“You want to become a weaver?”
“It’s an ’onest trade,” Nick said with dignity and a hint of hurt. “One that’d make us both money, too.”
Griffin frowned. “Who would spin the wool?”
Nick’s big shoulders moved in a shrug. “Children or women can spin.”
“Huh.” There was a growing demand for woolen cloth in London, both for export and to clothe its population. And as for children to spin the wool, there might be a ready source nearby.
Nick slapped his knee. “Forgot to tell you—the chandler shop on the corner makes a fine dish of jellied eels. ’Ad some just yesterday. Right tasty they are. Half a tick and I’ll have you a bowl.”
“Uh—”
Nick whirled and was off out of the warehouse before Griffin could finish demurring to the offer. Griffin sighed. Nick had a particular fondness for jellied eels, which he didn’t share.
But then between the Vicar and Hero, the prospect of having to consume a full bowl of jellied eels was the least of his worries.
Griffin strolled out of the warehouse to wait for his disgusting breakfast. The sky above the courtyard wall was turning a pearly gray as the sun began to rise. Nick was already thinking ahead to what they might do instead of distill gin, and if there was one thing that Griffin had always trusted, it was Nick’s head for business. If Nick thought they could make money off of sheep, well then—
The shot was loud in the still morning air.
Griffin ran to the gate, and only as he flung it open did he realize that he was unarmed. If this was a trap to draw him out… But, no, the narrow alley outside the warehouse was deserted.
Griffin frowned. “Nick! Where are you, Nick?”
He nearly turned back, but then he heard the groan.
He found Nick slumped inside a doorway only feet from the warehouse entrance.
Griffin swore and bent over his friend. Blood and jellied eels were splashed upon the cobblestones. Nick was trying to stand, but something was wrong with the big man’s legs.
“Spilled me eels,” Nick wheezed. “Buggers spilled me jellied eels.”
“Forget about your damned eels,” Griffin growled. “Where are you hit?”
Nick looked up and the sun suddenly rose, lighting every ugly cranny in his face. His eyes were sliding to the side, his mouth lax. Griffin inhaled and then found he couldn’t breathe properly.
“Best eels in St. Giles,” Nick whispered.
“Goddamn you, Nick Barnes,” Griffin hissed. “Don’t you die.”
He grabbed Nick’s arm and bent, hauling the other man’s weight over his shoulder, staggering as he stood. Nick was solid muscle and heavy as a horse. Griffin made it back through the gate to the warehouse and locked it before setting Nick down on the cold, damp cobblestones of the courtyard.
“Get some cloths!” he roared to the guards. The blood was everywhere, soaking into Nick’s breeches, splattering Griffin’s jacket. Griffin turned back to Nick, holding his head in his hands. “Nick!”
Nick opened his eyes and smiled sweetly up at him. “They were awaitin’ for me. Vicar’s men. Fuckin’ jellied eels.”
Nick’s eyes closed and no matter how Griffin swore at him, they did not open again.
HERO KNOCKED FOR the second time at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children that afternoon. She stood back and glanced at the upper-story windows, puzzled. Every one was shuttered.
“Perhaps no one’s here, my lady,” George, the footman, offered.
Hero frowned. “Someone is always about—it’s a home for children, after all.”
She sighed and glanced up the street nervously. She still half expected Griffin to discover that she’d journeyed into St. Giles without his escort. He’d seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when she was planning to go into St. Giles. Yet today there’d been no sign of him.
The door opened and Hero turned in relief, but her smile soon faltered when she saw the grave little figure in the doorway. “Why, Mary Evening, whatever is the matter?”
The child ducked her head, opening the door wider to let her in. Hero instructed George to wait by the door. She crossed the threshold and was immediately struck by how silent the house was. Instead of letting her into the sitting room, Mary Evening led her back to the kitchen. The child darted out of the room, leaving her alone.
Hero looked around. A kettle was simmering on the fireplace, and clean dishes were stacked to dry on a sideboard, the obvious debris from luncheon. She wandered to a cabinet and opened a door curiously, finding tea, flour, sugar, and salt.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Silence Hollingbrook entered. For a moment Hero couldn’t figure out the difference in the woman’s appearance. Then she realized that instead of her usual brown or gray costume, Mrs. Hollingbrook was clad entirely in flat black.
There could be only one reason.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said distractedly. “I don’t know why Mary Evening put you in the kitchen.”
“You’re in mourning,” Hero said.
“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook smoothed a hand down her black skirts. “Mr. Hollingbrook… my husband, I mean.”
She inhaled on a broken gasp.
“Sit down.” Hero hurried over, pulling out one of the kitchen benches.
“No, I’m sorry, I just… I…”
“Sit,” Hero repeated, pushing gently on Mrs. Hollingbrook’s shoulder. “Please.”
Mrs. Hollingbrook sank onto the bench, her expression dazed.
“When did you find out?” Hero went back to the cabinet and took down the tin of tea leaves. A brown pottery teapot was drying with the other dishes. She righted it and began spooning in tea leaves.
“Yesterday. I… Yes, it was only yesterday,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured wonderingly. “It seems so long ago.”
Hero went to the hearth and, catching up a cloth, picked up the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot. Fragrant steam rolled up from the teapot before she replaced the lid. She’d come to inform Mrs. Hollingbrook about the new architect and the further delays in building the new home, but that information would obviously have to wait. This was more important.
She brought the full teapot to the table. “He was lost at sea?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook fingered her skirt. “His ship went down. One and fifty men aboard, and all lost at sea.”
“I’m so sorry.” Hero fetched two cups from the sideboard.
“It is sad, isn’t it?” the other woman said. “At sea. I keep remembering those lines from The Tempest: ‘Full fathom five your father lies/ Of his bones are coral made/ Those were pearls that were his eyes…’ ” Her voice trailed away as she stared fixedly at the table.
Hero poured some tea and put a heaping spoonful of sugar into the cup before placing it in front of Mrs. Hollingbrook.
“How long does it take, do you think?” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured.
“What?” Hero asked.
The other woman glanced up, her eyes looking bruised. “For a corpse to turn into something else in the sea? I’ve always found it somewhat comforting that we all turn to dirt in the end—when we’re buried in the ground at least. Dirt can be a very good thing, after all. It nourishes the flowers, makes the grass grow that sheep and cattle feed upon. A cemetery can be a very peaceful place, I think. But the sea… It’s so very cold and lonely. So lonely.”
Hero swallowed, looking at her tea. “Did Captain Hollingbrook like sailing?”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook seemed surprised. “He talked about it even when he was home on land. He’d always wanted to be a sailor ever since he was a little boy.”
“Then perhaps he never saw the sea quite like you and I would,” Hero said tentatively. “I mean, I don’t presume to know what his mind was like, but wouldn’t it make sense that he might have a different opinion of the sea? That he might even like it?”
Mrs. Hollingbrook blinked. “Maybe. Maybe so.”
She reached forward and took the hot tea in both hands, raising it to take a tentative sip.
Hero drank from her own cup. Although the tea wasn’t as fine as the type she was used to, it was strong and hot and at the moment seemed just the thing.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said vaguely. “I should… What did you come for today?”
Hero thought of the news she’d wanted to share about the new architect for the home. “Nothing important.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Hollingbrook knit her brows, seemingly deep in thought. “It’s just…”
“What?” Hero asked gently.
“I shouldn’t tell you these things,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured distractedly. “It’s not your concern.”
“I think,” Hero said, “that I would like it to be my concern. If that would be all right with you.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said. “That would be all right with me.” She took a breath and said in a rush, “It’s just that when he left—when William sailed last—we were not in the concord of mind that we usually were.”
Hero looked down at her tea, remembering the rumors that had swirled last winter about this woman. There were those who had been quite eager to tell her then that it was well known that Mrs. Hollingbrook had sold her virtue to a man called Mickey O’Connor. At the time, she’d decided to disregard the rumors. She trusted both Temperance and Winter Makepeace, and if they had confidence that their sister was fit to run a foundling home, then she was content with their opinion.
Hero had dealt directly with Mrs. Hollingbrook all summer and fall, and in that time she had found no reason to doubt her. She didn’t know the truth of the rumors, whether they were groundless or if Mrs. Hollingbrook had somehow compromised herself. But she no longer had quite the moral authority to judge other women on their failings, did she? And even if she had, Hero would still feel at a soul-deep level that Mrs. Hollingbrook was a good woman. A woman deserving of the epithet “virtuous.”
But whether the rumors were true didn’t really matter at this moment. Trust could be broken over falsehoods as easily as lies.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
Mrs. Hollingbrook didn’t seem to need an eloquent speech. “I wish I could have but one more chance to speak to him. To tell him…” Her voice faded away, and she shook her head before drawing in a shaky breath. “I just wish we had not parted on such unfriendly terms.”
Hero hesitantly reached out a hand toward the other woman. She didn’t know her well—they were of different classes—but grief was universal.
Mrs. Hollingbrook clutched her hand convulsively. “It’s selfish, I know, but I keep thinking ‘it’s over now.’ ”
“What is?” Hero asked gently.
Mrs. Hollingbrook shook her head again, and tears suddenly ran down her cheeks. “My life, everything I… I thought I’d have. This was my love; this was my marriage. William and I were happy once. I’m explaining it badly.” She closed her eyes. “Love—happiness—isn’t so very common, really. Some people never find it in all their lives. I had it. And now it’s gone.” She opened her eyes, staring without hope. “I don’t think love like that comes twice in a lifetime. It’s over. I have to go on without it now.”
Hero looked down, tears misting her own eyes. Love isn’t so very common. She’d known that in an intellectual sort of way, but here was someone who’d had it and then lost it. She had a sudden, near-panicked urge to see Griffin. She had to warn him that Maximus knew of his distillery. She had to touch his hand, to assure herself that he was whole and alive. She had to hear him breathe. Was this love, this longing? Or was it a sly facsimile?
