Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Mark was by nature a careful, meticulous man. But something about Ellen made an impulsive side emerge. Instead of fuming over the argument and unfair accusations Ellen had made, he took a train to Oxford that day for research.
He walked through the market town, reminiscing, until he came to Wadham College.
The pale yellow brick and the arched windows drew him back to one of the happiest times of his life.
Shouts of students filled the air as a few raced with their black robes flapping behind them, clearly late for class.
A small omnibus rattled past, the four mules pulling the red bus plodding on the cobblestoned street.
All in all, between his townhouse and Wadham College, it took three hours to reach Wadham.
Too long to travel every day, certainly.
Mark spoke to the porter and gained entrance to the green quad.
Taking a deep breath, Mark walked around.
The scent of freshly cut grass filled his nostrils, and he could just faintly make out the sound of heavy, thudding doors and scraping benches and desks inside through open windows.
He had no real purpose—he certainly didn’t expect Professor Duncap to see him.
He wasn’t sure Edward had time between tutoring, either, and Mark didn’t know where his rooms were anyway.
“Are there many married fellows?” Mark asked the porter after he made a loop.
The grizzled old man shrugged, heavy keys jangling in his hands. “They made married housing out back about ten years ago, when they allowed Fellows to wed for the first time.”
Mark wondered if he would be at a disadvantage, perhaps seen as not so serious a scholar, if he brought a pregnant wife with him.
But Ellen isn’t coming with me, he remembered.
She’d made that very clear. Anger and hurt made his heart hard.
He took a couple of hours walking around, listening to Wadham staff gossip while oiling window hinges and two department professors mutter to one another about research deadlines as they strode across the yard.
Three handsome and obviously hungover young men—boys—stumbled arm-in-arm across the yard. As they passed by Mark, one boy’s bloodshot eyes met his. Then he gagged and hunched, vomiting on the grass. Mark jerked his closest foot away, grimacing. “Grow up, man!”
The three staggered off without any further acknowledgement.
The porter shook his head. “Rich arseholes, drunk as a lord.” He ducked back into his box for cleaning supplies.
I bet half the class would be just like them—indolent sons of gentlemen who prefer to carouse through Oxford.
Mark scowled at them. Do they not understand the history within these walls?
The great discoveries, the scholarship? But no, they didn’t care.
Mark could already see himself stuck tutoring three or four of them at a time.
He knew that if he lectured here he’d have to publish his Greek myths storybook under a pseudonym. No one would take his scholarship seriously if he was seen as soft-minded by focusing on children, but also radical for writing for children of all classes.
After bidding the porter farewell, Mark slipped inside and roamed the common areas, soaking in the sounds and smells. It smelled like happiness—or, no, it smelled like the memory of happiness. Nostalgia, perhaps.
Clicking shoes on stone came behind him.
Two tutors, around his age, walked by in street clothes with their black robes draped over their arms. They laughed, talking about the rowing tournaments coming up in the spring.
Scuffed shoes peeked from beneath sturdy wool trousers, and the elbows of their jackets were worn.
Though he could count on his eight hundred a year from his brother, that fell when considering he’d need to pay for two households—one in Oxford, one in London for Ellen.
She might have her yearly allowance, nearly double his, but he doubted she’d stop spending it on medical resources. And he didn’t expect her to.
His heart twisted inside his chest, a pang mixed with hurt and love. Mark shook his head, refusing to think about it.
I’ll come up for lectures regularly, he told himself, to get to know it better, to see all the best parts of this life.
He left, without searching out Edward or the professor, and caught the last train back to London, his research complete. Mark arrived after sunset and braved the cold February rain to go home. He entered his house as the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed six.
“Oh, you’re home.” Gaye pursed his lips. He was not used to his employers running around Central England at the drop of a hat. “Did Mrs. Glenfall not return with you?”
“No...I told the footman to escort her home.”
Gaye’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “He went to the dispensary, but she wasn’t there. He waited, then returned. We assumed you’d chosen to meet her there instead.”
Mark sucked in a breath. “You mean she’s missing?”
“Well, I’m not sure we would say missing. It sounds so dire.” He wrung his hands.
“Check for messages. See if anything was delivered.” He took his hat and scarf back from Gaye. “I’m going to find her.” Mark stormed out into the night.
Worry assailed him as the rain pounded against the side of the hansom cab.
Is she so angry with me she refused to come home?
Did she miscarry? Is she wounded in a hospital somewhere?
What if she’s so angry she refuses to see me when I find her?
What if Seamus O’Malley found her? Where is she?
He’d never been so anxious before, not even during his first storm on the Black Prince.
Mark pounded on the locked dispensary door.
It took several moments for Amelia to answer.
The dispensary had closed for the day and she’d taken off her white coat and let her hair down in a simple braid.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, opening the door to let him in.
Wind swept inside, nearly blowing Mark’s hat off.
“Where’s Ellen? Have you seen her?” Mark demanded, a puddle forming under his feet.
Amelia shook her head. “Not since she left on her last visits of the day to brothels in Covent Garden.”
Mark swore. “She could be anywhere!” He quickly told Amelia about his concerns with Seamus watching them two weeks ago. “Have you heard from him? Do you think he’d do something?” One hand clenched into a fist at his side.
Amelia frowned, thinking. “He’s not much of a strategic thinker. But if he was in the wrong mood, and the opportunity arose, then yes, I think he’d do something to hurt her.” She shivered. “Where have you looked already?” She raced upstairs to get her raingear.
Before long, a minor search party was in session.
Five people, mostly parents of Ellen’s former patients, went door to door, knocking through the slums and asking if anyone had seen the lady who takes care of weak babies.
Everyone said no. One person went off to the Daugherty’s home to see if they knew anything.
Another said they knew of the brothel and escorted Mark to them.
As the hours went on, Mark’s worry gnawed at his stomach.
He felt sick. He barged into the first brothel, demanding to know if Ellen had seen a baby there that day.
She had, the madam said, then went across the street.
The errand boy had seen her enter another establishment.
Mark, wordless with guilt and concern, pounded on the door of the next brothel.
The burly doorman said yes, a woman matching Ellen’s description had been there earlier. She’d given bad news to one of the girls. No, the girl wasn’t around, she’d taken the baby to a midwife and wasn’t expected back for several hours.
Growling in growing anger, Mark stormed out of the brothel. “We retrace our steps. She went missing somewhere between this brothel and the dispensary.” Mark scowled at the adolescent boy shivering and soaking wet beside him. “Come on, then. A crown if you point me the way.”
They took the most direct route, the boy swearing this made the most sense for Ellen to follow.
Water streaming from the rim of his hat, Mark didn’t even feel cold.
The fear burning in his chest kept him warm.
He’d go all night if he had to. It was so dark the slick cobbles didn’t even shine in the night.
Instead of washing all the filth and decay away, the rain brought up the dirt and refuse, causing sewers to overflow the grates in the street.
The air stank of desperation and despair.
I’m sorry, he wanted to scream into the night air.
I’m sorry I ever hurt her. Please, let her come back.
Even if she never wants to talk to me again.
Even if she hates me, just please let her be well.
Mark’s fingers were numb by the time he returned to the dispensary.
No one knew anything. They huddled around the small iron stove, coal sizzling and popping inside, trying to form their next plans.
Then one of the men burst in, face wet and coat soaked through. “I just left an alehouse. A man was talking there about Seamus O’Malley. He was seen a couple of hours ago near Tucker’s Way, and he had a woman with him.”
Mark nearly grabbed the man’s shirt in his desperation. “Tell me where he is. I know it’s him.”
“No one’s seen O’Malley since then. But we can go to Tucker’s Way.”
Everyone hurried back out into the rain. Amelia stayed at the dispensary in case Ellen appeared there. She worried her lips and twisted her hands as she set her lamps in the bay window. “Bring her back, Captain Glenfall. Please bring my friend back.”
A lump welled in his throat. Mark sharply nodded and followed the others into the rain.
Two hours later, they’d searched every nook and crevice of the alley and hadn’t found a thing. If there’d been anything to find, Mark realized glumly, the rain would’ve washed it away by now.
The four men remaining with him rubbed their bleary eyes and murmured worries about their own families in the potential flooding. He probably should offer to let them go home, but he didn’t. They didn’t ask, either.
Instead, three filed into the dirty pub at the corner of the lane to question the serving maid again about how long ago Seamus O’Malley had been there. The fourth said he’d check the surrounding buildings one more time.
Mark nodded sharply and went back to the street and turned down the next alley, wading through knee-high water.
The water rushed downhill toward the river.
A dead cat whisked by him. He nearly slammed into someone.
Irritated, Mark stepped back and looked up at O’Malley himself.
God, he’d forgotten how big the man was.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” the man rumbled. He wore a slick oilskin coat, likely stolen, but his boots were sodden and full of holes.
“Where is my wife?” Mark held his breath against the reek of beer, mud, and body odor, grabbing the man’s collar and yanking his face down to his.
O’Malley smiled, teeth the color of three-day-old piss. “Safe and sound. For now.”
Mark saw red. He didn’t even know he’d punched the man until his knuckles were smarting and O’Malley was stretching his jaw. “You’ll release her, or I swear to God I will make your life a living hell.” He widened his stance, drawing on the old deck brawls he’d watched on the ship.
O’Malley’s eyes darkened. “She did that already.”
Mark vibrated with rage. “If you want your bloody carcass still above ground by sunrise, you will take me to her this instant. And if you’ve harmed a hair on her head, I’ll take it out of your flesh with a dull knife.”
O’Malley sneered. “You paint such a picture of marital attachment. But I know better. She told me so.” He put his beefy hand over Mark’s and wrenched his collar free, stepping back.
Mark didn’t care the man was four inches taller or two stone heavier. He stalked after him. “I should call for the police.”
O’Malley grinned, shadows casting his face in a dark image. “Good luck finding any in this part of town. We’ll go get her and then you’ll make out a nice, fat cheque in my name.”
This seems…easy. Warily, Mark followed O’Malley as he went through twisting, tiny passages so small Mark’s shoulders touched the stone and wood walls on either side.
The rain and the dark night obscured most landmarks, and Mark had a sinking feeling that this was a bad idea. If only I’d brought a knife.
When they stopped at a small shed leaning in the rain and wind, O’Malley gestured to it. “Your lady toff is in there.”
Mark wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t going to turn his back on this violent creature. “Get her.”
O’Malley didn’t move.
Temper fraying, Mark balled his fist and punched O’Malley in the gut, then shot an uppercut against his jaw.
O’Malley groaned, unsteady, but righted himself quickly for a drunk man. He scowled at Mark. “You’ll regret that.” He tilted his head, and his neck popped loudly.
“Come on,” Mark snarled. He threw his hat on the ground for greater visibility.
The heavy man came for him. Fists swinging, he pummeled Mark. He was good, better than Mark had expected, with all the muscle and hardness that came from working in the rookeries.
But Mark was better. He’d spent years drilling and training in the Navy, and he gave harder than he got. He slipped his foot between O’Malley’s spread legs and tripped him, sending the heavier man sprawling in the mud. O’Malley let out a groan as he hit the soft earth.
Breathing heavily, Mark knelt down and punched the man—in the gut, the chest, the face.
Over and over. He angled back for one more punch, and O’Malley’s hand snagged his knee.
Mark shifted to break free, but slid on the wet ground.
He sprawled on the ground, half on the semi-conscious bruiser, half in a puddle of soupy mud.
Gasping for air, Mark scrambled to find purchase.
O’Malley simply rolled over him, squashing him into the thick mud.
Mark’s face pressed into the three inches of suffocating sludge.
He coughed, fighting to get free, and it oozed into his mouth.
Get up, get up, get up, you’ll drown in this mud if you don’t get up!
Then there was a sharp blow to the back of his head, and Mark’s vision dimmed. Sparks went off behind his eyelids, the last desperate pleas of a fading brain. Ellen, I’m sorry.