The Sleeping Partner (13 page)

If Mrs. Brereton received this as a rebuke she gave no indication of it. “Then you are the only younger sister in the history of man who did not. Business is business, Sarah. Yes, Keefe?”

The porter had announced his appearance in the doorway with a low cough.

“Mr. Tickenor has called, ma’am. Shall I show him up?”

“Oh, at once, please!” Mrs. Brereton’s voice was eager. She rose a little stiffly from the table and put her hand to her hair. “Frost! Where are you? I hate to dismiss you so sudden, Sarah, but we had finished our dinner, and I wish particularly to see Mr. Tickenor. Ah, Frost, do I look a fright?” Mrs. Brereton was as immaculately dressed and coiffed as ever, but Frost fluttered forward to smooth her employer’s hair. Miss Tolerance, dismissed, curtsied unseen to her aunt. At the door she met Mr. Tickenor and curtsied to him before she left the room. When she looked back she saw her aunt, all smiles, extending a hand to her caller. Frost scowled, unnoticed by anyone but Miss Tolerance, who was surprised to realize she had been supplanted in the maid’s bad graces by Mr. Tickenor.

That made two visits by Tickenor in less than a week. Marianne was right. Something was afoot there. Miss Tolerance moved through the brothel with her eyes downcast, not wishing to notice or be noticed. Evening was when custom was most brisk, and there was a good deal of genial noise from below. A thought occurred to her and made her stop on the first floor in her aunt’s book room, a small, square room lined with shelves of books which to Miss Tolerance’s knowledge were rarely opened by anyone but herself and Marianne Touchwell. As usual the room was unoccupied. Miss Tolerance took down the Baronetage. This volume was more current than the one at Tarsio’s, as Mrs. Brereton occasionally referred to it. Miss Tolerance turned quickly to the entry she sought.

Brereton of Briary Park

Adam James Brereton, Fourth Baronet, b. November 30, 1779, Briarton, Herefordshire, m. May 8, 1805 Clarissa Thorpe, daughter Charles, Baron Lyne. Principal residence Briary Park, Briarton, Herefordshire.

Miss Tolerance took up the Peerage then, turning to the passage she had read earlier that day.

Lyne of Wandfield

Charles Loudon Thorpe, Third Baron, b. June 12, 1758, Wandfield, Warwickshire, m. September 12, 1781 Henrietta Mallon, daughter Sir Peter Mallon (d) and Anne Crossways of Warwick. Issue: Henry Mallon Thorpe, b. 1782; John David Thorpe, b. 1784; Clarissa Adele, b. 1787; and Evadne Henrietta, b. 1795. Principal residence Whiston Hall, Wandfield, Warwickshire.

So much information and so little. Evadne Thorpe was not only a hapless girl, a sister in ruin. She was her brother’s sister-at-law and therefore her own. In Miss Tolerance’s mind she was as much responsible for the future of this new-found relation as Lord Lyne, or his sons, or Lady Brereton herself.

Chapter Seven

Having arranged to hire a hack for the ride to Bethnal Green, Miss Tolerance dressed in boots, breeches, and a man’s coat the next morning. She crossed to her aunt’s house to give Keefe some money to pay her street-sweep spies when they came, but as she was leaving the house the boys themselves appeared at the front door. Keefe, standing just behind Miss Tolerance in the doorway, so clearly disapproved of this ragtag invasion that the boys seemed like to turn tail and run. Instead Miss Tolerance gathered them to her, explained to Keefe—and to Ted and Bart—that in future they would use the tradesmen’s door, and led the boys through the house and into her garden. Both boys were a little dazed by the elegance through which they passed; it took several minutes in the fresh air for them to regain the power of speech.

“I am delighted with your promptness,” she told them. Keefe, who had followed the party into the garden, stood by the kitchen door lest the boys make an attempt upon the house. Miss Tolerance was certain she would hear from her aunt about this visit. “This is Mr. Keefe. In future, if I am not here, you may leave your report with him, or with Mr. Cole, and they will have your money for you.”

Ted, the literate one, held out a grubby scrap of paper on which he had written his report.

“We get the money first, then, miss?” Bart reached out his hand to snatch the paper back.

“Yes indeed.” She counted out penny pieces. Bart grinned and Ted offered the paper again.

“Thank you very much. I shall look for another report tomorrow. Mr. Keefe, may I ask you to see if Cook can spare them a bite?”

“Yes, miss. So long’s these gentlemen behave themselves.” Keefe gathered the boys to him with a look and started back for the kitchen. As they went Miss Tolerance heard Ted ask respectfully, “Was you a prizefighter then, mister?” She did not hear the affirmative reply, but did hear an awed “Oooo” as the door closed.

Miss Tolerance examined the report, which was highly original in its spelling. There had been only four visitors to the Lyne house the day before: two tradesmen (fishmonger and green-grocer), herself, and “a gennelman come just ater you, miss, what we seen before, wiv a red head and a green coat.” A red-haired man in a green coat?. She made a note to inquire into the identity of the visitor, and went to fetch her hired mount.

St. Hester’s Church, Bethnal Green, was a pretty building of gray stone, not very distinguished as to architecture, but well kept, with vines trailing up the southern wall and a tiny cemetery on the eastern side. Miss Tolerance walked around the church, taking its measure, before she went inside. There she found a man of middle years standing on a ladder, poking with a long pole at the eaves. He wore a leather apron; his coat was folded over the back of a pew, and he appeared to be trying to knock down a wasp nest from the roof.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Are you the sexton?”

The man smiled pleasantly. “I’m afraid not. Mr. Wantros is almost seventy years old, and I do not like to ask him to climb much these days. May I help you?” He climbed down the ladder, dusted off his hands, and stepped forward. “I am Mr. Nottingale; I am the vicar of St. Hester’s.” He bowed.

Miss Tolerance returned the bow; she suspected the vicar had not looked closely enough at his guest to discern her sex. “Indeed, sir, you may help me. I am hoping to find your sister, who was lately employed by Lord Lyne.”

The vicar’s cordial expression dimmed. “May I ask upon what errand? My sister did not part…comfortably…with that household.”

“Lord Lyne is not a comfortable man, sir.” Miss Tolerance smiled sympathetically. “His older daughter, Lady Brereton, has asked me to make certain inquiries, and suggested that I talk to Miss Nottingale—about whom she has made only the kindest report.” This last was an exaggeration, but Miss Tolerance was fairly certain Lady Brereton would not disclaim the sentiment. “Has Miss Nottingale confided in you the circumstances of her dismissal?” Nottingale nodded. “I have been hired to find and return Miss Thorpe to her home.”

Mr. Nottingale had stepped further into the light, and when he looked again at Miss Tolerance his frown deepened. She thought he had discerned her sex and thus, from her peculiar dress, her status as well.

“How do you come to be so employed?”

To spare the vicar the need for tactful circumlocution, she was blunt. “I am Fallen, Mr. Nottingale, as you have doubtless surmised. To keep myself from further error, I hire myself to assist in inquiries requiring delicacy, such as this one. It is my earnest hope that I can keep Miss Thorpe from a fate such as my own.” It was a trifle melodramatic, but Miss Tolerance suspected that melodrama might make her troubling presence more acceptable.

The vicar still frowned. “Would not your task be more readily accomplished in more modest attire?”

“It might, sir. But my work sometimes takes me to dangerous neighborhoods, and this imposture, which seems odd to you here in this pleasant place, keeps me safe there.”

The vicar appeared to weigh this information. “Lady Brereton sent you?” Miss Tolerance nodded. “It is not what I like, although you speak like a lady, however you are clothed. My sister would wish to help her charge, I know. She is staying at my house; you may try if she will speak to you. If you will leave the church and go along the path by the south wall, you will reach the vicarage in a minute or so. I hope that you will not dredge up unpleasant feelings for her. She was sincerely attached to Miss Thorpe, and the girl’s elopement surprised and hurt her.”

“I will do my best, sir. Oh, and Mr. Nottingale? You will want to smoke the wasp’s nest before you knock it down—less chance of a sting so.”

The vicar was struck by this homely piece of advice. “As one does for bees. I should have thought of it. Thank you.”

Miss Tolerance left hoping he did not find himself covered with welts at day’s end, and turned down the path to the vicarage. This was a square brick structure, more modern than the church. Like the church it was a tidy building, the path freshly swept and the brass bright with polish and effort. She knocked.

After a moment a slender woman of about Miss Tolerance’s own age appeared. She was raw-boned and high-complected, with an air of distraction accounted for by the clamor of children at the back of the house.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?”

“How do you do? I am looking for Miss Nottingale. The vicar said I might find her here?”

“Well, then, you must come in.” The woman stood aside to permit her visitor’s entry. “If you’ll sit in the parlor I’ll fetch her at once. Did you see my husband at the church?”

“I did, ma’am. He was attempting to take down a wasp’s nest.”

“Oh, dear!” The woman’s distracted manner increased. She gestured to a chair in the parlor, a room of brown furniture and little light. “Please wait. I will send May to you.” She left, calling “Thomas! Run to church and tell your father he’s not to hit that nest with a stick!”

There was a little activity at the end of the hall, a door slamming, and the sound of a boy’s feet pounding toward the church. Then another woman, older and heavier than the first, appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, sir? Mrs. Nottingale says you wished to speak with me?”

Miss May Nottingale was clearly her brother’s senior; her hair had once been red, but gray had softened it to a soft, rosy hue. She had a fair, freckled complexion, dark eyes, and an expression of puzzled concern which, from the deep lines between her brows, Miss Tolerance thought was habitual. When she realized that her visitor was not a man but a woman the frown deepened and she took a step backward into the hall.

Miss Tolerance rose and bowed.

“Mrs. Nottingale, I apologize for my unconventional dress. I hope you will not permit it to prejudice you against my inquiry. Lady Brereton has employed me to find Miss Thorpe—”

“Oh, thank heaven!” Miss Nottingale’s frown vanished. She stepped into the parlor and closed the door. When she moved her dress gave off a scent of lavender which mingled pleasantly with the household smells of beeswax and linseed oil.

“I realize this may be a painful topic, ma’am, and I—”

Miss Nottingale appeared to have so far forgiven Miss Tolerance’s equivocal status that she sat beside her on the settle. “I am so
pleased
she has done so! I warrant it never occurred to Lord Lyne that Lady Brereton would go against his wishes. Have you any notion where Miss Thorpe has gone?”

Miss Tolerance had expected some bitterness, not only toward her employer but perhaps toward Miss Thorpe as well. “I have not yet, ma’am. I am still trying to understand what happened. You knew Miss Thorpe very well, I think? Was there any sign that she was contemplating elopement?”

“None.” Miss Nottingale was decisive. “It was what was most distressing to me. No sign, nothing even now I can reproach myself for missing, and I beg you will believe that I have thought it over most carefully. Was she more than usually affectionate on the day before she left? Did she show a guilty conscience or appear to be much distracted? None of those things.” The governess shook her head sadly. “I should not have thought her capable of such deception, or of such thoughtless behavior toward her family.”

“Not toward her father?”

“No. Not even with their quarrels. Although his reaction to Evadne’s elopement—” Miss Nottingale shook her head. “Lord Lyne could be stern with his children; it is only natural for a father with a growing daughter to be wary of independence of mind. But I swear to you that nothing in her education or attitude suggested lightmindedness. You must not think she was addicted to novels or romantic poetry. That morning, in fact, she was reading a political essay Mr. John Thorpe had given her.” She paused. “Lord Lyne did not like it.”

“What was the essay?”

“
A Vindication of the Rights of Women,
by Mrs. Godwin.”

“And she was reading this at breakfast?” That seemed to Miss Tolerance enough to put anyone off their meal. “Her father disapproved of young ladies forming political opinions?”

“He disapproved of young ladies forming opinions contrary to those of their parents.” More moderately Miss Nottingale added, “He could be…harsh in expressing his displeasure.”

“Was Lord Lyne’s disapproval that morning so ferocious it would have moved the girl to run away?”

“Oh, no. His manner that morning was stern, that is all. Nothing like his rage—quite understandable, of course—when he learned what Evie had done. His voice shook when he read her letter to us! Although—” Miss Nottingale was thoughtful. “I was surprised that he showed no softer feeling, sorrow or anxiety. Not that he should not have been angry; what Evie has done is very grave.”

Miss Tolerance’s own father had been singularly lacking in softer feeling even before her elopement. She had no certain idea what the appropriate reaction of a more affectionate father might be. “Will you tell me the events of the day? In order, please?”

The governess chewed thoughtfully on her lip, as if marshalling her memories to be as exact as possible. “We went for a walk on the green that morning. Evadne stopped to buy a bottle of scent in King Street—she had saved her pin money for the purchase, and was quite delighted with it. We meant to visit the subscription library, but Evie had forgotten the book she meant to return.” Her expression was of affectionate amusement. “So we came home. I ordered a bite for the child to eat. Evie went to write some letters and I—” Miss Nottingale’s voice sank. “I took a nap. I had a cold; I was tired.”