2

My knife slipped from the mushrooms I was chopping. I caught myself and continued slicing, only missing one stroke. “Oh?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Davis said. “I glanced in when I walked past, and there he was behind the counter, cool as you please, selling things to punters. I am glad he found employment, but in a run-down pawnbrokers? The gentlemen inside were not the most salubrious customers, I must say.”

I swallowed and made myself shove the mushrooms aside, moving an onion into their place. “We all have to make a living, Mr. Davis.”

Mr. Davis moved the paper to peer at me. “Didn’t he used to be sweet on you, Mrs. Holloway? As I said at the time, you can do much better.”

“I do not wish to do better, Mr. Davis.” I sliced the onion in half with vigor. “That is, I am not looking for a man to marry.” I made quick slices in the half onion up to its root end, then turned my knife horizontally and slid it through what I already cut. I turned the onion around again and chopped at right angles to my first cuts. Pieces of onion fell away in a small, perfect dice, and my eyes began to water.

“Oh no? So every Thursday, you are not slipping out to meet a beau?” Mr. Davis’s eyes twinkled, his curiosity alight.

I had no intention of telling the biggest gossip in London where I went on my days out. I gave him a frosty look. “Indeed no. I visit friends, have a healthy walk, take in sights, and try to improve my mind.”

“I take your meaning, Mrs. H.” Mr. Davis returned to his paper without offense. “None of my business.”

He thought I lied. I did, but only a little.

As Mr. Davis continued to read, I finished my chopping, sautéed the mushrooms and onions, and poured plenty of hot stock into the pan on top of them along with a chunk of ham. “That will simmer nicely all morning and be a hearty soup for your dinner,” I said to Mr. Davis. “Tell Sara to put the greens in at the very last moment, or they’ll be bitter. I have them washed and crisped in the larder.”

“Sara don’t want to be a kitchen maid, you know,” Mr. Davis said, turning a page.

“Then we had better hope the agency sends us another one. Good morning, Mr. Davis.”

I removed my pinafore and cap and climbed the back stairs to my chamber, where I donned my best dress and hat, setting the black straw with dark feathers and ribbon on my brown hair.

Taking up my gloves, I marched down the six flights of stairs and out of the house, determinedly not speaking to any of the staff I passed on my way—I refused to miss a moment of my precious day with my daughter. I walked through the kitchen, noting that Mr. Davis had removed himself, and out the scullery door and up the steps to the street.

May had crept into the city, turning it gloriously warm without being too hot. The sticky heat would come later, when the social season was over, and the fortunate retreated to the country. Lady Cynthia had not yet revealed her plans for the warmer months, and I had no idea whether I’d stay on in the town house or follow her and the Bywaters to a summer home. Or perhaps I’d have to find a new place altogether. I hoped not, as I was well set up in the Mount Street house and had no wish to move. But domestics cannot always count on their ladies and gentlemen to be dependable.

I pushed that worry aside as I traveled out of Mayfair on a crowded omnibus, rolling slowly along Piccadilly past the houses of the very rich, then changed to another omnibus to travel the Haymarket and pass Trafalgar Square to the Strand.

I peered out the window as we went along the Strand, wondering about Mr. Davis’s story of Daniel. Had he been mistaken? What on earth would Daniel be doing working at a pawnbrokers?

Perhaps Daniel had simply needed the post. He arbitrarily seemed to have much money or none at all, and he changed his guise and his employment on a whim.

I knew there must be more to it. Daniel had something to do with the police, but I did not know what—and he had not chosen to share the details of his life with me. When last we’d spoken, he softening me with a kiss or two, he promised one day he’d tell me all. That day had not yet manifested, and as I say, I’d not seen him for some time.

I ought to forget about him. No woman needs a gentleman who pops in and out like a jackrabbit, and transforms himself from deliveryman to City gent to pawnbroker’s assistant to commander of a troop of constables at the drop of a hat. My existence had been calm until Mr. McAdam had walked into it.

That was rubbish, and I knew it. I’d had plenty of drama in my life before I’d met Daniel. One reason I guarded my days out like a lion is that it gave me time to visit the person who’d been the product of the drama. Grace was the one constant in my world, the goodness that had come of grief.

No one in the Mount Street house, not even Lady Cynthia or Mr. Davis, knew I had a daughter, who was now ten years old. I had not exactly been married at the time I’d borne her—a fact unknown to me until too late—and an unmarried woman with a child can hardly hope to work in a respectable household. Holloway was my maiden name, which I’d resumed when I’d learned my so-called husband had already been married to someone else before he’d beguiled me into a church. I was Mrs. Holloway because all cooks and housekeepers were “Mrs.” regardless of whether they were married. It was a mark of respect, just as all butlers and valets were “Mr.” to the other servants.

Respectable Mrs. Holloway now rode through Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill and around the majestic bulk of St. Paul’s. It was a beautiful cathedral, so reverent I knew it would stand forever. I descended not far from there, and in a small lane off Cheapside, I knocked on the door of a modest house where my friends Joanna and Sam Millburn lived. They were dear, kind people, and had the keeping of my daughter. Though they had four children themselves, they had brought her into their fold, embracing her as they would one of their own. Grace had grown up with their children and looked upon them as true brothers and sisters.

I heard Grace’s voice rise in excitement, and I went weak with the joy of it. Once my arms were around her, and we were hugging as though we hadn’t seen each other in months, my troubles fell away. They always did, which was why I’d fight tooth and nail to guard my time with her. My Grace, my daughter, my haven.

* * *

Today Grace and I visited the Tower of London, paying our fee and gawping at the medieval rooms and beauty of the crown jewels, and listening to a lecturer talk about the ghosts. Grace shrank close to me, and we kept a sharp eye out for ghosts in the shadows, but we saw none. I never do.

We stopped on the way home for tea, always our treat. We had too many cakes, which would make Joanna unhappy, but Grace deserved a bit of naughtiness. We crammed the sweet tea cakes and scones into our mouths, giggling like mad.

It was four in the afternoon when I returned Grace to the Millburns and said good-bye. My heart was heavy, as always at the end of our day. I woke every Thursday with a lightness in my limbs and ended it already wishing away the days until Monday, when I could see her again.

My savings were meager but growing, put aside for the time I’d retire from service and have Grace live with me. Perhaps I’d open a tea shop, where I’d make the very best pastries in London, and Grace would do her lessons in the back room while I worked.

The vision was so heady, and so real, that I nearly walked in front of a tram heading its way down the Strand.

I jumped out of its path, surprised I was next to the little church of St. Clement Danes—I’d come that far without noticing, my mind in the clouds.

I brought my thoughts firmly to earth and walked briskly along, keeping well away from the wheeled traffic. I studied the shop fronts as I went—which of these was the pawnbrokers where Mr. Davis had seen Daniel?

Whenever I spotted the sign of three golden balls dangling above a door, I’d enter the shop, my heart thumping. I pretended to browse the goods for sale while I glanced about for Daniel, but I saw him in none of them.

Not until I was on the far west end of the Strand, just before Charing Cross Station, did I find the correct shop. This one was seedy indeed, its small windows covered with grime, the three balls above its door tarnished and blackened with soot.

The door creaked as I entered, and silence met me within. This pawnbrokers was set up like many others, with a long counter against one wall, behind which was secured the more expensive items—jewelry, musical instruments, small paintings, silver pieces. In a place like this, however, I’d wonder about the silver content in the candlesticks and the provenance of the paintings.

On my side of the counter, a few tables held cheaper items—small books with whole signatures of pages missing, plaster-cast knickknacks, small wooden boxes, tarnished pewter candlesticks and scratched wooden ones, and empty and chipped picture frames.

The man behind the high counter sat on a chair tipped back against the wall, so that only his hair and forehead showed. When I peered over the counter, I saw that he had his feet propped on a wooden crate while he read a magazine, the drawing of a large-bosomed lady cheekily advertising cigars on its back. The man’s dark suit was dusty and had a rent or two on its sleeves, and his boots, crossed at his ankles, were caked with mud. A greasy cap lay on a table by his side, leaving his hair, thick and wayward, exposed to my gaze. A more disreputable character I do not think I’d seen in many a day.

He had obviously heard me enter, because he turned a page of the magazine without looking up and said, “You see something you like, missus, I’ll wrap it up for you.”

I kept my hands folded over my reticule, not liking to touch the dirty counter. “If the books are missing bits, is the price for them less?”

I had the pleasure of seeing Daniel McAdam give a violent start. I so rarely caught him unawares that I smiled in triumph.

He quickly tossed the magazine under the counter and stood up to his full height, staring at me wide-eyed across the counter.

“Bloody hell, woman. Is there nowhere in this city I cannot turn and see you before me?”

I regarded him primly, not letting on how glad I was to have found him. “I very much doubt it,” I said. “I travel along the Strand on my days out, as you know, unless I go along High Holborn. Is it so odd that I should pass this shop and see you in it?”

Daniel’s look turned skeptical. “You happened to glance into an unsavory pawnbrokers and decided to browse its wares? Or are you selling something?”

“Don’t be silly. Mr. Davis spied you here, and he cannot keep anything to himself. As I was walking along this street this afternoon, I thought I’d look for you.”

Daniel relaxed, and his lips twitched. “Good—I would hate to think of you dirtying your shoes in a place like this for any other reason. It is a fine thing to see you, Kat.” For one moment, Daniel regarded me in a manner that made his shabby clothes and this dusty place fall away. I saw only his blue eyes, his charming smile, the handsome man hiding behind the scruffy clothes.

Then his glad look vanished. “I enjoy your company, as I have told you, Kat, but you do know how to choose exactly the wrong time for a friendly chat. I need you to go—I can meet with you later if you like.”

His impatience was unfeigned. Daniel might truly wish to talk with me after he conducted whatever business he wanted me out of the way for, but I sensed he had no intention whatsoever of telling me what he was up to.

“I can hardly step out of the house and have a chin-wag with you whenever you ask,” I said in a lofty tone. “This is the end of my day out. I must return and prepare supper.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” His smile returned as did the charming Daniel. “Another time, then.”

“Do not patronize me, Mr. McAdam,” I said. “I am wise to your ways. Good afternoon.”

I saw the dismay on his face, and I nearly apologized for my brusqueness, but then again, the man drove me to distraction. He must be here for intriguing reasons, and I admitted I was annoyed because he would not satisfy my curiosity.

However, I then reasoned I ought not leave in a huff, because Daniel would be an excellent person with which to discuss the problem Lady Cynthia had laid before me.

I began to offer to visit him at a more opportune time, when Daniel jerked from the counter and bolted out through the door in the wall that separated the counter from the shop. He grabbed me by the arm and without explanation fairly dragged me into the back, shoving me through another door that led to a dingy storage room.

“Stay there,” he said. “Don’t make a sound.”