Amidst the bustle and grime of Leeds, the Rose and Crown was the only place Lewis knew she had been. So he paid extra he could ill afford to obtain a room overlooking Briggate, where he could see the pedestrians coming, going, or passing by.
Picking up a parcel, Sir John had said. The devil take it, Anna could stay in Leeds a year and never pick up another. There must be mail on occasion, a note from Mr. or Mrs. Spain at least, but he could so easily miss it. Sitting by his window from dawn ’til dusk was out of the question.
What if Anna’s companion came without her? He would never know. Seeing Sir John might have scared Anna indoors. And as long as she kept to her rooms, she was safe from discovery.
He spent the scant hour of remaining daylight prowling the inn and its neighborhood, telling himself she must live nearby. When he felt conspicuous loitering outside, he went in and paced back and forth across his upstairs window, peering at each woman approaching or leaving the building. Sometimes he could see little besides the top of a hat. But if there had been any who were about ready to foal, he would have seen that.
It would be a miracle if he found her at all; he certainly couldn’t expect it to happen the first day. But as he sat in the public room, picking at a wedge of mutton pie and pondering his options for the morrow, it was hard not to feel discouraged. Even if he found her, what would he do about it?
Patience, fool. He had brought one of his drawings—he would take it to St. Peter’s, and if he had no luck there, to the other churches nearby. Someone might recognize her, by some other name if not Spain. If not, they must surely know of the asylum Redfern had mentioned. They might be able to gain access and make inquiries where Lewis could not.
Then there was the workhouse, and there were others who might know her—the innkeep and his staff, for instance. The churches, though, where he could count on discretion, would get the first chance at it. If Anna should become a subject of gossip because of him… Well, he would never forgive himself.
He drank a solitary toast to luck, to the morrow, and to Anna.
The morning brought rain, pelting sheets of it. Half frozen, it rattled against his window like shards of glass. Lewis took his time dressing, hoping it would lessen.
It did not. He decided on breakfast.
The public room was clogged with soggy travelers when he entered. But a number of them rushed out to return to their coach, and he found a seat by the window.
The street was nearly empty of pedestrians. Every so often an apparition appeared in the rain, nothing more than a colorless shape approaching the inn through the haze of rain, and then he would hear the front door open, and voices in the hall, and a chilly draft would blow through the room. But a shape was all he needed, and it didn’t come. He was glad of it; Anna did not belong out there in the deluge.
The eggs on his plate puckered and contracted in the cold room. Lewis cut an occasional bite of ham and kept the serving maid busy pouring coffee so he would always have a warm cup to keep his hands from freezing. The Leeds Intelligencer lay in front of him on the scarred oak table, but he hardly glanced at it. He needed to keep watch.
One interminable hour he sat there. His mouth tasted bitter. The devil take this waiting. He went to his room and cleaned his teeth, collected his greatcoat and hat, his gloves and umbrella. By the time he walked out the inn door the rain had lessened.
The downpour had done little to wash Briggate clean. Only a handful of vendors had bothered to set up shop, yet the smell of butchered animals and rotten fruit still permeated the shambles set up in the middle of the street, and the water that sluiced between the cobbles still ran filthy.
He left the worst of it behind as he splashed around the corner into Kirkgate. After wading another half mile, he peered from beneath the umbrella at the parish church of St. Peter’s, shrouded in mizzle, its square tower dividing the two mismatched halves. Leaving his dripping umbrella in the porch and scraping the worst of the mud off his boots, he stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed through the nearly deserted church. Perhaps a dozen parishioners sat or kneeled in the pews. Making his way around the perimeter, past the family memorials and marble effigies, Lewis found a white-haired man replacing burnt candles with fresh ones.
“Beg your pardon,” Lewis began.
The old man turned his way wearing a kindly expression. “I’m Bunton. What c’n I do fer ye, laddie?”
“I’m looking for Reverend Fawcett.”
The man shook his head. “I saw him head to th’ hall not ten minutes past fer the choir practice. That’ll keep ’im busy two hours an’ more.”
Damnation. The word almost came out of Lewis’s mouth.
He waited. Not two hours, but not much less. Bunton led him across the wet flagstones to the church hall and deposited him in the mildew-scented office of a flatulent, disinterested secretary. Lewis chose to stand in the icy corridor with the wafting notes of “Lully Lullay” sung by the unseen choir.
At length, Mr. Fawcett emerged from the choir room, recognizable by his vestments. He wore a scowl; the last few carols had not gone well.
The scowl did not lighten as he scanned Lewis’s card. “Ah, Wrackwater Bridge. What can I do for you?”
“It’s a personal matter, sir, of a sensitive nature. Reverend Redfern recommended I see you.”
“Well then.” Fawcett led Lewis to the closed door beside the secretary’s office, pulled a key from a pocket, and unlocked it. “Come in. Light the lamp, Dibble, and fetch us some tea.” The secretary muttered something and ambled off.
It was a vastly different place than the office next door. Clean and tidy, with books lined up evenly on the shelves, a short stack of papers topped with a bible in the exact center of the fine oak desk, a selection of quills laid neatly on a tray so there would always be one at the ready. The air was just as arctic, but a thick wool rug on the floor provided a barrier between the cold stone floor and the soles of Lewis’s damp boots.
Two vacant chairs for visitors sat in front of the vicar’s desk. A fire was laid in the small fireplace, but it was unlit. A table stood in the corner with brandy and glasses—that sounded better than tea, but it was not offered.
The vicar motioned toward one of the chairs and sat in the other himself. “Tell me how I can help you.”
Lewis leaned forward. “A young woman was seen in Leeds last week. She’s the daughter of a family connection.” Not the truth, but close enough. “They’re from the south of England, and there’s no reason for her to be in Leeds, except… It seems she’s in the family way. I believe she’s been sent here for her confinement.”
A knock sounded at the door and Dibble came in with the tea tray. Lewis could have howled with frustration. He forced himself to stay in the chair but his feet tapped out his impatience against the rug.
Mentioning no names, Lewis gave an abbreviated description of Sir John’s meeting with Anna. He struggled to maintain an air of disinterested charity as Fawcett devoted his attention to his tea, the crease in his trousers, the muffled voices in the corridor.
Lewis pulled his drawing from his pocket book and handed it across the small space between them. It earned only a cursory glance.
“You’ve come at a bad time. I leave for York early tomorrow for a meeting with the archbishop. In any case, there’s really nothing I can do for you.”
Lewis waited for more, but the vicar set down his cup with a final click and stood. Lewis jumped up…to do what? Grab the man by the front of his coat and shake him until he listened?
“Sir!” he cried. He could hear the dismay in his own voice, all the urgency he’d tamped down. “Have you heard me at all? You sip your tea and admire your fingernails. For the love of God, there’s a young lady in danger. How can you not know of the asylum Redfern mentioned?”
For the first time Fawcett looked at him, measuring the damp, long-haired young man importuning him, perhaps deciding whether to take offense. He shrugged, heading toward the corner where his hat and greatcoat hung. “Yes, there is such a place. My curate at Holy Trinity is the man to see about that. I really must go.”
He ushered Lewis into the corridor. “Dibble!” he called out. “Call for my carriage and then clean up in here.”
An unintelligible reply, and Dibble hurried away from them down the corridor. Lewis accompanied the vicar back the way he had come. They walked together through the church, even emptier than before. Of the handful of people doing business with God this evening, only one looked up as their shoes echoed across the floor. A woman, her eyes wide in surprise.
From the church porch, Lewis could almost believe the world had disappeared into the fog that lay over the darkened yard and the city beyond. He’d lost all track of time, shut away inside that moldering pile of stone. Waiting for this, waiting for that.
He’d taken a half step forward in his quest. But the devil was in it, he would have to wait some more. The curate would be gone until morning.
Lewis collected his umbrella and headed into the mist, scurrying to get out of the way as the vicar’s carriage drove around the corner and pulled to a stop. Then a woman’s voice called out. “If you please, sir?”
He glanced over his shoulder. Was she talking to him?
No. It was the woman from inside, waylaying the vicar as he approached the carriage. Lewis couldn’t see his face, but Fawcett’s impatience showed in the way he pivoted toward her, stiff and abrupt. The self-important toad.