The Silent Orphan Read online

  But then, Abigail Gresham had always had the ability to leave him unsettled, the ability to render him sleepless.

  The day of the funeral, the household was a mess. The kitchen maids were wailing from the moment they had climbed out of bed and the cook burned Abigail’s breakfast eggs.

  “It seems my staff are in chaos,” she told him calmly when Gid finally carried her breakfast tray into the dining room. Her voice was calm and controlled, bordering, perhaps, on irritated.

  “They’re upset over the funeral,” Gid told her needlessly.

  Abigail said nothing. She watched as Gid filled her tea cup. “My new housekeeper,” she said, “When is she starting?”

  “Monday, Miss Gresham,” Gid told her. “It didn’t seem quite fitting that we fill poor Mrs Graham’s position the moment she was in her grave.” He gave her a small smile. “Do you think we might manage well enough without a housekeeper for two more days?”

  Abigail gave an enormous sigh. “If we must, we must, I suppose.” She looked up at him with doe eyes. “I’m sure you’ll keep the household together for me, won’t you, mute?”

  He bobbed his head, “Of course, Miss Gresham. Of course.”

  And after breakfast, there she was, descending the stairs in her mourning gown, a veil pulled down alluringly over her face. At the sight of her, Gid was a boy again, his words tangled on his tongue and his mouth going dry.

  Abigail Gresham was undoubtedly, otherworldly beautiful. But was it odd, Gid wondered, that he found her most attractive when she was draped head to toe in mourning attire? No odder, he decided, than being more than a little excited about attending an old woman’s funeral.

  Abigail stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for Gid to approach her. She looked up at him with eyes so mournful anyone would have guessed she had just lost her husband. “Mute,” she said softly. “Will you walk me to the carriage?”

  * * *

  It was a grey and overcast day. Perfect for a funeral, thought Gid. Droplets of rain splattered the windows of the carriage. They rattled through the streets towards James Corker’s funeral parlour; Abigail and Gid in the front coach, followed by the rest of the household. When they reached the undertaker’s, Corker and his assistants were waiting outside to meet them. They greeted each mourner in turn, murmuring their sympathies before ushering them gently inside.

  “And how are you holding up, Mr Cobbler?” Corker asked gently. Gid stared baffled for a moment, before he remembered he had claimed to be close to Mrs Graham.

  The coffin was sitting in the middle of the parlour, the wood polished until it glistened in the lamplight. The mute— a young man Gid guessed to be twelve or thirteen— stood guard beside the coffin, his eyes glassy and his body motionless.

  Abigail made her way around the parlour, taking in the ornately painted picture rail and enormous black hearth. The place had far more in common with the lavish entrance hall at Haverstock House than it did with the Flatleys’ drab parlour.

  She stood close to Gid’s shoulder. “This funeral must have been quite an expense,” she breathed. “I hope you didn’t empty my housekeeping fund.”

  Gid gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing too elaborate,” he said. “But nothing to make you look like a miserly employer.”

  Abigail murmured noncommittally. She glanced around the room. The only people present were the undertakers and the staff of Haverstock House.

  “How utterly miserable,” she said. “How can a woman live for so many years and have so few people to mourn her? What a sad state of affairs.” Suddenly she was close to Gid’s ear again. “When I die,” she said, her voice low, “Do you imagine there will be more mourners than this?” He heard an unexpected waver of uncertainty in her voice.

  He reached out surreptitiously to press a hand to her arm. “Of course, Miss Gresham,” he said softly. “It will be a sad day indeed when you are no longer with us. I’m sure the funeral parlour will be simply overflowing with people longing to see you one last time.” Gid refrained from mentioning names, simply because he couldn’t think of any. But his words seemed to have reassured Abigail. A tiny smile appeared in the corner of her mouth.

  “You will visit my grave, won’t you, mute?” she said in a breathy voice. “Every day.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you will lay a red rose upon it.”

  “A red rose,” he repeated. “Yes. Anything you wish.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Of course.”

  Satisfied, Abigail left him to continue her exploration of the Corkers’ parlour. Gid watched her as she walked. She seemed to glide across the floorboards, barely making a sound. As she passed the mute, he saw the boy’s eyes shift and follow her.

  Gid felt a wry smile in the corner of his lips. He couldn’t blame the mute, of course. Abigail was a vision, with her coloured eyes and hair glowing gold beneath her veil. She was impossible to look away from.

  Impossible not to speak to.

  What might have happened, Gid found himself wondering, if he had never spoken to Abigail that day. Would she have noticed him? Surely not. As a boy, he had been the most bland and forgettable of children. It was only his position as the mute who could speak that had made him at all memorable.

  Where would he be right now if he had not opened his mouth to console that girl who had just lost her mother? Surely he would not be the butler at Haverstock House. Most likely, he would have followed the Flatleys into poverty and ruin. Most likely, he’d be breaking rocks at the workhouse, sleeping among rats and eating gruel for every meal.

  He looked back at Abigail. She was looking back at the young mute. Was she trying to elicit a reaction from him, Gid wondered? He felt something knot inside him.

  He was grateful when two men dressed in black appeared and carried the coffin out to the hearse. They walked slowly and evenly, their footsteps clicking rhythmically. The mute strode out beside them, his lips pressed into a thin white line. Head down, Gid followed the undertaker out to the carriage to accompany the old woman to her grave.

  Chapter 23

  Gid heard the bell ring at the tradesmen’s entrance and hurried downstairs to answer.

  A young woman stood on the doorstep with her arms full of dress boxes.

  Gid’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Martha?”

  She smiled. “Gid. I wondered if I might see you here.” She held out the boxes. “Miss Gresham’s dresses, returned from the seamstress for repairs.”

  Gid grinned. In the wake of Groves’ departure, he had hired a new seamstress. He had not considered for a moment it might have been the woman for whom Martha worked. “Why have I not seen you before?” he asked. It had been months since he had changed suppliers.

  She held the dress boxes out to him. “Woman who used to do the deliveries got herself with child. Says she doesn’t want to do all the carrying no more.”

  Gid took the boxes from her arms and set them on the table. “I’m glad to see you.” His smile widened, surprised at how happy he was to see her. Happy too that she seemed to have forgotten his foolish behaviour at the market.

  She smiled. “I’m glad to see you too.”

  “Will you stay a while?” he blurted. “Have a little tea?”

  For a moment, Martha hesitated. Then she smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Gid led her into the house and ushered her into the kitchen. He could see Martha looking about her at the enormous polished range and overstocked pantry. What did she think of the place, he wondered? He knew Martha had never liked Abigail. Did she still think him a fool for having taken up a position in her household? But she said nothing. Just planted herself on a stool at the kitchen table and smiled up at Gid while he hunted through the pantry for the tea.

  Soon they were sitting opposite each other with a pot of tea in front of them. Martha wrapped her hands around her cup and took a small sip.

  “Ma passed away earlier this year,” she told Gid.

 
; He let out his breath. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  She gave a nod of thanks.

  He hesitated, “What happened?”

  “Fever,” she said. “In the winter. She’d been sick a while. Been suffering. In the end, I was glad it were over. Glad she weren’t in pain any more.”

  There was something new in her eyes, Gid noticed. A new steeliness, a new strength. Martha Flatley had always been strong— far stronger than him, at least— but the collapse of her family’s business and her mother’s death seemed to have given her a new, harder edge. She seemed somehow more confident, unflappable. More comfortable in her own skin. It made Gid smile.

  “And the twins?” he asked.

  Martha shrugged dismissively. “I’ve not seen them since Ma’s funeral. Last I heard they were gambling and thieving,” she snorted. “Don’t want a thing to do with either of them. All they’ve ever done is cause me trouble. I know I’m far better off without them.”

  Gid said nothing. He was glad Martha had untethered herself from her troublesome brothers. But he hated the thought of her being alone in the world.

  “You have friends?” he asked suddenly. “Colleagues?”

  Martha gave a short laugh. “Yes Gid, I have friends,” she touched his wrist. “There’s no need to worry for me. I’m doing just fine.”

  He smiled. He didn’t doubt it.

  She eyed him, “And you? Do you have friends?”

  He hesitated. Did he? Not really. There were the other workers at Haverstock House, of course, but they were little more than familiar faces at his supper table. And then there was Abigail. There were far too many reasons why she could not be called a friend either. Martha Flatley, he realised, was the only true friend he had ever had. And he had left her to watch her family’s business crumble while he stumbled blindly after the woman he was besotted with. He swallowed heavily. Forced a smile.

  “There’s no need to worry for me either,” he said throatily.

  Martha sipped her tea. “Good.” Suddenly her face broke into a smile. “I saw your horses!” she announced. “Midnight and Shadow!”

  Gid smiled, “They weren’t my horses.”

  She shrugged, “I know. But you loved them so. And they loved you. I saw them pulling the mailman’s cart.” She grinned. “The undertaker I sold them to, must have sold em on. I know it was them. I recognised them at once. They looked happy.”

  Gid chuckled, “Those horses terrified me at first. They were so big and black I felt sure they were going to eat me alive.”

  Martha smiled. “If I remember rightly, everything terrified you at first,” she laughed. “Especially my brothers.”

  Gid grinned, “I’m not sure what I was more afraid of; your brothers or the coffins.” He thought back to his first night at the Flatleys’, and the way he had traipsed so edgily through the workshop with the lantern in his hand.

  Just coffins, he had told himself. What had he been so afraid of?

  His heart had been beating so fast that night he had been afraid it would burst from his chest.

  With the tea finished, Gid walked Martha back to the tradesmen’s entrance. “Will I see you again?” he asked hopefully.

  Martha smiled, nodded. “Next time Miss Gresham sends her dresses for mending.”

  Gid returned her smile, “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Chapter 24

  That girl was here again, Abigail knew it. Gid Cobbler had disappeared into the kitchen with her and had not come out for more than an hour. The visits from that little seamstress were becoming far too regular for her liking. She wasn’t paying her butler to socialise. Especially not with other women.

  For the first half of the visit, Abigail had done her best to pretend it didn’t bother her. After all, the girl was nothing but a seamstress. But when Gid had remained closeted in the kitchen with her after more than half an hour, Abigail was forced to admit defeat to herself. She was feeling decidedly uneasy. She wanted to know who this seamstress was and why she had captured Gid’s attentions so.

  She made her way through the house and stood at the top of the stairs that led down into the servants’ quarters.

  No way in hell was she going to go down there, Abigail thought. She would not lower herself to such a level. Not even to find out what was going on in the kitchen. She turned away from the staircase and headed back towards her study. But before she reached her rooms, that gnawing feeling was back. She needed to know what was going on. And she would have to venture downstairs to find out. She lowered herself onto the top step, feeling it creak below her. What would she say to explain herself if she were to run into any of the staff? She pushed the thought away. She was the lady of the house. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone. If she wanted to float about in the servants’ quarters, then so be it.

  She made her way curiously down towards the kitchen. She could hear voices and laughter coming from behind the closed door. Gid’s laughter. Abigail bristled. She’d never heard him laugh like that around her. He sounded as though he was having fun. Anger made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. Suddenly, she very much did not want to be here. Did not want to have thought of what was going on between Gid and the seamstress in her kitchen.

  She marched back upstairs and paced across the parlour until she finally heard the tradesmen’s door slam.

  Immediately, she rang the bell for Gid. He appeared, though not as quickly as usual. Abigail planted a hand on her hip and gave him hard eyes. “That girl. Who is she?”

  “No one,” Gid said dismissively. “No one at all.”

  Abigail arched her eyebrows, “It didn’t look like no one.”

  “It’s Martha Flatley,” he told her after a moment. “We grew up together at the funeral parlour.” He paused. “Perhaps you remember her. She used to help her family conduct the funerals.”

  Abigail snorted. She remembered nothing of any Martha Flatley. From what she had seen of the girl through the window, she seemed plain and uninteresting. A girl with a forgettable name and an even more forgettable face.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her,” she told Gid sharply. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all these pots of tea and long chats.” Her voice was cold. She could feel herself beginning to lose her composure.

  Calm yourself, Abigail, she thought. Don’t lose your temper. Don’t lose the upper hand.

  Letting Gid see her anger would let him know Martha’s visits were bothering her. She could not let such a thing happen.

  Gid flashed her a smile that felt somehow both reassuring and patronising. “She’s a friend. Nothing more.”

  Abigail felt the anger inside her begin to bubble. How dare he patronise her! Who did this workhouse boy think he was? She had a good mind to ban the girl’s visits. Then Gid Cobbler would see who wielded the power.

  She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. Making the mute angry would accomplish nothing. No, she needed him on her side. Needed him as adoring and devoted as ever. Banning him from seeing the seamstress would only turn him away.

  Let him see this Martha Flatley, she decided. Let him see her plain face and her ragged clothes. And then let him come upstairs to the study and drink that fine brandy, all the while ogling at how beautiful, how fine the lady of this house was.

  Yes, Abigail thought, smiling to herself. That was the way to wipe the seamstress from Gid’s memory.

  She walked slowly across the parlour, her shoes making a loud, satisfying click. “Why settle for a lowly seamstress,” she said, standing close to him, “When you could have a woman like me?”

  She saw him swallow heavily. It bought a swell of satisfaction. The seamstress was nothing, she saw that now. Gid’s attentions had not wavered at all.

  He took a step closer. Looked into her eyes. “When?” he said, his voice low. “When am I to have a woman like you?” He clasped the top of her arm, running his fingers over her elbow, over her wrist. Abigail felt an unbidden shiver course through her. Ther
e was something undeniably pleasant about the feel of him. She tightened her jaw, refusing to let him see how his touch had affected her.

  She gave him a thin, controlled smile. Batted her lashes and stood close so he could look deep into her blue and green eyes. He had always been fascinated by her eyes, she knew. “Soon,” she promised, planting a delicate kiss on the edge of his jaw. “Very soon.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later Gid awoke with a smile on his face. Today Martha was due to pick up some more of Abigail’s dresses for mending.

  He had found himself looking forward to her visits. Found himself looking forward to their chats, their reminiscing. Martha was upfront, honest, said things how they were. She was intelligent, she was funny, she was wise. She was a welcome relief from the beautiful exhaustion of Abigail.

  But when she appeared at the tradesmen’s entrance that morning, her eyes were clouded, and her smile was forced.

  Gid took the dress boxes from her arms and ushered her inside. “What’s happened?”

  She shook her head, “Nothing’s happened. Everything’s fine.”

  Gid frowned. No, he knew her too well to let her get away with this fib. With a gentle hand on her back, he led her into the kitchen and hung the kettle over the range.

  She sat in silence as they waited for it to boil. Finally, with her hands wrapped around a cup, she admitted, “Able and Arthur came to see me last night.”

  Gid felt his stomach knot.

  “I’ve not seen them in almost a year,” she said. “I’ve no idea how they knew how to find me.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “They’ve been watching me, I suppose. I can’t imagine for how long.” She shivered. Gid pressed a hand to her shoulder.