With This Kiss (12 page)

He nodded. “A bit of insurance that the family legends will be passed on from generation to generation, I suppose. I’ll relate them to you another time if you like. Our own portrait will have to be done as well. I thought of engaging Thomas Fike for the position, unless you have someone else you might recommend.”

His words brought a frown to her lips. Although Thomas Pike was an artist of great renown, Julia couldn’t quite imagine herself and Morgan standing side by side, peering down at succeeding generations like ancient exemplars of matrimonial happiness and duty.

Misinterpreting her expression, Morgan said, “If his work doesn’t suit you, there are any number of artists who—”

“No, I have no objection to Mr. Fike at all,” she assured him. “It’s just that…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “That seems so… permanent, doesn’t it?”

“Marriages generally are. Perhaps someone should have warned you about that before you entered into this arrangement.”

This time there was no mistaking his deliberate baiting. Refusing to display any reaction to his words, she eyed him coolly, and then turned her attention to what appeared to be the most recent of the portraits.

“Your parents?” she guessed.

“Yes.”

She scanned the portrait but found no hint as to the nature or temperament of the couple portrayed. Although the work had been commissioned when the man and woman were young, there was no sign of youthful gaiety on their faces. Instead they stared at the viewer with expressions of stodgy pomposity. They were posed in a library, sitting in stiffly backed chairs, distinctly apart from one another. No further clues were offered as to their temperament or their lives.

“What were they like?” she asked.

“Imperious and aristocratic.”

Julia’s first thought was that he was teasing her again, throwing back her own observation about him in her face. A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it disappeared at his stony expression. As usual, his gray eyes were cool and unfathomable. A dark and foreboding image of the future suddenly loomed before her. She couldn’t imagine herself ever growing closer to the man she had taken for her husband. They would forever be strangers, sharing a relationship that was polite but empty.

In that instant she experienced a sudden urgency to be under way, desperate for any action that might divert her stark thoughts. Forcing a tone of cheerful purpose, she said, “I believe the groomsman brought the coach around some minutes ago.”

Morgan didn’t move. “Did he?”

“Yes. And the horses too.”

“How very thorough of the man.”

“I believe they’re waiting. Just for us.” When the statement still provoked no action on his part, she urged, “We should go.”

Finally he straightened. “By all means, princess. Heaven forbid we keep the horses waiting.”

The Blue Kettle was located on Chanhurst Lane, a narrow, unlovely street shadowed by tall tenement buildings with pockmarked brick facades. A chaotic mix of women running errands, children playing, dogs barking, babies shrieking, and men selling everything from fish and milk to bones and rags jammed the lane. The stench of rotting refuse hung in the air. Wet laundry, hampered by the lack of sunlight and fresh air, dripped soured suds from clotheslines that had been stretched between buildings. A miscellany of carts and wagons choked the street. As was the case with most sections of London’s East End, life was bare and exposed.

Julia and Morgan had sent their driver away some blocks ago, having decided to continue their journey on foot. That decision had been reached partly out of concern for appearances — it-would not do for a scullery maid and a chimney sweep to descend from a coach as regal as that of Morgan’s — and partly out of pure logistics: the vehicle was simply too broad to navigate the narrow streets.

Julia deftly lifted her skirts to dodge a particularly offensive pile of refuse. Having spent the past several years visiting the haunts of the servants who worked for London’s elite, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the squalor that surrounded them. But she doubted Morgan St. James had ever been exposed to London’s cruder side. Men of his class rarely ventured beyond their manicured gardens and private clubs and thus were perfectly comfortable blaming the poor for the abysmal conditions in which they lived. Curious to see if Morgan fit that same mold, she cast a surreptitious glance at his face as they walked. She searched for signs of repulsion or contempt but found nothing in his gaze but remote indifference.

At last they came to the shop he had been seeking. No distinct sign welcomed them, just a tin teakettle that had been thickly coated with chipped blue paint. The door was propped open. The sounds of raised voices and laughter, the scuffing of chairs, and the clatter of dishes drifted out from within the shop. Julia nodded to Morgan, then stepped inside. After taking a moment to adjust her eyes to the dimness of the interior, she scanned the room for Sarah Montgomery.

Their arrival was poorly timed. It being noon, the small tea shop swarmed with men and women taking a brief break from their labors, making it difficult to see through the crowds. Nevertheless they had arrived, and there was nothing to be done now but proceed as best as they could. With that in mind she gave Morgan a brief nod and moved through the stuffy room. The long plank tables were crowded with workers hunched over their food; there wasn’t a chair to be had. Standing room was available in a far corner, however, and it was there that they stationed themselves. A stout woman with a floppy mobcap and no-nonsense manner approached them and recited the special of the day in a flat monotone: baked cod and fried potatoes. Julia asked for tea and a biscuit, Morgan requested ale. The woman nodded, removed dirty dishes from a shelf that protruded from the wall, and moved off.

Julia scanned the room, convinced that they had missed Miss Montgomery completely. Then a movement near the front door caught her eye.

“That’s her,” she whispered to Morgan, indicating a pretty young woman with light brown hair.

Sarah Montgomery’s attire was simple but neat — a pale blue muslin gown trimmed with a touch of lace. She carried two cloth bags packed with what appeared to be a variety of produce, bread, and goods from the butcher. She moved through the crowds with a breezy familiarity, and then disappeared through an open door that led to the kitchens. Julia assumed that the woman had simply ducked inside to deposit her parcels before taking a seat for her midday meal, but when Miss Montgomery didn’t reappear after a few minutes, she turned to Morgan with a puzzled frown.

“Perhaps she does the marketing for this establishment as well,” he said.

“Yes, perhaps.”

A reasonable explanation, but one that didn’t quite feel right. Nor did it make sense that Miss Montgomery would spend her hard-earned wages on a meal. One of the distinct advantages of working as a kitchenmaid was the rather liberal opportunity one had to sample any number of leftovers, from soups and breads to the finest quality meats. Julia had learned to trust her instincts, and those instincts told her that something else was at play here.

Before she could speculate further as to Miss Montgomery’s doings, the serving woman reappeared and set down their tea and ale. With a word of thanks, Morgan pulled a billfold from his coat, extracted a pound note, and passed it to her. The woman took the note with some surprise, eyeing the rich leather billfold from which it had come. Then her gaze moved appraisingly over Morgan, as though to reconcile the money with the man from whom it had come. She seemed to brush the matter off with a mental shrug, for she dug deep into her apron pocket for the proper change, passed Morgan the coins, and moved off without a word.

“That was foolish,” Julia reproved softly.

“Paying for our beverages?”

“The manner in which you paid,” she corrected. “You never know who might be watching. It isn’t wise to flash one’s money about so carelessly.”

An amused smile curved his lips. “I didn’t flash my money about. I merely removed my billfold and paid for our drinks.”

“Nevertheless, it’s hardly in keeping with your attire.”

He lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug, dismissing the topic.

Frustrated at his indifference, she glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed his gaffe. She was almost disappointed when she saw that his movement brought them no undue attention. Why wasn’t it glaringly obvious to everyone in the room that he didn’t belong? The fact was evident in more ways than the carelessness with which he displayed his billfold. It showed in the way Morgan moved, in his carriage, his mannerisms, his way of looking around the room and coolly sizing up the occupants. Nothing about him suggested a lifetime of meek servitude — regardless of his ragged attire.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to dwell on the matter, for Miss Montgomery chose that moment to reappear through the kitchen doors. Her hands were once again occupied, but not with the cumbersome cloth bags she had carried earlier. Now she held a young child against her hip. She sat down at a small table positioned in the hallway between the kitchens and the main dining area, a contented smile on her lips as she proceeded to bounce the little girl on her knee.

“Her daughter?” Morgan asked after a moment.

“It would appear so.”

“How old, do you suppose?”

Obviously he was performing the same arithmetic that was running through her mind. She sized the little girl up and replied, “Perhaps a year and a half, give or take a month or so.”

“Yes. That was my estimate as well.”

Which would have made Miss Montgomery approximately three months with child when the fire occurred. So there it was. They stood together in deflated silence, mulling over this newest bit of information. That explained the distraught, frightened stage Julia had found the woman in two years ago. She had taken a lover and had been carrying his child. Her nerves had been excitable because of her own private condition — a condition that had nothing whatsoever to do with Lazarus or Lord Webster’s fire.

Again, Morgan’s thoughts were clearly running along the same lines, for he said, “Very good. We came all this way to discover that a young parlormaid left London to hide an illegitimate-child. Shocking. I do hope you’ll make room for this unprecedented bit of news in your next column.”

His tone of dry amusement immediately served to set Julia’s nerves on edge.

She took a sip of her tea, and then set the cup down with deliberate care. “I must go and speak with her.”

Startled surprise showed on Morgan’s face. “What do you intend to say?” he demanded. “‘Pardon me, but is your daughter a bastard? Furthermore, is that the reason you left London two years ago, or was it due to some nefarious connection to the fire that occurred on your employer’s property?’”

Julia gave a cool shrug. “All we have at this point are conjectures and assumptions. Miss Montgomery is the only person who can tell us whether those assumptions are correct.”

She turned away before he could offer an argument and headed in the direction of the kitchens. But as she moved through the crowded room, she wondered what on earth she would say to the woman. Direct confrontation had never been her style. Nearly every word that went into her column had been obtained through friendly gossip or casual eavesdropping. But Morgan’s words had goaded her into action. Perhaps her instincts about Miss Montgomery had been entirely misguided, perhaps not. She wasn’t leaving until she knew for certain.

All too soon she found herself standing before Sarah Montgomery’s table. The woman was younger than Julia remembered, perhaps as young as eighteen or nineteen. Two pair of wide blue eyes stared up at her with open curiosity as she paused before them. The resemblance between mother and daughter was even more striking up close.

“Can I help you?” Sarah asked with a puzzled smile.

“I hope so, Miss Montgomery.” She hesitated a moment, still searching for words, then continued in a voice she hoped sounded softly reassuring. “I’d like to speak to you about Lord Webster’s fire.”

Sarah Montgomery’s smile abruptly faded. “I see.” For a long moment the young woman didn’t speak, nor did she move. Then she bent her head and kissed her daughter softly on the cheek. “You’ll be a good little girl for Mrs. Lowry until Mama can come and get you, won’t you?”

The little girl bobbed her head up and down.

“Run along then, sweetums. Mama’ll be back soon.” The little girl threw her chubby arms around her mother’s neck and gave her a quick hug, then climbed off her lap and tottered away toward the kitchen.

“You have a beautiful daughter,” Julia said.

Sarah nodded flatly, making it clear her mind was no longer on her daughter. Instead her gaze moved over Julia in open appraisal, taking in her face and attire. Apparently somewhat comfortable with what she saw, she gestured to a chair across from her. “Please.”

“Thank you.” Julia sat.

The younger woman studied her curiously. “I don’t think I know you.”

“My name is Miss Prentisse,” Julia replied, automatically using her maiden name. “You and I met once before, very briefly, after the fire.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I didn’t think you would. That was a very difficult time.”

“Yes.”

Heavy silence fell between them. Forcing a deliberately cheerful tone, Julia said, “This is rather awkward, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sarah matched her fleeting smile with one of her own. She fiddled with her hands for a long moment, then looked up and said, “I always knew that someday someone would want to talk to me about that fire. I didn’t think it would be someone like you. I was afraid it would be someone coming to arrest me for… some of the things I said about that night.”

Resisting the urge to immediately pounce on the young woman’s words, Julia replied instead, “I’m not here to arrest you.”

Sarah’s gaze moved once again over Julia’s drab clothing. “No, I didn’t think so.”

“The truth is, Miss Montgomery, I wouldn’t be here if I was simply prying into your affairs. But there were so many people hurt in the fires, and I don’t mean to see it happen again. The problem is, I’m afraid it’s already started.”