An Honest Heart (17 page)

Beside her, Dr. Stradbroke stiffened. Obviously he wasn’t any happier than she with the idea of Mr. Longrieve being condemned to such a terrible fate. “What if I testify on his behalf? After all, he did return the money.”

The constable snapped his head around. “He did?”

“Yes.”

“Not all of it,” Mr. Longrieve added. “Some of it was already spent before I . . . before I made the decision to bring it back.”

Caddy wanted to scream at the man to tell the truth, to admit who had really committed the crime, but Dr. Stradbroke’s grip on her elbow tightened.

“I will testify on his behalf, as well.”

She looked up at the doctor, unsure if he’d spoken or if she’d imagined the deep, soft voice. She’d known Mr. Longrieve for years; Neal could not have known him but for a couple of weeks at the most. Why would he put his own reputation on the line for a stranger?

The constable shook his head. “It’s nice of you both to want to help. But he has confessed to his crime. The judge will not likely invite witnesses to the stand before passing sentence.”

“We will be at the trial nonetheless,” Neal said, more to Mr. Longrieve than the constable. “Miss Bainbridge and I will speak on your behalf if we are allowed.”

Caddy nodded her agreement. “Please tell your family that if there is anything they need, they are to come to me, no matter what it is.”

“Or to me. I will call on them every day to make certain they are keeping well and want for nothing.”

She appreciated Neal’s offering what she could not do—especially considering the number of orders she had pending.

The constable led the manacled man from the room, and for a moment, Caddy sagged into Neal’s supporting arm. She glanced up at him, wishing she did not have to face all of life’s problems alone. She wanted to have those strong arms wrapped around her, to bury her face in his broad chest, to feel the comfort of his kiss against her forehead.

Straightening, she strengthened her resolve. She knew so little about him, he was nearly a stranger. Oh, she admired him—not just for his attractive physical appearance, but for his kindness and gentleness, his intelligence, and his gentle humor. Yet there was something about him that made her uneasy. Something he seemed to be hiding.

“Thank you, Miss Bainbridge, for taking his side. I know how hard the baby’s illness has been for his family. I have offered to give them free medicine, and to take my payment in trade—for laundry services once his wife is back on her feet—but he would have none of it. He insisted on paying me—first with two of his last remaining chickens, and now with coin since he has nothing else to give me.”

Caddy lowered herself back into the chair. She rubbed the side of her forehead that wasn’t covered with cloth. “I have known Mr. Longrieve for years. When I was in financial straits, he offered me his services with the same conditions you offered—I provided mending for his wife’s laundry to pay his fare whenever I needed to deliver a garment or pick up a shipment at the depot. That’s been years ago, but I will never forget their kindness.” She looked up at the doctor. “I know he did not do this.”

“I am of that mind too. But to prove it . . .” He pounded one fist into the other palm. “Transportation.” He spat the word, and his hands curled into fists. “How will his family survive if he is sent away for the rest of his life?”

“The rest of his life?” Caddy’s breath caught in her throat. “But the constable said seven years.”

Dr. Stradbroke paced the kitchen. “Convicts who are sent to Australia are not allowed to return to England. So it might as well be a life sentence.” He stopped at the window and looked out into the street, but Caddy wasn’t certain he actually saw anything. “Australia is . . .”

When he said no more, Caddy picked up the thought. “I have heard stories about that place. Mr. Longrieve will be fortunate if he is not murdered by the marauding bands of convicts who live there.” She shuddered.

Dr. Stradbroke’s back stiffened. “Not everyone who lives in Australia is a convict. And most of the men who have worked out their sentences have settled down. Many have even managed to reconnect with their families to start new lives.”

“You are too kindhearted, Doctor.” Caddy started to rub her forehead again but stopped when the motion pulled painfully against her stitches. “But we must do all we can to keep Mr. Longrieve from such a fate.”

Dr. Stradbroke returned to the table and picked up his cloak, which had been draped over the back of one of the chairs. “I will look in on the Longrieve family later today and send you word if they need anything.”

“Thank you. If you learn when the trial is to be, please let me know immediately.”

“I will. Good day, Miss Bainbridge.”

“Good day, Dr. Stradbroke.”

Caddy frowned as she watched him leave. He couldn’t know the Longrieve family well—he had been here less than a month. Then why was he so upset over this? He wasn’t the one who’d been robbed and injured.

She would let him have his secrets . . . for now. Once Mr. Longrieve was safely back at home with his family, Caddy would set her attention to finding out what the doctor was hiding. After all, he was spending far too much time under her roof for her not to know everything about him.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

N
eal tried to shake off his anger at Miss Bainbridge’s words, but it dogged him like a shadow all the way to his flat. Australia was a terrible place. Anyone who came from that country was no better than a thieving murderer. Nothing good could ever come from those shores.

He could not bring himself to accept such casual prejudice against the place and its people.

He stripped off his outer clothes and boots, then fell onto the bed in his pants and shirt, falling asleep almost instantly. He awakened to the afternoon sun shining through his thin curtains. He lay in bed relishing the luxury of lingering awhile until a faint scratching sound caught his attention.

Tripping over his boots and rubbing his eyes, Neal stumbled through the bedroom and kitchen and opened the main door.

Rascal the cat marched in, tail raised, meowing as he circled the room before jumping onto the table.

The early spring air outside was warm, with a gentle breeze, so Neal left the door open. “I guess you’re wondering where I was this morning.”

The dark feline eyes stayed fixed on him as he moved about the room, setting water on to boil for tea, then slicing bread and covering it with cheese, which he set on a tin plate on the spider-stand over the hearth to toast. He tossed the cheese rind to Rascal, who sniffed it and then eyed him balefully.

“No cream. Sorry. Used the last of it yesterday.”

Rascal sneezed, then hunkered down on the table to gnaw on the rind.

Neal drank his tea and ate his toasted cheese accompanied by the low, vibrating purr of the cat. After feeding the chickens—barring Rascal from the gate with his foot—he returned to his rooms and dressed. He had to shoo the cat out of the flat before leaving.

The horse needed little guidance to get to the Longrieve home in Jericho, since he usually started his daily rounds by calling on Mrs. Longrieve and the baby. This afternoon, however, he was not greeted by an ebullient teen eager to discuss the latest reading project he’d conquered. Neal tied the horse slowly, wishing he did not make his visit under such tragic circumstances.

Mrs. Longrieve opened the door at his soft knock, her face haggard and pale. She stepped back and invited him in wordlessly. He followed her lead and said nothing, crossing the cramped room to the crate Mr. Longrieve had fashioned into a cradle for the baby.

Though the infant slept, she did not look peaceful. Neal lifted her and carried her out into the sunlight. Her nearly translucent skin had a yellow tint to it, and when he pried open her mouth, her gums were pale.

The baby squirmed and began a plaintive whimper—as if she did not have enough energy for a proper cry. He cradled her to his chest and ducked back into the narrow row house.

“Johnny’s out trying to earn money for food.” Mrs. Longrieve took the baby from Neal, draped a blanket over her shoulder and the child, and began nursing. “It’s hard for him, it is, with so many younger boys what will take fewer coins to carry messages the same distance.”

“What about driving the cab?”

“The constables took it—to be sold to pay our debt for the theft.”

Neal crossed his arms. “All but five pounds were returned. The cab must be worth much more than that.”

Mrs. Longrieve’s shoulders slumped. “They said we’d have to sell the cab, and our horses, to pay for a lawyer and court fees.”

“We will see about that. I will go to the constable to see what can be done. Once your husband is exonerated, he must have a way to support his family.”

“But we have nothing to pay the legal expenses with.”

“Do not worry—I will take care of it.” Neal picked up his kit. “When you next see Johnny, send him to find me. I have an errand for him.”

“Yes, Doctor. How much do I—”

“You owe me nothing. I came to check on my friend’s family, nothing more.” He stepped outside and donned his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Longrieve.”

Moisture brimmed in the gaunt woman’s eyes. “Good day, Dr. Stradbroke.”

The horse, accustomed to being left tethered at the Longrieves’ home for a nosebag of oats and a nap while Neal made his rounds on foot, tossed its head when Neal untied the rope and led it out into the street to mount.

“Come on, ol’ chap.” Neal ran his hand under the long chestnut mane, then patted the muscular neck. “We have work to be about.”

The animal waited until Neal was mounted before turning to try to bite the toe of Neal’s boot. With dexterity gained from years of training farm horses, Neal controlled the animal and headed off to the constabulary office.

Oliver stood back and watched as the Chawley Abbey carpenter set the second pane of glass into the rebuilt sash in the front door of Miss Bainbridge’s shop.

“I am so relieved the money was returned.” He patted the breast pocket of his coat. “I had come fully prepared to reimburse you for the cost of M’lady’s gowns.”

Miss Bainbridge reached up and touched the wing of hair that did little to conceal the bandage covering half of her forehead. Her smile looked weary. “I appreciate your generosity. But now I will not have to forego my visit to London and the Exhibition.”

Oliver turned toward her, his attention fully caught by her words. “You intend to visit the Great Exhibition?”

“Yes. I understand there will be displays of fabrics and fashions from all over the empire. I would be remiss not to attend.” She finished rolling fabric onto a wooden bolt, then reached overhead to slide it in between others on a shelf, like books.

Oliver gazed at the rows of shelves containing dozens and dozens of bolts of fabrics, from the most vulgar cottons and muslins to exquisite silks and linens. Only someone of high intelligence and business acumen could have built a business that attracted rich and poor alike. He could think of no other shop his mother patronized that also counted residents of Jericho as customers. In fact, she usually shunned those types of places.

He supposed that because M’lady did not have to set foot inside the shop, she did not have to admit that Miss Bainbridge counted some of the poorest residents of Oxfordshire among her clientele. And M’lady usually looked better in the elegant but understated gowns Miss Bainbridge made for her than the ostentatious creations from her London dressmakers.

“And it will be a chance to see what all the ladies of London are wearing, will it not?” Oliver leaned on the high table in the center of the shop where Miss Bainbridge had just cut a measured length of the cotton duck she’d just re-shelved.

A slight pinch formed between her fine, dark brows, but it quickly disappeared. “Yes, of course.”

Now she sounded like she was humoring him. That wouldn’t do. “I am certain, though, that you find other ways to keep abreast of the latest styles. Through . . . magazines and such.”

“And such.” She flinched when the bolt of fabric beside the one she pulled out came out and started falling toward her forehead. Quick as lightning, she caught the rogue bolt and pushed it back in place before it could cause her further harm.

She carried what must be a heavy load to the table and began unrolling the coarse indigo fabric. It landed with a hollow thud on the table each time the flat board rolled over as she measured several yards of the stuff.

Oliver reached across the cutting table to feel it—it was as rough as it looked. He wrinkled his nose. “What on earth is this used for?”

“This is denim. It is quite durable, so workmen from many professions rely on it for clothing that will hold up to all kinds of difficult work.” She glanced beyond him toward the door, and Oliver turned. Though the carpenter’s pants were brown, they did seem to be made from the same type of heavy twill material.

“All finished, Mr. Carmichael.” The carpenter put the last of his tools back into the wooden case he carried and stood, taking one last swipe at the two new panes of glass with a white handkerchief.