Dangerous Decisions (24 page)

Cora was now in her third hansom cab in a ploy to evade any possible detection. The jolting of the journey was doing little to steady her nerves and she was desperately hoping that Sybil was safely on her way back to Belle's by now.

It had been impossible not to look down at the small body nestling in her arms; she was a beautiful baby, her eyelashes spread like fans against her rose-tinted skin. She had been good too, sleeping through the entire episode, although it would matter little now if she cried and drew attention because Cora guessed that they were nearing their destination.

She looked out of the window, impressed by the cleanliness of the tall three-story houses and the respectability of the tree-lined roads. Ned had been telling the truth, this was no furtive hiding place, no ‘baby farm'. As for the kid going eventually into service, Cora would have liked to have had the chance; but her particular workhouse was deemed too ‘rough', its reputation too tarnished to provide the standard of girl that most wealthy households insisted upon. And she'd had no intention of being some jumped-up woman's skivvy. It had been Sid and the market for Cora, even if it did mean sleeping on a mattress on an attic floor. After his death, she had drifted into the life at Belle's. But she'd survived, hadn't she? She had never been homeless and now thanks to this bundle she was holding, she never would. Cora looked down again, startled to see a pair of trusting blue eyes gazing up at her. Instinctively she smiled and in return was rewarded with one so sweet that she caught her breath. She remembered the younger children in the workhouse, their pinched faces and hopeless eyes and how cold the winters had been, how harsh the treatment, disgusting the food. But Ned had promised that this baby would be well cared for. As for its mother, even if Sybil had felt guilty about the mother's feelings, Cora found that difficult. She may have slept with so many men that she could hardly remember one from another, but she would never have cheated on Johnnie nor tried to foist another man's kid on him. Cora closed her mind to the unwelcome image of a faceless weeping woman and instead peered out of the window, feeling relieved when she heard the slowing clop of hooves.

It was when she moved in readiness to leave the cab that the baby began to whimper, struggling to be loose from the confines of the shawl. Seeing one of her mittens had become loose, Cora put her down on the seat and began to retie the white ribbon. It was ridiculous for the kid to wear mittens in this warm weather, but she couldn't risk leaving even the slightest evidence behind.

When a few minutes later Cora watched the cab move away and looked up at the silent house before her, suddenly the enormity of her actions, of what she had done in the park, of what she was now going to do, seemed overwhelming. No matter that the steps were well scrubbed and the front door boasted glossy black paint, nothing could change the fact she was handing this baby over to total strangers. Cora found herself hesitating, feeling unsure. Then she told herself that she was being weak, even stupid. Weren't there freshly laundered net curtains at the window? Ned had been right – this was a respectable place.

On the first peal of the bell, the door partially opened. Then a woman's voice, quiet and authoritative, said, ‘Who sent you?'

Cora's throat was dry. ‘Ned did.'

‘I shall move away from the door and open it further. Put her down on the floor.'

Cora obeyed and as she gently put the now crying baby on the hard tiled floor, two long arms in black sleeves reached down and gathered her up. The cries swiftly became screams. Within a few seconds, the arms emerged again, holding the cheap shawl that Cora had bought from the market. ‘Dispose of it.' The door closed and it was over.

At first taken aback by the curt dismissal, Cora then saw the sense of it. Neither she nor the woman behind the door would ever recognise each other. Ned was a flaming genius, he had thought of everything. But as she stuffed the shawl into her bag, descended the steps and began to walk away, her legs were heavy, her forehead clammy with sweat. She had never expected to feel this shame, this terrible guilt. Several minutes later Cora hovered in confusion on the kerb of a busy corner. Ahead she could see a horse-tram waiting but she seemed unable to move forward, standing in a daze as people brushed by, her mind feverish. Even if she returned to the house and demanded the return of the baby, they'd never give her back, not when they'd been paid good money for her. Suppose by some miracle they did, what would she do then? She could hardly take her back to St James's Park; by now the police would be crawling all over it. And if she left her somewhere else anybody could pinch her.

It was then that with a sickening jolt, Cora saw the police officer. He was walking stolidly past a flower shop with its door open to the sunshine, carnations and clusters of sweet peas spilling out of galvanised buckets in front of the plate-glass window. As she stared at her future, one terrifying, the other her long-held dream, Cora's strong instinct of self-preservation rose to the surface. With shoulders squared, back straight and hardly daring to breathe, she moved safely past him, and seconds later was paying her tram fare.

When Jacob, desperate with the failure of his search, returned to Faraday House and went to the morning room, it was to be confronted by a white-faced anguished daughter, a sister who was pacing the room, and a concerned Dorothy. As three pairs of agonised eyes met his own, he shook his head. ‘There's no sign of her. Where is Oliver, where are the police?'

‘He has gone over to the Park,' Dorothy said. ‘It's a wonder you didn't see him.' She glanced at the others. ‘He didn't telephone the police.'

Beatrice was twisting her handkerchief into a ball. ‘He seems fearful of Rosalind being harmed if he contacts the police. He thinks she's been kidnapped.'

Jacob's eyebrows shot up. ‘We can't be sure of that. It could be some deranged woman …'

Helena was bordering on hysterical, her eyes wide with fear. ‘But Papa, we can't take the risk. We must do nothing that will endanger Rosalind – I couldn't bear it if …'

Jacob, perspiring from the heat and effort of searching the park, sank on to one of the armchairs. ‘I can't believe I'm hearing this. Are you telling me that Oliver wants to wait for a ransom demand? That child is out there with God knows who, and her father hasn't even called the police? How long does he intend to wait?'

Dorothy said, ‘He didn't say. But he has sworn all the staff to secrecy.'

Jacob looked at them all with helpless rage. ‘Where is the nanny?'

‘It's no use, Jacob, she can't help at all.' Beatrice told him everything they knew.

Dorothy turned to Helena. ‘If you think my presence will help in the slightest way, I could stay.'

Helena put a hand out to touch hers. ‘Bless you, but we both know that your first duty must be to your mother.'

Jacob said, ‘Dorothy please, not a word, not to your parents, or even to Peregrine.'

‘I understand, Mr Standish.'

It was then that Oliver returned. He shook his head.

Jacob got up. ‘Are you sure you have made the right decision? Not to bring in the police?'

‘I think Helena will agree with me that our first priority must be the safety of our child.'

Jacob glanced at his daughter, at her tormented eyes and then back to his son-in-law. ‘And if there
should
happen to be a ransom demand, surely you are not going to give in to the blackguards? What sort of a country would we have if people think they can steal children and not be brought to account?'

‘I'm sorry, Jacob, but you are thinking like a politician.'

Jacob's expression hardened. ‘I am the child's grandfather and I say that valuable time is being wasted.'

‘And as her father, I insist that the decision must be mine.'

‘Then I only hope that it is not one you will regret.'

Helena gazed at them, hating their conflict, her arms aching to feel her baby's warm little body, to hold her safe against her. If Oliver was right, then their wealth and privilege instead of protecting her had put her in danger. But if he was wrong, then her father was right – they were wasting vital time.

Oliver walked silently over to the window and gazed down into the street, his mind dissecting, planning. Soon life would return to normal, and hopefully by next summer his heir would have been born. Once Rosalind was safely out of the country, it was unlikely that the police would be able to trace her. And he doubted whether they would uncover the slightest evidence that would lead them to Cora and her friend. There was, of course, the danger that as one of the grieving parents, the newspapers might print his photograph, but Cora would never dare to unmask him. She would fear her own discovery too much. There was little likelihood that a whore's word would be taken against that of a gentleman, and one whose father-in-law was a Member of Parliament. No, Oliver foresaw no problems, not even from the man at that disreputable hotel; a rogue like that was unlikely to invite the law to pry into his shady affairs.

Helena's voice, shrill and accusing, disturbed his thoughts. ‘If Dorothy and I had taken her out this morning, this wouldn't have happened. With two of us there, no one would have dared to take her.'

‘No one was to blame,' Jacob said sharply. ‘None of us could have foreseen this.'

Oliver went over to take Helena's hands and drew her gently into his arms. Gazing down into her haunted, frantic eyes, he said, ‘My sweet, trust me. I promise that we will soon have Rosalind safely back.'

But Helena felt desperate to take positive action and looked over his shoulder into her father's blazingly angry eyes. ‘Oliver, I can only pray that you are right.'

When late that evening Cora left her apartment building and began to walk along the silent pavements to make her way to St John's Church gardens, she only knew that she wanted this dreadful day to end. She tried to console herself that at least when she saw Ned she would find out whether Sybil got away safely. One of the girls at Belle's used to talk of something called mortal sin; Cora had never had much truck with religion but she knew that she had committed a wicked and unforgiveable deed. It hadn't seemed so bad when the plan had just been talk, but once she'd held that kid in her arms … If Sid had been alive, the stall-holder would have despised what her ambition and greed had brought her to. But then, they did say that everyone had a dark side.

When she reached the corner and walked along to stand beneath the trees to wait in the usual meeting place, Cora glanced up to see dark shadows as bats flitted among the branches and she shivered despite the warm night air. Was this how Judas had felt? There had been Bible readings during every meagre meal at the workhouse, so she knew all about the disciple's betrayal. And wasn't that what she had done – betrayed that little baby?

At Faraday House, Oliver had been forced to wait until the entire household had retired for the night. It would have been crass to announce that he was going to his club, and would without doubt have provoked outrage from Jacob. So Oliver knew that he needed caution, and it was quite late when he went into his dressing room and unlocked a small cupboard. It was one that only he had the key to, not even Hines had ever seen inside. Oliver withdrew the satchel containing the remainder of the guineas and a few seconds later closed his bedroom door quietly behind him. Gingerly he descended the staircase, and with a feeling of relief, eased back the bolts on the front door.

Within half an hour he was at the hotel where again he encountered not a single soul. Oliver had decided that the lout at the desk was seemingly as fond of his bed as he was of his whisky bottle.

When later he turned into the now familiar quiet road, Cora was waiting outside the church gardens. He might have expected the avaricious little bitch to be early. She had served her purpose, but now he had an intense desire to be rid of her.

He didn't bother with formality. ‘So everything went well.'

Cora nodded.

He opened the satchel and handed over the hessian bag. Cora took it, glanced inside and then put it into a cheap carpet bag she had brought with her. Then she stared into his eyes, her own as cold as his. ‘I'm not proud of what I've done, Ned.'

‘Maybe not, but you've been well paid for it.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘So Cora, all that remains is for me to thank you and bid you farewell.'

‘Goodbye, Ned.' She looked up at him. ‘Yer won't come looking for me again, will you?'

He shook his head. ‘There's not the slightest chance.'

Oliver watched her go. Only yesterday, a letter from Johnnie had again been full of Selena's charms and as the daughter of a respected landowner she would be an excellent match for him. Cora's days as Johnnie's mistress were coming to an end and when they did, so would her last tenuous link with himself.

He turned and as he began to walk briskly back along the road, before him rose an image of Helena, not as he had last seen her – white-faced and tearful – but smiling in the sunshine. He planned to take her on holiday at the beginning of winter, perhaps to Madeira. Foreign climes always provided a tonic and there was no reason why there in the soft and balmy air she should not conceive again.

His thoughts racing ahead, he soon reached the shabby hotel, inserted in the entrance door his late-night key and went swiftly up the narrow stairs. He again met no one; sometimes he wondered if he was the only guest.

Once in his room Oliver divested himself of the hated trousers, jacket and the soiled shirt and tossed them on to the counterpane. The heavy shoes he put aside. Once dressed in his own well-fitting clothes, he retrieved the leather weekend bag from behind the curtain and packed everything in it, including the satchel, before snapping shut the clasp. Feeling complacent, he glanced in the cracked mirror to smooth his fair hair and moustache, and it took one glance around the dingy room to check that he had left nothing behind.

In the lobby, despite having paid his bill in advance, he placed an envelope containing a generous sum in a drawer of the desk. Silence could always be bought. His room key he placed on top.

Then as always he waited until he was some distance away before flagging down a hansom cab.

The driver's voice was gruff and tired as he queried Oliver's call. ‘Where on the Embankment, guvnor?'

‘It doesn't matter. Anywhere will do.'

The leather upholstery smelt of tobacco, the horse went at a spanking trot along the almost deserted roads and Oliver felt an almost unnatural sense of calm. When later he began to walk beside the Thames there were few people about, the only noise coming from the river's water traffic. Once certain that he was unobserved, he opened the leather bag. The boots were first to be flung over the parapet and despite the steep drop he heard a satisfying plop. Taking great care with his aim, he followed with the shirt and jacket. Then a few minutes later having walked further along, into the flow of dank water went the trousers.

Oliver continued on his way, giving a courteous nod to the few people he passed. He was thoughtful. An odd item of sodden clothing would be a common sight, but if the leather bag didn't sink, it would attract attention. Inside was the satchel, but something heavier? Distracted and conscious of time passing, Oliver took out his watch, its gold casing glinting beneath a streetlamp as he gazed down. The hour was later than he had thought; he should be returning to Faraday House. He moved nearer to the grass verge, his gaze searching beneath the trees for stones. And it was then that he heard soft footfalls behind him.

He tensed but the shadow was already looming, bringing with it a crawling fear. Oliver swung round but the first blow came swift and vicious as a fist smashed into his face. A second came to his chest and then he felt the coldness of steel, piercing and cruel as the sharp blade twisted beneath his ribs. Gasping in pain, he collapsed, only for hands to tear the leather bag from his grasp, to invade his body; snatching his watch, his wallet, his rings. There came the sound of running footsteps retreating and, left in a crumpled heap, Oliver lay in agony, a warm and heavy stickiness seeping through his clothes, a frightening weakness in his limbs. Into his mouth came the desolate and acrid taste of failure. He would leave behind no son, no heir. Faint voices came in the distance, growing nearer, but he knew it was too late, already he could feel his life blood ebbing away.