Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) (10 page)

Her defiant glance fooled no one, but it was the best she could manage. She did feel steadier as she went up the stairs to her bedroom, however.

 

The next day, Matilda and Gawain, in the Redcakes’ best carriage, pulled up in front of a row house near Grosvenor Square. She had dressed in a black coat, feeling already in mourning. If she could make Mr. Bliven understand her pain, surely he would tell her where he was keeping Jacob. She didn’t discount the idea that her baby was being kept in a Gipsy camp, just thought that Mr. Bliven was behind it. With his dark eyes and mahogany curls, who was to say he hadn’t been hiding some Gipsy blood himself, despite his ties to an earldom?

Sleep had been hard to come by the night before. She kept wishing—imploring God, really—that Jacob would be in his bed by morning and this nightmare would all be over.

When Greggory had returned from another useless day of searching for the White Horse tavern, she’d sent Mrs. Miller to visit with Izabela’s mother again, but she hadn’t seen the girl. Mrs. Miller reported that the woman had seemed very frightened and properly concerned for her daughter’s well-being.

Truthfully, though, Matilda wondered about the character of a girl who had attracted three followers despite spending most of her time indoors, tending to a young child. It seemed absurd to be able to manage to attract three men with so little effort.

As Gawain helped her down the step, she wondered if it was only petty jealousy due to her having no suitors to Izabela’s three. No one had shown any proper interest in her . . . well, ever, really. She imagined a tall man next to her in this time of trial, someone like Ewan, her head leaning gratefully on his shoulder. It sounded lovely to have support like that, yet it wouldn’t make the situation any better, not really. Not when Jacob was missing.

She pressed her glove to her mouth, stifling a moan as they went to the door of the house. Gawain checked her face, his expression passive.

“Hold it together, Matilda. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

She glanced away, not wanting to ask what he’d meant. After this, he’d probably go home to Battersea and kiss little Noel and be so very grateful he wasn’t her. Her bitter thoughts carried her past the parlor maid who opened the door and allowed them into a waiting room, then a male servant who took them up two flights of stairs, past the public rooms and into a private section of the house. She didn’t listen to anything Gawain said, but as they went down the hall, she smelled strange animal odors that had no place in a properly run house. Blood and waste and old food.

Gawain stopped in front of the open door instead of following the servant in. He wrapped his hand around Matilda’s upper arm. “Buck up, old girl. He isn’t what you remember.”

She frowned at him and wrenched her arm away. Didn’t he realize that the worst thing had already happened to her? She was wrapped in the cotton wool of horror already.

Ignoring his presence in the doorway, she stepped around him and slid into the room. The stench of the sickroom hit hard. Not just the animal smells but camphor and lavender and laudanum. Coal and smoke, too, which seemed to hover under the ceiling thanks to an unopened window and insufficient flue.

She approached the bed, ignoring all of this. The figure under a white sheet and multiple wool blankets was unrecognizable. Patches of scalp showed under graying, curly hair. Cheekbones and the overall shape of the skull were visible. The mouth was the dried rictus of a mummy. But the papery eyelids fluttered open and she recognized those eyes.
Theodore Bliven.

Oh, God
. She put her hand to her mouth. This man was far too ill to scheme. To think, he’d wanted to marry her and manage the Redcake’s factories when this was his fate. He’d already been ill then, but nothing like this.

“Can you speak?” she whispered.

His corpse’s head moved restlessly on his pillow. She noted the incongruously cheerful yellow daisies embroidered along the open edge of the pillowcase. “Ears buzzing.”

She raised her voice. “Mr. Bliven, it is Matilda Redcake.”

His eyelids fluttered. He still had thick eyelashes, though his eyebrows were wispy, threaded with gray. “Matilda?”

“Yes. I came to see you about Jacob.”

His arms were bent, his fingers placed along the top of the sheet, which was folded over the blankets. They fluttered. “My son.”

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“Two and a half.”

“It’s been more than three years since you loved me.” His lips curved upward, and she was afraid they would crack open. “Why visit me now when . . .”

She wondered what he meant to say, but it seemed he had fallen asleep.

Behind her, Gawain exhaled and put his hand on her shoulder. They had become close in a way they never had been since he had helped teach her the business. Over time, she knew her older brother had learned to respect her. His irritation and disgust had turned to a grudging admiration and friendship. She welcomed the comfort he offered, now that she realized the gravity of her situation.

“I’ll marry him now,” she said, remembering what her mother had said. “Take responsibility for burying him.”

“He won’t last long enough for that. Malaria, you know.”

“We can afford the special license,” Matilda said. “Would it give him comfort?”

Bliven’s eyes opened a fraction of an inch. “Want to see Jacob.”

“He’s gone,” Matilda said, her voice catching. She could say no more.

“Not dead,” Bliven whispered, his dry gray tongue touching the center of his lip as if to try to moisten it.

The servant leaned over the edge of the bed and attempted to spoon water into Bliven’s mouth. Most of it went down the side of his lips onto the pillow, but it seemed to restore the dying man.

“Not dead,” Gawain rasped. “Missing. Kidnapped.”

“Who?” Bliven’s eyelids fluttered.

“We don’t know. The nanny disappeared, too. We’ve had a ransom note but no real details yet.”

“Not me,” Bliven said in a faint whisper. “I don’t need money. I have plenty.”

“I know,” Gawain said. “That was a good shipment you brought me.”

“And my corpse, ready for burial,” Bliven said, a hint of his old humor showing.

“Do you want a wife?” Gawain asked. “Matilda will marry you now.”

“Very kind of you,” Bliven murmured, “but find Jacob. That’s important. I left money.” He frowned.

Matilda glanced at Gawain. He shrugged.

“My will,” Bliven continued. “Money to Jacob.”

Matilda sighed. Her son had no need for money. Their son. “Our marriage would help his prospects.”

“Then do it. I have a cousin who is a vicar,” Bliven said, the words slowly spaced. The servant leaned over with another spoonful of water.

“He can’t take food anymore.” The servant and Gawain shared a significant glance.

Matilda frowned. She knew the end was near. And she needed to get back to Bristol. If they could marry today, or after Jacob was found, she would do it, but otherwise Bliven himself was correct. She needed to focus on the search for her son. If he wasn’t responsible, who was?

 

An hour later, they had consulted with Theodore’s cousin, Hiram Bliven, who owned the house and had taken responsibility for him in his illness, and had him send for his younger vicar brother, who was somewhere in Surrey. Gawain went to inquire about a special license. Matilda found herself dropped off at the loading dock in the back alley of Redcake’s, with orders to eat something so she could get through the day. She intended to telephone Bristol and check on her family.

When she reached the manager’s office, she found Ewan Hales at his desk, though it was Saturday afternoon and he probably had the afternoon off.

She felt her back stiffen. “Mr. Hales.”

He swiveled in his chair, his hair flopping over his brow. “Miss Redcake!” He leaped to his feet.

“I wanted to use your telephone.”

He peered at her. “Have you eaten? You’re white as milk. Better than gray, I suppose.”

She did feel her legs wobble, but whether it was from hunger, shock over Theodore Bliven’s appearance, or the sight of this man, who had so insulted her, and in her own home, too, she could not say.

“Sit down, Miss Redcake. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She heard rapid footsteps as he went into the hallway, and he was back in under two minutes.

“There. I asked a messenger boy to run downstairs to fetch you a tray. Everything that’s been going on has taken the wind out of you, and no surprise.”

“I am amazed you are being kind.”

He frowned. “I hope I would always be so, Miss Redcake.”

She scoffed.

“I am sorry for what I said to your brother. I was trying to be thorough. It’s part of my position, you understand; to anticipate problems and prevent them.”

Her hands shook as she tucked one over the other across her chest. “You thought I might have a lover because I let you kiss me?”

“I am sorry,” he said again.

“You think I have loose morals,” she said, louder.

“I don’t know you well, Miss Redcake.”

Her brain seemed to tilt when she turned her head from side to side. “It was only the one time, you know. One indiscretion with a man I thought would marry me. Everything happened because of that one time. It’s not so rare, you know. People do indulge themselves. Not everyone is so spectacularly unlucky. I’m sure you have engaged in such activities.”

From the way his eyebrows rose, she suspected she had gone much too far. “Miss Redcake.”

“Why did you kiss me?” she asked, closing her eyes.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Does it offend you to know that I scarcely remember? It feels like it happened a century ago.”

“That’s why I asked.” She sighed. “I don’t remember either.”

He cleared his throat. “Any word on your son? I dearly wanted to stay in Bristol.”

“I know you did, and I appreciate that, Mr. Hales.” She had no energy for anger at him anymore. “No word since the ransom note. I was so sure Jacob’s father was behind everything, but he’s dying.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. We were just there. Such a handsome, laughing rogue of a man. He was a school friend of my sister Alys’s husband. He was meant to be one of her suitors, but he liked me better. I was such a fool. A friend of ours from finishing school—she’s Lady Bricker now—told me how to get him to propose, and I thought Alys had done the same with her husband.” Her laugh sounded hollow. “It turned out Mr. Bliven already had a fiancée. My father is usually more thorough in his investigations.”

“You thought he was a true suitor.”

“Yes. We weren’t used to suitors. We didn’t know any better.”

A knock came at the door, and Mr. Hales leapt up to answer it, then returned carrying a tray. “Let us get some food into you and we shall decide how to proceed.”

He poured a generous amount of milk into her cup, then added tea. No sugar. He had remembered her preference.

M
atilda stared at Mr. Hales’s head, bent over the tray. He looked up with a smile and handed her the tea.

“Here, drink this, then your soup should be cool enough to eat. Cream of mushroom today.”

Her hand shook slightly as she took the cup. Would this be how she remembered this time in the future? Every hand offering her endless cups of tea and no hope? She downed the beverage as quickly as possible, thinking she might become a coffee drinker when Jacob came home. If he ever did. And if he didn’t, she might just throw herself into the River Avon.

“You are thinking too hard,” Mr. Hales observed.

She emptied her teacup and handed it to him. “I am going to marry Mr. Bliven, if he can last long enough for Gawain to obtain a special license.”

“What good will that do?”

She took a biscuit from the tray and stared at it. “It will be better for Jacob.”

“And for you?”

Her mind went blank. How could she explain how desperately she’d wanted Mr. Bliven, then how desperately she’d avoided him? “It won’t matter very much to me, not at this time. I’ll be a widow soon enough.”

He took a biscuit, reminding her to bite into her own. “What about mourning?”

The rich chocolate and marmalade topping soothed her throat enough for her to swallow the dry texture underneath. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She stared down. Her skirt was a muted red and blue tartan. She’d have to wear black for a couple of years, but that would only make her more severe-looking, not a bad thing. Terrible for her complexion, but then she wouldn’t be hunting for a husband. “It will be fine. I don’t care.”

“You are clearly a woman who would do anything for her child.” His gaze was sympathetic.

She didn’t want him to think she was a martyr. “No, I wouldn’t marry him before. He came back, you see, wanted to marry me then, and I refused. About a year ago, a little longer than that. Before he returned to India.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She worried her lip, tasted a stray fragment of orange peel. “He seemed mad. I was afraid to put myself under his power, and I was arrogant, thought Jacob and I were better off alone.” The biscuit turned into a rock in her stomach, weighing her down. “But it wasn’t true. Maybe if there was a male in my household Jacob wouldn’t have seemed such an easy target.”

Mr. Hales leaned forward. “He wouldn’t have done you any good. The nanny would have known he was bedridden, ill.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to believe him. “Are you sure?”

He took her hand, his own so warm that it seemed to add life to her skin. “Yes, Miss Redcake. I am sure. The opportunity would still have been there. What do you think, now that this avenue has been ruled out? Why was your son taken?”

She stared at his hand, the fine hairs covering the thick wrist, the ropy veins. Once she had thought such a hand in hers was her right. Then the only hand she could claim was a small child’s. And now, nothing. “I suppose it was just for the money. Gipsies are kidnappers. It is well known.”

“It is rumored. I do not know if it is true.” His hand squeezed and pulled away.

How she wanted a hand to hold hers again. She sat, doing nothing but breathing, remembering the feel of Jacob’s small, fragile hand in her palm. She had taken her son for granted, forgetting what a miracle he was.

“Miss Redcake?”

She glanced down, pulling the shreds of her professional personality over the frightened mother, and realized she had downed her biscuit. “So sorry, woolgathering. I think I can eat that soup now.”

He lifted the cloche off the bowl. “It is probably better eaten at my desk.”

She nodded and stood slowly, then reseated herself as he placed the bowl of steaming white soup on his desk, on top of a closed ledger. His presence loomed at her back as he pushed her chair toward the desk and handed her a spoon.

“Lord Judah is coming back on Monday and will retake the reins of the enterprise,” he said, as he came to the side of the desk and placed his hand on the shelf. “But between my duties here I took the time to go over to Douglas Flour and test some samples.”

“And?”

“I specifically asked to test the flour sacks earmarked for us in Bristol. It was all bad. I didn’t have time to check any other flour sacks, but the manager said he’d look into it. Obviously, if it is all bad we won’t be able to reorder until the problem is fixed. I’ll take a look at their books next week to see how they do things. Is our flour batched separately from other factories’ and so forth. I wonder if yours was sabotaged on purpose because we were experimenting here in London with the Liverpool supplier.”

“I’m sure you know what to do. I’ll leave you in charge.”

“That’s the thing, Miss Redcake. You see, I am in charge. Of the factories. I’m going to stay in London and oversee the earl’s businesses here. So I’ll be leaving Redcake’s.”

She’d never see his hand holding hers again either. The thought hurt more than it should, considering the fact that, so recently, he’d been nothing more than a too-handsome, too-rakish secretary, an underling, a subordinate. “I suppose I knew that. It will be strange, though. You are such a fixture here, Mr. Hales.”

“Like a piece of furniture.” He didn’t smile.

She kept her eyes on her soup as she fished out a piece of mushroom. “I hope you don’t think I feel that way.”

She glanced up as she swallowed. Far from his usual obsequious yet ultimately blank expression, she saw a hint of pain, a faint line between his brows. She felt the need to reassure him. Had she just seen a first crack of vulnerability in the handsome secretary’s face? “I know better now. Other than you thinking I’m a woman of loose morals, you’ve been very supportive and kind to me.”

“How could I be anything but, under the circumstances?” He sounded confused.

“You could have ignored the situation, ignored everything that wasn’t a part of your paid duties.”

“I’ve worked for your family too long for that.”

“I’ll think of you as a friend now.” Her voice caught. “If that is acceptable to you.”

His hand pressed gently on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, soaking in his touch, and when she opened them again, he’d stepped back.

A knock came at the door. She ignored the conversation, focusing on her soup, liking the warmth that filled her stomach.

“Sir Gawain has news,” Mr. Hales said, coming to her side again. “There are so few places to get a special license, and it won’t be possible until next week.”

“I see.” She nodded. “I suppose I won’t be getting married, then.”

“A week’s delay?”

“It will be too late for Mr. Bliven. It’s just one more thing I cannot do for Jacob.”

“There are more important things to do for him now.”

“Like finding him?” She had spoken without taking a breath, heard the shrill pitch in her voice.

“Don’t become hysterical, Miss Redcake. You said we are friends, correct? Then please give my poor choice of words the best possible interpretation.”

She sniffed. “Of course. I can do no less.”

“Sir Gawain is downstairs, ready to take you back to the train station.”

She nodded and pushed back her chair, and forced herself to face him, hold out her hand. Instead of shaking it like a man, he took her hand between both of his. She shuddered at the warmth, the touch. Good heavens, she was starving for it. “Best of luck to you with your new endeavors. We shall miss you terribly.”

“You will?” The left side of his mouth tilted up. She hadn’t noticed how lopsided his smile could be.

“Yes. If your position ever brings you to Bristol, I hope you will stop by.”

“Miss Redcake, I want to help you.”

She didn’t want to cry. “You will. Fixing the flour will protect my job, keep my company’s—my family’s—reputation in good standing. If we start losing customers, we’ll lose money, and what if we couldn’t pay the ransom?”

He nodded, sobered by that. “I will do everything I can, and stay in touch with you besides.”

“Greggory will have to be in the office Monday, even if I cannot. Please let one of us know what you find out.”

“Very well. Have a safe journey home.” He squeezed her hands again, then released them.

She felt like a corpse walking as she left the office. Home to more disappointment, more emptiness, more fear. Where was Jacob?

 

On Monday, Ewan went to Redcake’s very early, but he found Lord Judah Shield there even earlier still. He’d stepped onto the street just after sunrise, but Lord Judah must have walked over in the dark.

His manager smiled at him from his office doorway and said, “Why don’t you fetch us up a pot of tea and some of those nut scones and we’ll catch up? I haven’t dined yet.”

Ewan knew he wouldn’t be able to eat. He’d made himself oatmeal over the fire that morning in his room and had barely managed two bites. Besides, he had meetings at Douglas Flour at eleven
A.M.
He noted that Lord Judah had his diary of events open on his desk and knew most of the catching up could be done from his notes, so he nodded and went back downstairs.

The late round of bakery deliveries was just going out and it was nearly seven thirty before he made it back upstairs with a teapot and fresh-made scones, still too warm for their sugar glaze. He set the tray down on the table between the armchairs in Lord Judah’s office for the last time, and poured the tea.

The telephone rang and his ears pricked. He went to answer it, hoping for news of Jacob Bliven. He’d fretted in his room all Sunday, closed off from the telephone at Redcake’s, wishing he could go to Bristol instead of preparing for his new life; making sure his clothing was spotless, doing some marketing, touching up where his landlady had left surfaces less than gleaming. By the end, his room might have been freshly moved into, it was so clean, and his clothing was in perfect repair, plus he’d spent money on a nearly new overcoat, all the better for protecting his suits from dust and soot on the trains. He’d ordered a new pair of shoes as well, from the cobbler who lived in his building. His best pair of shoes was too scuffed to take polish perfectly anymore.

The telephone call was from a restaurant with an emergency order. It should have come in downstairs, but Ralph Popham must not be answering the telephone yet. The poor man worked all hours, not seeming to have any kind of home life despite his daughter still being unmarried and living with him.

If he’d had to peg a woman for having an illegitimate child it would have been Betsy Popham, not Matilda Redcake, at least until he’d learned to know Matilda better. That kiss they had shared was pure fire, more passionate than anything with Betsy, even though they’d been far more intimate. If he hadn’t been so busy, he’d have become obsessed with reliving that kiss and scheming how to have another. On Saturday, though, he’d contented himself with touching her. She had not been ready for kisses. He wondered if they would meet in a few years. He, an earl, she, an established spinster running the Redcake’s factory. Would she consent to be his mistress then?

“Run downstairs, would you, Ewan?” Lord Judah asked, behind his desk now. “Turn in the order, tell Simon Hellman to send it over, find out where Mr. Popham is?”

Ewan knew if he did that the day would erupt into its usual Monday chaos. “I really need to speak to you, sir.”

“You know Mondays are not a good time,” Lord Judah said, staring at the towering stacks of information for him to follow up on. “Particularly today.”

“Yes, sir, but that is the problem. Your Monday is going to take a much worse turn.” Ewan folded his arms over his chest.

Lord Judah narrowed his uniquely striated amber and brown gaze at him, stood up from his desk, and went to his favorite armchair, then deliberately poured himself a cup of tea. Ewan was reminded that this man had been a military officer. When the battle was at its most heated was when a man like him became calm.

He waited until Lord Judah took his first sip, then sat down opposite him.

“What?”

Ewan unfolded his arms and spread his fingers over his thighs. “I am the heir to the Earl of Fitzwalter, courtesy of Lord Ritten’s recent death.”

“Scandalous something or other, what?” Lord Judah commented, finishing his first cup of tea and pouring another.

“That is not my point.”

Lord Judah’s eyes, so reminiscent of a tiger’s-eye stone, caught a ray of sunlight and gleamed gold for an instant. His lips curved. “I would imagine not. I had no idea you were so closely related to an earl. Sir Bartley never mentioned it.”

“He didn’t know any more than I did. But the problem is, I have to start work in a family business today. Ironically, it is one of the Redcake’s suppliers. I am going to oversee various businesses, including Douglas Flour, which has shipped the factories bad product recently.”

“So your fortunes are still intertwined with ours.”

“Precisely. I am also deeply concerned about Matilda Redcake, and I’d like to resolve the flour issue from the Douglas end; that is one less issue for her to worry about.”

“Don’t you mean you are concerned about her missing son?”

Ewan was silent. Lord Judah set down his teacup and nodded to himself. “I see. So you are interested in Matilda.”

Ewan let out a breath.

“I cannot tell you how unhappy all of this makes me. I never should have left the office. So often in the army you could take a leave of months and nothing would happen, but in business that does not seem to be the case.” Lord Judah ran a finger over his lower lip.

“No, sir.”

Lord Judah held out his hand. “It seems we are to be colleagues.”

Ewan hesitated, then took the proffered hand and shook it.

Lord Judah grinned. “Good luck with Matilda. You are going to need it.”

“She needs support, not a lover.”