That Silent Night (6 page)

“I did not learn much in your absence,” he said. “Leighton insists that he has tried to help his wife come to terms with her losses, but that nothing helps. He admitted to me that seeing the woman outside the park brought her to the brink, and I think if you had not also seen her he would be halfway to letting Dr. Holton convince him to have her committed.”

“But he clearly adores her,” I said.

“And he believes she needs treatment.”

I sighed. “I want to find her sister's grave. Even if she was not buried alone or even if the grave has no marker, I am convinced it would be helpful for Mrs. Leighton to go to the spot and place a wreath of flowers.”

“Pauper's graves are not easy to find. Leighton gave me the name of the orphanage, but knew little else,” Colin said. “I assume you want to leave immediately?”

*   *   *

The carriage ride through the East End thoroughly depressed me. Painfully thin children in tattered coats raced along the pavements, sliding through the snow, their laughter not enough to compensate for their lack of food and warm clothing. The orphanage was even worse. A sad little Christmas tree stood in the center of the large room that served as a reception area, but there were no sounds of joy to be heard here, not even a bit of laughter. It made one think that Mr. Dickens had not cast quite harsh enough a light on poverty for his readers. The Cratchit family lived in luxury compared to these poor souls.

We consulted with the director of the institution, who pulled down a large record book and opened it, bending over it to better read the scraggly entries through his monocle, which kept falling onto the page. “There, now,” he said, fixing the lens back into place. “Adelaide Hartford, you said?”

“Yes.”

“She was here for less than a year,” he said. “I am afraid she ran away and we know nothing further about her.”

“We understand that she died,” Colin said. “Her sister would very much like to visit her grave.”

“I am most heartily sorry,” the man said. “You might try paupers' cemeteries but, given her youth, I would not be surprised if there are no records of use to be found. Things end very badly for children who try to live on their own. It is likely she was buried without anyone even knowing her name. I am only sorry we were not able to keep her with us. I see your expression, Lady Emily, and cannot fault you for it. This is not a pleasant place, but it is, I believe, preferable to living on the streets.”

We thanked him and quitted the sad building. “Are you thinking what I am?” I asked.

“That we ought to adopt every child in that hateful place and bring them to Anglemore?” Colin's countenance darkened. “Even that would not begin to address the problems of the poor in London.”

“Quite,” I said. He took my hand.

“I gave the man a sum that should be more than enough to ensure a happy Christmas for them all. It is something, at least.”

“You are very good,” I said. “And I am ashamed I did not think of it.”

“What are you thinking, then?” he asked.

“That no one knows what became of Adelaide.”

“Have you any concept of the difficulty—nay, the impossibility—of finding a young girl who ran away from an orphanage so many years ago? We could interview every person in the East End and learn nothing.”

“I agree, it is a daunting prospect,” I said. “Unless, of course, the woman standing on Park Lane is someone who knew Adelaide.”

“It is possible, I suppose.”

“Who else would know where to find Mrs. Leighton?” I asked.

“It should be simple enough to detain her,” Colin said, “assuming she comes back.”

“I do not want to rely on assumptions,” I said. “I have an idea.…”

He did not balk at my scheme. I believe the festive and charitable nature of the season had at last taken hold of him. We returned to Park Lane, where I used the telephone in Colin's study to ring Mrs. Clara Parnell in Essex.

The woman, whose voice trembled as she spoke, explained she did not receive word of the uncle's death for months after it happened. When the news reached her and she learned Adelaide had been sent to an orphanage, she immediately went there to collect the girl, but she was too late. Adelaide had already run away. Mrs. Parnell had done everything she could to track down the girl, but never found any sign of her. Neither, however, did she find any evidence that her niece had died.”

“She invented the story of Adelaide's death?” Colin asked.

“Yes,” I said. “She felt it likely true, particularly as no one legitimate responded to her offer of a generous reward for information about the child. Which means, of course, that if Adelaide is not dead, it is entirely possible the woman I saw is, in fact, Mrs. Leighton's sister. Mrs. Parnell is beside herself at Penelope's troubles, and takes all the blame. She could not afford to take in both girls from the beginning—“

“A wretched situation,” Colin said.

“Yes, I agree, but there is nothing to be done about that now. Penelope asked about her sister frequently, and wanted to visit her. When it became clear that Penelope's inquiries would not relent, Mrs. Parnell told her the girl had died. She thought the lie to be a kindness.”

“This woman has an exceedingly odd definition of the term.”

“Quite,” I said. “She and her sister—Mrs. Leighton's mother—were the only children of two missionaries, and spent much of their youth traveling to poor parts of the world. When they returned to London, they had only a small income on which to live. Mrs. Parnell, capitalizing on the only thing of value she felt she possessed, used her natural beauty to win the heart of a wealthy army officer. She married him, moved to Manchester, and quit the sphere in which the rest of her family remained. They fell completely out of touch. She did not even go to her parents' funerals. When her sister died, a family friend tracked her down.”

“And she agreed to take in one of the girls,” Colin said.

“Yes. She confirmed the anniversary of the girls' mother's death is tomorrow and told me where she is buried.”

“Hence your scheme. Let us hope Adelaide—if indeed it is she—plans to pay her respects.” Colin's mouth was set in a grim line. “I shall speak to Leighton at once.”

*   *   *

I did not sleep well that night, wondering if Adelaide—for I had decided the mysterious woman could be no one else—would appear outside again. She did not, at least not so far as I knew. I had not seen her since she dropped her necklace in the snow, and I wondered what had stopped her from coming again. In the morning, Colin and I breakfasted early and set off for St. George in the East, in whose churchyard the unfortunate Mrs. Hartford had been buried. The church, near the intersection of Cannon Street Road and The Highway, served a rough neighborhood, many of whose residents were hardened dockworkers. I could understand Mrs. Parnell wanting to escape the place, but wished she had not chosen to abandon her sister and her parents in the process.

Colin had contacted the rector of the parish, who greeted us when we arrived and took us at once to the grave in question. There were no signs as of yet that anyone had visited it recently. Deciding our presence might scare off Adelaide, I went into the church, while Colin sent the carriage to wait out of sight and then positioned himself across the street. The cold did not trouble him so much as it did me but, even so, he was forced twice to come inside to glean whatever warmth he could from the interior of the stone building.

Shortly after one o'clock, a solitary figure entered the snowy churchyard. Colin spotted her, but waited until she had reached her mother's grave before fetching the vicar and me. Together, the three of us approached her.

“Adelaide, I am a friend of your sister's,” I said. “She would very much like to see you and I suspect you feel the same, or you wouldn't have been coming to her house night after night.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

“No, you have not,” I said, “but a great wrong has been done to you.”

She backed away. “I don't know you.”

I introduced Colin and myself and then held up her locket on its thin chain. “I found this, and my neighbor, your sister, Penelope, has its twin. Don't you want to see her?”

“Not now that I know how she lives. Left me here to fend for myself, didn't she? While she marries a society bloke.”

“You do not have a coat,” I said. “You must be freezing. Please have this.” I had brought a warm woolen cloak for her. She eyed me with great skepticism, but took it and pulled it over her old-fashioned gown.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“They have come to bring you to your sister,” the vicar said. “That is all.”

“Why would she want me now when she didn't before?”

“You were both children when you lost your mother,” Colin said. “Penelope went where she was told to go, as did you, but she had no idea where you wound up. She asked after you so frequently that eventually your aunt told her you died so she would stop trying to get information about you.”

“She thinks I am dead?” Adelaide asked.

“If she didn't, she would be doing everything in her power to find you,” I said. “She feels responsible for what happened to you and fell apart when she saw you outside the window, believing you had come to haunt her. She is ill with worry. Will you not go to her and relieve her anxiety?” I reached toward her and, after a brief hesitation, she gave me her hand.

“She thinks I am dead?” Adelaide repeated, her eyes so wide in her thin face that they dwarfed her other features. She looked like a scared child rather than a young woman of eighteen.

“Will you come?” I asked again.

“Yes.”

Colin ran off to fetch the carriage, and as soon as we reached home I installed Adelaide in a spare bedroom at Park Lane, where I had a maid prepare for her a hot bath. I gave her a change of clothes, although she was so emaciated that my gown hung loose on her, but at least it was clean. She had only one dress of her own, the cast-off garment she wore every day, which she had received from a charity house. It was in no state to be worn ever again. I sent my lady's maid up to help her dress and to do her hair, knowing Meg was better qualified than anyone to make her feel lovely.

“Tell me your story,” I said, as I plied the girl with tea and soup. When Meg had finished with her, Adelaide had insisted on coming downstairs, assuring me she was not ill, only cold, tired, and extremely hungry. Colin had summoned the doctor, who agreed that her health was as good as could be expected for one with such poor nutrition, and told us she needed nothing more than to be kept warm and fed.

“Aunt Clara and Uncle John came after Mother died,” she said. “They seemed angry at the imposition of having to deal with the situation, and neither could manage to take in both of us. Pen and I wept at the thought of being separated, but we had no recourse. Aunt Clara took Pen to Manchester, and I stayed in London. When Uncle John died, I told anyone who would listen that I had an aunt in the north, but no one could locate her. So far as I know, he had never communicated with her after she left London. I had no one willing to care for me. The orphanage … you have been there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I do not imagine it has improved in the years since I ran away. I was already too old to hope any family would take me in, and I could not bear staying there. So I fled in the night. I had nowhere to go, but I met a woman who gave me goods to sell for her: flowers in the summer and matches in the winter. In exchange, she offered me a little food and a place on her floor to sleep, and I was happy enough for a time. As I grew older and no longer looked the part of a helpless child, I stopped being able to entice people to buy from me, and she threw me out. I worked for a time in a factory, but could not afford to live on my meager wages and then, one night, a gent came by and asked if I … well … the less said about that the better.”

“You had no choice,” I said, “and should not be ashamed of whatever actions you were forced to take to survive.”

“My sister will never be able to forgive me.” Adelaide focused her gaze on the floor, and would not look up.

“Your sister has never been able to forgive herself for not having been able to save you,” I said and raised her chin. “You are not responsible for the events that led you to this state.”

“Pen is married now,” Adelaide said. “I saw the announcement in the paper. That's why I started coming here, every night. I saw her, sometimes, but I don't think she saw me, no matter what you say. If she had seen me, she would have known I wasn't a ghost.”

I looked at my husband and pressed my lips together, debating whether to tell her that seeing her had driven her sister into a state of mental decline.

“All that matters is that Penelope does, very much, want to see you now,” Colin said. “May I send for her?”

“I do not think her husband will be delighted to find such a relation,” Adelaide said. “I can't be the ruin of my sister. One of us should have a decent life.”

“I will tolerate no more talk like that,” Colin said. “You are not acquainted with Mr. Leighton. I am a better judge of his character than you. Let me speak to him.” He took his leave, kissing me quickly on his way out.

“I am cognizant of your hesitation and concern,” I said when Adelaide and I were alone. “There is no need for you to share every detail of your past with Mr. Leighton. He would be wrong to judge you harshly, no matter what you think.”

“I should not have come here,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

“You should have this back,” I said and fastened the locket around her neck. “Your sister wears hers always.” I rang for more tea, and did my best to direct Adelaide's thoughts away from anything that might cause her further distress, yet when more than an hour had passed, I began to worry that the Leightons had not responded to Colin's news as I had hoped they would. But then, the door to the library burst open, and Mrs. Leighton, her face drenched in tears and her eyes focused on no one but her sister, bolted into the room.