep in touch after he left, for he didn’t know where he was going, and any letter addressed to Kat would have been confiscated, especially one from an unrelated man.
“Kat Fivepence,” said Mrs. Kirby, “Isn’t Captain Harraway the man who is going to marry our lady? What is he doing here?”
Mrs. Kirby had the right question. Why was Captain Harraway here in Ealing pretending to be an artist? Was he looking for an excuse to cry off? Or so head-over-heels in love that he couldn’t wait to see his beloved?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew where Miss Ellen lived and might have told Captain Harraway, and Kat couldn’t blame her, if so.
And yet, he had seemed surprised to hear Miss Ellen’s name. If he had come on purpose to see her, why not just knock on the door? Why claim to be in the neighborhood looking for landscapes? Was he really a painter?
Kat had many more questions than answers. “Mrs. Kirby, that was Jacob with Captain Harraway.”
“Yes,” said the housekeeper. “I thought so, too. Perhaps he is the reason the captain came to Ealing for his painting. Perhaps Jake found out you were here and came to see you.”
Kat’s heart jumped at the thought. Stupid organ should have known better. “After eight years?” she asked. “Besides, no one from our old life, except for you, knows how to find me.”
Kat was confident that Mrs. Kirby would never betray them, and the only other person who knew the truth about Miss Ellen’s identity—and Kat’s—was Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Kat had no idea how that lady had known Kat was female and that Miss Ellen was an imposter as Lady of Carr Abbas, but once she faced Kat with that knowledge, Kat had seen no choice other than to take Mrs. Dove-Lyon into their confidence.