Thief of Shadows

Page 9

She wrinkled her nose. None of her plans were that important. They never were. “Have John Coachman ready the carriage, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pinkney said, bustling to the door.
Isabel squared her shoulders and paced before the fireplace as she waited. She must be firm this time and not take his refusal. If need be, she’d corner the wretched man in his bedroom. The shock alone at her scandalous behavior might turn the tide—
Her foot hit an object on the floor that went tumbling away. Isabel bent to pick it up. It was a painted wooden top, no bigger than her palm. For a moment she stared blankly at the toy before carefully placing it on her vanity table and leaving her bedroom.
Downstairs, Pinkney was tying on a bonnet. “Shall we be shopping, my lady?”
“No, we’re to the home again,” Isabel replied, ignoring the slump of her lady’s maid’s shoulders. “Please tell Carruthers that there’s a toy on my vanity table. I’d like her to take it away.”
“Yes, my lady.” Pinkney scurried to do her bidding.
In another few minutes, the carriage was ready and they were away. Isabel smoothed the skirts of her emerald gown. It was much too fine for visiting the home and he’d no doubt make note of that fact. She lifted her chin. Well, she didn’t care a fig for what Mr. Makepeace might think of her or her attire. The man had the dreary aspect of someone three times his age. That she would correct along with his manners.
They met with no delays and her carriage rolled to a stop a little over half an hour later outside the new home’s entrance. Harold opened the carriage door and set the step for her.
“Thank you,” Isabel murmured as she got out of the carriage. Pinkney, who’d dozed in the carriage, stifled a yawn and followed. “Tell John Coachman to take it ’round the corner, please. I’ll send a boy when I’m ready to leave.”
Isabel lifted her skirts and climbed the home’s front steps with Pinkney beside her.
“Shall I knock?” the lady’s maid asked.
“Please.”
Pinkney lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. The lady’s maid fussed with her ornately embroidered turquoise skirts as they waited, and Isabel wondered—not for the first time—if her maid wasn’t upstaging her.
The door opened to reveal a freckled face.
Isabel couldn’t remember the boy’s name, but fortunately that didn’t matter at the home—all the boys had been christened “Joseph” and all the girls “Mary.”
“Good afternoon, Joseph,” she said with determined brightness. “Is Mr. Makepeace in?”
“He’s with the girl,” the boy said obscurely, his manner very solemn. He turned before Isabel could ask another question and led her back into the house.
The former Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children had been a tall, narrow building, nearly falling apart from age and poor structural materials. It had burned over a year ago, at which point the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children had been formed to construct this new building. The hallway that Isabel now traversed was wide and well lit, the plaster walls painted a soothing cream. To the right was a sitting room where visitors to the home might be received, and where in fact she’d seen Mr. Makepeace only the day before. But the boy led them past the sitting room. Directly ahead, the hall led back to a dining room and then the huge kitchens, and to the left was a wide marble staircase that gave access to the upper floors. The bones were all here, but Isabel couldn’t help thinking that they needed a bit more decoration upon them before the new home lost its current austere appearance.
The boy mounted the stairs without a word, and Isabel followed with Pinkney panting behind. They could hear the chatter of children and the slower murmur of adult voices as they passed the classrooms on the first floor above the ground floor. On the second floor were the dormitories, empty now during the day. Past the dormitories, at the end of the corridor, Joseph opened an unmarked door.
Inside was a small but cheerful room with a bright blue and white tiled fireplace and two tall windows to give light. Four cots were distributed along the wall, only one of which was occupied. A tiny child lay under the snowy sheets and counterpane, her dark brown hair spread upon the pillow. Curled beside her was a funny little dog with wiry white fur spotted in brown.
Winter Makepeace looked up from where he sat in a chair beside the bed. Fatigue lined his severe face, but his eyes widened in sudden alertness at the sight of her.
“Lady Beckinhall,” he said, his voice grating with weariness as he stood, “to what do I owe this second visit?”
“Pure stubbornness?” Isabel murmured whimsically. “Oh, do sit back down.” Obviously the man had spent the night caring for a sick child. She approached the bed and peered at the little face as the dog gave a tentative growl. “What’s wrong with her?”
Mr. Makepeace looked at the child, his face calm, but she could see a flicker of worry in the tightening of his lips. For the first time she noticed that his upper lip was wider than his bottom lip. A memory tickled at the back of her mind, faint and elusive. Where had she seen—
“I don’t know,” he answered her, scattering her train of thought. “I found her last night in an alley, the dog beside her. We’ve had the doctor in to see her, but he can give no more information than that she suffers from malnutrition and exhaustion.”
Isabel’s brows knit. “What’s her name?”
Mr. Makepeace shook his head. “She won’t speak.”
“She told me her dog’s name is Dodo,” Joseph offered. He’d taken the seat on the opposite side of the bed and his hand had crept to pat the little girl’s thin arm.
Mr. Makepeace inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I should’ve said that the child will not speak to me—or any other adult. Joseph Tinbox says, however, that she has communicated with him briefly when they were alone.”
Joseph Tinbox nodded emphatically. “And her name is Peach.”
The adults all looked at him. Pinkney giggled. Isabel shot her a glance and the lady’s maid half choked as she stifled her laughter.
There was a pause, and then Isabel cleared her throat delicately. “Peach seems a rather… odd name.”
Joseph Tinbox looked stubborn. “It’s what she’s called an’ we shouldn’t go changin’ it.”
“Naturally we shall call her whatever she wishes,” Mr. Makepeace said mildly. “But I think we’ll wait to see what that is when she wakes.”
Joseph Tinbox opened his mouth—no doubt to argue—but the little girl woke at that moment. She glanced around, her eyes widening in panic, and then she squeezed her eyelids shut again. She’d moved to grip Joseph Tinbox’s hand and was holding it desperately.
Mr. Makepeace frowned as he watched the child. “I think I shall take Lady Beckinhall down to the sitting room, Joseph Tinbox. Perhaps you can see if… Peach… would like to try some of the broth that was sent up earlier.”
He patted the boy’s shoulder, then stood and ushered Isabel and Pinkney to the door, closing it behind them.
“I apologize for our disorder, Lady Beckinhall,” he said as he went to the stairs. “I’m afraid that finding the child has disrupted our normal proceedings here at the home.”
“I do understand,” Isabel murmured as she followed him down the stairs. “Why do you think she won’t speak to anyone but Joseph Tinbox?”
“Undoubtedly she trusts him,” he said as they made the ground floor. He looked at her over his shoulder, his expression wry. “And undoubtedly she does not trust me.”
“Oh, but…” Isabel instinctively began to protest. Whatever his faults, it was patently obvious that Mr. Makepeace cared for all the children in his home. She couldn’t imagine him hurting any of them.
Mr. Makepeace shook his head as he opened the door to the sitting room. “I do not take her suspicion personally, my lady. For a child to have learned distrust at such a young age, she must’ve been badly mistreated by the adults she has known. It would be natural, therefore, for her to place her trust in Joseph Tinbox instead.”
“Oh.” Isabel absently sank onto a settee. She hated the thought of the frail little girl upstairs enduring physical punishments, perhaps whippings. She shuddered. She remembered then his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s a favorite of yours, isn’t he, Joseph Tinbox?”
Mr. Makepeace stiffened. “I don’t have favorites.”
She raised an eyebrow. She’d seen the fond look he’d given the boy. “Oh, but—”
Mr. Makepeace dropped into an armchair, propping his head in his fist.
Isabel’s eyes narrowed, and she addressed her lady’s maid who had followed them downstairs. “Pinkney, please go to the kitchens and ask for some luncheon. Some meat, cheese, and bread. Any fruit there might be. And a strong pot of tea.”
“There’s no need,” Mr. Makepeace began.
“When did you last eat?”
His brows drew together in irritation. “Last night.”
Isabel pursed her lips. “Then there is every need.”
Once again his look was wry. “I bow to your expertise in the matter.”
“Humph.” His teasing words warmed her, even as she felt alarm looking at the stubble on his chin. Had he slept at all last night? He must be truly weary to relax enough to banter with her. Another thought struck. “We really must find a cook for the home, now that the children are settled in the new building. Nell Jones and the other maidservants have enough to do without preparing the meals as well.”
He stifled a yawn behind a fist. “The girls are taught to cook.”
“Yes, but they can’t see to every meal. Besides, I’ve eaten the girls’ efforts, and while their biscuits are, er… very interesting, it might be a good idea to have someone who can cook things that are rather more standard, don’t you think?”
She looked at Mr. Makepeace expectantly, but his only reply was a soft snore. The wretched man had fallen asleep, his head still propped in his hand. For a moment Isabel simply watched his sleeping face. The lines around his mouth had softened in relaxation, his eyelashes were black and rather thick, and he might’ve looked boyish were it not for the beard shadowing his jaw. His stubble gave him a rakish air.
Isabel’s lips curved at the last thought. Any man less rake-like than Mr. Makepeace she’d yet to meet. Why, he spent so much of his time caring for his home and the inhabitants that he’d fallen asleep in front of her in the middle of the day. It made her wonder what, if anything, he did when he had a moment to himself. Did he read? Perhaps he kept a diary or enjoyed touring churches? She considered, but couldn’t come up with any more activities for the man. He was rather an enigma, wasn’t he? His life was given to self-sacrifice, but he still kept a large part of himself secret. If only—
The door to the sitting room opened and Isabel looked up, expecting Pinkney.
Instead, a small elderly woman stood in the doorway. “Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”
“Mistress Medina,” Winter Makepeace’s voice was raspy with sleep. He hadn’t moved, but he’d evidently woken up as soon as the door had opened. “We have need of your services.”
The little woman cocked her head. “Sir?”
He indicated Isabel. “Lady Beckinhall was just chiding me for lack of a good cook.”
Isabel’s eyebrows snapped together. “I did not chide—”
He ignored her protest, turning toward Mistress Medina. “Can you start at once?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good, then—”