Murder in the East End - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,29

village who comes in twice a week to do the gardening.”

His derision was acute. Mr. Davis did not believe a home could be run with less than a dozen servants, no matter how few people actually lived in it.

“No doubt she finds it a savings, Mr. Davis.” I hung up my apron and fetched my coat and hat, still on their hooks from last night. The hat was dry now, but the straw was misshapen, its ribbon trim rain-blotched.

Tess at last looked up. Her unhappiness tore at me. “Where are ya going?”

“Out.” If Mrs. Bywater did not wish me to work, I could spend my time on the problem Daniel had handed me.

“I will come back,” I added as Tess gazed at me in anguish. “I promise. I have errands to run.”

Tess had tears in her eyes as she bent her head again, but she scowled at Elsie as though daring her to say a word. Elsie remained silent, too reticent to speak.

I climbed the stairs to the street. The rain from the previous day had ceased, but a cold wind blew down the road, stirring last autumn’s dead leaves. I buttoned my coat to my chin and trudged around the corner and down South Audley Street on my way to the omnibus.

“Mrs. Holloway!” Lady Cynthia’s voice sang out as I reached Curzon Street some minutes later.

I halted and waited as Cynthia caught up to me at a run. She wore boots laced to her knees, which were encased by cuffs of knee breeches nearly hidden by her long coat. She’d dressed more mannishly than usual today, with a scarf wrapped around her throat and a tall hat pulled down over her scraped-back hair. If I had not known better, I would have thought a slim young gentleman chased me down.

Cynthia carried a satchel in her fine-gloved hand. “Where are you off to, Mrs. H.?” Her breath fogged in the cold air.

“The East End. To see a vicar.”

“Capital. I’ll join you.”

I was not certain the East End was the place for Lady Cynthia, no matter that she was dressed convincingly as a male. The toughs there would steal every bit of clothing from any well-clad person, regardless of their sex.

“Where were you off to?” I asked, eying the satchel with suspicion.

She swung that article. “Me? Running away from home.” Cynthia laughed cheerily. “Let’s fetch a hansom, shall we?”

8

There was absolutely no use dissuading Cynthia and sending her back home, and I did not try very hard. Truth to tell, I was grateful of the company today—I would discuss her rash decision later.

“We are going to Shadwell,” I informed the cabbie Cynthia had hailed. “A church called All Saints.”

The driver, bundled against the cold, never looked at us twice as we settled in. Cynthia did not speak to the driver at all, to my relief. She shoved the satchel, apparently heavy, under the seat, and sat back, arms folded.

The hackney clopped away. Slowly. Traffic was heavy in Piccadilly, and it took a long time to move.

“Have you ever been to the East End?” I asked Cynthia.

“Of course. Bobby likes to slum. Poverty doesn’t shock and offend me, Mrs. H. Saddens me, rather. What a shame, that I’m expected to put on frocks that cost the earth while others can barely buy bread.”

“Sad, yes, but also dangerous. We are not taking a holiday.”

“Do give me some faith that I’m not a frivolous being. I will help you with whatever you are up to, and keep an eye out for new lodgings at the same time.”

I did not answer. Cynthia, I’d come to know in the year I’d worked for her family, could be kindhearted and generous, often impulsively so, but not always wise. I agreed her situation was troubling, but a gently born young woman had a terrible time making her way in this world alone. She would need a safe place to stay, a friend to look after her.

As we went, I told Cynthia in a low voice about Mr. Fielding and his worries about Nurse Betts and the children from the Foundling Hospital. I also related what Elsie had told me about the Hospital, my journey there, and what I’d discovered from Mrs. Compton, the cook. Cynthia listened, blue eyes filling with concern.

The hansom traveled the length of Piccadilly, past Leicester Square and to Long Acre, then north to High Holborn and Cheapside, too near where my daughter resided. I gazed longingly at the turning to the Millburns’ home, wanting