Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The hackney driver had been walking the horses while waiting for the two young ladies, mollified by the coins paid to him in advance. They quickly boarded the carriage along with Aya, and Phoebe gave the direction to a square only a few blocks away, still within Mayfair.
Within the carriage, Aya asked nervously, “You’re quite certain about this course of action, Miss Phoebe?”
She could understand Aya’s concern, for in a few minutes, the three of them would be acting the same as any common thieves.
“I am certain the house is empty, for I noticed as such when we happened to drive past it a week ago,” Phoebe said.
“Phoebe could hardly write a note to the owner to ask for permission,” Keriah said, “for he is neither a relative nor a close, particular friend.”
The man in question was Sir Harvey Farrows, an elderly man whom Phoebe had met at botanical association meetings several years ago, during her second Season.
They always chatted with each other for fifteen or twenty minutes after the association meetings, since they had the common interest of growing roses.
Sir Harvey had not been in town for the past two years, and his townhouse stood empty.
But Phoebe knew that he had renovated his attic space to create a conservatory where he cared for his plants.
She and her Aunt Laura had visited him at his home at least once a Season during the years he was in town.
Mr. Norton had helped Phoebe move the Goldensuit plants to a room at an inn on Mile End Road, on the eastern edge of London.
After his betrayal, she realized that those plants were now lost to them.
In fact, it was possible that he had managed to send a message to Maxham soon after they had left the plants, for the Citadel would surely wish to reclaim Jack’s property.
Phoebe was thankful that she had thought to collect the pollen from the flowering plants beforehand, not only for safety since the dangerous flowers would be transported, but also because the pollen was needed to keep Mr. Coulton-Jones alive.
And Phoebe, now, also. It surprised her that she sometimes forgot to include herself, because her body still felt strong and healthy.
Nor, she admitted to herself, had she ever felt more alive.
It was as if her entire body was filled with sights, sounds, smells.
Sometimes, such as her current situation within the malodorous hackney, the foul odors of London overwhelmed her.
And yet, just as often, she would pick up an isolated scent—roasting meat, the faintest wisp of French perfume, the dark scent of coffee from a coffeehouse.
She caught the fragrance of violets before they saw the young girl selling them at the street corner, and her mouth began to water when she caught the warm, savory aroma of a meat pie baking in an oven somewhere.
When she had first recovered, the cacophony of sounds and the melange of scents had given her headaches, but now it seemed as if her mind was better able to mute the sounds and smells unless she concentrated upon them.
The hackney dropped them off at the corner of a large square.
Rather than proceeding toward the front of the townhouse on foot, they made their way to the narrow mews road that ran behind the houses.
Phoebe counted carefully, but she need not have bothered—she identified the mews of Sir Harvey’s townhouse by the sight of the conservatory that could be seen above the rooftop.
There was a carriage pulling out several yards ahead of them, and they waited in the shadows for the vehicle to turn onto the main thoroughfare.
Phoebe used the time to listen near the wall of Sir Harvey’s mews, but she heard no horses or groomsmen within.
All she heard was a cat stalking in vain for any rats.
Keriah picked the padlock to the door, for she insisted that she had had more experience lately.
Phoebe did not doubt her, for both of them had performed merely adequately when Mr. Coulton-Jones taught them several weeks ago.
For Phoebe, it had been particularly difficult because she kept breaking the lock-picking tools or the lock itself by accident with her increased strength.
It still took Keriah an agonizing few minutes before she managed to open the padlock.
The mews road remained empty, and they snuck inside without being noticed.
Phoebe entered first, and cobwebs brushed her face.
The space smelled musty, but also strongly of horse, even though Sir Harvey had not stabled his mount and carriage horses here for two years.
They made their way through the space and out into the paved back area of his townhouse.
Phoebe glanced up at the houses on either side, feeling as though there must be someone observing them from one of those windows.
But she focused her eyesight and saw no one.
There was no movement, not even the flutter of a curtain.
Nonetheless, she and Aya pressed themselves against the back wall of Sir Harvey’s house as Keriah picked the lock to the door leading to the half-basement.
Phoebe stood next to a window and saw that the kitchen was at the back of the half-basement.
Inside, the worktable was clear and the hearth cold and dark.
Phoebe thought that Keriah would take less time to unlock the second door, but in truth, it was taking longer. She was just about to suggest that she simply break the lock when Keriah cried out and raised her hands in triumph, dropping her tools to the ground.
She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth while the three of them froze in place. But after listening for a minute, Phoebe heard no movement from any of the houses around them, and she nodded to Keriah.
Scooping up her lock-picking tools, Keriah opened the door and crept inside, followed closely by Phoebe and Aya.
They entered into a cramped scullery connected to a spacious kitchen.
The open door led to a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway with a few other closed doors that likely led to storerooms and the butler’s pantry, and a set of stairs at the very end of the passageway.
They climbed the steps into a small room with a dresser full of china, where the butler apparently prepared the dishes before delivering them to the dining room, which was through one of the doors.
The doorway next to the stairs led out alongside the main staircase and into the front entrance hall of the house.
Phoebe had repeatedly offered to carry the large satchel that Aya held, but the maid had always staunchly refused. Now that they were within the house, she handed it over, and Phoebe caught the smell of dry compost from within.
“Do the stairs lead to the conservatory?” Keriah asked.
“No, we must traverse the first-floor hallway. At the end is another stairway that leads up to the third floor.”
Dust tickled her nose as they climbed the staircase, then turned right at the landing.
They passed several closed doors—a lavish ballroom, Phoebe knew, was the only room on the left, while smaller bedchambers lay on the right.
At the end of the hallway, stairs that had once led only to the second floor had been extended up to the third.
At the top of the landing, a short hallway on the left had several doors leading to servants’ quarters, while a large, ornate door on the right led to the conservatory that had been built where the attic used to be. The door was not locked, opening easily under Phoebe’s hand, and they crept inside.
The house interior had been dark, but they had not bothered to light a taper.
As they entered the conservatory, they were almost blinded by the brightness of the light streaming down through numerous glass panes on the ceiling.
The renovation of the attic and the addition of so many glass windows high above had cost a princely sum, but Sir Harvey had a passion for roses that might have even eclipsed his love for his wife and children.
Keriah looked around at the empty tables that stood reflecting the light. “I had expected to see rows of dead plants in pots.”
“Oh, Sir Harvey would not be so cruel to his roses,” Phoebe replied. “He transports his plants from country to town and back again with a special wagon he had constructed for that purpose.”
She chose the sunniest spot and began removing the tiny pots she had packed within the satchel.
Aya remained standing primly by the door. “Miss Phoebe, ought you not to wear a mask?”
Phoebe hesitated, but it was Keriah who answered her. “There is no need, Aya. The pollen will do very little to Phoebe.” She said it in a soft voice.
Aya’s mouth tightened, and she looked down at her hands.
Phoebe had not wanted to remind her of how her body had changed, of how the rest of her life had changed. She said in a calm voice, “I am merely planting seeds. However, if there are perhaps pollen grains in the paper packets, perhaps it would be best if you waited outside.”
Aya’s mouth now took on a mulish cast. “I shall remain right here, Miss Phoebe.”
Keriah had not brought her leather satchel filled with medical implements, but her reticule was unusually large. She opened it now and handed Aya a mask, donning one herself. She then strode toward Phoebe. “How may I assist you?”
Phoebe opened the burlap sack filled with dried compost, which Aya had bought at her request from Colvill’s Nursery earlier that day.
“Perhaps you could help me scoop the soil into the pots? Aya, could you fetch some water? Sir Harvey mentioned there was a well with remarkably fine water at the end of the lane behind the mews.”
Aya bobbed a curtsy and left the conservatory.
Phoebe and Keriah worked in silence for a few minutes. Then Keriah asked, “Will you not reconsider about your father?”
Phoebe stopped shoveling soil into a small pot and turned to frown at her friend. “Keriah, I will not agree to kidnap my father.”