The Silent Orphan Read online

  Sucking in his courage, he made his way towards the bakery.

  “Martha?”

  She turned, her face breaking into a smile at the sight of him. “Gid!”

  He grinned, relieved. He realised suddenly how much he had missed her. A part of him longed to throw his arms around her and squeeze. Instead, he dug his hands into his pockets and dared to ask, “How are you?”

  Her smile faded slightly. “Surviving,” she said with a small shrug.

  Gid hesitated.

  “Shall we walk?” asked Martha. “I’ve finished my shopping.”

  He nodded.

  Martha clutched her bundle of bread to her chest. “The funeral parlour is out of business,” she said bluntly.

  Guilt knotted itself in Gid’s stomach, though he could not pretend to be surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  Martha shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of the twins. Can’t keep a business afloat when all you’re doing is drinking and whoring.” Her words were laced with bitterness. She looked at her feet as she walked. “They’re prizefighting and gambling now. Making a real fine life for themselves.”

  Gid thought back to his nights curled up in the hay loft, listening to the calming breath of Midnight and Shadow.

  “What of the horses?” he asked Martha.

  “I sold them to another undertaker,” she explained. “He’ll treat them well, I’m sure of it. You needn’t worry.”

  “And you?” Gid managed, slightly afraid of the answer.

  Martha gave him a small smile. “Like I said, I’m surviving. Ma and I moved into a tenement in Whitechapel. I found work as a seamstress.”

  Gid raised his eyebrows. “A seamstress? I didn’t know you could sew.”

  Martha gave him a crooked smile, “It’s amazing the talents you discover when they’re your only chance of survival.” Her voice was light, though her words made Gid’s stomach knot with guilt.

  “And you?” she asked after a moment. “Are you still working for Miss Gresham?” she spat the name out as though it were poison.

  “Yes,” Gid admitted. “I’m still at Haverstock House.” Impulsively, he reached for Martha’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” he told her. “I’m so sorry I left.”

  Martha shook her head. “Don’t be. I can’t blame you. We both know it was only a matter of time before the place went under. Like you told me, it weren’t your family business to save.” She gave him a small smile. “If I were you, I would have done the same.”

  In spite of her words, Gid was unable to push away his guilt. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a few shillings.

  “Here,” he said impulsively.

  Martha looked down at the coins. “What’s this?” A sudden coldness in her voice.

  Gid hesitated. “I just thought…”

  “I don’t need your charity, Mr Cobbler,” she said sharply.

  He swallowed heavily and slid the coins back into his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t…” He faded out.

  “Goodbye, Gid,” Martha said shortly. She turned on her heel and disappeared back into the market.

  Chapter 18

  Guilt over Martha racked Gid for days. Might things have been different, he wondered, if he had stayed to help her run the funeral parlour. Or had she been right? Would the Flatleys’ business have been run into the ground sooner or later anyway?

  He made his way into the kitchen for supper, trying to push the thoughts away. What was done was done. There could be no changing it.

  The cook was filling bowls of stew for the workers when he arrived. Groves was reclined on a chair at the head of the table, a glass of red wine in his hand. Gid glanced at the half-drunk bottle sitting in front on him. It was covered in dust and had clearly been brought up from the wine cellar.

  “That wine belongs to Miss Gresham,” he said sharply.

  Groves snorted, “And?”

  “And you’re a thief,” the words spilled from his lips before the thought entered his mind. He stepped close to the table and glared at Groves, his eyes flashing.

  Groves laughed, “Calm yourself, boy. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Gid felt the back of his neck prickle with anger. Around him, the cook and kitchen maids had fallen silent. Gid could feel their eyes on him. “You think I don’t know?” he demanded. “You think I know about all those extra coins that find their way into your pocket? You think I don’t know you have your fingers in the housekeeping fund.”

  One of the kitchen maids gasped in shock.

  Groves stood slowly, stepping close to Gid, “And what do you plan to do about it, boy? Go running to Miss Gresham like the little puppy dog you are?”

  Gid’s eyes hardened, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You think we don’t see it?” Groves snorted. “You think we don’t see how much you love her? How pathetically adoring you are?” his dark eyes flashed. “What do you imagine will come of it, boy? You’re nothing to her. You never will be.”

  Gid clenched his teeth. “You know nothing,” he hissed.

  Groves laughed, “I’ve struck a nerve I see. You’re pathetic, boy. Pathetic and desperate. She’ll take what she wants from you then cast you aside like common rubbish the moment she’s done with you.”

  Gid’s anger flared. Without the thought going through his mind, he threw a wild punch, striking Groves beneath his eye. One of the kitchen maids screeched. Groves stumbled backwards into the table, knocking Abigail’s wine onto the floor. The bottle shattered on the flagstones. Groves lurched for Gid, but he darted out of the way. He charged upstairs to his attic room, the butler’s curses ringing in his ears.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, the bell rang. And then another, more urgent ring.

  Abigail knew about the incident in the kitchen, he felt certain. Gid was faintly surprised it had taken him until the morning to tell her about it.

  So it was time for the truth to come out. He had waited patiently for the right time to tell Abigail of Groves’ dishonesty. And that time was now. He felt a small smile on the edge of his lips. Gid slid his notebook into his pocket and made his way downstairs, his heart thudding with anticipation.

  He stepped into the parlour.

  Abigail was sitting at the head of the table with her hands folded in front of her. Groves stood on one side of her, his left eye swollen and a bruise darkening his cheek.

  Gid felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction.

  “You called, Miss Gresham?”

  Abigail’s eyes were glassy. “Mr Cobbler,” she began, in a stern voice Gid had never heard before. The voice she had perfected at her board meetings, he guessed. “Mr Groves here is claiming you struck him last night. Is that true?”

  Gid swallowed. He looked Groves in the eye. “Yes, Miss Gresham. It is.”

  Instead of the outburst Gid had been expecting, Abigail made a small sound in her throat. “Why?” she asked.

  Gid kept his eyes fixed on Groves. “He was drunk,” he began. “On your wine.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows arched, “On my wine?”

  “Yes, miss. He was drunk on wine he stole from your cellar, and he has been stealing from you for a long time.” He could feel Groves’ eyes burning into him. Gid kept his eyes fixed on Abigail. “He takes money at will from the housekeeping fund,” he continued. “And overcharges you when it comes to paying your suppliers. Pockets the excess.”

  “These are lies!” Groves roared. “Lies! Every one of them! How dare you, boy?”

  Gid reached into his pocket for his notebook. “A list of Mr Groves’ offenses,” he told Abigail, placing the book on the table in front of her. “Including the date and time of each misdemeanour.”

  He heard a string of hissed curses escape Groves’ lips.

  Abigail began to flick through the book, her lips pressed into a colourless line. Groves’ cheeks were aflame beneath the bruising, his eyes fixed hard and unflinching on Gid.

>   Finally, Abigail put down the notebook. She looked from Gid to Groves, tapping a narrow finger against her lips.

  “Mr Cobber,” she said finally, “Do I have your word that this is the truth?”

  “Of course. You know I would never lie to you.”

  Abigail frowned, her icy exterior beginning to falter. She looked suddenly uncertain. Suddenly young and vulnerable.

  Gid eyed the butler, then looked back at her. “May I make a suggestion, Miss Gresham?”

  She nodded. He could see gratitude in her eyes.

  “Perhaps you might give Mr Groves two options. Either he leaves Haverstock House immediately, or you call the police in to investigate.”

  Abigail nodded again. “Very well.” She looked at Groves. “What is it to be, Mr Groves?”

  Groves didn’t speak. He stepped close to Gid, his eyes flashing. “She’s playing you for a fool,” he said in a fierce whisper. “You know that, don’t you? She will never be yours.”

  Gid clenched his teeth, meeting the butler’s eyes. Let him believe what he wished. It didn’t matter. The man would soon be gone. He had won.

  Finally, without speaking again, Groves strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Gid looked back at Abigail. He saw the same fragility in her eyes he had the day of Mr Stewart’s ill-fated visit.

  She nodded at the chair beside her. Gid took it. Abigail slid the notebook towards him, and he pocketed it without speaking, doing his best to hide the smile that way playing at the edge of his lips.

  A tear slid down Abigail’s cheek. “Groves was my uncle’s butler,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’ve known him my whole life.” She sniffed. “I was certain I could trust him.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “And you ought to have been able to.”

  She sighed heavily, “I was a fool.”

  “No,” Gid pressed. “You weren’t a fool. You had no reason to doubt the man. He was a criminal. You weren’t to know that.”

  She reached out and pressed light fingers to his hand.

  “I can trust you, can’t I?” her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Gid nodded, “Always.”

  Abigail pushed away fresh tears. “It’s such a brutal world out there. There are so many men preying on me as a rich, young woman,” she sniffed. “So many men trying to take advantage of me, just as my mother warned me they would. I try to stand up for myself, but sometimes I’m afraid I’m just not strong enough.”

  Gid gave her a reassuring smile, “You are the strongest woman I know. You can stand up to any man. I know it.”

  Abigail managed a small smile. “You are my rock, Gid Cobbler,” she said, her fingers tightening around his. “How would I survive without you?”

  Gid met her eyes, giving her a faint smile. “You’ll never have to find out. I promised I would always be there for you. I’ll always be there for you in whatever way you want.”

  Chapter 19

  Gid stepped into his new role as head butler with thinly-veiled enthusiasm. The day after Groves’ dismissal, he sat the rest of the staff down at the kitchen table.

  “It has come to the attention of both Miss Gresham and I that Groves had been stealing for many years from Haverstock House.” He tried to look suitably disappointed in the man as he delivered the news. The staff had, after all, witnessed the incident between the two men the night before. Gid knew it would do him no good if he were to look too self-satisfied.

  “Miss Gresham has placed me in charge of the household,” he told the staff. “And under my watch, there will be no thieving.” His eyes narrowed as he thought of his father. “There’s nothing I dislike more than thieving.” He looked at each of the staff members in turn. “I’m sure you all agree.”

  The kitchen maids and groom murmured their assent.

  “Of course, Mr Cobbler,” said the housekeeper, Mrs Graham. She gave him a short smile. Gid could tell she had not liked Groves either.

  He left the impromptu meeting feeling puffed up with importance. There would be changes made at Haverstock House. Groves and his thieving would become a distant memory.

  With Abigail’s blessing, Gid took the housekeeping fund up to his attic room for safekeeping. He kept the box beneath his bed, the key safely ensconced in his coat pocket. All requests for funds would now be required to go through him. Gid was determined that, with him as butler, Abigail might never again have to suffer the betrayal of a thieving worker.

  He was quick to change suppliers from those who had helped Groves with his underhand business. There would be a new seamstress, a new coal supplier, new blacksmith. He pored over the old, error-riddled account books and started budgeting for the household afresh. He felt a smile in the corner of his lips as he did so. A part of him wished he had rid the household of Groves far sooner. Being the head of staff made him feel powerful. More worthy. More like the man that Abigail Gresham ought to love.

  Being the head of the household also brought him closer to the lady of the house.

  “What would I do without you?” she crooned, appearing behind him at the desk in her study. She had permitted him use of the room while he put the household’s books in order. Often she would watch from the armchair while he pored over the numbers.

  Gid smiled up at her, his eyes close to hers. “Like I said, Miss Gresham, you’ll never have to find out.”

  * * *

  He began to see Abigail more regularly in his role as head butler. He served her meals each morning and evening, of course, but then there were those nights when she would ring the bell to call him into her study.

  “Yes, Miss Gresham?” he would pretend not to know what she was after. Pretend to be surprised she had requested his presence.

  Each time, he’d find her waiting in an armchair, fluttering her long lashes alluringly. “Brandy,” her hand flapped towards the desk where the bottle and crystal glasses were kept. “A glass for myself.” She smiled up at him. “And one for you too, of course, my dear little mute.”

  They’d sit in the armchairs until late at night. With each glass of brandy, Abigail’s tongue became looser. She’d tell Gid of her childhood: summer days of running around the heath with her nurse, nights of creeping around Haverstock House in the dark, telling herself ghost stories just for the thrill.

  Gid tried to imagine Abigail as a young child. A difficult thing to do, he decided, though she had been no more than thirteen when they had first met.

  “I never liked my Aunt Elizabeth,” she told him one night. “She was just so dreadfully dull. Sometimes I’d pretend I was ill just so I could avoid taking my meals with her.”

  Another night, she went into great detail of what Mr Karl Stewart had attempted with her on his ill-fated final visit to Haverstock House. “The nerve of him!” she cried. “Can you just imagine! Who does he think he is, trying to take advantage of me that way? I’m not a lady a man can just take advantage of, Mr Cobbler.” The story ended with fervent stroking of Gid’s arm. “I just don’t know what I would have done if you’d not been there.”

  Often she sought his advice.

  “What do you think, mute? Ought I hire another junior butler? Or are you all I will ever need?”

  Gid gave her a smile, trying to look playful. But he could tell the smile didn’t reach his eyes. No. She couldn’t hire a junior butler. Having another man around would ruin everything. Things were perfect just as they were. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Miss Gresham,” he said, forcing lightness into his voice. “Unless you find something in me lacking.”

  She laughed airily, “There’s nothing lacking in you, mute. Nothing at all.”

  Chapter 20

  One morning in April, Gid marched into the kitchen to find the housekeeper, Mrs Graham, lying dead on the floor. She lay on her back beside the range, her hair still neat beneath her mop cap and her apron stained with the chicken she had been roasting the night before. Her eyes looked up at him, vague and glassy.


  Gid stood over the body with his arms folded, looking at the corpse with a vague sense of detachment. Was this right, he wondered, to have become so blasé about death. Ought he be rushing about the place in a flurry of grief and anguish?

  He tilted his head, looking into the woman’s blank eyes. It had been more than a year since he’d left the Flatleys’, but at the sight of the corpse, he was back in the cold room, running a wash cloth over pallid and rubbery skin. He could almost hear the twins’ voices blathering at the back of his mind.

  The door clicked open as one of the young kitchen maids strode into the room. She stopped abruptly. At the sight of Mrs Graham’s lifeless body, she let out a wild scream, then clamped a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh, Mr Cobbler, what happened? Is she dead?”

  Gid nodded, “Yes. Looks as though she died in the night.”

  The maid let out another screech, bursting in a flood of messy tears. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Died in the night? You mean she were laying here on the floor all night and I were sleeping not two doors away?”

  He nodded, “I’d day so, yes.”

  She sniffed, “How did she die?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gid. “She was an old woman after all.”

  The girl turned away, burying her head against Gid’s chest. “Oh Mr Cobbler,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to look at her.”

  Gid reached down and closed the woman’s eyes, suddenly aware that not everyone was quite as nonchalant about the sight of a dead body as he had become.

  He scratched his chin. He ought to tell Abigail. Make the necessary arrangements. See Mrs Graham’s body removed. Abigail would be wanting her breakfast soon, and Gid felt certain the young maid would not have the stomach to serve up a plate of eggs with the housekeeper lying dead at her feet.

  He put a steadying hand to the maid’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to your room a while,” he said gently. “Calm yourself a little. I’ll fetch the undertaker.”