7. Chapter 7- Bradford #3
“Does it make any sense to you?” Bradford finally asked.
“I don’t recognize all of the names.” Mr. Thornton’s lips were tighter than before. “However, there are several bet makers on that list. There’s one from London, at least two from Bath, and another from Chelmsford.”
“Bet makers?” Bradford’s eyebrows flew upwards. “As in gambling?” Disbelief colored his voice, even though he’d determined to pretend he was unflappable in this matter.
“Precisely. Those men take bets on the races or pugilist matches.”
It was all Bradford could do not to wrinkle his nose. It was a far stretch for him to imagine the quiet Miss Hughes screaming her support from the sidelines of the ascot. It was even more difficult to imagine her amongst the sweaty masses at a pugilist fight.
“It looks to be a list of debts,” Mr. Thornton continued. “Which begs the question, what was a young woman—who, by your own admission, was an excellent governess to your daughter for months—doing with the names of bet makers and gaming halls?”
“I’m not sure she ever was a governess, not really. I don’t think that should factor.”
“On the contrary, Lord Hayes. This young lady acted as a guardian to your daughter for four months. By all accounts, she did her job well. If she had come here with nefarious intentions, she wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight before making her gambit—stealing the silver, perhaps, or taking Rebecca as some kind of hostage. ”
Bradford nearly choked at the thought.
Mr. Thornton continued, “Most criminals—not all, but most—are criminals because they lack the ability and the patience to hold a position and earn honest money that way. Your Miss Hughes was unfailingly patient and kind, going so far as to sit with and bathe your daughter when she was ill—a task easily and understandably handed off to a maid. Yet she chose to do it herself.”
“Meaning?” Bradford pressed his thumb to his left temple. He was dreadfully tired and could feel a headache starting. He wondered how Mr. Thornton contained all his thoughts and information without suffering such.
“There are two obvious options in her case, I believe.”
In the following pause, Bradford fervently hoped the man was going to explain the two, as his own mind reeled with all the possibilities this latest discovery unleashed.
Mr. Thornton said, “The first is also the most unlikely—that Miss Hughes led a life of excess and debauchery which would have made even the worst libertine in England wince. Then, somehow, she went through a drastic change—from a deep spiritual conversion and repentance, perhaps—and in order to pay off her debts, she impersonated a well-bred lady of little means to secure a position as a governess, in order to send money to pay off her debts.”
Bradford considered it, then shook his head.
“As I explained to you, I tried to track the funds she sent, but it was impossible. It seems she charmed a string of innkeepers on her way here—exclusively married older men. They would forward the money to the next place on the list, but the third one had passed away by the time we tracked it to Sheffield, so that was…”
Bradford barely stopped himself from calling it a dead end, which might have been disrespectful to the late innkeeper, or his family.
Mr. Thornton smiled widely for the first time that afternoon. “What an intelligent young lady. If we succeed in finding her—for she’s undoubtedly taken great pains to cover her tracks—I might offer her a position myself.”
Bradford thought he and Mr. Thornton had been building some kind of rapport, but he dismissed that immediately at the man’s words.“You said there were two obvious options,” he grumbled. “What’s the second?”
“That she was paying off someone else’s debt, of course.”
Bradford narrowed his eyes. If Miss Hughes had exiled herself to the far-flung reaches of Northumberland, then she must have cared for the debtor very deeply, indeed. Certainly she was too intelligent and cautious to have taken a position anywhere close to where people might have recognized her
“Her aforementioned brother?” he asked, rather hopefully.
Mr. Thornton shook his head. “Gamblers never achieve wealth. The money’s always spent before it reaches their fingers. Besides, if her brother were the gambler, he would never had called her home—not when good money was still coming. She might have been his only source of real income, you see.”
“If not her brother, then a husband, perhaps?” The thought was detestable to Bradford, yet he had to know.
“I thought you swore she was an innocent,” Mr. Thornton said lightly.
Bradford didn’t care for the man’s tone and endeavored to express his displeasure with narrowed eyes. It was impossible to say what effect that had, as Mr. Thornton had turned his back and was inspecting the dresser for the third time.
Despite Mr. Thornton’s arch tone, Bradford thought the man his best chance at finding Miss Hughes, whether or not she was married. He would have to tell him everything.
“I haven’t been fully honest with you,” Bradford finally admitted.
The man regarded him with those pale blue eyes. “It’s rare that someone ever truly is.”
“There are some letters you should read.”
Several hours later, they sat at the breakfast room table. Nearly a dozen letters were spread out in order upon the polished surface, and a ravaged tea tray rested to the side, for the servants had been prohibited from the room.
Mr. Thornton set the final letter down and laughed. “She’s very clever.”
Bradford wanted to thump the man upside the head every time he complimented Miss Hughes, though he hardly understood why. Perhaps it was because Mr. Thornton was making light of a situation that had caused him so much grief.
“Did you gain any clues to her whereabouts?” Bradford asked. He certainly hoped so—the man had read the letters at least three times. “They came from all over—there’s no discernible pattern that I could find.”
Mr. Thornton shook his head, still smiling. “I rather think that’s a clue in itself. But we’ll start with the letters themselves. Again, your Miss Hughes is very smart. Each note was a wonderful, descriptive story for your daughter about her travels. I’m curious–did you read them to your daughter?”
Bradford fought the urge to shift in his seat. He was ashamed of the answer but he had promised the man full transparency. “Yes, I did.”
He hadn’t intended to. The first two arrived and he’d locked them in his desk, determined not to encourage Rebecca’s fixation on her erstwhile governess. Yet Rebecca soon grew despondent that Miss Hughes hadn’t written after she’d promised.
She became convinced that something terrible had happened—a ballooning accident, perhaps. It only took one tear-soaked nightmare on Rebecca’s part before Bradford produced the letters, claiming they’d been delayed on their arrival from Timbuktu.
Mr. Thornton nodded—in censure or understanding, Bradford hardly knew.
“As I’ve said, your Miss Hughes is smart.
She was never so specific that one could be certain which real location she was describing.
Still, she did let a few unintentional things slip.
” Mr. Thornton stood and picked up the third letter.
“This one, for example. I’m fairly certain she was describing the Panthéon in her letter, though she cleverly called it a magical palace.
Still, the description neatly matches the Panthéon. ”
“She’s in Italy?” He blinked his surprise.
“Not the Pantheon, the Panthéon. Or the Church of Saint Geneviève, as it’s officially known. In Paris,” Mr. Thornton said, his gaze still trained on the paper.
Paris? Dear heavens, Bradford hated the place. It was positively crawling with French.
“And here,” Mr. Thornton said, tapping the sixth letter. “She’s plainly describing the French dessert Croquembouche.”
“So she’s in Paris.” Bradford hardened his resolve—he would find her, even if he had to deal with a horde of insufferable French innkeepers and eat a dozen mysterious meat pies to do so.
“Not anymore.” Mr. Thornton walked toward the end of the line and picked up the ninth letter. “In this one, she describes a grand castle.”
“So? Are there no grand houses in Paris?” Bradford asked tersely. His headache was pounding, and unlike his guest, he wasn’t energized by the sheer mystery of it all.
If Mr. Thornton heard the impatience in his tone, he didn’t let on. “She’s clearly describing St. Paul’s Cathedral. And several paragraphs later, she specifically describes a building which easily corresponds to the Theatre Royal.”
Bradford slowly lifted his head. “London? But none of the letters were routed through London.”
“And isn’t that curious? Coming from all over, as they did, one certainly should have routed its way through London at some point. Yet none of them ever did. One must carefully examine what’s not there as closely as what is.”
Bradford shook his head, stunned. Every time new information came out about Sarah Hughes, it only served to prove how little he knew about her and how much she’d lied.
Bradford didn’t know why he should be surprised to find out that the lady had connections to London.
Except perhaps he was still clinging onto the tatters of hope that something he knew about her was real.
Miss Hughes had claimed to be the only child of a poor clergyman from the south of England. Perhaps Hayes should have known, through her excellent diction, that she was of a finer make than that. He’d known she was well educated, at the very least, but London?
Mr. Thornton flicked the back of his fingers against the paper. “It wouldn’t be the first time I drove a week into the countryside, only to realize my quarry resided in my hometown.”
Bradford stood. “Then to London we will go.”