CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Capitulation
“Want, sir, want? What’s the matter with me? Sir, I want a result.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
The portly footman at the door took Rosalind to Mrs. Fitzherbert at once. The widow was in her private apartments, seated at her writing table by a high arching window. Several sealed letters lay beside her.
“Miss Thorne!” Mrs. Fitzherbert cried as she started to her feet. “What have you found?”
The desk from which the strongbox had been stolen waited, unused, in its corner. Rosalind felt painfully aware of its presence as she approached her hostess.
“Mrs. Fitzherbert,” she said, “I am here with very bad news.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert’s breath grew unsteady, but she rallied herself. “What is it?”
“Your footman, Thomas Faller, is dead.”
“Faller? Good Lord!” she cried. “Holm told me he had gone missing. I did not truly think . . . Was it an accident?”
These last words contained just a trace of pathetic hope, and Rosalind sympathized.
“I am sorry to say that it was not. He was found in a set of rooms in Camden Town that belongs to a Judith Faller. We believe she was his wife.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert closed her eyes. Her hand moved. Rosalind was sure she meant to cross herself, but a strong habit of discretion restrained her.
“Camden Town is a very poor place, I believe,” she remarked.
“I believe that is correct.”
“So, it could simply have been robbery?” There was both hope and shame in the words.
“I do not believe that is true,” Rosalind said. “His wife was a maid in Josiah Poole’s house. She was dismissed from service today and has since vanished.”
“And Mr. Poole, he is the man you suspect of being involved in the theft of my certificate?”
“Yes.”
“So, he may have suborned the cooperation of my footman. Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes. And now—”
“Now they are both dead.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert sat down. She moved with great care, reminding Rosalind of Mr. Considen, who could no longer trust his body to fully obey him. She picked up her letters and sorted through them as if to see that they were all still there. She laid them back down, but her gaze remained fixed on her writing table.
“And my cer-certificate?” Mrs. Fitzherbert stumbled over the word. “I fear I must sound so petty.”
“There is nothing petty about your situation,” said Rosalind. “I am sorry to say it has not been found.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand trembled where it lay on the table. Rosalind wondered what was going on inside her—how much anger, how much fear. She wanted to offer some reassurance, but there was so little she could give.
“Mr. Harkness is interviewing the Pooles today,” she said. “It may be he will uncover additional information.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert took a deep breath. “I suppose that is possible, but at this point, it does not matter. I had already made up my mind to a course of action last night.” She touched the letters. “And now I am very glad of it.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert—” Rosalind began.
But Mrs. Fitzherbert cut her off. “I said that I have made up my mind, Miss Thorne. Circumstances have galloped ahead, and we are left behind to manage as best we can.”
Rosalind’s breath froze in her throat.
“Tomorrow morning Minney and Mary Ann return to my brother’s house in the country. From there, they will all remove to his new posting at the embassy in Berlin. I shall travel separately to Paris as soon as I can settle my affairs here.” She straightened her shoulders. “And there I shall stay.”
She was retreating to exile. She had given up.
“Mrs. Fitzherbert,” Rosalind tried. “It has been only two days, and—”
“Only two days and yet two men are dead,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, interrupting. “My affairs are in the papers, and my daughter has yet again begun seeing a young man who will do nothing but take her money and break her heart, and my paper, my one protection against slander and libel, is gone. No, Miss Thorne,” she said firmly, “I should have left as soon as I discovered I had been robbed. I was a fool to believe that anyone could prevent . . . well, prevent this outcome.” Slowly, she climbed to her feet and rang the bell. “I admit my defeat. You have failed, and so have I. You may take your girl and go. We are all of us finished here.”
The door opened, and Amelia entered. She saw Rosalind there with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and for one brief instant, her eyes lit up. She was plainly thinking that they must have achieved a victory.
Then she saw Rosalind’s face clearly, and that light snuffed itself out.
Rosalind drew herself up. “I would suggest, Mrs. Fitzherbert, that you at least allow it to appear that Amelia has been called away by some emergency. Otherwise, there will surely be an even greater disruption among your staff.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert gave one sharp, mirthless laugh. “Disruption among my staff, Miss Thorne, is the least of my worries. Now, you will both do me the favor of leaving at once. McGowan, I will have your things sent to you.”
“I am sorry, madam,” said Amelia. “I had hoped to do better. You must understand—”
“I understand,” she said bitterly. “That I and my family are under threat, and that I used up all my good choices years ago. I am done with trusting the promises of others. You will do me the favor of leaving me to deal with the consequences of my actions.”
Amelia looked like she wanted to protest, but all she did was bob her curtsy. “I’ll go get my reticule.”
“Miss Thorne will meet you downstairs,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
It was an absolute dismissal. Rosalind had no choice but to make her own curtsy and descend the stairs. She did so slowly, as if in a dream. Her mind would not move. All her thoughts felt pressed down, as if she were filled with stones. Amelia came down the stairs behind her, with her bonnet, gloves, and reticule. Together, silently, they walked out the door.
The heat of summer enveloped them, along with all the street noises. Rosalind blinked in the sunlight. Slowly, her mind stirred. She drew a deep breath and another. She turned to see Amelia glowering back at the house and looking as if she wanted to curse or spit.
“’Scuse me, miss.” A man in a battered hat and equally battered coat had stepped up to them. “Anything I can do to help?”
Amelia shook herself. “This is Jim Geery, Miss Thorne. He’s all right. Find us a cab, would you, Jim? We’ve been pitched out.”
Jim started backward but recovered and touched his hat. “Right you are, miss,” he said and strode off up the street.
“Thank you, Amelia,” said Rosalind.
Amelia sniffed. “You’re welcome. But what brought all that on?”
“Tom Faller is dead,” Rosalind said.
“What!” cried Amelia. “No! How . . . ?”
Rosalind told her.
“God in Heaven.” Amelia pressed both hands against her stomach. “I knew he was up to something, but I never—” She stopped. “You said Alice found him?”
Rosalind nodded.
“Oh, no.” Amelia went white. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be better when you get home to her.”
Amelia nodded and swallowed hard. “What do we do now?”
Excellent question. Unfortunately, Rosalind did not have a real answer. “We hope that Mr. Harkness has been able to find out something useful.”
“Well, all I have to say is, she doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to regret treating you this way, and me.”
“Why is that?” asked Rosalind.
Amelia looked uncomfortable. “You heard in there,” she said, sounding unusually evasive. “I tried to tell her, but she wasn’t having none of it. So, whatever comes next, it’s not my fault.”
“Amelia.” Rosalind tried to be patient, but it was difficult. “What’s happened?”
“I played chaperone and decoy for Miss Mary Ann today,” said Amelia. “She wanted to sneak a message to this famous captain Dawson, who’s been hanging about. Seems him and Miss Seymore are set to elope.”