CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
An Affair of the Heart
“I was told at the same time . . . there was reason to suppose that you were going to take the very desperate step (pardon the expression) of marrying her . . .”
Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert
The next morning the London Chronicle led its special edition with:
FALLER FATALITY
Thomas Faller, a young footman, was found yesterday in Camden Town, seemingly the victim of a brutal attack in the darkness. Mrs. Fitzherbert, of Tilney Street, who was the murdered man’s employer, says that he had recently left her service and that she was astonished and saddened to hear of his untimely death.
The article went on to lament the prevalence of violent disorder among the poor and suggested that it was the fault of a government who failed to protect and care for those of the working classes, whose industry undergirded London’s comfort and prosperity.
It was, she thought, a valiant effort on George’s part. It was also mostly invention. Still, Rosalind hoped it might have some good effect.
The Morning Standard, however, declared:
FITZHERBERT FOOTMAN FELLED!
Thomas Faller, a footman in service to Maria Fitzherbert, was found brutally murdered at his home in Camden Town. His wife is missing from the scene. Is this a domestic tragedy, or is it fatally connected with the great matter that has consumed the entire kingdom?
The coroner’s office has declared it a matter of person or persons unknown. Perhaps they should consult the famously inquisitive Miss Rosalind Thorne, as Mrs. Fitzherbert has done....
“I would like to say it is not as bad as it could have been,” remarked Adam.
“So would I,” said Rosalind. “But I don’t think I can.” Clearly, Ron Ranking’s patience had deserted him.
They sat in a two-wheeled rig. Rosalind had hesitated only a little when the stable keeper disclosed the price of hiring both conveyance and horses for the day, but it was necessary. They could not trust themselves to the patience and skill of a hackney cabdriver.
They waited at a spot catty-corner from 6 Tilney Street. Adam perched on the driver’s seat, with his hat pulled down against the misting gray drizzle, which threatened to coalesce into a summer fog. Rosalind found herself grateful for it, because it gave them an excuse to keep the rig’s roof raised and its curtains down.
The bells had just tolled the hour of six, but the low clouds kept the morning far darker than it should have been. They had already been here for at least two long hours, circling the block every so often to keep the horses exercised, and to draw less attention to themselves as the servants and tradespeople came and went in the brightening morning.
Rosalind had brought the papers to bide the time while they kept watch. Now she wondered if they were more distraction than was good. Her thoughts would not fix on the street but kept darting back to Orchard Street, as she wondered if the newspapermen, with Ranking in their lead, had arrived there yet. How soon would they swarm her house? Or Mrs. Fitzherbert’s?
What would Lady Jersey say when she woke and saw Rosalind’s name linked to Faller’s death? What would Countess Lieven say?
And Mrs. Levitton?
Adam’s voice cut through the worries crowding in on her harried mind. “There she is.”
Rosalind looked up. A cloaked figure darted out from behind the garden wall and hurried down the street. She had no valise or box with her, and she ran with her skirts hiked up well past her ankles, splashing heedlessly through the gathering puddles.
Adam touched up the horse, and they started forward at a gentle pace, following the young woman as she ran.
Miss Seymore, assuming it was her, turned one corner and another. She paused, casting anxiously about. London at first light was a busy world, regardless of the weather. The streets filled with workmen, with men and women pushing handcarts and barrows and baskets, not to mention the carts and vans and flocks of sheep. The bawling of cattle and the distressed calls of caged geese mixed with the endless stream of human voices.
A bright green phaeton worked its way between the heavier traffic. Miss Seymore spied it and jumped up onto her toes and ran again. The driver, who was wrapped in a caped coat, drew his horses up to the walk, grasped her by both hands, and pulled her up alongside him. He touched up the horses at once, urging them into a trot, and earned the curses of those who had to throw themselves out of the way.
Rosalind clutched her hands together in her lap and concentrated on keeping her mouth closed. Adam drove cautiously. Several times she was certain they must have lost their quarry, and she came close to saying so. But then Adam turned another corner, and there they were again.
At last, the phaeton pulled up to a modest stone church. It was, Rosalind happened to know, St. Bartholomew’s in the Field, although any field that might have once been there had long since been swallowed by houses and cobblestones.
Adam drove them past the church without slowing. Rosalind had to crane her neck painfully to see how Miss Seymore leapt down from her seat beside the driver and bolted inside. The rig rounded a curve in the twisting street, and Adam drew the horse to a halt.
Rosalind scrambled out of the rig and pressed his hand. They needed no words. He would meet her inside the church once the horse had been tended to.
It was extremely difficult, but Rosalind forced herself to walk at a decorous pace as she retraced the path to St. Bartholomew’s.
Hurry, hurry, hurry! begged a voice inside. She silenced it ruthlessly. She did not wish to alarm the escaping couple yet.
Once she reached St. Bartholomew’s, Rosalind circled around to its left. As she hoped, there were several small doors set in the length of the soot-stained stone wall.
She tested one and found it open and ducked inside.
Beyond the door waited a dim anteroom filled with barrows, buckets, baskets, and other such tools for keeping the small grounds and tiny burial yard that surrounded the church. A flight of stairs led to a dim flagstone corridor and the open sanctuary door.
Rosalind paused for a moment. She felt, rather than heard, Adam come up behind her. He reached past to ease the sanctuary door open just a bit farther, and the pair of them slid through.
No outcry was raised. All the sanctuary occupants were otherwise engaged. The priest, in his robes and surplice, had his attention trained fully on the couple who knelt at the altar with hands folded and heads bowed.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and this company to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” he intoned.
Adam cocked a brow at her; Rosalind returned his look, acknowledging the absurdity of their circumstances. There was so much at stake, and yet in this wordless moment, they agreed they should wait until the appropriate moment came to announce themselves.
Besides, Rosalind mused idly, Alice will never forgive us if we do otherwise.
“. . . and is commended of Saint Paul to be honorable of all men: and therefore . . .”
George Dawson had worn his red coat, doubtlessly under his caped driving coat. Minney Seymore was dressed in sprigged muslin, with white ribbons and rosebuds in her curling hair. The priest, a grizzled man with unruly side-whiskers, read the service soberly but with true feeling.
It was so odd to be standing here with Adam, listening to the ceremony that she had so far refused to take part in. She stole a glance at him, trying to discern his thoughts, but for once, she could not read his face. Her heart trembled uneasily.
Fortunately, there was no more time for her self-conscious doubt to grow. The priest turned a page in his book.
“If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now . . .”
Rosalind and Adam both stepped forward.
She raised her voice. “I beg your pardon, but there is such cause.”
Miss Seymore and Dawson were on their feet in a flash. Dawson put a hand to his hip, as if he thought he might have to draw his cavalry saber.
Rosalind, with Adam at her side, walked up the central aisle.
“You!” cried Miss Seymore. “Mama dismissed you!”
Captain Dawson put his hand on Miss Seymore’s arm. “Never mind, Minney. Reverend, this woman is a troublemaker, and this man is surely her confederate.”
Adam remained unperturbed by this description of him. “My name is Adam Harkness. I am an assistant to Sir David Royce, and I am here to question Captain Dawson as regards the violent death of two persons.”
“What!” shrieked Miss Seymore.
At the same time, Captain Dawson shouted, “You, sir, are a damned liar!”
“And you, sir, will remember you are in church!” barked the priest. He also slapped his book shut. “And just who might you be, young woman?” He glared at Rosalind.
“I am Miss Rosalind Thorne. I am an acquaintance of the young lady’s guardian, Maria Fitzherbert.”
“Hardly that,” snapped Miss Seymore. “She’s a fortune hunter and a publicity seeker!”
Rosalind refused to let herself be ruffled. “And even if it were not a question of Captain Dawson’s actions, sir, Miss Seymore is underaged. She cannot legally enter into a marriage without her father’s permission.”
“That is not true!” said Captain Dawson. “She turned twenty-five a month ago.”
“And you brought her birth certificate?” inquired Rosalind.
“Miss Thorne,” said Miss Seymore urgently, “leave us alone. Please. This is not your business.”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Rosalind. She turned back to the priest, who watched them all, flushed and open-mouthed in surprise. “Sir, I am sorry. This young woman has eloped from her mother’s home in order to be married to this man, of whom her family does not approve. A servant in her house observed her preparations and alerted me so I could return her to her home without causing her family any further distress.”
Rosalind met the priest’s gaze. He had been prepared, she thought, to stand on his authority and to bluster; in short, to earn whatever fee Dawson had paid him for this morning’s work. However, it was now beginning to dawn on him that there was far more to this business than a hasty marriage.
He turned on Captain Dawson.
“You should be ashamed, sir! Leading a young girl—”
“I am a grown woman, and this was my idea!” shouted Miss Seymore.
“Then shame upon you!” bellowed the priest. “And you will all leave my church at once!”