Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
We found there to be a drastic contrast between England and Spain.
The weather felt colder – much colder – and the sweeping landscapes were bleaker.
A round tower greeted us at the mouth of Portsmouth Harbor.
We sailed beneath it, passing several British Navy galleys heading in the opposite direction, out of the port.
Trade ships vied with us for prime dock space.
Our captain’s experience paired with his connections won out, and we were soon ready to disembark.
Our journey had been eventful. We’d endured a storm – more like a tropical hurricane – and the ship had become waterlogged.
For us though, there was temporary respite from the elements as we lay within our wooden chests, self-imposed prisoners, willing the voyage to end, and hating every second of it.
And others had noticed the strange disappearances of several passengers.
We were reassured by our captain that this was unusual, and we were more than welcome to return to Spain as guests upon his ship.
Although we weren’t responsible for the weather, the same could not be said of the missing people.
I assumed I wasn’t the only one amongst the passengers who considered kissing the ground after we were docked. People scurried about, their faces full of worry. We edged our way into the center of the frantic crowd, all moving as one, trying to get to dry land.
Once free of the throng of passengers, we began searching for The Pride - and soon found it.
I parted with the last of our money by paying the ship’s sailors for information.
They admitted to us that several boys had been aboard, the youngest matching Jacob’s description.
After some coaxing, we ascertained that he’d been quiet during the journey, complaining little, but begging to be taken home.
On their arrival, all four boys had been bundled into a horse-drawn carriage.
Struggling to remain calm while hearing all of these details bordered on torture for me, though my desire to slaughter everyone in our path was crueler.
Sunaria’s grip on my arm was a constant reminder not to arouse suspicion and put us in harm’s way.
These men were merely the messengers, witnessing the kidnapping and not partaking in it. As such, they got to see another day.
Portsmouth and London were connected by only one road. Our carriage wheel came loose, causing further delays – but we didn’t wait for them to attach a new one. We headed out on foot since there was an ever-growing distance between us and Jacob’s carriage.
I looked forward to ripping out the throats of the men who’d participated in my son’s abduction. I wondered how Sunaria could bear to be this close to me when my emotions were in turmoil. I pushed her away and, if such a thing were possible, at the same time I clung to her.
London seemed to have swallowed up Jacob’s carriage.
Climbing out of ours, we were met by a maze of white-washed, half-timbered houses that lined twisting, filthy lanes.
The air was thick, the smell verging on unbearable.
I was struck by a heavy yearning to return to my homeland.
There seemed to be something about the city’s grayness that reflected onto its populace, who, scurrying about, all seemed eager to buy or sell something, or as we noted on more than one occasion, steal something.
The spire of St Paul’s Cathedral rose up out of the skyline, a fervent reminder of the Catholic Church’s ironclad rule.
People barged past us, not wanting to engage. A foul stench lingered in the air.
“Don’t people here ever wash?” I covered my nose, though it didn’t make much difference.
“We need to slow down,” Sunaria said.
I glanced at her with surprise. “Why would you suggest that?”
“We’ll find him.” Sunaria faced me and rested her hands on my shoulders. “He’s here.”
We continued walking past old wooden homes that overlooked narrow drain channels with sewage flowing nearby.
We were in the center of a rundown market.
Poverty was everywhere and the difference between the wealthy and poor was easily evident.
Those few with money dressed in fine linen, riding on horseback or within plush carriages.
In stark contrast, the poor wore homemade, knitted outfits, some donning tatty leather shoes, and others were even barefoot.
“No one looks more than thirty.” I looked at her for answers.
“There’s disease here,” she said. “That also means fewer night walkers. Those who do linger are not the sort you want to associate with.”
Panic hit me. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
I cursed the daylight, but it was futile to resist. We had to find a safe place for shelter, and soon.
The Strand, a street in the City of Westminster, served our needs. We handed over the first week’s rent to a half-blind night porter. We insisted that a tour of the apartments was not required.
“Just show us our room,” I said. And make it fast.
He led us up a winding staircase to the top floor.
Once inside, we took in the modest décor – a medium sized bed, a worn side-table, and a chair that I didn’t trust enough to use. But the heavy-lined drapes on the single window, and the working lock, convinced us to stay.
“Better than a mausoleum,” I reasoned.
“It’ll do,” Sunaria said.
Our room overlooked the River Thames. In different circumstances, I’d have admired the vista, but viewing the sprawling city and its miles upon miles of territory, I felt only desperation. When Jacob surfaced, we’d be asleep, and when we emerged, he’d be inside again.
I pulled the curtains, turned, and slid down the wall. With my head in my hands, feeling an overwhelming despair, I allowed myself to weep uncontrollably.
Within a week, we’d searched virtually every workhouse in London. Many of them were matchmaking factories. Our third factory of the night was nestled in a rundown neighborhood that verged on the edge of Westminster Abbey. We made our way to the manager’s office.
We strolled past child after child, all of them bending over their wooden work benches, laboring away.
I searched each face and saw Jacob in all of them.
Heads rose in a moment of interest. Big, sunken eyes stared back, and then they returned once again to the tasks at hand.
These children would work well into the night and start early again tomorrow.
At the rear of the bleak factory, just off to the right, old straw beds lay stacked up against the far wall. They lived here and slept here, trapped in a cycle of deprivation – such a sorrowful existence.
But for the chosen few, for those children blessed with health and good bones, an alternative offered hope.
A reasonable profit could be made from wealthy family members who, unable to bear children of their own, would seek to adopt.
They’d pluck out a child, paying whatever was asked of them.
The thought of unscrupulous buyers crossed my mind.
I wanted to open the doors to the factory and yell at the children to run.
Though if they did escape, a new threat awaited them.
If caught, they’d suffer severe punishment.
The threat of execution was very real, a brutal and undeserving death.
More surprising still, this building, along with two thirds of London, belonged to the Church.
The numbness I’d felt within had for a moment lifted and provided such inner turmoil that I feared my ability to restrain my temper. I took a moment to compose myself.
Easily passing for wealthy aristocrats eager to adopt, we presented ourselves to the owner’s hard-faced wife. Mrs. Amesbury, who wore a permanent scowl, greeted us with a suspicious eye. A harsh task mistress, no doubt.
“We want to pass the child off as ours,” Sunaria explained.
“Do I detect Spanish in the gentleman’s accent?” Mrs. Amesbury asked.
I gave a nod, trying to suppress any visible disdain.
“Oh, dear, we did have a Spanish boy. Had you come on Wednesday, you might have beaten the other couple to him.”
I tried to remain calm. “His name?”
“I can’t remember that now.” She shook her head. “He was a quiet one, and we have so many boys.”
Every sinew in my body felt on edge.
“May we inquire as to the boy’s new address?” Sunaria asked.
Mrs. Amesbury pursed her lips. “We never divulge such information. Discretion is so important in this business.”
“As it is in ours.” My fake demeanor of courtesy fell away.
As Sunaria closed in on her, Mrs. Amesbury’s smile faded.
Many of the streets were named after the trades practiced there, like Threadneedle Street, the aptly named Tailor’s District, or Baker Street, where locals bought their bread. Fleet Street was where the wealthy resided – the aristocracy, rich merchants, architects, and men of law.
At the east end of Fleet Street, London’s walls rose high, the dark waters of the Fleet River flowing by.
One building miraculously untouched by the constant surge – saved, it seemed, by the sturdy white brickwork along the riverside – was the Bradbury’s residence.
Their large town house towered three stories high.
Long black timbers split along the front, enhancing its sturdiness.
Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury and their staff had retired to bed.
Kitchen shelves were stacked with dark colored breads, vegetables, and assorted cheeses, their scents permeating the air.
Several dead rabbits hung upside-down from the back wall, their eyes frozen in fear.
More savory looking were the numerous pots of honey lined along a thin shelf.
Jacob enjoyed dipping his finger in the tubs of honey at home.
I wondered if he’d been allowed to do that here.
The home extended well back from the street, its size being larger than it had first appeared.
The thought of seeing Jacob overwhelmed me.
A discarded wooden toy boat lying just outside one of the bedrooms signaled that it may serve as the nursery.
We entered silently and saw a child sleeping in the corner. The boy stirred when I gently tapped his shoulder.
My heart sank when I saw that it wasn’t my son.
“Jacob?” I whispered. “Is he here?”
The door opened and a woman’s silhouette appeared. She carried with her a bronze candleholder. A breeze from the open window extinguished the flame.
I assumed we’d just met Lady Bradbury. Ignoring her, I spun round to face the boy again.
He rubbed his eyes. “He ran off.”
Lady Bradbury shrieked.
Sunaria grabbed my arm, and, like mere phantoms, we flew out of the window, a terrible scream trailing behind us.
We landed just beneath the window, with me feeling inconsolable.
My son was lost in London.