Ghost of the Thames Page 13

  She looked across the room at him. He was thumbing through a book he’d randomly selected from the novelist’s shelves. Something had changed in Edward since their night together, though, and that was troubling. He had seemed so pleased when he’d left her, almost buoyant for a man of such a serious temperament. This morning, there was a degree of reserve in his treatment of her that exceeded his normal manner. It was as if he’d closed off his emotions. Sophy turned and gazed vacantly at the framed Hogarth print on the wall. It was from The Rake’s Progress. She was surprised to recognize it. She’d seen it before.

  The change in him had been immediately obvious to her at her lodgings in Soho this morning. She’d attributed his reserve to the presence of her landlady, but then it had continued during the carriage ride here. No stolen kisses, no affectionate touch, no talk at all of what had happened only a day before. And no plans of what he was going to do to her again. He only spoke in very businesslike terms about where they had to go and what needed to be done. There was something seriously wrong, and he was allowing no opportunity for her to ask him about it.

  Sophy felt the weight of his gaze from across the room. Seeing that hint of tenderness, that yearning glance that she recognized, she opened her mouth to speak. A sharp tap on the door stopped her though, and Edward’s expression became a mask once again as Charles Dickens strolled in.

  “Miss Sophy. Captain Seymour. Please forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

  The enthusiasm in the novelist’s salutation confused Sophy for a moment. Though he’d never been discourteous to her before, his attitude this afternoon was entirely different from their meetings in the past. He was carrying a folded newspaper under his arm, and he directly walked to Edward and handed it to him, pointing to a certain section.

  “Another article on the topic we spoke of yesterday.” Dickens turned and immediately came back to Sophy. “Please sit. Mrs. Dickens tells me she has shown you the house. Tea should be in shortly. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you again.”

  Sophy felt like turning around and making certain the novelist wasn’t talking to someone else in the room. At best, she’d expected a lecture and words of guidance, not flattery. She glanced at Edward. He had the newspaper spread open on Dickens desk and seemed to be completely absorbed in what he was reading.

  “Any news of what occurred at that warehouse two nights ago?” she asked, guessing that would be a topic of interest to the captain.

  “Yes, there was a brief report of it,” Dickens answered. “Now, Miss Sophy, I wanted to talk to you about your meeting with Mr. Acton. Captain Seymour has told me of your visit to the Geographical Society.”

  “Yes, it was quite enlightening. Now, at least, I can identify the languages I speak.”

  “That is indeed excellent. But the captain tells me that no advances have been made in recalling anything more of your past, prior to regaining consciousness, wounded and floating in the Thames.”

  Sophy cast another glance in Edward’s direction. From the furrow in his brow, it was evident that he was distressed by whatever he was reading.

  She forced her attention back to the novelist. “No. I do not remember anything else.”

  “No names. No faces?”

  “None.”

  “No address where you might have been staying in London?”

  She shook her head.

  Two young servants came in, one carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. The other had a note for Dickens.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, rising and going to a window where he read the note. While tea was being served, Sophy rose and went to Edward. He closed the paper as she approached.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  His dark gaze caressed her face for moment before he answered. “No. Nothing that you should worry about right now.”

  “Is there any news of who owned the warehouse?”

  “The upper floors of that building were sublet to a ‘Mr. Smith’. No one knows who he is, apparently. The owner of the warehouse says the floors were supposed to be used for sugar, and that he knew of no one staying there. The police are still looking into the matter.”

  Edward glanced at the door. Mrs. Dickens had rejoined them, and the novelist immediately crossed the room to his wife.

  “I’d like to go back and see those boys,” Sophy told him.

  “Let me make the arrangements. That can be a rough neighborhood. I don’t want you going back there on your own.”

  A few days ago she would have protested, but today she was relieved to hear the note of protection.

  “Something else is disturbing you,” she said quietly.

  Instead of answering he motioned to where their hosts had seated themselves. “I believe Mrs. Dickens is waiting for us.”

  Sophy felt a heavy weight form in her chest as she walked back to her seat. The loss of memory and the solitary awareness of an adventurous ghost was nothing compared to this feeling of rejection. She took her seat and accepted the cup of tea from the novelist’s wife.

  “After our conversation yesterday,” Dickens told her. “Captain Seymour and I both agree that introducing you into London society might just be the nudge your brain needs to recall some important facts.”

  “But how could that be wise? I cannot even recall my last name.”

  “That should be no impediment at all. I have already invented a name and background for you.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “I have no wish to be identified as a fraud.”

  “We would never allow you to be exposed in any way that would be injurious to you, Miss Sophy,” he said. “As your sponsors, we too would be injured by any question of impropriety.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, casting a glance at Edward.

  When she turned her attention back to the novelist, Dickens and his wife were exchanging a look. They had clearly discussed this beforehand. “Perhaps our new friend should call you Kate from now on. Would that suit you, dear?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Dickens replied, smiling at Sophy. “You will call me Kate, and that’s all there is to it.”

  The novelist nodded and continued. “You see, five years ago we sailed on the Britannia to America. And during our lengthy stay there, we traveled extensively--saw many cities, met many families, and made countless friends.”

  Kate broke in excitedly. “And you will be introduced as the daughter of one of those dear friends that we made. You have recently arrived from America for a visit of London.”

  Sophy stole another glance at Edward. He didn’t appear surprised by any of this.

  “The question we still need to agree on is where we should say you are from,” Dickens mused. “We don’t want to have you originate in any city that London society knows too little or too much about. At the same time, it is not wise to have you from anywhere south, for there certainly will be questions wherever you go regarding slavery.”

  “We might say she is from Philadelphia,” Kate offered.

  “A handsome city, but distractingly regular. After walking about the place for an hour or two, I remember feeling that I would have given the world for a crooked street. And the Quaker influence is striking . . . I wasn’t there a day but the collar of my coat appeared to stiffen, and the brim of my hat to expand.” Dickens’ attention turned to Sophy. “Do you know anything about Quakers?”

  “Nothing that comes immediately to mind,” she admitted.

  “No, Philadelphia won’t do,” Dickens announced.

  “What about New York?” Kate asked. “You enjoyed New York, Charles.”

  “It is certainly a fascinating city. It may soon be the most beautiful metropolis in America, but it is by no means as clean a city as, say, Boston. Now, there is a city. Many of Boston’s streets have the same qualities, except that the houses there are more freshly painted, the sign-boards more colorful, the gilded letters more golden, the bricks redder, the stone of the great buildings whiter, the blinds and railings greener, the
knobs and plates upon the street-doors brighter.”

  “Why don’t you just say that you have made up your mind for Sophy to be from Boston,” Edward interrupted.

  “Yes. Yes. Boston it is. The city is a beautiful one and does not fail, I imagine, to impress all visitors favorably. And in an hour’s time I can teach you all you need to know and say about the city.”

  “Miss Burdett-Coutts wants you to be presented at a party at her house at the end of this week,” Edward told her. “Once you are known to have been on her guest list, you will be sought after for every social event in London.”

  Sophy looked up hesitantly at him, her heart in her throat. “Am I to go there alone, knowing no one?”

  “You will be going with Kate and me,” Dickens responded.

  She didn’t look away from Edward. “Captain? Will you be joining us, too?”

  He did not answer. Mrs. Dickens made some remark about Captain Seymour avoiding social events since being back ashore. Sophy tried not to look anxious, but she didn’t want to run a gauntlet of inquisitive strangers without his protection. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to say so directly.

  “Is that true, Captain?” she managed to say.

  “I need to think about it.”

  Sophy felt her throat tighten, and she had to fight back tears. She hid her face behind the cup of tea, taking a long sip. She couldn’t understand what she had done wrong. What was the reason for his change of heart?

  “The name?” she finally managed to ask. “What name shall I use?”

  “Howe. Miss Sophia Howe. The daughter of Samuel Gridley Howe, director of a very impressive school I visited in Boston.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Tell me again,” John Warren snapped. “But I want it clear this time.”

  Standing by the door of this private room above the Limehouse tavern where John Warren preferred to deal with this side of the business, Hodgson glanced around at the half-dozen assembled cutthroats. It had been a difficult week with the loss of Jack Slade, a reliable collector, and the trouble at one of the warehouses where they were keeping some boys. But neither of those amounted to anything compared to this . . .if the report of the Warren girl’s sighting were true.

  “I’ll tell it,” a collector named Salmon said, cutting off one of the others. “The Gaali docker me and the boys was put on to says ’e saw ’er, clear as day. Quality, she was, and come out of a fancy rattler with two ’orses, just sitting on the West Indies quay, she did. He’s swearing it was ’er that yer looking for. Spoke to ’im in Gaali and all.”

  Warren nodded slowly. “What else did the man say?”

  “That’s all ’e could tell. Said a gaggle of jack tars dragged ’im off. Said they’d a served him out good if ’e ’adn’t piked it. Still took a thrashing, though, from the looks of ’im.”

  Another ruffian that Hodgson knew as Butcher broke in. “If ye want ’im, Guv, I knows where ’e is. Potted out in a dusty poke up by the Pup and Ringer in Stepney, ’e is.”

  “No,” Warren barked. “He can hang for all I care. What I want is the girl.”

  “No need to growl,” Butcher replied coolly. “Just saying.”

  Hodgson watched as the two men eyed each other. He could feel the tension in the air. The old man was not backing off, though, and finally Butcher looked away. Salmon spoke up again. “What is it ye be wanting, Guv?”

  “I want to know where she is!” Warren bellowed. “Who is she staying with? If she is alive, as this man says, where has she been hiding?”

  “We’ll keep our lugs open. As always.” Salmon straightened his jacket. Hodgson realized the cash carrier had started dressing more fashionably as he’d been moving up in the whore-mongering business along the docks.

  “But have you asked around already?” Warren persisted.

  “Aye, Guv. Nobody knows nothing of it. But our other boys never saw your niece ’afore, so they can’t rightly say if they saw a quality piece by any carriage. Some say yes. Some say no. Some say she could ’ave been any flash judy out on a lark.” Salmon shrugged. “Bottom’s up, nobody knows nothing worth telling.”

  Hodgson watched Warren glare at the men over the tips of his steepled fingers. He knew the old man well enough to see the venom in the gaze. Warren wanted this situation resolved, and he wanted it done now. Considering the size of John Warren’s operations in the city, none of the other problems this week amounted to much more than a scratch. Catherine Warren, though, had the potential of being a major spoiler.

  “I have three ships due to arrive over the next few weeks from Calcutta. I want no more trouble between now and the time these shipments come in.” Warren said coldly. “You’ll all have plenty to do once those ships dock. Until then, keep your ears open for the girl and keep your mouths shut about it. Do you hear me? Now get out.”

  One by one, the men paid their respects and left. When the door shut behind the last one, Warren looked up at Hodgson.

  “This is what I am thinking,” the old man said. “Learn all you can, as fast as you can, about India and Bengal.”

  “I am already very familiar with our operations there, sir,” Hodgson replied.

  “Learn more,” Warren ordered. “Their tongue, their ways. Bed some of our nauch girls. Find out what you don’t read in books.”

  Hodgson tried to hide his excitement. He knew what this meant. Warren needed to pick someone trustworthy to go to India and take over the business there, now that Arthur Warren was dead.

  “I shall get to that right away.”

  “Also, get somebody to translate for you and spend some time with that Bengali woman.”

  “You mean Priya, sir.”

  “See if you can use some of your charm to win her over.”

  “Of course, but . . . .” Hodgson paused.

  “What is it?”

  “I doubt the woman can be persuaded to lie if she is called to testify at coroner’s inquest. I do not believe she will identify someone else as Miss Warren.”

  “I am not worrying about that blasted Harmon,” Warren said. “I have already taken care of that. He’ll shortly be removed from this case. And we’ll make sure the new man is well paid before the next hearing.”

  Hodgson was surprised at this new development, though he knew he shouldn’t be. Considering their business, Warren had many friends who were happy to lend a hand, when needed.

  “Then your problem should be solved, sir.”

  “Yes and no,” the old man grumbled. “Yes, if Catherine is truly dead. No, if she suddenly appears and I cannot take possession of her.”

  “Certainly you have covered all possible eventualities, sir,” he said. “Between the reports of the coroner’s inquest in the newspapers and the generous reward you have offered, this woman on the docks cannot be your niece. Who would see fit to protect her when there is no need for protection from a loving uncle?”

  Warren looked at him intently for a moment, and then stood up.

  “But if she does appear,” he said, “I am prepared for that eventuality, as well.”

  “Sir?” Hodgson asked, opening the door for him.

  “If she appears, I will marry her off.”

  “Marry her off, sir?”

  “Do not play the fool, Hodgson. You will marry her. It will be the making of you. Then, the two of you go back to Calcutta, where you will take control of the business.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Warren. I—”

  “And if something were to happen to her on the journey back, so be it. Just make sure she causes no more trouble.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  As they descended to the street and made their way toward Warren’s carriage, the old man suddenly stopped and put a hand on Hodgson's arm.

  “That’s why I want you to be friendly with that witch Priya,” he said in a low voice. “I think that woman has had more influence on the girl than any of us imagined.”

  CHAPTER 20

  What to say, how to address some
one, which wine for which course at table. Elegance and style were in abundance at Holly Lodge, but Sophy realized she was fortunately no stranger to it. Her problems lay somewhere else.

  Lord Latham sat to her right at the table and offered enough amusement to distract her occasionally from thinking and worrying about why Captain Seymour had decided not to join them for the party. She took all the blame for his absence on herself. His interest in her had quickly faded, but not his generosity. The clothes, the accessories, the way she was being treated by all these people, were all because of the captain’s kindness. But she still wanted to know what had gone wrong. She didn’t know how she’d displeased him.

  After dinner, Sophy followed the ladies out of the dining room, while the gentlemen remained to smoke and drink.

  In the drawing room, someone began to play the piano and that attracted attention. Sophy was drawn to the shelves farthest from the moment’s entertainment, where a number of smaller musical instruments were on display.

  The variety of shapes and sizes, the delicate craftsmanship evident in the construction of each piece fascinated her. She reached up and touched a stringed instrument with long hollow neck and the resonating round chamber. It looked familiar to her. In her mind, she heard the pluck of the strings, the echo of a lush harmonic hum.

  Suddenly, a warm symphony of sound surrounded her. She drifted into another place and time—to a room where soft breezes and sunlight poured in through open windows. She could feel the brush of fine silk against her skin.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The voice brought her back to the present, and Sophy was surprised to find Miss Burdett-Coutts standing beside her. She struggled for a moment to gather her thoughts.

  “Yes, it is. All of these instruments are quite beautiful. What would make you collect items like these?”

  “Some have been a part of my family collections for a generation, at least. Others are gifts. I am known to be very fond of music, so people quite often bring me unique pieces when they return from faraway countries.”