The Silent Orphan Page 5

  Gid was surprised by her coldness. He’d not said a word about Abigail in the past three years. Had his words that night in the stables upset Martha so much she had never forgotten their conversation?

  He turned hurriedly back to the ledger, his heart beginning to pound. “Is it—”

  “It’s not her,” said Martha. “It’s her aunt. Elizabeth Beddington.”

  Was that a faint hint of disappointment in Martha’s voice?

  Gid ignored it.

  Yes, there the details were. Deceased: Elizabeth Beddington. Forty-two years.

  Gid felt an unbidden swell of relief. How would he have managed it if he were to prepare and clothe Abigail’s dead body?

  “You’d best behave yourself,” Martha said sharply “When you see her again. No staring like a fool the way you did last time.”

  Gid said nothing. Let Martha be bitter. Let her be jealous.

  None of mattered.

  In three days’ time, he would see Abigail again.

  * * *

  The morning of the funeral, Gid sat down with their new workhouse boy, Phillip.

  “Remember,” he told him, “Not a word. Not a squeak. No one is to know you can speak.”

  Gid had been training the boy as a mute for several weeks now, and Phillip had proven himself more than capable of silence. Proven himself a far better mute than Gid had been. But Gid had felt that a little extra reminder was necessary. After all, it had been Abigail who had first caused him to break his silence. Gid knew it was possible the blue and green-eyed beauty might cause the same reaction in Phillip.

  The boy nodded morosely. He was as rake-thin and pale as Gid remembered himself being at that age. “Yes sir. Not a sound.”

  * * *

  Gid felt edgy as he left Phillip in front of the coffin, the wand teetering above his head. Since hiring Phillip, he had relinquished his role as mute and put his time into the business’s flailing accounts. While Martha did her best to interact with their clients, Able and Arthur usually turned up moments before the procession was due to begin. Gid found it hard to believe the Flatleys had any business at all.

  He milled about the parlour, unsure what to do with himself. Martha was making her way to each of the mourners, murmuring words of sympathy. The twins were outside, stumbling drunkenly around the horses. Gid’s heart was thumping. Where was Abigail? Why wasn’t she here yet? Surely she would attend the funeral of her aunt.

  He knotted his hands together behind his back. Gid knew most of the mourners who attended their funerals were men; their wives usually choosing to forgo the strain of the procession and remaining at home. But Abigail had attended the funeral of her mother, had attended the funeral of her uncle. Surely she would be here today.

  She had to be. She just had to be.

  And then the door creaked open and there she was, tall and lithe, her blonde hair hidden beneath a dark veil. Through it, he could see the fine contours of her face.

  Gid felt his heart leap into his chest. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Perhaps more so. Gone were the hints of childhood her face had carried the last time he had seen her. Now she was a beautiful young woman. A beautiful young woman Gid longed to be close to. What would that soft white skin feel like beneath his fingers, he wondered.

  He could feel her watching him with those enchanting eyes: one blue, one green. She had recognised him at once, Gid felt certain. The thought brought him a faint sense of happiness.

  From across the room, he could feel Martha’s eyes on him, cold and critical. He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. Never mind Martha and her steely silence. Never mind her petty jealousy. Abigail was here. That was all that mattered.

  He did his best to focus on the funeral at hand. He watched Phillip standing by the coffin. The new boy was silent as he had promised but was shifting edgily from one foot to the other. The movement made Gid uneasy. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and scrawled a hurried reminder to himself. He would raise the issue with Phillip after the burial.

  He was suddenly aware of Abigail coming towards him, a faint smile turning the edge of her lips. Gid’s heart began to thunder.

  “You write?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. Gid said nothing. He looked through the window to where Able and Arthur were leaning against the hearse.

  Today he would not speak with her. He would not stare at her. He would not give the twins any cause to punish him. Today, he would just enjoy the fact that he was close to her. After all, he would see her again after today. He felt sure of it. It was just the way it was. Each time he had seen Abigail, he had been certain of seeing her again. She would be a part of his life. And he a part of hers. Not an option. A necessity.

  “I must say,” she continued, her voice airy. “You’ve grown into quite the young man. I remember the scrawny little thing you used to be.”

  Gid could feel her eyes raking over his broad shoulders.

  “And just look at you now,” she smiled out of the corner of her mouth. “Look at those wide shoulders. All that heavy lifting, I assume. Hauling coffins about the place.” There was a hint of humour in her voice.

  Gid swallowed heavily.

  Abigail caught his eye, giving him a faint smile. “Do you like me, mute?” she asked suddenly.

  His cheeks blazed and he lowered his glance.

  Today I will not speak to her.

  But the urge to do so was overpowering. So was the urge to reach out and touch her. He clasped his hands into fists behind his back.

  “I know you can speak,” she twittered, giving her faint bell of a laugh. “I said, do you like me?”

  Gid mumbled a hurried, inaudible response, keeping his eyes on the floor. He felt hot and cold at once.

  Abigail hummed, “It doesn’t matter though, does it? A man like you could never have a woman like me.” The words felt like a knife in his chest. Gid forced himself not to react. She was wrong. One day she would see.

  Gid didn’t take his eyes from the floor. Abigail stepped closer, her skirts brushing over his boots. “Although it is a shame,” she said, her breath hot against his ear. “A great shame.”

  Gid inhaled sharply. He looked up suddenly. But before he could speak, she was gone.

  Chapter 10

  Abigail Gresham stepped into Haverstock House and paused a moment in the entrance hall. The mansion felt dark and cavernous around her.

  Once, this house had been filled by her family— her mother and father, uncle and aunt. Now she was the only one left. The thought was a strange one, but not entirely unwelcome. In the past three years, it had been just she and her Aunt Elizabeth taking meals together, sewing together, indulging in more than the occasional glass of wine. Wine had been a necessity when taking meals with Aunt Elizabeth. The woman had been dull and uninteresting. She had had none of the fire that Abigail’s mother had had. Life with Aunt Elizabeth had made Abigail miss the rest of her family even more.

  But Aunt Elizabeth was gone. That afternoon, Abigail had watched as her coffin was lowered into the earth beside her husband. Now Haverstock House and its bevy of servants belonged entirely to her.

  “Are you all right, Miss Gresham?” her butler, Groves asked from behind her.

  Abigail looked over her shoulder at him. Her uncle, Charles, had hired Groves back when Abigail was a girl. There was something pleasant, something reassuring about his constant presence. It was somehow steadying.

  “I’m quite all right, Groves,” she said. “Just a little tired. Perhaps you might have my supper brought to my room.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  Abigail made her way upstairs, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the polished staircase.

  Supper brought to her room. The thought was pleasant. There would be no more strained and stilted suppers, listening to Aunt Elizabeth blather on about the weather, or so and so’s wedding to who-cared-who. Abigail could take her supper in her room whenever she damn well felt like it.

  Upstairs, she remo
ved her dark veil and had her lady’s maid help her out of her stiff black mourning gown. Tomorrow she would wear pink. Or blue perhaps. She would not indulge Aunt Elizabeth in a lengthy period of mourning. Abigail hated wearing black. It made her feel so tired, so bleak.

  Dressed in a white silk robe, Abigail took the plate of roast meat Groves had delivered and reclined on the chaise in the corner of her room.

  She thought of the mute. What a strange boy he was. No, not a boy, she chided herself. When she had seen him that day, he had been tall and broad shouldered. The past three years had made him into a man.

  She liked the mute. Liked the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel. Yes, the Flatley’s mute made her feel powerful. Made her feel as though she could uphold the promise she had made to her mother.

  Never let a man have power over you.

  As she had grown, Abigail had begun to see that such a thing would not be easy. Theirs was a society that proclaimed women as weak, that saw her place as the kitchen or the nursery. A man having power over a woman was a natural state of being. One that Abigail knew she would have to fight hard to overturn.

  But perhaps with the mute, the fight would not be so difficult.

  She was alone now, yes. Had no one but the slew of workers her uncle had hired. Alone was a difficult position for a young woman to be in. How might things be, she found herself wondering, if she had a doe-eyed and doting mute at her side?

  * * *

  A week after the funeral of Abigail’s aunt, Able burst into the office where Gid was poring over the accounts. Money was draining from the business faster than he could make sense of. These books were making his head ache.

  “Got a message for you, mute,” said Able.

  Gid put down his pencil, grateful for the distraction. “A message?”

  Able dropped a card on the table in front of him.

  Miss Abigail Gresham, the note read. Haverstock House.

  Gid’s heart began to thump.

  “Miss Gresham requests your presence,” Able said, with mock formality.

  Gid felt suddenly breathless. “What? Why?”

  Behind him, he was dimly aware of Martha watching from the doorway. He couldn’t look at her.

  “I’ve no idea why,” Able snorted. “You ask me, she’s mad. What would anyone want with you? But she’s paid us two pounds for the pleasure. So you’ll go.”

  Gid nodded. He slammed closed the account book and hurried from the office.

  * * *

  Gid stood outside the enormous black gates of Haverstock House. The manor was made of red brick and rose up three— no—four storeys into the cloudy white sky. The roof was dotted with chimneys, and large windows looked out over neatly manicured gardens. The heath stretched out endlessly behind the house.

  Was this some kind of joke? Gid knew he could not put such a thing past Able and Arthur. Or perhaps Martha was punishing him for his infatuation.

  How could he live with the shame if he turned up on Abigail’s doorstep and she had not asked him here? Or worse, had no idea who he was?

  No, he reminded himself. He had seen her calling card. This was no joke, no heartless prank. She had requested his presence. And he was determined to find out why.

  He sucked in his breath and walked slowly up the long winding path. He knocked on the door. An aging butler in a long black tail coat looked down at him with sharp, flinty eyes.

  “You’re the mute,” he acknowledged.

  Gid nodded, suddenly uncertain whether or not he ought to play the part. Deciding to err of the side of caution, he said nothing.

  “Good day, mute,” a silky voice made Gid’s heart thump. He looked past the butler to see Abigail sliding into the room. She was dressed in a gown of soft pink silk, her long blonde hair piled elaborately on top of her head. Gid had never before seen her wearing anything other than black. In her coloured dress, she seemed to glow. He felt a strange pull towards her.

  “You may leave us, Mr Groves,” she dismissed the elderly man.

  The butler nodded, “Yes Miss Gresham.” He disappeared, leaving Gid and Abigail alone in the palatial white and gold entry hall. An enormous mirror hung on one wall, making the space seem even larger. How often had Gid lay in the hay loft and wondered what Haverstock House looked like? And here he was in the foyer, with Abigail Gresham not two yards from him. He felt trapped in a dream. A wonderful dream, but a dream, nonetheless.

  “I said, good day, mute.”

  Gid bobbed his head in greeting.

  Abigail smiled crookedly. “You may drop the act. We both know you can speak. What’s your name?”

  He cleared his throat, a little relieved. He always felt foolish playing the mute. “Gid Cobbler, Miss Gresham.”

  She tapped a long finger against her chin. “Gid Cobbler. And are you educated, Mr Cobbler?”

  “Yes, miss. A little. I can read and write. And I know my numbers. I do the accounts for the Flatley’s funeral parlour.”

  “You read and write. And you also speak.”

  Gid’s cheeks coloured, “I do.”

  She walked slowly towards him, her gown sighing against the polished floorboards. “And do you enjoy your work at the Flatley’s funeral parlour, Mr Cobbler?”

  “I don’t mind my work,” he said throatily. It’s far better than being in the workhouse. But he kept the words to himself. He did not want Abigail Gresham to know he had been a workhouse boy.

  “You don’t mind your work?” She arched a thin, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Even with those dreadful twins in charge?”

  Gid managed a faint smile.

  “I can’t imagine business is doing too well,” Abigail said airily. “With those mindless beasts running the place.” She gave Gid a sly, sideways glance. “Even if they do have a mute who can read and write.” Her lips turned up. “And speak.”

  Gid swallowed. There was that familiar prickling on the back of his neck. What was this strange power this woman had over him? He felt utterly spellbound. Felt like a fool. And yet, he didn’t want this feeling to ever end.

  Abigail came towards him slowly. Gid caught the alluring scent of rosewater.

  “It seems I have an opening at Haverstock House,” she said. “A junior butler.”

  Gid found his voice. “A junior butler, miss?”

  She nodded. “The young man in question would work under my head butler, Mr Groves, overseeing the smooth running of my household,” she eyed him. “Do you think you might be able to fill such a position, mute?”

  Gid’s heart began to speed. “Yes, miss.”

  The corner of her lips curled up. “And you think you might be willing to fill such a position?”

  He nodded, his voice stuck in his throat.

  Abigail laughed, “Speak, mute.”

  “Yes, Miss Gresham,” Gid managed. “I believe I would be willing to fill such a position.”

  She smiled, “Good. Very wise of you. The Flatleys will not be in business much longer. You and I both know that, I’m sure.”

  Gid felt a fleeting stab of guilt at the thought of leaving Martha to manage the foundering business alone. The thought was pushed out hurriedly as Abigail took a step closer to him. He had to put his own needs first, he told himself. Abigail was right— the Flatley’s business would not last. He would be out of a job soon. Back in the workhouse or out on the streets. He would be a fool not to take this position.

  Abigail’s eyes moved up and down his body, as though she were inspecting him. What did she see in him, Gid wondered? Why had she sought him out, out of all the young men in London? Was it possible that she too felt the strange connection between them? His heart beat ever faster at the thought.

  Abigail’s breath was hot against his neck. “You know I will have to pay a good price for you,” she said, her voice low. “And in return, I expect you to serve me well.”

  Gid nodded. “Yes, miss. I will serve you well.” He felt sure she could hear his heart thudding.

 
Abigail stepped back. “Leave me now, mute. You will be back with your belongings before nightfall.” She tapped a long finger against her chin. “When you return to the funeral parlour, tell those twins I wish to see them. I’ve a business transaction to make. My money in exchange for their mute.”

  Chapter 11

  Gid returned to the funeral parlour in a daze. Was it truly possible he was to work at Haverstock House? For the past five years, he had seen Abigail Gresham in his dreams. And now he was to see her every day.

  It didn’t feel real.

  Buzzing with nervous energy, he climbed up to the hay loft and stuffed his few meagre belongings into his faded duffle bag. A faded and hole-riddled coat, woollen cap, much darned… He felt suddenly ashamed at the thought of appearing on Abigail’s doorstep with a bag full of such threadbare clothing.

  He climbed down from the loft. Midnight and Shadow stood watching him with mournful eyes. Gid felt his chest lurch.

  In the seven years he had been at the Flatley’s, the horses had been his dearest friends. He had told them his secrets, his fears, been grateful for their company on dark nights. He stroked their noses, Midnight first, then Shadow, and planted soft kisses in their silky coats. He would miss them dearly. He hoped Able and Arthur would treat them well.

  With a final glance back at the horses, he swung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave.

  A figure stood in the doorway.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Martha demanded. Her hands were planted on her hips and her eyes were flashing. Colour was rising in her cheeks. “You’re just going to walk away? Leave me to manage all this by myself?”

  Gid heard a waver in her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I am. But I can’t stay here forever.” He looked at her apologetically. “This is your family’s business. Not mine.” In spite of his excitement over working for Abigail, he felt a sharp stab of guilt.