The Silent Orphan Page 12

  Perhaps it was the curse of being a beautiful woman, Abigail thought with a sigh. Perhaps she was destined for men to see nothing more in her than an unforgettable face.

  She marched up the front path of Haverstock House. At least she would see the mute. She would ask him to recount his conversation with Martha Flatley yesterday.

  And what did you tell her?, she would say, her eyes wide and curious, as though she were hearing the news for the first time. Did you tell her you loved me? And how did the poor girl take the news?

  But it was her new housekeeper, Mrs White, who met her at the door. The woman was shuffling her weight from one foot to the other and chewing her colourless bottom lip.

  “If you please, Miss Gresham,” she said shyly, “I need to speak with you about the housekeeping fund.”

  Abigail sighed. “Why? You know all requests to access the fund should go through Mr Cobbler. I’m not to be bothered with such trivialities. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  The woman wrung her apron into a knot. “That’s the thing, Miss Gresham. When I asked Mr Cobbler for money to go to the butcher’s, he told me there was not enough this week. He told me I was to wait until next Thursday to buy the lamb,” she looked down. “And I know you specifically requested lamb after your meeting tonight.”

  Abigail’s irritation intensified. The thought of lamb for supper was all that had drawn her through that cursed meeting. And now there was to be none? She clenched her jaw. Forced herself to focus on more pressing issues. “Mr Cobbler told you the fund was empty?”

  Mrs White nodded, “Yes miss. Just this morning.”

  “I see,” Abigail waved a hand to dismiss the woman and sat on the edge of an armchair in the parlour, her brow creased in thought. She was unable to help the knot of anxiety that was forming in her stomach. She had been taken advantage of before. Been stolen from before. But surely, Gid Cobbler would never dare to do such a thing?

  She knew the way he felt about her. Of course he would never steal from her.

  But there ought to have been plenty of money in the housekeeping fund… Certainly enough to buy a leg of lamb for her supper. Her thoughts knocked together.

  She needed to see him.

  She rang the bell. When Gid appeared, she climbed from the chair to face him and smoothed her dark woollen skirts.

  He gave her that crooked smile she had grown so fond of. No, she thought again, Gid Cobbler would certainly never steal from her. He just didn’t have it in him. Gid Cobbler was no more than a puppy dog.

  But she would not let this incident slide. She would not let herself be taken advantage of by anyone. Something untoward was going on with her housekeeping fund and she was determined to find out what.

  “Mrs White has just informed me that you denied her request to access the housekeeping fund,” she said, watching Gid’s face carefully.

  He swallowed, lowered his eyes. Not a guilty look. Just one of shame. Gid Cobbler had not stolen from her, but he had not kept the fund secure, as he had promised her he would. “I did,” he said. “I’m afraid there was not enough money in there for her to purchase the lamb.” His voice was thin.

  “Why?” Abigail demanded. “There ought to be more than sufficient money in there.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But…” He faded out.

  “But it seems we yet again have a thief in Haverstock House.” Abigail shifted with annoyance.

  “Yes,” Gid said again. “We do.” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Miss Gresham. I thought to tell you, but I didn’t wish to concern you. I will find out who the thief is,” he said determinedly. “I swear it. And I will see every penny of that fund returned.”

  Abigail hummed noncommittally. She had a good mind to take the fund from Gid’s attic room and keep it with her from now on. She pushed the thought aside almost immediately. Do that, and she’d be up to her eyes in the incessant wheedling of her staff and their needs.

  “The housekeeping fund,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Does anyone else in the household know where it is kept?”

  Gid shook his head. “No, Miss Gresham. They only know they need to come to me if they require something from it. But they’ve no idea where I keep it.”

  She eyed him. For a second, her trust in him faltered. What would she do if the mute was stealing from her?

  You are my rock, she had told him. And a part of her had meant it. Gid Cobbler was dependable, loyal, trustworthy. If such things turned out to be lies, Abigail feared she might crumble.

  She swallowed heavily. There had to be another explanation. She had seen the way the mute looked at her. There was no way he could be a thief.

  “And you’ve told no one about the fund?” she clasped her hands together, trying to slow the ridiculous drumming of her heart.

  Gid swallowed, “Well…” He faded out.

  Abigail took a step towards him, “Tell me, Mr Cobbler. Tell me at once. Who else knows where the money is hidden?”

  He hesitated. No, he was not going to get away with this. He would not stand there in silence with his secrets held to his chest. She pinned him with hard eyes.

  “Martha Flatley,” he said finally. “She knows where the money is hidden. I told her one day.”

  Abigail’s eyes flashed, “You told that seamstress where my money was hidden? Why would you do such a thing?”

  Gid rubbed his eyes, “I’m sorry, Miss Gresham. We were talking about when we were children and Martha told me of how she used to hide her money beneath her mattress to keep it safe from her brothers. And I—”

  “You are a fool,” Abigail hissed, anger beginning to bubble inside her. How dare Gid Cobbler share her secrets with that girl?! How dare he let her get her hands on her money!?

  She pursed her lips, forcing herself to stay calm. Anger, she knew, was unattractive.

  “And would Miss Flatley have had any opportunity to sneak up to your room and steal from my housekeeping fund?” she demanded.

  Gid hesitated. His eyes were down, avoiding hers. After a moment, he let out a long sigh.

  “Perhaps,” he said finally. “She asked to use the privy while I was making tea one day. She could have gone up to the attic then, I suppose. Perhaps taken the key from my coat pocket.” His voice was low.

  Abigail clenched her teeth. She couldn’t decide what was worse– being played by men or being played by a lowly seamstress.

  “I’m sorry,” Gid said finally. “I’ll see every penny of it is paid back. And I’ll see that Martha never comes to the house again.”

  Abigail pressed her lips into a thin white line. No, Martha Flatley would not get away with this that easily. “That won’t be necessary,” she told Gid after a moment. “In fact, I hope the girl does come back. I should like to speak to her myself.”

  Chapter 27

  Abigail found herself buzzing with excitement at the thought of the seamstress arriving at the house. She could just imagine the shock on the girl’s face when Abigail herself opened the tradesmen’s door and tore her to shreds for daring to steal from her.

  This time, there would be no escaping as Groves had done. Oh no, not for that devious little seamstress. Abigail would see her locked inside the house until the police arrived, then watch as she was carted away and tossed into the back of the police wagon.

  The thought left a smile in the corner of her lips.

  Had the girl done it out of anger, she wondered? Martha Flatley clearly had feelings for the mute. Feelings that were not reciprocated. Had she stolen from the housekeeping fund because Abigail had stolen Gid’s heart?

  She watched out the window as a young woman made her way up the path, dress boxes in her arms. She frowned.

  Was it Martha Flatley? She didn’t look the way Abigail had remembered. Then again, the girl was so plain, it was hardly a surprise she could not remember what she looked like.

  Abigail charged down the servants’ entrance, pushing past Gid. “I’ll answer it Mr Cobbler,” she s
aid sharply. “I wish to confront the girl myself.” She pulled open the door. The girl that stood on the front step was young, barely more than twelve. She seemed dwarfed by the dress boxes in her arms. This was definitely not Martha Flatley.

  Abigail’s anger bubbled. Had the girl caught word that her thieving had been discovered? Had Gid Cobbler tipped her off? She turned to glare at the mute, but his face was creased with confusion.

  “Where’s Martha?” he asked the girl.

  The girl’s eyes darted from Gid to Abigail. When she finally spoke, her voice was tiny. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Miss Flatley…” She gave a loud sniff. “I’m so sorry. Miss Flatley is dead. Happened two days ago.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows shot up. She had not been expecting this. She felt a tiny tug of disappointment. How she wanted to confront the girl for her thievery.

  There was a long silence at the tradesmen’s entrance. Gid’s hand went to his mouth.

  “Dead?” he repeated, his voice strained. There was such anguish in his eyes that Abigail felt her stomach tighten. Would he sound as heartbroken if it were she who had died, she found herself wondering?

  “Yes sir,” said the girl. “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “How?” Gid asked. His voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Influenza. They say it’s gone right through her tenement. Seven people have passed so far.”

  Abigail shuddered. She hoped there was no trace of influenza lingering on her newly mended dresses.

  “I see,” a tremor ran through Gid’s voice. He cleared his throat. “The dresses. May I have them?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He took the boxes and glanced at the invoice with disinterest. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them to the girl.

  The door closed with a heavy thud. Gid turned to look at Abigail, his eyes glistening. “Shall I take these to your dressing room, Miss Gresham?” his voice was flat and hollow.

  Abigail nodded, feeling strangely disoriented. She had expected to spend the morning berating that damn seamstress. She had not expected to hear of her death. She felt cheated.

  Gid shuffled past her with the boxes in his arms and Abigail retreated out of the servants’ quarters. She hovered awkwardly in the passage beside the parlour, unsure what to do.

  She heard Gid’s slow and steady footsteps winding their way downstairs and back towards the kitchen.

  She hesitated, winding a strand of hair around her finger. Ought she to go to him?

  Gid knew well she had hated Martha Flatley. Would he appreciate her condolences?

  Of course he would, Abigail decided. Gid knew her feelings about Martha Flatley, but Abigail knew well he was in love with her. Surely the sight of her might remind him he had no need to grieve. He may have lost that thief of a seamstress, but he still had his position here in Haverstock House. Still had the chance to serve the woman he loved.

  Abigail made her way down the stairs and opened on the door to the kitchen. She felt an intruder in this part of the house. Damn that Gid Cobbler, she thought, making her lower herself to such things. She would not be doing this for anyone else in the world. She hoped he appreciated that.

  She peeked inside. Gid was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

  Abigail made her way towards him, her silk skirts sighing over the flagstones.

  He glanced up at the sight of her.

  “I’m sorry about the girl,” she said.

  Gid nodded. His eyes were red and swollen with tears. Abigail felt a faint swell of pity. She had never seen him cry before.

  She glanced at the chair beside him. “Perhaps I might sit?”

  He nodded, “Of course.”

  She perched on the edge of a chair and knotted her fingers together. This felt like a mistake. What was she doing here? She had no idea how to console someone in mourning. “I ought to make tea,” she said finally. “My mother always used to say that a cup of tea made everything better.”

  “My friend is dead,” said Gid huskily. “Tea is not going to make that better.”

  Abigail nodded, “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  But Gid stood anyway and hung the kettle over the range. Abigail was glad of it. She had never made a pot of tea in her life. Had no idea how to go about such a thing.

  When a line of steam began to rise from the kettle, Gid poured the water into the teapot. He stood staring at the brewing pot for two minutes. Abigail watched as though it were the most thrilling spectacle in the world. Finally, Gid moved towards the teapot, he gently lifted it, poured two cups and returned to the kitchen table. He took a small sip.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Abigail pressed a hand over his, “It’s all right. You’re grieving.” She felt his hand soften beneath hers.

  He nodded, “It’s a shock, is all. I don’t understand how she can just be gone.”

  “You understand,” said Abigail. “You spent years working at the undertakers. How can death still shock you? I thought you’d be used to it by now.”

  He nodded, staring into his cup. “I suppose you’re right. I ought not be shocked by it. I just always thought that Martha…” he faded out. Abigail was glad. However he planned to finish that sentence, she didn’t want to know.

  “You know,” she said, running her thumb over the back of his hand, “The girl might be gone. But I am still here.” She caught his eye. “Does that not make you happy? Are you not happy to be here with me right now?”

  Gid managed a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “That makes me happy. I am always happy when I am with you.”

  “Good,” she breathed. “Now finish up that tea and do your best to put that girl out of your mind. She was nothing but a thief, after all.” She lowered her eyes to meet his. “After all, is it not me you ought to be bothering yourself with? Am I not the one you ought to be looking after?”

  Gid nodded, looking up at her with hooded eyes. “Yes. You are the one I ought to be looking after,” his eyes were imploring. “Have I not done a good job?”

  Abigail smiled, “You’ve done a fine job, my little mute. I know you will always be here for me.” She leant towards him, catching the faint smell of ash soap on his skin. There was something faintly alluring about the man, she conceded, despite the fact that he was nothing more than the butler.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, his skin warm against hers. The gentle contact made Abigail smile.

  She edged closer, feeling his breath hot against her nose. His eyes had dropped closed, she noticed, the edges of her lips curling into a smile. How endearing. She let her lips graze his cheek before standing and disappearing out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 28

  She heard no more from Gid about the girl. No word of a burial or funeral service. No doubt, thought Abigail, a girl like Martha Flatley would have nothing more than a pauper’s grave. Nothing worth speaking of again. It seemed he had done as she had requested and put the girl out of his mind. Abigail was glad of it.

  The following week, she made her way to the cemetery at Saint Stephen’s to visit the grave of her mother. She lifted the withered flowers from beneath the headstone and replaced them with fresh blooms. Summer was almost over, and it had been difficult to find fresh flowers. Soon there would be nothing but autumn leaves lying on her mother’s grave. After that, there would be snow and ice.

  Abigail stared a while at the carved letters. It had been years since her mother’s death, and yet their conversation on the day she had died was still fresh in Abigail’s memory.

  Never let them have the upper hand. Never let them have the power.

  “I’m doing as I promised, Mama,” Abigail murmured. “I’m doing as best I can. I’m letting no man take advantage of me.”

  What about those men on the board? she imagined her mother saying. You’ve let them have the power over you, haven’t you?

  Abigail shivered as a
cold wind blew through the graveyard. Yes, summer was definitely coming to an end. She swallowed heavily. “I’m trying, Mama,” she said again. “I hope you’d be proud of me.”

  She turned away from the grave and began to walk back towards the gate of the churchyard. Several yards from the path she caught sight of a familiar figure standing over a grave.

  She recognised the slope of Gid’s shoulders, his mop of fair hair. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. Abigail planted her hands on her hips. Surely that was not the grave of the girl? Not here in St Stephen’s, in the same earth as her mother?

  Abigail’s anger began to boil again. If this was the girl’s grave, she had best put a stop to Gid’s visits. She wanted all thoughts of that thieving seamstress gone from his mind. Wanted his attentions firmly fixated on her. Martha Flatley had stolen from her in life. She would not steal Gid from her in death.

  Abigail’s shoes clicked rhythmically along the stone path, echoing across the still cemetery. Gid glanced up at the sight of her. On the grave before him lay a single red rose.

  Abigail stiffened.

  A red rose.

  Gid had promised he would lay a red rose on her coffin, when the time came. The thought of it had softened Abigail’s heart. How could he devalue such a gesture, by doing the same for that lowly little thief?

  Her gaze was transfixed on the flower. She found herself unable to look at the simple wooden cross that marked the grave. She couldn’t bear to know it for certain if Gid was laying a red rose on Martha Flatley’s grave. Perhaps, Abigail reasoned, he had seen her leaving for the cemetery and had deliberately chosen to visit at the same time. Perhaps he had wanted to see her. The thought made her feel a little better. But, in spite of herself, she blurted, “The girl?”

  Gid said nothing. He turned to face her. “What are you doing here?” he asked after a moment. His eyes were shadowy with sleeplessness. Had he been lying awake all night mourning Martha Flatley? She bit back her anger.

  “I’m visiting my mother’s grave,” she told him. “As I do every Thursday.” She gave him a small smile. “You knew I’d be here, I’m sure.”