In the Brief Eternal Silence (64 page)

Know all that I dare not say. Not even to
myself.

Lizzie.

And he stood for a long moment, letting her
voice wash through him, and wondered how she could think he could
read such a letter and not rush to her side? That even if he did
not fear for her safety, he would have dropped everything he was
about and gone to her and once again drew her into his arms and
kissed her until her silly, sensible ideas all melted into nothing
but so much soft caring that she could hold even the harsh,
unyielding vengeance that flowed in him and soothe it into serene
acceptance.

With a sudden despair, he wadded the letter
and went to dash it to the ground. But he could not, could not
throw those words away, any more than he had been able to leave
their announced nuptials to be tossed with the paper. And so he
only shoved the letter into his pocket and realized that he had not
noticed as he had been reading that Tyler had arrived.

It pointed out damningly the completeness of
his distraction.

Tyler, with brutality, said, “Aye, milord,
and I could have shot you and you would have not known you were
dead 'til you reached t'end of your letter.”

St. James, for once, could find nothing to
say to this, and he only flashed his groom a warning look.

Steven pointed out, “But I was here, keepin'
watch, so he were safe enough.”

“Indeed, lad,” Tyler encouraged, “and damned
lucky of it too, I dare say.” He dismounted and put a large hand on
that youth's shoulder, but his next words were aimed again at St.
James. “You can be angry with me if you wish, milord, but you're as
sick with her as I've ever seen 'em come.” He turned to unfasten a
small bag that was tied to his saddle, and he threw it into the
curricle to join the one Effington had sent down. “And now's a
damned bad time t'be entertainin' an affection for t'young
lady.”

“T'is not your concern, Tyler,” St. James
told him, his voice dangerous.

“Aye. I'll shut up,” the groom agreed. “But
you best be aware of it and get control, milord, or t'only letters
you'll be reading will be from six feet under, studyin' yer head
stone.” And with force he spat tobacco to within an inch of
milord's boots and added, “Her's too.”

“Enough!” St. James told him. “What took you
so bloody long? For I expected you to be here before me.”

“I saw the filly of course. Which I gather
now comes as no surprise t'you, but I spent a deal of time tryin'
t'determine why Miss's filly should be there and where she was. No
one knew, of which I was relieved as well as concerned.”

“You did not have the ill-conceived notion to
set up a hue and cry did you?” St. James asked.

But Tyler shook his head. “No. Only asked
Bedrow, and advised him not t'mention that the horses were there
unexpectedly and t'say nothin' of it if someone were t'ask other
than that you had sent over two of yours that you suddenly found
yourself short of room for. Then,” he continued, “I come to find
your grandmother not in residence.”

“Damn it, Tyler, you can not be serious!”

“Oh, 'deed, I am, milord. I've never seen
anythin' going as badly as this seems t'be. She's gone to
Chestershire.”

St. James pondered this, then said, “Little
matters. I should have expected she would do such a thing. And I'd
rather she not be in her home here now at any rate. Lady Lydia did
not accompany her, did she?”

“No.”

“I did not think she would. Did you speak to
Andrew then?”

But Tyler shook his head again. “No, for
damned if he has not gone to Chestershire also, and in his carriage
of all things, rather than on horseback.”

And St. James, taken aback, rubbed his lip at
this point and admitted, “That surprises me and I do not know what
to make of it as of yet.” Then he glanced up, a little bemused. “So
how did you get the bloody bag?”

“Ashton is sympathetic t'our cause. And he'll
not say anything t'anyone of it.”

“Ah. Very good. Steven, has your mother told
you where your father is to be buried?”

“Aye, m'lord. And she asked that I extend her
thanks, our thanks t'ye, for she said t'is quite decent of you an'
all.”

“Well, she will be able to thank me in
person, however little I may deserve it, for we will wrap this
business up and then, Steven, we will be going to your home. That
is, if you would be so kind as to invite us?”

Steven nodded, “Coo, m'lord. Be right honored
to have ye. 'N' I'm glad to have time to talk to ye at any rate,
for I've a meetin' at Red's Pub t'night.”

St. James closed his eyes for an instance for
he felt if he had one more piece of unexpected news he would crack,
and when he opened them again he could do nothing but meet Tyler's
eyes over Steven's head, and although he had not had chance to tell
Tyler that part of the tale, evidently his own expression was
enough to tell the groom that this was a significant announcement,
and that St. James was not sure what to make of it.

“Lord help ye, St. James, but if you don't
look as though you just swallow'd a whole cud of chaw. What's in
t'works? And where is Miss Murdock?”

“Miss Murdock is sitting no more than around
the corner, I would lief wager, from the very men that would kill
her, and Steven here, has managed to make sure that they have been
delayed from following her believed movements to Chestershire. And
although they may not yet be aware that she is in their midst, they
are very much gathered nigh about her. And this could be a very
fortuitous circumstance, or a very bad one.” He turned to Steven,
told him with earnestness, “We must finish very quickly, lad, and
make haste to your home. And you must think of some route to get us
there that we will not be seen.”

“Coo, milord, in broad day? It willn't be
easy.”

“Well, think upon it, shall you, while we
take care of this business in here,” and with that, he and Steven
at last went through the doors of the undertaking establishment,
and Tyler remained with the horses and the conveyance.

Chapter Twenty-five

“I dearly wish,” Bertie complained, “that we
could be away from here now, for despite what you may think, I know
that ten to one he will come here if for no other reason than to
dress me down.”

The shanty that he and Miss Murdock were
visiting had no panes of glass in the two small windows that looked
out onto the narrow street, and so it had not much in the way of
privacy, and Lord Tempton, despite the grievance in his tone, kept
his voice quiet.

He was seated at the table that with its two
chairs was the sole furniture in the room, and he had pulled from
his coat pocket a deck of cards, much to Miss Murdock's amusement,
and had been playing solitaire for the past two hours since
Steven's departure.

Miss Murdock, also aware of the open windows,
but rather less concerned, as she expected that the noise being
made by Mrs. Crockner's other two young children would drown out
her words before they could reach beyond the small house, replied
from where she sat across from him, “Oh, Bertie, surely not! I am
certain he has far too many other matters on his mind to come down
here for no other reason than to scold us. And I explained, did I
not, that I wrote that we would be going on to Chestershire at
night fall? That must have mollified him to some degree.”

One of Mrs. Crockner's children, the seven
year old, was playing with nothing more than a string as he sat on
the rough floor before the stove, which he occupied himself with by
making differing and complicated designs between his spread
fingers. This is naturally a quiet endeavor, but he made up for
this deficiency in his entertainment by singing a rather bawdy tune
that Miss Murdock was making a valiant effort to not follow the
words of too closely. The three year old sat upon her lap and was
crying despite her every effort to distract him. She spoke to him
now at the end of her words to Lord Tempton, “See the pretty cards?
See Uncle Bertie playing with the pretty cards?”

And Bertie snorted at his new title and only
said, “Do you care to wager upon it, Miss Murdock? And by the by,
do you perchance play poker?”

“No, I do not,” she returned. “And I would
not expose young children to such even if I did.” Which seemed a
rather lame expostulation to direct at him when she considered the
song the elder one was singing.

“Well, I still say we should leave now and
take our chances. Only stands to reason that the drunks have to
sleep sometime, and the more decent of them should be down on the
docks at any rate. Can't see the necessity of waiting until night
fall.”

Lord Tempton, she suspected, was urging an
earlier departure in order to escape the noisy children as much as
any fear he may have of St. James' displeasure. “I shan't leave at
least until Steven is returned,” she reminded him. “For I wish to
know if St. James is taking any action to help this family as Lucy
had said he offered, for I swear if he knew of their conditions he
would not tolerate their being here this long.”

“You can hardly expect Steven to explain to
him all of this, Miss Murdock,” Bertie advised, “for it is
something that is unbelievable unless seen for oneself.”

And Miss Murdock had to concede that he may
be right upon that head. She never would have dreamed that any one
could live in such squalor and survive. It was no wonder that Lucy
looked as though she were fifty when Miss Murdock had gained from
her that she was but thirty-nine.

That exhausted female, after urging from Miss
Murdock, had retired to the only other room of the small house, a
long narrow space that held one proper bed and two straw filled
mattresses upon the floor behind the large stove that acted as
fireplace and cooking appliance. The room Miss Murdock and Bertie
sat in now was hardly larger, and the light was dim, for although,
as noted, there were two windows, the lack of panes in them had
induced Steven's mother to cover them with worn canvas, and the
only sun that came through was muted. It did have the advantage of
keeping out the cold air, and at least a portion of the smell. But
the home was still cold and drafty, and Miss Murdock had not even
taken off St. James' coat, but remained huddled in it.

The children seemed warmly enough covered,
but their clothing was a hodge podging of layers of too large over
too small, and though oft mended, there were many thin, bare spots
of material that threatened to be yet another hole.

The rooms were clean but lacked any adornment
or comfort. Miss Murdock had sent Steven for supplies, after
procuring funds from Lord Tempton, for there had been no food in
the house at all, and she had spent much of her morning with
cooking and feeding the grief-stricken household. She was very
tired indeed, despite sleeping the day before, but it had been no
hardship for her to persuade Lucy to get some much needed rest, as
she was exhausted from her excursion to meet with St. James the
night before, and Lizzie did not fancy sleeping on any of the beds
at any rate.

Now, she managed to shush the child on her
lap and the other's singing petered off to a hum, and Bertie
observed, “I am sure St. James shall do something, for I would
wager these are company owned houses, and as her husband is no
longer alive and hence no longer an employee, then they will be
evicted.”

Miss Murdock looked at him with dismay. “They
would throw out a widow and three orphaned children?”

“I'm not all that familiar with how they
operate, but the houses are for the workers, I am sure. It will be
none of their concern other than that she no longer has a man
working for them.”

Miss Murdock took a dispirited look around.
“I would only say they were doing her a favor except that I am well
aware she could not possibly have any place better to go. If St.
James is too preoccupied to do anything immediately, Bertie, you
shall have to.”

He winced a little. “Miss Murdock,” he
begged, “I am sure I can make some arrangements, but I hope you are
not suggesting—?”

“Indeed I am, Lord Tempton,” she replied.
“When we leave, they must come with us, for I can not tolerate the
thought that they be here another night, and she worrying of where
they are to go when they are unceremoniously tossed out.”

“But whatever am I to do with them?” Bertie
asked with desperation. “Needn't tell you, I did not kill the poor
woman's husband.”

And Miss Murdock flashed him a disapproving
look from her brown eyes. “That is a poor way to get out of your
obligation, Bertie. For I am certain that St. James had no choice,
and the very manner in which Mrs. Crockner is unwilling to bear a
grudge against him only proves me right, along with the story that
Steven told of how it all came about.”

“But walking out of here with a woman and two
small children? When you know very well how dicey it was last night
coming in! It's not seemly they should see what we saw, what you
should not have been seeing.”

“Well, it will be a great deal more unseemly
if they are living in the street rather than merely walking through
it a final time, will it not?” she asked him. “No, Bertie, they
must go and that must be the end of it. At least there should be no
luggage. My only concern is what we shall do with them after we
have them out of here,” she worried.

But Bertie left off playing his cards and his
eyes, which had remained on his game throughout all this
conversation, now glanced up. Miss Murdock watched him, trying to
discern what had disturbed him, for other than the boy on her lap
babbling, she had heard nothing.

“Do you smell smoke?” Bertie asked. She
stiffened, sniffed. There was a smoky smell to the air.

“Yes. Yes, I think I do.” She turned to check
the stove, but there seemed nothing amiss there. Then she had no
further time to wonder for there was a muffled sound of something
falling, as though on the roof, and they both looked up. “I don't
see anything,” she said with quiet hopefulness.