Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Minerva Ashworth pressed her handkerchief against her finger where a fat red drop of blood welled.
Served her right. She should have paid attention to her needle rather than letting her mind wander, especially to places dark and treacherous, places where she lost her employment and ended up on the streets, places where terrible things happened and slavering beasts lurked in every corner.
Once upon a time, she had been a fearless girl, so sure of herself and her standing in the world. Now she was a woman who wore the facade of calm like a mask stitched tight, hiding the fear that writhed beneath. She had lost everything once. She was ever terrified she would again.
But fear, like a flame, grew when fed. So she pressed it down, buried it deep, held it there. That was how she survived.
“Careful, Min,” came a whisper from behind her. “Get blood on that dress and Mrs. Barlow will be on you like a hound on a marrow bone.”
“She’ll be on us both if she catches us talking instead of working,” Minerva whispered back, glancing over her shoulder at her friend Kitty who watched her with wide hazel eyes.
The words were true, after a fashion. Mrs. Barlow was a businesswoman.
She expected excellent work in a timely manner, but she was kind in her way and paid a fair wage.
The day started at half-past six and all the girls were usually done by six in the evening.
Minerva knew that some who worked in Regent Street plied their needles until midnight, even staying up through the night if the shop owner said they must. But Mrs. Barlow believed that lack of rest made for shoddy work, and she rarely kept her girls later than seven.
“Don’t talk, sew,” one of the other girls whispered with a glare. “You’ll see us all get a tongue lashing.”
Offering a cheeky grin, Kitty nudged Minerva’s ankle with the toe of her boot then bent over the sleeve of the pale pink silk that spilled from her lap.
Mrs. Barlow had left open the door between the sewing room and the shop, but daylight barely trickled back to the seamstresses, for it was a gray day, all fog and rain.
The girls were arranged in rings around lamps that sat on three-legged stools, the paltry glow doing little to alleviate the gloom.
Giving her finger a final press, Minerva made certain no more blood oozed from the tip.
Satisfied, she tucked her stained handkerchief up her sleeve and continued hemming the deep purple taffeta, concentrating on the mundane movement of the needle, counting her stitches to still her rampant thoughts.
Three years ago, she would have been the one buying this dress, not sewing it. The shade was one Mama had said suited her dark hair and green eyes.
A pang of grief sliced her. She bowed her head.
No, she would not think of Mama or Papa or the girl she had been or the life of privilege she had once known. She would only ply her needle and count her stitches and chase away all other thoughts.
The bell jangled as the door to the shop swung open, letting in a swirl of cold, damp air followed by a short, thin man wrapped in a gray coat that seemed to swallow him whole.
He stumbled to a stop and blinked when he spied the women through the open sewing room door.
He removed his spectacles, carefully wiped them with a handkerchief, then set them back in place.
Mrs. Barlow bustled from her small office and asked, “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Barlow?” he said.
“Yes.”
He offered a short nod. “You employ Miss Minerva Ashworth?”
Needles paused. A lamp hissed. Every head swivelled toward her.
Minerva’s heart stuttered at the sound of her name.
She could only expect bad tidings when an unfamiliar man with a frown and an overly serious mien inquired after her.
Her stomach hollowed with that strange, weightless drop that came at the start of a fall.
She reached for Kitty’s hand and held tight.
“Who wants to know?” Mrs. Barlow asked, settling a fist on her hip, her expression mulish.
“Aldous Granger. I am a solicitor.”
A solicitor. The first thought that struck Minerva was that she had been mistaken all these years, that her father’s estate had not been depleted, that this man was here to tell her so.
But as soon as the thought formed, she pushed it aside.
He was not the ancient, stooped solicitor who had handled her father’s affairs.
Besides, she had seen the creditors’ notes with her own eyes.
Her father had left her penniless. This man was here about something else, and that something was doubtless unpleasant.
The last time a stranger had called upon her in a similar manner, it had been to tell her that her parents were dead and to share with inappropriate gusto the grisly account of their demise.
She swallowed and tapped her fingertips slowly against her thigh—once, twice, thrice—willing herself to betray none of the apprehension that gouged her.
“There is Miss Ashworth,” said Mrs. Barlow with a jut of her chin in Minerva’s direction, as if the other girls’ stares had not already made her identity clear.
“Is there a private place I might speak with her?” Mr. Granger asked.
“My office,” Mrs. Barlow said after a long pause. “But you’ll leave the door open. I watch after my girls and their reputations. And you’ll be quick about it. I don’t pay her to talk.”
Mr. Granger looked affronted but made no argument as he followed Mrs. Barlow toward the office. Minerva forced herself to rise and walk forward, though the solicitor’s severe expression made her dread whatever news he carried.
Inside the tiny office, Mrs. Barlow pushed aside a bolt of lavender wool, closed the journal where she’d been entering her accounts, gathered it up, and brushed past them on her way back out. She paused only long enough to catch Minerva’s eye and offer a small nod of reassurance.
The solicitor pushed the door partially shut, leaving a crack as wide as his shoe. He faced Minerva, the light from the single lamp glinting off the metal frames of his spectacles.
“Would you like to sit?” he offered. There was only one chair.
“Thank you, no,” she said, uncomfortable with the idea of him standing over her in the small space. She glanced at the door, certain that Mrs. Barlow stood just out of sight, listening, and likely all the girls with her.
Mr. Granger drew a deep breath. “I regret to inform you that Mrs. Todd has passed.” When Minerva made no reply, he frowned and said, “Mrs. Todd. Has. Passed.” He drew the words out, pausing between each one.
It was apparent that he was waiting for a reaction, but for the life of her, Minerva could not imagine why. She had no idea who Mrs. Todd was.
“Died,” he clarified. “Catherine Todd has died.”
And then it came to her. Catherine Todd.
Her mother’s cousin. A woman she had never met, had communicated with only once, three years ago when her life as a pampered daughter had died along with her parents on a rutted, rain-drenched road.
Their carriage had failed to surmount a steep hill and gone tumbling back down, killing the driver, the footman, the horses… and the passengers.
Minerva had soon learned the truth of her circumstances. Papa had invested unwisely, borrowing far more than he ought. As a result, the house and all their belongings had to be sold, the proceeds claimed by creditors. There had been barely enough for the burial, and nothing left for Minerva.
Grief-stricken and wretched, she had written to her mother’s cousin in Cornwall, her only living relative.
Cousin Catherine had written back, a long, rambling letter offering recipes, suggestions for removing stains from her hem, a detailed description of the weather, and a brief mention of a three-masted ship she had spied on the horizon.
There had been no words of condolence, no invitation to come for a prolonged stay or even a short visit, and no offer of financial assistance.
“Mama’s cousin is dead?” Minerva asked.
“I am afraid so.”
For a moment, words failed her. She had no idea why this man was here or what he expected her to say. Finally, she managed, “How did she die?”
“She wandered out late in the night and fell off the cliff,” he said, his tone soft. “A terrible thing. Terrible.” He watched her carefully, his expression solemn. She had the impression he expected her to wail or sob or, perhaps, faint.
“Wandered out? In the night?” Minerva said, already imagining the terror and pain her cousin must have endured as she fell. “Why?”
He steepled his fingers, the tips resting beneath his chin. “She had been growing ever more confused in recent years.” He shook his head sadly and tapped his index finger against his temple. “Brain congestion.”
Minerva recalled the strange letter she had received after her parents died, the rambling contents, the absence of concern for her wellbeing. Perhaps now she knew the reason. “How tragic,” she said softly.
Mr. Granger withdrew a folded newspaper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Minerva, pointing to a report of a Coroners’ Inquest. Feeling sad for a woman she had not known, Minerva sank into the chair and read.
THE ROYAL CORNWALL GAZETTE
FOWEY
DEATH BY DROWNING.
—Yesterday an inquest was held at the Lugger Inn, Fowey, before Mr. W.D.
Daniel, on the body of Catherine Ann Todd, a woman, aged sixty-seven years, the wife of Mr. William Todd, deceased.
The unfortunate woman fell off the cliff and into the sea, Tuesday night, and was not discovered until she had been in the water a long time; she was taken out quite dead.
Bruising on her arms and a gash on her head were attributed to her fall. Verdict "Found drowned."