Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Saturday Afternoon
Acrust of snow blanketed the small plot of grass and shrubbery outside Field Street Finishing School for Young Ladies.
If not for the brass plaque affixed to one of the ragstone posts flanking the head of the front walk, the three-story school could have appeared to be a private residence.
Though not one of the renowned and lauded finishing schools for young ladies of the gentry, the place was modest and well kept.
It likely catered to the daughters of successful merchants and businessmen.
Men who wished to educate and refine their daughters so that they might make a good and beneficial marriage, thus expanding the family’s wealth.
Hugh lingered at the ragstone post, trying like hell to convince himself that he wasn’t hesitating.
He’d returned from Chatham Park the evening before.
After telling Basil he didn’t wish to be disturbed, he’d shut himself inside his bedroom and tucked into a bottle of single malt.
The whole distance back to London, along the muddy and snowy roads, Hugh had been silent.
Sir had known to leave off asking questions after Hugh met the first few with a clenched jaw and a shake of his head.
The scotch hadn’t helped Hugh to understand why his birth mother had relinquished him to the viscount, to be raised by another woman.
Nor had it educated him on why she’d stayed away, or why Eloisa was now coming forward with her discovery.
Eloisa wanted to hurt Barty; she wanted vengeance.
But how in hell was April Barlow going to manage that?
After a quick stop into Bow Street to see if there were any pressing matters, Hugh had given the address of the finishing school to a jarvey.
It was on the outskirts of town, in residential working-class Cheapside.
An icy wind had started to whip, and now Hugh held the brim of his hat to keep it from flying away.
If he stood here much longer, he’d either freeze, or be confronted for skulking.
At the front door, he brought down the knocker and quelled the coiling of his stomach.
Catherine Marsden, the woman who’d raised him, was dead.
His coming here, seeking out April Barlow was not a betrayal.
The lingering ache at the back of his skull reminded him of the scotch he’d indulged in the night before, while trying to convince himself of that.
The door opened, and he released his breath. Standing before him was a young woman, not very long out of school herself. She appeared stern with a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, and her dress was plain. That a man stood on the doorstep did not seem to faze her.
“Afternoon, sir. Please state your business,” she said, not unkindly but with a certain lack of warmth.
He doffed his hat. “I’m looking for a woman by the name of April Barlow. I was told she is headmistress here.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Principal Officer Hugh Marsden with Bow Street.” At that, the young woman’s guarded expression brightened. She opened the door wider, considered another moment, and then stepped aside.
“You should come in.”
It was only slightly warmer in the foyer when she shut the door behind him, and down the front corridor, a few young girls in braids and bows skittered quickly from view.
The threadbare runner down the hall indicated a lack of funds to update the place, as did the utilitarian and uninspired décor; a few paintings on the walls showed dull landscapes and wizened faces of what he guessed were former headmistresses; either that or benefactresses.
“My name is Miss Carey, assistant headmistress at Field Street,” she said, then, at the stifled sound of giggles down the corridor, she arched a brow. “Girls, back to your class.”
The few girls spying from afar scattered.
“Forgive them, they are just as eager to find out where their headmistress has gone as I am. Mrs. Smith has sent you I presume? I had hoped someone would come to investigate, and here you are.”
She clasped her hands before her and waited for him to speak. It took him a moment to comprehend what she’d said.
“Mrs. Smith,” he repeated. “She said I would come?”
“Not specifically, but she mentioned she had a friend at Bow Street and would see what she could do,” Miss Carey replied.
Understanding bowled through him. Mrs. Smith was surely Eloisa. “She did send word,” he confirmed, “however, I’m still curious as to what would draw her here to begin with.”
How had she known to come to this school? Eloisa had been ambiguous about how she’d come upon the name April Barlow again, after so many years.
Miss Carey, however, was not nearly as perplexed. With a small shrug, she replied, “She was interested in placing her child for our next term. When I informed her that the headmistress had not been seen for two days, she was quite concerned.”
Place her child? Eloisa had no child. It had been a ruse, then, to gain entry here and speak to Mrs. Barlow. Then, when she learned of the woman’s disappearance, she’d come to Hugh for help.
“Have you reported Mrs. Barlow as missing?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” she answered, adjusting her wire framed spectacles.
A hint of regret played across her expression.
“You see, Tuesday morning, I found her room empty, her suitcase gone. She left a note, saying she would be back as soon as possible, but…you must understand, this is highly unusual behavior for her. April has been here over two decades, and she’s never so much as taken a holiday.
To up and leave in the middle of the night is… well, it is utterly bizarre.”
Sir Robert had mentioned something similar: that his daughter hardly ever left the school.
“Did her note say where she was going?”
“No, which dually concerned me.”
While concerning to Miss Carey, it would not have been seen that way at Bow Street.
No officer would have treated April’s disappearance as anything worth investigating.
She was a grown woman, she’d packed her things, and she’d left a note.
There was nothing suspicious about any of it.
But Hugh could see Miss Carey’s distress and believed her that it was not normal behavior.
The timing was a bit dubious too. Just as Eloisa comes to London to search for her, the woman packs her things and hightails it from town? If he had to guess, he’d say April Barlow had known someone was coming to find her, and she didn’t want to be found.
“Is there anyone she associates with?” he asked. “Any friends beyond this place? Husband? Family?”
He already knew she did not visit Chatham Park.
But his throat cinched at the idea that she had married and had more children.
It was a selfish and complicated thought, and one he knew could not be so, considering her name was still Barlow.
The “Mrs.” before it was surely for propriety’s sake at the school.
Miss Carey shook her head, confirming his deduction.
“If she has family, she doesn’t speak of them. She is wholly devoted to this school and these girls.”
The assistant headmistress assented to his request to view April’s bedroom and office, and as Miss Carey had described most of the clothing in her clothespress was gone.
While her bedroom was spare, the clutter filling her office told a story of purpose and passion.
Books lined not only all available shelf space, but side tables, a worn chair, and they formed a tower in the corner.
Paintings were so numerous each frame nudged a neighbor.
Various maps hung on the wall too, not just of England but of South America, Africa, and France.
And similar to Audrey’s collection in her study at Violet House, glass paperweights and trinkets lined the windows.
Hugh walked over to them, his thoughts sticking to the duchess.
In his mind’s eye, Audrey reached for the polished nautilus shell on her study windowsill.
The one with the intricate scrimshaw carvings.
He pictured her running her fingertips over the carvings, as if secret memories were pouring through her mind.
“If April had left for good, she would have taken most of her things,” Miss Carey said, dispelling Hugh’s image of Audrey. “I did not think Bow Street would consider her truly missing. However, her behavior is so unusual, it is worrisome.”
He turned from the windowsill. “It does appear she will return. I’m not certain there is anything to investigate.” At her crestfallen expression, he added, “Not officially.”
As his inspection skipped over April Barlow’s desk, he noted an elegant frame.
Enclosed in the gilt filigree, was a portrait.
Drawing closer, he saw that it was a small oil painting of a young boy with a serious mien; dark locks of unruly hair, a pouting lower lip, two black eyes highlighted only by daubs of ochre.
Hugh swallowed hard as he picked up the portrait.
“April had a son once,” Miss Carey said softly.
“What happened to him?” Hugh asked, recalling how much he’d disliked sitting for the artist. The man had been impatient, and Hugh had shifted restlessly upon the stool too many times.
The stuffy air had smelled of linseed oil, and he’d wanted to be outside, playing at adventures with Barty—if he would allow it.
But his father had asked Hugh to sit; said that it was to be a gift.
And so, Hugh had done as asked. He had wondered once or twice where the finished portrait had gone.
When larger portraits of Barty, Thomas, and Eloisa had been hung on the walls, and Hugh’s portrait remained absent, he’d understood why.
He’d always understood that he was not their equal.
The viscount could not hang the portrait of his bastard son amongst those of his legitimate children.
Yet still, he’d wondered where the little painting had gone.
“She doesn’t like to speak of it, but it seems he died,” Miss Carey answered.
Hugh returned the frame to the desk. “I see.”
Why April would keep this portrait on her desk, to view every day, which would then require a concocted tale about a dead son, Hugh couldn’t comprehend. Had she loved him after all? Had she given him up under duress? He had many questions, and if he wanted answers, he needed to find her.
They quit the study, and Miss Carey led him back toward the foyer, thanking him for coming and asking what else she might provide so that he could make sense of the headmistress’s disappearance.
As they reached the bottom stair, a loud crash and clatter from a room down the front passageway startled them both.
Raised voices followed, and the assistant headmistress adjusted her spectacles again. “Please allow me one moment, officer.”
She hustled toward the commotion and wasn’t more than a few strides away when a soft “Pssst” sounded from the upper landing. Hugh twisted to see an older student, a young lady of about fifteen, motioning for him to come to her. Curious, he took a few steps up.
“Mrs. Barlow had a visitor, sir,” she said, not wasting a moment. She clearly didn’t want to be caught speaking to him.
“Who?” he asked. “When?”
“A man. Monday night.” She kept her voice low. “I don’t know who he was, but they argued. Mrs. Barlow was quite vexed.”
The disturbance downstairs was continuing with Miss Carey’s raised voice, reprimanding someone.
“Why has Miss Carey said nothing to me about this?” he asked.
The girl’s expression went a bit green. “She doesn’t know. I’d be in trouble if I confessed to being out of bed at such a late hour.”
He crossed his arms. “Out of bed, or out of the school?”
She looked at the stairs, sheepish. “When I returned, I heard voices from her office. The door was partly open.”
“Did you see him?” When the young lady shook her head, Hugh asked, “Do you recall the man’s name? Anything at all about him or what they were arguing over?”
Another shake of her head, and Hugh sighed, frustrated.
“But she called him ‘my lord’,” the girl added. “And he told Mrs. Barlow that if she didn’t do as he asked, there would be ‘unsavory consequences’. I stepped on a board then, and it let out a squeak, so I dashed off to my room.”
This had been Monday night. By Tuesday morning, April Barlow had been gone. Miss Carey’s voice became clearer as she came back into the corridor, reminding the young ladies to act more appropriately.
Hugh quickly thanked the young lady, who then darted off the landing, out of sight. He took the steps back down and met the assistant headmistress as she returned. She peered up the stairwell, as if aware that her guest had not stayed put.
“Is everything well?” he asked her. “That was quite a stir.”
“Just some rambunctious pupils,” she said.
She then thanked him again and anxiously escorted him out from the domain of young, impressionable ladies and onto the front walk. Once there, the snap of cold wind beat a little clarity into his muddled brain.
If April Barlow was the late Viscount Neatham’s secret, and Eloisa believed finding her would bring ruin to Barty and Thomas, that left one shining suspect for who might have paid the headmistress a midnight visit, to warn her away.
Hugh pulled his collar higher and walked to the street, to hail a hackney.
Though he’d vowed to never speak to him again, or set foot in his presence, there was no getting around it now.
With April Barlow missing, and since Eloisa had skittishly refused to tell Hugh where she was staying while in town, there was only one place to go for answers.
He needed to pay a visit to his least favorite aristocrat: Lord Neatham.