Chapter 20
The house with the white pediments lay but two streets away on the corner of Whitechapel Road and a narrow, unmarked lane. On applying at the front door, Nell and Effie were greeted by an imperious-looking housekeeper.
“Mrs. Davenant, if you please,” Nell said.
The housekeeper’s cool gaze skimmed over them. “Whom should I say is calling, madam?”
“Miss Trewlove and Miss Flite,” Nell promptly replied. They weren’t here in their personal capacities. They were here on behalf of the school. Their husbands’ names needn’t enter into it. “We have a charitable matter to discuss with your mistress.”
The housekeeper didn’t appear impressed by this information.
She left them standing on the front step while she inquired within “as to whether Mrs. Davenant was at home.” Returning a moment later, she conducted them into a small parlor where a silk-clad lady with a lace cap pinned atop her iron-gray curls was seated on a chintz sofa.
“Miss Trewlove and Miss Flite, ma’am,” the housekeeper announced.
Mrs. Davenant rose. “Ladies.”
“Mrs. Davenant,” Nell said. “How do you do? I am Miss Trewlove, and this is Miss Flite.”
“Ma’am.” Effie inclined her head.
Mrs. Davenant returned the perfunctory salute. She motioned for them to sit. “My housekeeper tells me you wished to speak to me about a charitable endeavor. If it’s donations you’re seeking—”
“It is not,” Nell said. She and Effie remained standing. “We’ve come about another matter.”
Nell didn’t mince words. She couldn’t afford to. Not when the housekeeper might, even now, be carrying word of Nell and Effie’s arrival to the other servants. They couldn’t risk Miss Brent bolting.
“Miss Flite and I are affiliated with a charitable school near the Epping Forest,” she said. “An orphan girl lost her way when traveling to join us on Monday. We’ve been at pains to find her.”
“I am sorry for your troubles,” Mrs. Davenant said. “But I know of no such girl.”
“We understand you’ve recently employed a young scullery maid,” Nell said.
Mrs. Davenant gave them a bemused look. “Little Louise? But she’s not an orphan child. She’s a girl of excellent family.”
“Might we inquire as to when she entered your employ?” Effie asked.
“On Wednesday evening,” Mrs. Davenant said.
“And how—?” Nell began.
“My cook found her in desperate circumstances near St. Mary’s Church,” Mrs. Davenant supplied with a hint of impatience.
“Her family had cast her out, and she was in need of respectable employment. I considered it my Christian duty to offer her a position. She’s a hard worker, and far too refined to have been left to roam the streets. ”
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps this Louise was truly a runaway from a genteel household. But Nell didn’t think so. “Might we speak with her?” she asked.
“I hardly think it necessary,” Mrs. Davenant said. “As I’ve told you—”
“Is she in the scullery now?” Effie interrupted.
“Why yes,” Mrs. Davenant replied. “But—”
“I’d be grateful for a word with her,” Nell said. “I promise I won’t take any more of her time than necessary.”
Mrs. Davenant’s lips flattened. “If you insist.” She crossed to the bellpull by the coal fireplace and gave it a firm tug. “I’ll have my housekeeper fetch the girl.”
“I’d far rather your housekeeper took me to her,” Nell said.
A frown puckered Mrs. Davenant’s wrinkled brow. “You begin to alarm me, Miss Trewlove. Is this orphan you’re looking for a dangerous child?”
“Only a frightened one,” Nell said. “I’ve no desire to startle her. If you’d permit me to accompany your housekeeper to the kitchen, I’m certain we can resolve the matter with a minimum of distress.”
The housekeeper materialized in the doorway of the parlor.
“Take these ladies down to the kitchen, Mrs. Simpson,” Mrs. Davenant said. “They desire a word with Louise.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper looked to Nell and Effie. “This way, ladies.”
“I shall go,” Nell said. She shot Effie a weighted glance. “Miss Flite, I’m sure, has other business to attend to.”
Effie’s mouth tipped with understanding. “Quite so. I shall meet you outside when you’re finished.”
Nell nodded. If it was Miss Brent working in the scullery, they must take every precaution. The poor girl had already been tricked once by a woman posing as a helpful friend in the form of Mrs. Pritchard. Given the chance, Miss Brent would likely flee rather than trust her fate to another stranger.
Moving a little slowly on account of the stiffness in her leg, Nell accompanied the housekeeper back into the hall and down a narrow flight of stone stairs to a smoke-filled kitchen.
A heavyset woman in an apron was toiling over the stove.
A similarly apron-clad servant girl—dark of hair and slight of figure—was seated at a long plank table busily chopping potatoes and carrots for the pot.
Nell’s pulse leapt. If it wasn’t Flora Brent, it was a girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Miss Brent’s description.
“Beg pardon,” the housekeeper said. “This lady requires a word with Louise.”
The dark-haired girl was up from the table in a flash. She gawked at Nell, her pretty face gone white as bleached linen.
The cook cast a sharp look behind her as she stirred one of the bubbling pots on the stove. “She’ll have to be quick about it. I’ve got the evening meal to see to, and those vegetables won’t prepare themselves.”
“It won’t take but a minute,” Nell said. “If Louise can spare it?”
Miss Brent retreated from the table. “I should be pleased to speak with you, ma’am,” she said in accents as polished as any Mayfair debutante. “If you would but give me a moment to rinse my hands at the pump.”
Before Nell could reply, Miss Brent darted to the back door of the kitchen. She flung it open, preparing to make her escape, only to come to a stumbling and very astonished halt.
Effie stood on the opposite side of the door, barring the way. “Miss Brent,” she said. “You weren’t leaving, I trust?”
Miss Brent raised her hands to push Effie aside—or possibly to give her the same brutal treatment she’d given to Silas at the brothel.
Nell came up behind the girl before she could inflict any harm.
“I am Miss Trewlove,” she said. “Deputy headmistress of Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies.
The matron at the workhouse will have told you my name.
It was me you were meant to meet on Monday at Waltham Station. ”
Miss Brent spun around to face Nell. Her eyes were wide. She stared at her for a moment. And then—
Her lower lip wobbled. “Miss Trewlove? Is it really you?” The elegant accents were gone. In their place was a voice that was exceedingly young and unmistakably working-class.
The housekeeper and cook gaped at the girl with twin expressions of incredulity.
“It is.” Nell set a reassuring hand on Miss Brent’s thin shoulder. She gave it gentle squeeze. “I’ve been looking for you for several days, my dear.”
Miss Brent’s face cracked. “I didn’t have any fare to take the train. A woman at the station took my pocket money and my ticket, and she—”
“We know,” Nell said. “You have been exceptionally brave, and done so well on your own. But you’re not alone any longer. Miss Flite and I will take care of you now.”
Effie entered the kitchen, closing the door behind her. “The sooner we can get you out of Whitechapel the better,” she said. “It’s not safe for you here.”
Miss Brent instinctively drew closer to Nell. “Are you taking me to the charity school?”
Nell slipped a protective arm around her. “We are,” she promised. “But first you must speak with the police and tell them what happened with the woman at the railway station.”
“The police!” the housekeeper exclaimed in tones of horror.
“I was ever so hungry,” Miss Brent said. “And she had tea and cake from the refreshment stand. I didn’t see as how it would do any harm to—”
“We’ll speak about it later,” Nell said. “For now, Miss Flite is correct. We must go. But before we do—” She addressed the housekeeper. “I assume this young lady is owed three days’ wages?”
The housekeeper went rigid. “This person appears to be no young lady at all.”
“Yet she was working diligently enough when I entered the kitchen,” Nell said.
“I wouldn’t know,” the housekeeper sniffed. “You shall have to speak to the mistress about it.”
“We will.” Nell urged Miss Brent to the kitchen stairs. She’d been working here under false pretenses, it was true, but she’d still been working. Whatever she’d earned was hers to keep.
The cook scowled. “This is all very well, but what about supper?”
“I’ll send Polly down,” the housekeeper replied tersely. She followed Nell, Miss Brent, and Effie back up to the parlor where a shocked and appalled Mrs. Davenant made a tremendous show of doling out Miss Brent’s wages from her strongbox.
“An orphan girl,” she muttered as she counted the coins. “Upon my word.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Miss Brent said, looking suitably chastened.
“And well you should be,” Mrs. Davenant retorted, handing her what she was owed. “Preying on my charitable instincts with a false name and a false history? Taking advantage of my kindness? For shame, child.”
Nell didn’t allow Miss Brent to linger, either to apologize again or to explain. It was already approaching six o’clock. Nell needed to get the girl to St. James’s Square. With a final word of thanks to Mrs. Davenant, Nell and Effie shepherded Miss Brent out the front door.
The sky was darker than the hour merited, storm clouds gathering to block out the sinking sun. Rain was imminent. Nell could smell the dampness of it saturating the crisp evening air as she headed down the street with Miss Brent.
Effie walked a length ahead of them. “Where is the dratted carriage?” she complained under her breath.
Nell searched for it along with her, scanning the crowded roadway.