A Conspiracy of Ravens (13 page)

A slight knock came at the door, and Heather called out, “Come in.”

Charles Crinshaw stepped inside. “There’s someone to see you, sir.”

“Someone? What do you mean someone? Who is it?”

“Well, sir,” Crinshaw said, then hesitated for a moment before ending his sentence, “it’s a priest. His name is Father Francis Xavier.”

Surprise washed across Edward’s face. “A priest. What in the world could he want?”

“He didn’t say, sir, except that he needs very urgently to see you.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to see him. Ask him to come in, Crinshaw.”

“Certainly, sir.”

As soon as the door closed behind the butler, Heather moved away and stood facing her husband. “What in the world could a priest be doing coming to see us? Surely he doesn’t think we’re Catholic.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so. Perhaps he’s looking for money. Some charitable cause . . .”

This was not an unusual occurrence in the lives of Edward and Heather. They gave generously, and people knew it was easy to get money for the right cause from the pair.

The door opened again, and Crinshaw stepped in and murmured, “Father Francis Xavier, Lord Darby.”

“Well, come in, sir,” Edward said. He turned to face the priest, studying the short, roly-poly figure and unlined face. He was a good judge of character and saw that the priest was older than his face appeared. His hands were the key. They had brown liver spots and showed other signs of age.

“I’m so sorry to call without requesting permission, Lord Darby.”

“That’s quite all right, Father. Come in and sit down.”

The priest had been unsure of his welcome, but the graciousness of Lord Darby, and the smile on the face of the woman beside him, was encouraging. “I will try to be as brief as possible.” He took his seat, and Edward and Heather sat down opposite him.

“What is it I can do for you? Is it a donation you’re seeking?” Edward asked, trying to be helpful.

“Oh, no, indeed!” A flush touched Father Xavier’s face. “Nothing like that. It’s something personal, sir, about yourself and Lady Darby.”

Puzzled expressions crossed the faces of Edward and Heather, who exchanged quick glances. “Well, sir,” Edward said, “just speak right out.”

“Please don’t think me impertinent, Lord Darby and Lady Darby, but I have one question to ask of you. It may be that my coming is inappropriate.”

“Ask anything you please, Father,” Heather said.

“May I ask then, Lady Darby, if you were in the City Hospital on May the twenty-fourth in the year of 1839?”

Heather blinked and shot a quick glance at Edward. “Yes,” she said, and her voice was unsteady. “We were there on that exact date.”

“Why does this interest you, sir?” Edward asked. “Surely it can have nothing to do with you.”

“Only indirectly, sir.”

“I can’t imagine why you asked that question,” Edward said. He knew that Heather did not like to be reminded of that time in their lives, nor did he, and his words were bitten off in a rather short fashion.

“I know the question sounds impertinent, but let me explain. I am the chaplain at Brixton Prison for Women. I have been there for some time, and just yesterday I received a call to go to the bedside of a woman named Margaret Anderson. She was simply called Old Meg by the inmates and guards. I suppose you’ve never heard of her?”

“Why, no, I don’t know as I’ve ever heard the name. Have you, Heather?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Speaking very carefully, Father Xavier said, “Old Meg was in City Hospital the same that you were, on May the twenty-fourth of the year that I mentioned. I know that you had a child on the twenty-third.”

“Yes, we did, but he did not live,” Heather whispered.

The priest did not miss the look of sorrow in the woman’s eyes. He was adept at reading faces, and for all his bland, innocent appearance he had a sharp, penetrating mind. “You may not know, then, that Margaret Anderson had a child on that day, the same day your son was born.”

“I don’t remember anything about that. It was a rather painful birth.”

“Where are you headed with this, Father, if I may ask?” Edward demanded. His eyes were narrowed, and he could not think of any reason why this man had come to his home. He was a man of authority, accustomed to dealing with others, and the priest seemed innocent enough, but he could not be sure.

“Let me be brief,” Xavier said quickly. He saw that his words had shocked the two, and he knew that what he had yet to say would be even more traumatic for them. “Old Meg made her dying confession to me yesterday. She told me about her child who was born, and she was very much aware that you were down the hall from her. Everyone knew that Lady Darby was in the hospital and that she had borne a son.” For a moment he hesitated and then knew there was no easy way to break the news to these two. “Here is what she told me. She told me that her child died, and in the night . . .” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “In the night she brought her dead child to your room. She said that you were asleep, and your son was in a crib next to you. She put her dead infant in your crib. You were apparently sleeping very soundly. She dressed her dead infant in the garments that your son wore, picked up your baby, and took him back to her room.”

The silence was almost palpable. The faces of both Edward and Heather were absolutely pale. Heather was unable to speak, and Edward finally said in a strained voice, “And you’re telling me, Father, it was our child she took?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lord Darby. I wanted to be very sure about this, so I went to the City Hospital. They were reluctant to talk to me at first, but the general administrator finally gave me access to the records.” He looked up, and his eyes held the two. “Only one child died on May twenty-fourth. That child was listed as Trevor Hayden.”

Suddenly Heather turned and grasped Edward by the arm. “It’s true! God was telling me the truth!”

Her words confused the priest, and he said, “I don’t understand. What truth was it that God told you, if I may ask?”

“Before our son was born, God began to speak to me, and He told me that our son would be a blessing to us and to many others. So when he died, or when we thought he died, it was a terrible blow that shook my faith. I haven’t sought God since then, not as I should.”

Xavier saw that the anguish in the woman’s face was not intermingled with joy.

“Perhaps this is God’s way of bringing you back to Himself.”

“I’ve never forgotten it,” Edward said. “When my wife was expecting, we committed that child to God. She told me many times that God had promised her he would be a blessing to many.”

“I’ve wondered all these years how I could have missed God’s will so badly.”

“Where is the child she bore?” Edward asked, his mind working quickly.

“That’s the problem, Lord Darby.” A wrinkle appeared on the priest’s brow, and he said, “The boy disappeared when he was only thirteen years old. Old Meg was a prostitute. Life must have been hellish for the boy. She told me that she was unable to find him. She thinks he’s in London, but she’s not sure of it.”

“But surely she had a family. Perhaps the boy went to one of them.”

“No, she had no family, sadly enough. She told me so when she first came to the prison, and she never wrote letters—if she could write—and she certainly never received any.”

The three talked for some time about the possibilities, and Edward and his wife wrung every word from the priest about Meg and the baby, who was now a young man of eighteen. Finally the priest said, “It may be that you can’t find the boy. Meg certainly couldn’t, although she probably didn’t look very hard.”

“If he’s alive, we’ll find him, and we thank you for coming.”

The priest got to his feet, fished in his pocket, and handed the earl a small paper. “There’s my name. You can find me at Brixton Prison almost anytime. Please get in touch with me if I can help.”

“We will indeed do that. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“I hesitated about coming, but the Lord seemed to tell me that it was the thing to do. I’ll be praying that you find your son.”

The two made their farewells to the priest, and as soon as the door closed, Heather turned, and her face was alive in a way that Edward had not seen for years. “He’s alive! Our son is alive! I knew that it was God speaking. I just didn’t have faith.”

“We mustn’t get too ahead of ourselves here. We may not be able to find the child.”

“Yes, we will. God is in this, Edward.”

“Yes, He is.” Now Edward’s eyes glowed with a fire that Heather had seen only rarely. “If our son is alive, I’ll find him!”

NINE

T
he sun had hidden itself for most of the day and even now made a decrescent shape in the grey December sky. Morning had brought a whirling snowstorm that caught London and the surrounding counties off guard. As Serafina stood looking out the window, she marveled at the beauty of fresh snow, which had sculptured the entire landscape into an enormous filigree—ornamental works of incandescent brightness.

It makes the world look so clean and innocent and pure.
The thought came to her, and she smiled at her own flight of imagination. “That was like something Dylan would say,” she murmured aloud. Her eyes admired the estate and the diaphanous workmanship of the snow. All was delicate, and the elaborate iron fence looked like a fragile piece of fine lace. Nothing was sharp or elongated now. Every shape was rounded, and it made the world a softer, even a kinder place—or at least the notion struck her for the moment. Shifting her glance, she watched as Dylan and David played in the foot-deep snow. The faint sound of their voices drifted toward her, and the sight of David’s face—the joy and the smile and the brightness of his eyes—pleased her. As for Dylan, he was like a large boy. She watched as he lay flat on his back and moved his arms from his hips to over his head.
Making snow angels. Now
David will have to make one too.
Indeed, the boy did imitate the man, and finally Dylan reached out, picked up David, and tossed him lightly into the air. She could hear her son’s delighted squeal, and it pleased her.

“Serafina, you’re going to have to do something about that man.”

Caught off guard, Serafina turned and saw her aunt Bertha standing immediately behind her. Bertha’s hands were clenched tightly as she stared out the window, and a frown scored her face, making twin furrows between her eyebrows. Her mouth, Serafina noted, was like a steel trap. There was little kindness in it, and she realized how hard she had to work at keeping her aunt pleased.

“What are you talking about, Aunt Bertha?”

“What am I talking about? I’m talking about that . . . that actor out there. Look at him, a grown man playing in the snow!” Her voice was acid, dripping dislike, and she shook her head shortly, her eyes narrowing as she watched the pair. “I’m disappointed in you, Serafina.”

“Are you? I’m sorry to hear that, Aunt.”

“Doesn’t it bother you to have your son, the future Viscount of Radnor and peer of the realm, wallowing in the snow with a disreputable man like that?”

“Why would you say Dylan is disreputable?” Serafina was indeed curious. She could not understand her aunt’s animosity. Somehow she knew her aunt had suffered something in life to give her such a bitter cast, and it was obvious that she was unable to form a pleasing relationship with anyone.

“You know what actors are like.”

“I suppose they’re like all other people. Some are good and some are bad.”

“It’s not good for David to associate with such a person. You know their reputations. They’re an immoral bunch, all of them.”

Serafina sought for an answer, and finally she said quietly, “David gets lonely. I know what that’s like.”

Serafina’s strange remark caught Bertha. She stared at the younger woman, and for a moment it seemed as if she would soften. Indeed, her lips relaxed, but they quickly tightened once again.

“You’re a grown woman and able to take care of yourself, but you’re putting David at the power of that man, and you know what he’s like. I’m surprised at you. You ought to be more careful.”

“Are you forgetting that Dylan saved David’s life?”

“Then you should have given him a reward.”

“Given him money?”

“Yes. Pay him off.”

“I couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t take it in the first place.”

Bertha sniffed and then shook her head like a terrier shaking an animal it had just caught. “Oh, he’d take it all right! He’s after your money.”

“He’s never asked for anything.”

“He’s waiting for the big ticket. That’s what he’s doing. Don’t you see that?”

“What are you talking about, Aunt Bertha?”

“Why, he’s bewitched you, Serafina. He’s going to make you fall in love with him or at least fall into some sort of feeling, and he’s making himself indispensable. Now he’s got a hold on you because he saved David’s life. Mark my words. He plans to marry you.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Wiser women than you have fallen prey to a young, good-looking man,” Bertha warned. “I wish you would warn him off the place.”

“I can’t do that.” Serafina’s words were soft, but there was a steel edge to them that Bertha Mulvane had learnt to identify. And

100 when the Viscountess Trent said something in that tone, the conversation was over.

Bertha shook her head with disgust and turned, making her parting shot bitter and cynical. “You’ll find out one of these days what sort of man he is. I only hope you don’t disgrace the family before then.”

Serafina watched her aunt go, wondering again at the resentfulness of the woman. She was well aware, as were other members of the household, that Bertha took things—spoons, jewellery from time to time, and somehow, in a way that Serafina could not figure out, even some of the furniture—from Trentwood House. There had never been enough damage done to cause Serafina to confront Bertha, and even now she felt both anger and pity for the woman.
She has to be the most unhappy person in the world.
She’s so bitter.

Serafina turned back and watched as her son and Dylan continued to play in the snow, and a smile touched the corner of her lips.