Robert made his way down the dingy street, searching for the thin, flimsy doorway where he’d left Andy and his mother. He knew it was close by. It had been nearly a week, and he’d finally arranged a half-day off. The street and its inhabitants looked even shabbier in the light of day. Could he be on the wrong street? It seemed the hovel Andrew and his mother lived in was right about here…
“Mister, are you lost? I kin ‘elp ye find whatever ye like, fer only tuppence.”
Robert stared at the child. He was dressed in a ragged coat two sizes too small and trousers too large, and deep-set eyes gave his face an aged look, as though he’d known more heartache than one his age should. Robert reached in his pocket, pulled out a coin, and tossed it to the boy.
“There was a little boy named Andy and his mother living near here. Do you know where they are?”
“Andy? ’Ow old were ’e?”
“Eight, perhaps ten.”
“Right. A little scamp. I think they were ’ere, but when ’is mum died ’e went away.”
“She died? Where did Andy go? Is someone else caring for him?”
The boy shrugged, but a little girl sidled up beside him. “’E was cryin’ and cryin’ for days, ’e was. Didn’t want ta leave ’is mum. But the men came with a big wagon and took ’em away.”
“Took… both of them?”
“I think they took Andy up there, after they dumped off his mum.” She pointed to the opposite end of the street where the tall spires of the Bishopsgate Workhouse could be seen.
Robert shuddered. The poor lad had not only lost his mother, he’d had to see her body “dumped off” like garbage. And now he was to be brought up in the workhouse.
He’d heard about those places. They took in the homeless, children as well as adults. The residents were fed and trained for work. But it wasn’t a life he’d want for himself or any child of his.
Disheartened, he made his way back to the townhouse.
~~~~
From her seat at the servants’ table, Jeanne watched as Robert ate, seemingly lost in thought. It was unlike him. Normally, he did everything with a purpose.
Like asking me to marry him.
The way he’d proposed still rankled. But she didn’t like seeing him looking so somber, either. He’d had the morning off. What had happened? Perhaps he was apprehensive about tonight’s lesson at the Cathedral.
She finished her meal and rose to make her way back upstairs.
“Miss Brown.” Robert’s quiet voice stilled her. Something was amiss. She turned a questioning gaze to him.
Robert rose. “I went to visit Andy this morning. I’d forgotten until today that I’d promised to bring him food and blankets.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. Is his mother improved?”
He shook his head. “She’s dead.”
Jeanne’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh dear. What will become of Andy?”
“According to one of the neighbors, he’s been taken to the Bishopsgate Workhouse.”
A chill went up Jeanne’s spine. The workhouse! She’d listened in horror as one of the maids described her time there after arriving in London. The conditions had been deplorable for her as an adult. But for a child — unthinkable.
“What about Andy’s father? It seems he should be charged with murder.”
“I don’t know. I doubt he will face charges. But he certainly isn’t fit to raise his son.”
“I agree. Still, I don’t like the idea of Andy all alone in that place.” She could identify with loneliness. Had her brother, too, been sent to a workhouse? Perhaps she should have gone there personally to look for Pierre. But she hadn’t. Would the workhouse keep records of where they sent the children who’d lived there?
She would worry about that later. “I’ve got to find Andy,” she blurted.
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know… perhaps I can adopt him.”
“Adopt — but how would you care for him? You wouldn’t be able to remain here.”
“I know that, but I can’t let him stay there. He’s just a baby. I’ll have to go there and find him.”
“Jeanne — er, Miss Brown, we aren’t certain he’s there. And if it’s that horrible, you mustn’t go alone.”
“But I must.”
“Then allow me to go with you.”
She stared at him then. “You would do that?”
“I — yes. I don’t wish to see you come to any harm. If you go, please tell me when you’re going so that I can arrange to accompany you.”
“My next morning off is Sunday.”
“Then I will arrange to be available. Remember — do not go without me or one of the footmen.”
She nodded.
Her heart still ached for poor Andy, but she felt better knowing there was a plan.
~~~~
Robert’s head spun. What had he just promised? He knew that going to Bishopsgate could be an exercise in futility. The boy might be there, and he might not. And he might be overworked or harmed by the time they found him. If Andy was to be found, they couldn’t wait until Sunday. He needed to go — or send someone who could get the information they needed.
Someone like a Bow Street Runner. Or maybe someone else…
He had a few hours before he would need to attend to the duke’s wardrobe for dinner. He made a fast trip to his room to change his clothes then slipped out of the townhouse and quickly made his way to Bond Street.
He entered Jackson’s Saloon and hurried up the stairs to look for Ralph. Fortunately, his friend had just finished a training session with a client.
“Robert, it’s good to see you again. Ready to go another round?”
“Perhaps, but I need to talk.”
“Strip your shirt off and talk while we’re sparring.”
Knowing his friend meant business, he did as he was told. Between punches, he explained to his friend what he needed.
“I think I can help you,” Ralph said. “I know one of the matrons at Bishopsgate. We were… friendly at one time.”
Robert hid a grin. Ralph had been “friendly” with more women than he could count. But if one of them could help locate Andy, he’d kiss the woman himself.
“Excellent. Let me know what you find out. And… I’ll pay you for your time.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I spent the worst years of my life at that place. If you’re willing to take on responsibility for one of those poor children, we need to find him now. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll send word when I find him.”
Half an hour later, Robert wiped his sweat away and dressed for his return to the Bartlett townhouse. The December winds had picked up and the sun had begun its descent. Daylight hours were at their fewest in mid-December, with less than eight hours of daylight. He nodded to the lamp lighter, busy with his nightly task of illuminating the streets. The aroma of a savory meal floated to him through an open kitchen window, reminding him of his duties. He quickened his steps. Whether or not the duke chose to dress for dinner, his valet should be available.