Twelve
The lad who had answered the back door at Madame Renauld’s shop had shown Chibale a letter with the address of this modest building just a few blocks away and instructions to knock on the door where he stood at the moment. Chibale certainly hoped this wasn’t some sort of trick because if Madame Renauld—Thérèse—did not answer, Chibale imagined whoever did would be rather annoyed to be wakened after four in the morning.
He tapped lightly on the door, waited approximately three seconds, then turned to go. Behind him the door opened.
“Monsieur?”
He turned back to find Madame Renauld—he dared not think of her as Thérèse in that moment—standing in the doorway in an elegant gold silk robe, her hair in a braid curving over one shoulder.
“It’s late. I shouldn’t have disturbed you,” he said.
She waved his apology away and opened the door wider. “I have been waiting for you. Come in.”
Chibale did not need to be asked twice. She closed the door behind him, took his coat, then led him into a beautiful parlor with furnishings in colors he had never imagined before. “Please sit.” She sat on a chair of ruby red and lifted a teapot. “Tea? I made a new pot not long ago, and it ees still warm.”
“Yes, thank you.” Chibale didn’t want tea, but he needed something to do with his hands. Holding a teacup was better than nothing. He took a seat on an emerald green chair and tried not to stare at her. The material of her robe draped elegantly, but it was thin and left little doubt that she wore only the flimsiest nightgown underneath—if that. He didn’t want to stare too closely, but he was a man, and she was a beautiful woman.
She poured the tea, asked how he preferred it, then rose to hand him the cup. She settled back in her ruby seat and raised her brows. “Well?” she asked. “Will you tell me of the events of the evening? Mr. Payne was less than forthcoming. I think he did not want to speak in front of Miss Brown.”
“Of course.” Chibale set the teacup on the saucer. “I forgot to ask. How is Miss Phaedra?”
Thérèse’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “Worse than yesterday. You saw her at the Cock and Bull?”
“Yes.”
She gave a curt nod. “I put her to bed after a cup of tea with brandy.”
“She’s here then?” Chibale asked, surprised that a modiste would allow an employee such a liberty as staying in her house.
“I could not send her home. He might come for her.”
Chibale shook his head. “He won’t be seeing her any time soon. He’s on his way to the Continent. I paid his fare on a ship that won’t dock until it reaches Italy.”
“If we are fortunate, the ship will sink.”
“If we are fortunate, he will find men to box in Rome or Venice and stay away for years to come.”
“You have done me a great service, monsieur.” She rose and went to a table then slid open the drawer. “You must tell me what I owe you for the fare.”
Chibale had risen when she did. “I wouldn’t dream of taking your money. I did it for Miss Phaedra. And for the other women he’s hurt. And don’t think I didn’t get any satisfaction out of seeing him lying on the ground after Payne and Mr. Mostyn were through with him. They went easy on him, but he won’t soon forget the feel of their fists.”
Thérèse slid the drawer closed and moved away from the table. Chibale was disconcerted to realize that put her closer to him. And she moved closer still. “But I must pay you something,” she said. “A reward of some kind.”
Chibale swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone very dry. “You have already agreed to attend the ball with me—”
She shook her head and moved nearer, so near now that he could smell the scent of her perfume. He thought it might be jasmine. The silk of her robe brushed against his coat. “That benefits me as I am always looking for more customers and good deals from textile merchants.” She put a hand on his coat. “I want to express my appreciation to you, monsieur.” Her hand slid up and down his coat as though appraising the quality of the superfine wool.
“I couldn’t—”
“I could,” she said, wrapping her arms about her neck. She looked up at him with those beautiful brown eyes and all of that smooth, creamy skin. Her body, and he could feel it perfectly, pressed against his. “Do not make me beg, Chibale.”
Chibale prided himself on self-control, but every man had his limits. At quarter to five in the morning with a beautiful woman wrapped around him, he was at his. Chibale lowered his mouth and kissed her.
The kiss was exquisite—almost as exquisite as she. She tasted of tea with cream and something richer. He realized she must have put brandy in her own tea, and he liked the flavor that gave her. His hands slid around her waist, the silk rippling under his fingertips. It would have slid so easily off her shoulders and down her arms, over her hips, and into a puddle on the floor. Then he would know what she wore—or didn’t—under it.
Chibale pulled back and had to grip the material of her robe to keep from running his hands up and down her lush body. She leaned into him, burying her nose in the side of his neck and inhaling. “It has been a long time since I’ve stood in a man’s arms,” she said. “A long time since I have met a man I wanted to kiss.”
“Why me?” Chibale asked, unable to stop himself.
“I can see you are different.” She looked up at his face. “I admit I was unsure of you at first. A man in the world of boxing.” She shook her head as though disapproving. “Such a man can be violent. But not you. You are a protector.”
Chibale had never thought of himself in those terms, but he supposed it was true. He had younger siblings, and he had always looked after them and protected them. “Do you need protecting?” he asked.
She gave him a rueful smile. “No.”
He’d known the answer before he even asked it. She was strong and independent. She didn’t need anyone. That was clear enough. But there was something in her smile, something sad and slightly wistful that made him think perhaps, at one time, she had needed protection.
“I should go.” He forced himself to step back.
“So soon? Ah, but you are protecting me again. I promise you, monsieur, I do not need it. Another kiss?” She reached out and caught his coat, tugging him closer.
“I don’t think that’s a wise idea. I’m tired, and I don’t trust myself.”
“I trust you. Besides, I’d like to see you misbehave. I’ll start, shall I?” She reached for the tie of her robe and loosed it, so it opened several inches, showing the lacy white undergarment she wore. Swathes of her skin were visible between sections of lace, sections placed very strategically to tempt and tease and hide very little.
Chibale drew in a breath and forced his gaze to rise to Thérèse’s. She crooked a finger at him, and this time he did not hesitate. He went to her, swept her up and pressed her hard against the sapphire-painted wall. Her arms went around him, and her hands went to his hair, her fingers closing on the close-cut curls. The kiss this time was not gentle or teasing. He kissed her deep and thorough, showing her what he wanted, what she did to him. Her legs parted, and he slid his knee between them, pressing up and against the heat of her core.
“Chibale,” she whispered. He kissed her neck, slid the robe off her shoulders and kissed those as well. He might have moved lower and tasted her breasts, but a moan sounded from another room, and they both froze and listened.
“Phaedra,” Thérèse said.
Chibale stepped away. “She might need you. I should go.”
Thérèse gave him a disappointed nod. “Oui. She was in great pain earlier.”
“I can see myself out.”
Thérèse reached for his arm. “Will I see you again? Soon? The ball ees...” She made a gesture to indicate it was too far away.
“I’ll call on you.”
“Oui. Soon, monsieur.”
He took her hand, kissed the back of it, and saw himself out. A moment later, he heard the lock click on the door and her footsteps as she walked away. Chibale leaned back against the wall and smiled. He wanted to shout for joy. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. At that moment, he believed he was the luckiest man in the world. Rowden had won his match and a nice purse, the Black Plague had been sent out of London, and Chibale Okoro had kissed Thérèse Renauld. Even though the weather was cold and unforgiving that night, Chibale didn’t look for a hackney cab. Not that he would have found one that late anyway. He didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel the ground. He floated all the way home.
* * *
HE SOARED THROUGH LONDON the next morning and sailed up the stairs to his parents’ rooms above the spice shop. Chibale always loved coming home. He loved walking through the door and smelling the scent of exotic spices from India, Africa, and China. He loved his mother’s cooking, especially her currant buns.
This morning, he loved the roaring fire that melted the ice from his gloves.
“Is that you, Chibale?” his mother called from the kitchen.
“Yes, Mama. I hope you have enough for me.”
She came to the doorway, hands on her hips and a smile lighting up her dark face. “I always have enough for you. You don’t kiss your mother anymore?”
Chibale went to her, bent, and kissed her. She smelled of yeast and dough, as she always did. “You aren’t by chance making currant buns this morning?” he asked with a smile.
“It just so happens I told Alice to put some in the oven.” Alice was their maidservant. His mother had never hired a cook since she liked to cook herself. “I had a feeling you would come by today.” She made a shooing motion. “But go into the dining room and see your father. He has been waiting for you.”
Chibale obeyed, entering the dining room, where his father sat with a cup of tea and the paper. He lowered it to show a round face with large, intelligent dark eyes. “Your mother said you would visit. She is never wrong.” He had a deep baritone voice that seemed to resonate through anyone he spoke to. Although he had been born in London, his father had come from Africa, and Gamba Okoro seemed to retain some of the lilt of his father’s native tongue.
Chibale sat in the chair to his father’s left. He kept the right open for his older brother, but his father motioned to it. “Your brother Thimba is at the warehouse today. He wanted to inspect a new shipment from Morocco.”
“And Bethanie and Dakarai?”
“They’ll be here as soon as Alice announces the meal. I hear you’ll be traveling to Hungerford.”
Chibale smiled. His father always seemed to know the news from the boxing world, though he was not a part of it. “Rowden will fight the German again. This time he will win.”
“I want to go,” said a voice from the doorway. Chibale glanced over his shoulder to see his brother of fourteen, Dakarai, standing in the entry listening.
“Every time I see you, you’ve grown,” Chibale said.
Dakarai straightened his slim shoulders. The boy looked like some great hand reached down and stretched him out. He was skinny and all legs.
“Grown enough to go to Hungerford with you?”
Chibale shook his head. “Not yet.”
Dakarai’s shoulders slumped. Chibale rose and put an arm around his brother. “I will be too busy to make sure you are safe, and along with the Fancy all the rabble will come too. Maybe next year.”
“But The Royal Payne might not still be fighting next year,” Dakarai complained, taking a seat.
“Then Chibale will find another pugilist just as talented.”
Chibale wished he felt as confident of that, but it warmed him that his father had such faith in him. But then his father had always supported each of his children in all their endeavors.
“Bethanie!” Alice called and entered with a tray of currant buns. His mother followed. The two women were such a contrast—Charlotte Okoro with her dark features and her small stature and Miss Alice with her white skin, enormous bosom, and red hair barely contained under her cap. She gave Chibale a huge smile. “Mr. Chibale! Heard ye had some luck last night, eh?”
“Hard work,” he said. “Not luck.”
“Ye think The Royal Payne will win at Hungerford?”
“Let’s not speak of it,” Chibale’s mother said. “Bethanie will be here in a moment.”
“She’s already heard all about it,” Bethanie said from the door. She wore a pretty pink day dress, and her hair was put up in a style that made her look closer to twenty than seventeen. Chibale wished he could stop time and keep his siblings from growing up so quickly.
She kissed Chibale then her father on the cheek and sat. “You will be back in time for the ball, won’t you?” she asked.
“I would not miss it,” Chibale said.
His mother took her seat and Alice served them, then returned to the kitchen to make fresh tea. There was a moment of silence as they all enjoyed their meal. Then Bethanie looked up. “Chibale is taking the modiste to the ball.”
Chibale felt every eye land on him. He swallowed a now flavorless bite of currant roll. “Madame Renauld has agreed to accompany me, yes.”
“Madame Renauld? Is she French?” his mother asked.
“She is, yes.”
“Is she a Negro?” Dakarai wanted to know.
“Yes,” Chibale said.
“You should invite her to dinner,” his mother said. “Before you leave for Hungerford.”
“I—” Chibale tried to think of a reason to demur, but there really wasn’t one. His family was successful and honorable. He loved his parents and his siblings. He failed to see how Thérèse could not love them as well. “I will.”
Bethanie clapped her hands. “What should I wear, Mama? She is so beautiful and stylish. I’m sure I have nothing suitable.”
“I am certain we can find something,” his mother said with a smile.
Chibale smiled too because now he had another reason to call on Thérèse.
* * *
“I DIDN’T MEAN FOR YOU to take me to see her,” Modesty said in Lady Lorraine’s coach later that morning. “I was idly wondering how Madame Renauld’s assistant was faring.”
But Lady Lorraine waved a hand. She’d looked a bit green since they’d begun the drive to Madame Renauld’s shop.
“Are you feeling well?”
Lady Lorraine nodded. “I’ll be fine once we arrive. Too much jostling before afternoon makes me queasy.” She frowned. “I hope that doesn’t mean the baby won’t like carriage rides. I was hoping to take him—or her—to my father’s estate when he—or she—is old enough to travel. It’s simply beautiful there. But we won’t be able to go if he dislikes carriages this much.” She made a clutching motion toward her slightly rounded midsection.
“I believe most women have some nausea in the morning when with child,” Modesty said. She had not spent much time with Lady Lorraine, but already she was coming to understand that though she herself had lived a sheltered life, Lady Lorraine had probably been even more sheltered. She seemed not to know things Modesty took for granted—like women in the early stages of pregnancy often felt nauseous in the morning.
“Oh, good. In any case, the discomfort is well worth it. I have been wanting to pay a call on Madame Renauld for some time. My mother always patronized Madame LeMonde, but her styles seem a bit old-fashioned to me. I want something new, and I probably need something with a bigger waistline.”
Modesty could see very little evidence of that, but she wasn’t certain whether it was better to agree or to disagree, so she kept silent. Lady Lorraine wore a pretty day dress of light green with a darker green pelisse over it. Modesty wore the same dress she had worn the night before. It was that or dress in all black.
“And even if I didn’t need a new dress, you certainly do,” Lady Lorraine said.
Modesty shook her head. “I could not afford a Renauld.”
“But I can,” Lady Lorraine said.
“No.” Modesty shook her head. “Please. You have been so kind to me already.”
“Kind? I haven’t even managed to locate your aunt yet. But”—she raised a gloved finger—”I anticipate news later today. The ladies will be at their morning correspondence even now. So, you see, we need a diversion, and it’s much too cold for a walk and I must confess I dislike sewing. And I’ve never been a great reader.”
Modesty imagined that was because she liked to talk too much. She’d probably read a line and then tell everyone all about it before reading the next. “We could go to the studio. There’s always work to be done there, and we might see Lord Rowden—”
“No.”
Lady Lorraine raised her brows at Modesty’s quick response.
“I mean, I have seen enough fighting for now. But if you would like to go—”
“I can wait,” Lady Lorraine said. Then, “Oh, how charming!” She peered out the window at the shop with a white sign reading Madame Renauld’s in black script. Under that, in block letters, it said MODISTE.
The shop too was painted white with a shiny black door and a large window showing several hats in various colors and styles. A ribbon of blue seemed to descend from one of the hats and ripple as it flowed over the green material that made up the background. “And look there’s a tea shop just there,” Lady Lorraine said. “We can have tea after we shop.”
Modesty nodded, not arguing with that idea because she’d noticed Lady Lorraine had eaten almost nothing at breakfast, though her husband had piled her plate quite high with an assortment of pastries and every other sort of food Modesty had never so much as tasted, much less imagined eating daily.
The coach stopped, and a footman opened the door and handed Lady Lorraine then Modesty down. She was still not comfortable with the servants. Lady Lorraine assured her she had very few compared to other houses, but as someone who had never had any, Modesty did not know how to behave around them. “Thank you,” she said.
He didn’t respond. They never did. Modesty followed Lady Lorraine into the shop. As soon as they entered, someone said, “Hello!”
Modesty jumped, but Lady Lorraine looked up. “Hello,” she said to a brightly colored bird.
“Fine lace,” the bird answered.
Modesty wanted to turn around and walk right back out of the store. She had never seen a bird talk, and she was afraid this might be the work of Satan. Lady Lorraine put a hand on her arm. “It’s a parrot,” she said. “They are able to imitate human voices.
“Bleuette ees pretty!” the bird said, in what sounded like a French-accented voice.
“Is that your name? Bleuette?”
The parrot tilted its head as though it understood. Most unnerving. “What’s your name, pretty bird?” the bird asked.
“Lorrie,” Lady Lorraine answered. “Nice to meet you, Bleuette.”
“My lady, welcome.” Madame Renauld herself was coming toward them, dressed in black and looking just as lovely as always, though she had been up as late, if not later, than Modesty. “Ah! And Mees Brown! I had hoped you would come. Where ees Monsieur?”
“He’s not with us,” Modesty said, feeling her cheeks heat.
“We came to inquire after your assistant,” Lady Lorraine said. “I hope she is well.”
“Fine lace!” the parrot interjected, making Modesty jump again.
“Come away,” the modiste said. “Bleuette will talk to you all day. In fact, come upstairs with me. We can speak in private there and perhaps some tea will settle your stomach,” she said to Lady Lorraine. Modesty couldn’t have said how she’d known the lady’s stomach was at all unsettled. Lady Lorraine looked much better now that she was on solid ground again. The color had even returned to her cheeks.
Modesty followed the modiste up the stairs and out of the shop, moving slowly so she could take her time and see all the shop had to offer. She had walked by many shops like this, but she had never been able to do more than peer in the windows and admire from a distance. Now she was among the bolts of beautiful fabric, spools of lovely ribbon, and swathes of gorgeous lace. She would have liked to run her hands over all of it, hold it to her nose and inhale deeply.
The Bible said vanity was a sin, as was coveting. But, oh, how she coveted the beautiful gowns on display, and how she longed to wear one herself. She should be pleased with the one she had. Never had she worn anything as fine as the dark blue dress. She hadn’t realized how scratchy and stiff her black clothing was. The material was inexpensive and rough. She imagined some of these silks would make the wearer feel as though she wore nothing at all.
Modesty blushed at that thought. It was not the kind of thought she should be having. But she’d had many such thoughts lately, and especially last night and this morning after that kiss with Rowden Payne. She’d had a hard time sleeping last night after that kiss. She’d wondered if she would go to hell for her wantonness. And then she’d decided she didn’t care.
She was fairly certain she would absolutely go to hell if she did not repent for the dream she’d had when she’d finally fallen asleep. She dreamed of Rowden Payne kissing her neck and her collarbone, then opening her bodice to kiss her bare breasts. She’d woken too warm, and with her breasts feeling heavy and sensitive, almost as though his hands had been on them.
“Sit down, Mees Brown,” the modiste said. “You are not used to climbing thees stairs.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but she knew why Madame Renauld seemed concerned. Modesty could feel her cheeks burning.
One of the assistants brought tea, and Lady Lorraine inquired after Phaedra. After they’d had some refreshment and been assured Phaedra was resting and being looked after, Madame Renauld had rung for another assistant named Betsy who had brought a beautiful wool in a deep brown with red undertones—the modiste’s words, not Modesty’s—for Lady Lorraine. Lady Lorraine exclaimed over it and was taken to be measured for a new walking dress and matching spencer.
The modiste stayed where she was, and when Lady Lorraine was in the dressing chamber, Madame Renauld turned her dark gaze on Modesty.
“And what shall we make you, Mees Brown?”
“Oh, nothing, thank you. I have no money.”
The modiste angled her head toward the sound of voices in the adjoining chamber. “She will pay. She has a generous nature. Or I can send the bill to Monsieur Payne. The way he looked at you last night led me to believe he would rather see you in déshabillé, but we must lead the man on a merry chase, no?”
Modesty shook her head. “I’ve never—”
The modiste put a hand on her knee. “I am teasing. But only about the men chasing. I never tease about fashion. You must have a day dress and a walking dress and a—”
“I cannot! I have imposed on Lady Lorraine’s kindness too much as it is.”
“Then I will make you a day dress as a gift.”
“No!”
“It ees the least I can do to repay you.”
Modesty shook her head. “I have done nothing.”
“Bah. You have brought her here.” She indicated the dressing chamber. “To have the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington and the wife of a war hero patronize my shop will bring me many customers.”
Modesty was still shaking her head, but the modiste rose. “I insist. I will measure you now and we can have a dress for you in two days’ time.”
“So quickly?” Modesty asked, excited despite herself.
“For a day dress, oui. An evening dress would take longer, but you will want no embellishment, so mes filles can finish like thees.” She snapped her fingers. She pulled Modesty up and brought her to the dais where she could see her reflection in a large mirror. The modiste began to unbutton the blue dress, and Modesty pushed her hands away.
“You can’t measure me with the dress on?”
“Of course not. No need for shyness with me, Mees Brown. I have seen more women than I can count in their chemise and stockings.” She finished with the buttons and started on the tapes and laces. “When I first began, my customers were often actresses and opera singers. Some were courtesans.”
Modesty’s eyes widened. She saw them do so in the mirror and immediately tried to hide her shock.
“They would often strip bare, wanting a dress that would not accommodate even a shift and might even plunge so low that stays were made unnecessary.”
“Oh, dear.” Modesty could not imagine wearing something so revealing. On the other hand, it seemed rather daring and exciting to do so.
“Oui! I made them gowns so risqué my name became too—what ees the word?” She linked her hands together.
“Associated?” Modesty offered.
“Oui. I was associated with thees style and that ees one reason I came to England. I wanted to start over.” She finished removing the dress and petticoats, and Modesty stood in her old chemise and much-mended stockings. The modiste did not comment on the ragged underthings, just took the measuring strip from a pocket under her dress and began to measure. She did not write anything down, just muttered to herself in French. Fortunately, the sounds she made seemed positive.
She promised Modesty she was almost finished when Lady Lorraine and Betsy returned from the other chamber. Modesty felt quite exposed on the dais in only her chemise, and she felt more so when Lady Lorraine’s mouth dropped into an O.
Modesty glanced in the mirror to see what the matter might be.
“I would hate her if she were not so good,” Lady Lorraine said to the modiste. “You should see the black, shapeless dress she usually wears.” She nodded to Modesty. “I had no idea, even in the blue dress, that you were hiding this.”
Modesty looked down, confused.
“She ees quite unaware,” the modiste said, with a flourish of her hand. “She has no idea. But I will make her a dress so exquisite that—” She broke off, remembering who she was speaking to. “But of course, yours will be even more exquisite.”
Lady Lorraine laughed. “Make her that exquisite dress. She will show it off better than I.” She touched her belly. “Were you thinking a day dress?”
“Oui. In green, I think, to bring out the green in her eyes.”
“Very good.” She leaned close and whispered something to Madame Renauld whose eyes sparkled before she nodded.
“May I step down and dress now?” Modesty asked.
“Of course.” Lady Lorraine nodded to Betsy who began to help Modesty dress. “We shouldn’t whisper. It’s terribly impolite. It’s just that you have a figure most women would envy.”
The modiste nodded. “Your measurements are almost perfect, and the imperfection ees in your favor. Such a tiny waist and such generous bosoms. You will show my fashions perfectly.”
“I will wear the one dress,” Modesty said. “I can’t accept more.”
But the way Lady Lorraine looked at Madame Renauld gave Modesty cause to suspect those two had other plans.
Another quarter hour was spent in pleasant conversation, and then Modesty and Lady Lorraine stopped in at the tea shop and had more tea and small delicate sandwiches. Everything tasted so wonderful and so new to Modesty, who had spent all of her life eating nothing grander than hard bread and thin soup.
But she couldn’t allow herself to get used to this sort of life. She had no idea if her aunt would be found, and if she were, if she would take Modesty in. With her father still missing, Modesty would have to rely on charity or find a position of her own. With the possibility of having to search for work looming, Modesty had not argued too much over the new day dress. A pretty dress might help secure her a position as a shop girl. Perhaps Madame Renauld needed someone to sweep or straighten the displays. She could sew, but not well enough to be hired as a seamstress. But perhaps she could learn on her days off and then she could hide away in the back of the shop and not have to pretend she was happy and cheerful when her life had been crushed into unrecognizable pieces.
After tea, the ladies returned home, and one of the manservants brought a silver tray with letters on it to Lady Lorraine. Though the lady looked tired, she took the mail and brought it to the parlor where a window provided decent light, even on a gray winter day like this. She opened one letter, read it, tossed it aside, and opened another. She did the same with all four letters, leaving one unopened and ignored.
“Well,” she said finally, looking at Modesty. “I have received responses to my inquiries regarding your aunt.”
“Tell me,” Modesty said.
“I’ve had four responses. Your aunt is indeed unmarried and still called Augusta Ryan. One of my friends does not know her at all, and one has heard of her and passed that information along. Another of my friends does not know her but was able to discover that she lives in London.”
Modesty felt her heart kick with happiness.
“Unfortunately, she could not say if she was in Town at the moment. Another friend said the same and could also not say whether she was in Town. That friend thinks your aunt has gone to the countryside for the winter. Apparently, your mother’s family has some property in Shropshire?”
Modesty blinked. “Really?”
“Your grandfather was a gentleman, and his eldest son provides for your aunt.” She lifted one of the letters and passed it to Modesty. “See here.”
Modesty read the letter slowly, skipping over the greetings at the beginning and the polite inquiries about family. The part in the middle was about the Ryan family. They apparently had land in Shropshire and were known to manage it well. The son had married and lived on that land, and the older daughter had never married, but her brother provided for her. She had a house in Town. No one knew what had happened to the younger sister.
Modesty read that line again.
No one knows what became of the younger sister. Perhaps there were only two children.
Her mother’s life summed up in fifteen words. Forgotten by her family and by Society after she had married Samuel Brown. Even her husband had seemed to forget her. But Modesty had not. And she wondered why her mother had been forgotten. Had her father disapproved of her marriage to Samuel Brown? It was possible. His religious views were strict and unpopular. He would have seen a landowner as a sinner. Men were to give up all of their worldly possessions to follow Christ and help the poor. None of the members of their church had anything but what they absolutely needed.
“Look on the second page,” Lady Lorraine said, prompting Modesty to turn the letter over. “That is where Lady Lindsey thinks Miss Ryan lives in Town. She is my mother’s dear friend—Lady Lindsey, that is—so I say this with affection. The woman is quite the gossip. She knows everyone and everything. Shall we go now and knock on the door?”
Modesty wanted to say yes. She wanted to run all the way to the address given and pound until someone answered and gave her information. But she could see Lady Lorraine was tired. And Modesty did not want to admit this, but she was scared. What if her aunt was in Shropshire? How would she find her? Could she show up on her doorstep, even though she was the child of the sister who had been disowned?
“If you do not mind, might we go tomorrow morning? I am a bit fatigued from our exploits today, and I would like to think how I should greet my aunt.”
“Oh, of course!” Lady Lorraine said. “I will see to my correspondence while you rest.”
“Very good.”
Modesty went back up to her chamber and took the letters from the drawer where she had secreted them. She did not want to read them again, but she did so. This time she read them with an eye to the mention of places, roads, and inns. She noted that her father’s mistress lived in Berkshire. She also mentioned the distance from London and...finally, Modesty found it. The mention of Hungerford. She had known the reference Mr. Payne made was familiar. The woman who had borne her father’s illegitimate children lived just outside Hungerford. Modesty did not know if she would find her father there, but she knew she might find some answers about his whereabouts.
She folded the letters again and made a decision: if her aunt was not in London, Modesty would ask to go to Hungerford with Mr. Payne and meet her father’s mistress.