The Silent Orphan Page 7

  * * *

  20th October. Overheard Mr Groves making deal with coal supplier. False invoice given to Miss Gresham. Proceeds split between Groves and coal supplier.

  * * *

  Though his notebook was growing fuller, Gid said not a word to Groves. The time to confront him would come, Gid felt sure. But for now, he would keep quiet. Keep watching. Keep writing.

  The housekeeping fund was a wooden box of cash kept in a locked shelf in the kitchen. Only three people had a key: Abigail, Groves and the head housekeeper, Mrs Graham.

  The housekeeping fund, Gid knew, was another fine place for the butler to pocket a little of Abigail Gresham’s wealth. Another place that needed to be watched.

  He lay awake one night, staring into the blackness, waiting for the footsteps around him to quieten. Though working for Flatleys was becoming a distant memory, lying in the dark like this often made his imagination race. Seven years at the undertaker’s had made him more comfortable with the dead, but the image of the hanged woman Gid had seen on his first day in Mr Flatley’s service had never faded. Sometimes, when he lay awake in the dark like this, he couldn’t help but picture those vicious rope burns on her neck, the purple bulge of her tongue. Couldn’t help picturing his mother lying in her coffin with a broken neck.

  Gid rubbed his eyes, trying to push the image away. He thought of Abigail instead.

  Beautiful, mysterious Abigail Gresham.

  In spite of Groves’ thievery, there was nowhere Gid would rather be working than here at Haverstock House.

  Finally, Abigail was more to him than just an ethereal figure who populated his dreams. That ethereal figure who showed up in his life only when one of her relatives was to be buried.

  There was a barrier between them of course. How could there be otherwise, with she, the beautiful mistress of the house, and he the lowly junior butler? He bowed at the sight of her, spent his days clearing her plates and running her errands.

  But in spite of all this formality and forced etiquette, Gid could sense something more between them. At first, he had been sure he had imagined it. Imagined it out of desperation, perhaps.

  But no, those sly sideways smiles she gave him when she passed were not his imagination. Nor were the gentle hands she trailed over his arm, sending a shiver from the top of his head down to his toes.

  Gid sighed loudly into the darkness. Was he a fool to dream that something might one day happen between them? How desperately he wished for it. Longed for it. How desperately he longed for that day when she might come to see him as an equal. Might come to see him as more than just that foolish little mute who had not been able to pull his eyes from hers.

  He realised the house had fallen silent beneath him. Gid pushed back the blankets and climbed out of bed. He grabbed his notebook from the drawer beneath the side table and tiptoed downstairs. A lamp was still flickering at the bottom of the stairs, making shadows dance over the empty foyer.

  Silently, Gid made his way downstairs to the servants’ quarters. If he was to count and record the contents of the housekeeping fund, he would first need a key.

  Groves, Gid knew, kept his key on a chain around his neck. It would be an impossibility to get to. And he had no thought of where Abigail might hide hers. But he had seen Mrs Graham slide her key into the pocket of her apron. An apron, he hoped, that might be lying somewhere in her bedroom.

  He tiptoed down the passage. The third door on the right belonged to the elderly housekeeper; he had been watching carefully for the past week. He turned the handle silently. The door opened with a soft groan. Gid paused in the doorway, squinting into the dark. He could see the inky outline of the bed, Mrs Graham lying on her back and snoring rhythmically. Long grey hair was spilling over the pillow. Her clothes were hung over a chair in the corner of the room. Gid crept towards it, rifling through the clothing until he found her apron. He slid his hand into the pocket, his fingers tightening around the ring of key.

  He smiled to himself. It was almost too easy. He crept back out of the room and closed the door. Just like a thief, he thought.

  Just like my father.

  He pushed the thought away. He was nothing like his father. He was doing this for good. Doing this to stop Groves’ crimes.

  He was doing this for Abigail.

  He crept into the kitchen and unlocked the cupboard, sliding out the box containing the housekeeping fund. He upended the money on the table and lit a candle. Hunching over the flame, he counted carefully.

  Eleven pounds, three shillings.

  He wrote the date and amount carefully in his notebook. This time next week he would return to the kitchen late at night and count again.

  Groves would come for a little of the money, Gid felt certain. And he would catch him out when he did.

  Chapter 15

  Abigail had an endless slew of gentlemen callers. Men of all ages, men with money. They dressed in top hats and frock coats and glittered with pocket watches and silk scarves.

  Though it stung every time Gid opened the door to let one into the house, he knew he could expect no different. Abigail was beautiful and enchanting. Of course there would be countless men who longed for her company.

  Each time a new caller came, he consoled himself with the fact that he was the one who woke in the same house as her. He was the one on the end of her sideways smiles and gentle hands.

  Today’s caller was Mr Karl Stewart, a young man who had inherited land in Surrey. Gid knew all about each of the men. Each time one was due to call, Abigail was sure to tell him all about them.

  “What do you think?” she would ask each time. “Does he sound like a man I could trust? Does he sound like a suitable man to marry?”

  Each time, Gid would feel a knot in his stomach. “What do you think, Miss Gresham?” he would reply. “Does he seem like someone you might wish to marry?”

  Abigail would sigh. “Oh I just don’t know. Sometimes I think I don’t ever wish to marry.” She would catch his eye knowingly. “Unless he were truly a special man, of course.”

  Gid knew she was playing him, but it didn’t stop the frisson of excitement tearing through him. Didn’t stop the same conversation from taking place the next time a man was due on her doorstep.

  This was the second time Karl Stewart was due to call at Haverstock House, and Gid guessed it would most likely be the last. Abigail’s gentleman callers rarely got more than a second visit before she grew bored of them and moved on.

  Gid answered the door to Stewart’s insistent knocking. The man was tall and broad shouldered. His hair was greying at his temples and there were lines around his eyes. He was at least a decade older than Abigail, Gid guessed.

  Stewart barely acknowledged Gid as he strode through the door.

  “Miss Gresham is waiting for you in the parlour,” Gid told him, unable to hide the contempt in his voice.

  Stewart didn’t seem to notice. He strode down the hall towards the parlour as though he owned the place.

  Gid’s dislike for the man swelled. He clenched his teeth to stop a stray word escaping. One more visit, he told himself, and that would be the end of Karl Stewart.

  With Stewart and Abigail ensconced in the parlour, Gid busied himself. He knew Abigail’s dress maker was due to arrive that day to collect some gowns for mending and he wanted to be close to the tradesmen’s entrance, should any underhand conversations take place between the woman and Groves. He had not caught the butler out in any of his thieving for at least a fortnight. Gid was itching for a new entry in his notebook. And thinking about Groves and his underhand tactics helped take his mind off whatever sordid things might be happening in the parlour.

  The bell rang suddenly, yanking Gid from his thoughts.

  “Mr Cobbler!” Abigail’s voice echoed down the staircase. “Quickly! Please!”

  Gid leapt to his feet and raced towards the parlour. He charged inside to find Abigail with a brass candleholder in her hand, waving it furiously at Mr Stewart. Th
e man’s hands held out in front of him, trying to tame Abigail as though she were a wild animal. His cheeks were scarlet.

  “Oh, Mr Cobbler,” Abigail gushed. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She turned to glare at the gentleman. “Mr Stewart needs to leave immediately. You will see him out, please.” Her voice wavered in a way Gid had never heard before.

  “Of course, Miss Gresham.” He snatched the man’s arm roughly and marched him towards the door, shoving him out of Haverstock House with a large degree of satisfaction. He locked the door, then hurried back to the parlour.

  Abigail flew at him suddenly, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly. Gid’s heart began to thunder. Impulsively, he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice muffled by her neatly pinned hair.

  “Oh, Mr Cobbler. The man was dreadful. He tried… He tried to touch me. I told him to stop and he became aggressive.” She let out a sudden, dramatic sob. “I’ve never had a man treat me like that before. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

  Gid tightened his grip on her, relishing the warmth of her in his arms. For several minutes, Abigail cried softly against his shoulder. He could feel damp patches appearing on his shirt. Impulsively, Gid slid a hand up and down her back to calm her. A part of him expected her to pull away, but she slid closer to him, her arms tightening around his neck.

  “Promise me you’ll always be here for me,” she coughed, looking up with watery eyes.

  Gid nodded, his voice stuck in his throat.

  Her blue and green eyes were glistening with tears. “Say it,” she implored. “Please. Say you’ll always be here for me.”

  Gid swallowed. “Yes,” he said huskily. “I’ll always be here for you. I swear it.”

  Chapter 16

  Abigail climbed from the coach and marched up the front path of Haverstock House. Her skin was prickling with anger.

  How she despised these cursed board meetings. How she despised sitting there at the head of the table while men in dark suits spoke over the top of her as though she did not exist. How could a man pretend a woman like her did not exist? Could they not see her beauty? How dare they?

  She clenched her hands into tight fists and strode through the door without a word to Groves in greeting.

  She wanted to see him, she realised suddenly. Wanted to see the mute. Gid Cobbler.

  She wanted to see those doe-eyes fixed on her. Wanted to see that longing, that desire splashed all over his little face. She needed it. Gid Cobbler made her feel powerful. Made her feel worthy. Made her feel like a lady who was impossible to ignore.

  She strode through the house searching for him. She did not want to ring the bell in case Groves appeared instead. She did not want to admit she was seeking out the mute. She would just have to find him herself.

  She strode up to the attic, and marched through the servants’ quarters, ignoring the hurried curtseys of one of the kitchen maids as she strode past. She searched the parlour, the dining room, even her uncle’s disused smoking room.

  Where in hell was the man? How could the damn junior butler be so difficult to locate?

  Eventually, she found him in the grounds, speaking with the gardener. He turned in surprise and bobbed his head.

  “Miss Gresham,” he hurried towards her, leaving the gardener in his wake. He frowned at the sight of her. Abigail knew the meeting had left her looking disheveled. For a moment she regretted appearing in front of the mute in such disarray. But his eyes were filled with concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asked gently. “You look upset.”

  There was that look she had been craving. That longing, that lust, that adoration. She smiled to herself.

  Bless this little mute. He always managed to bring a smile to her face. She stepped close to him, watched his eyes flicker with nerves. “I want to see you,” she said in her breathiest voice. “Come to my study. We’ll have a little brandy.”

  Gid swallowed, “Now, Miss Gresham?”

  She gave him a short smile. “Yes,” she said. “Immediately.” She caught his eye. “But don’t follow me up there. What would people think? Wait a few minutes.”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He pulled his eyes from his.

  Abigail turned on her heel and made her way upstairs to the study. Found herself smiling when she heard his footsteps echoing behind her own.

  * * *

  Abigail was waiting in the armchair when Gid knocked on the study door.

  “Enter,” she called sweetly. Already, her anger had begun to dissipate. Her heart was slowing. She pointed to the brandy on the desk.

  Gid hurried over to it and poured two glasses. She liked that he did not need instructions.

  “A large one for me,” Abigail told him. She met his eyes. “And a large one for you as well.”

  His lips quirked, “A large one, Miss Gresham?”

  “Yes. You’ve been working hard as usual, I assume. As have I. I say we deserve a little reward.”

  Gid brought the filled glasses towards the armchairs and handed one to her carefully. She took a long mouthful. She felt the warmth of the liquor as it slid down her throat, into her chest. Felt her muscles begin to soften.

  Gid was hovering beside the chair, looking endearingly nervous. She fluttered her lashes at him. “Well, go on then,” she teased. “Sit.”

  He did, flashing her a small smile.

  She took another mouthful. “I had a difficult day,” she told him.

  “The board meeting?” he guessed.

  She nodded.

  “The men did their best to pretend I wasn’t there, as usual.” She gave a dramatic sigh.

  “Those men are fools,” said Gid. “And the company will suffer for them not hearing what you had to say. You’re a very intelligent woman.”

  Abigail smiled. She knew the mute would make her feel better.

  “You truly think so?”

  He took a shy sip of brandy. “Of course.”

  She slid forward on the chair, so her knees pressed lightly against his. She saw him swallow heavily.

  “You remembered me, didn’t you?” she said. “From my mother’s funeral. You remembered me when you saw me again, the day we buried my uncle.”

  Gid nodded, “Yes. I never forgot you.” His eyes met hers. “How could I? I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you.”

  Abigail reached out and rested light fingers on his arm. A strong, muscular arm. How he had changed since that first day they had met. She had not forgotten him either; that scrawny little mute clutching the wand as though it were all that was keeping him upright. She had not forgotten the way he had looked so longingly at her, or the way he had comforted her. She had not forgotten the way he had made her feel beautiful.

  She leant close, eying him. Though Gid Cobbler was far from the most handsome man she had ever met, he had a certain charm about him. His sandy hair was thick and unruly, his jaw sharp and clean. His years at the undertaker’s had left him with thick shoulders, ropey, muscular arms and hands.

  What would it feel like, Abigail found herself wondering, to have those hands touch her cheek, her body? What would it feel like to have his lips touch hers? The thought caught her by surprise.

  Curiosity, she told herself. Nothing but curiosity. She tilted her head, taking him in. She ran a finger along his jawline, feeling the patchy beginnings of a beard. “You need a shave, mute,” she told him.

  He nodded. His lips were parted, his breathing ragged.

  “Do you want me, mute?” she asked, her voice low.

  He nodded, “You know I do.”

  Abigail smiled to herself, surprised by his forwardness. His breath was hot against her nose. A faintly pleasant sensation, she realised. “You are just a junior butler,” she said. “And I am the lady of the house. Do you truly imagine such a thing could ever be?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Perhaps not,” he murmured.
<
br />   Abigail reached out and lifted his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t look so sad, mute. As I said, I am the lady of the house. And I can have whoever I wish. Perhaps I do wish to have you.”

  His eyebrows shot up with such enthusiasm she almost laughed. The dreadful board meeting felt distant.

  “You do?” he croaked.

  She shrugged, “Perhaps. I’m undecided.”

  “Undecided?” Gid repeated.

  “Yes,” she sat back in her chair and brought her glass to her lips. “You can hardly expect me make such an enormous decision on a whim now, can you?”

  He looked down. “No, Miss Gresham,” he said throatily, tipping back a mouthful of brandy. “I don’t suppose I can.”

  Chapter 17

  One Friday morning, Gid made his way to the market for kitchen supplies. A part of him welcomed this weekly errand, a chance to escape Haverstock House for a morning. Escape the frustrating allure of Abigail. Escape the steely eyes and light fingers of Groves.

  He always returned from the market refreshed, ready to take on another week.

  As he was leaving the marketplace, he caught sight of a familiar figure hovering by the bakery. He squinted. Was it Martha?

  She was much thinner than Gid remembered and was dressed in a colourless dress and apron instead of the neat, tightly laced gowns she had worn while Gid had been living at the Flatleys.

  What had happened to her? Had the twins finally run the business into the ground? It had been almost eight months since he had left the undertakers. He could only imagine what chaos Able and Arthur might have caused in such a time.

  He hesitated. A part of him longed to speak to her. But how would she react when she saw him? After all, he had left her to run the business alone, so he might gallivant around Haverstock House with Abigail Gresham.

  But he had always regretted parting on bad terms with Martha. And he knew he would regret it if he let her leave the market without speaking with her.