Page 95 of Rules for Ruin

She moistened her lips. “When we arrive, you will allow me to ask the questions, I trust.”

“Of course,” he said.

It was some consolation.

By the time the carriage came to a halt at the end of the narrow lane in front of Mrs. Young’s isolated cottage, Effie had her nerves under some semblance of control.

Gabriel disembarked from the carriage ahead of her. He turned to offer his hand.

Normally, Effie would have ignored the courtesy. She was perfectly capable of climbing in and out of carriages on her own. This time, however, she was glad of the assistance. She’d faced too many difficult moments on her own. It was a relief to know this didn’t have to be one of them.

She silently set her hand in his.

His face remained impassive, but his fingers immediately closed around hers, both gentle and firm, as though he was cradling something infinitely precious in his grasp.

He stayed by the steps, holding her hand as she descended. He didn’t release her, only waited until her booted feet were firmly on the ground before tucking her hand in his arm.

“I believe I saw the curtains twitch,” he said dryly.

Effie mustered a faint smile. “They’re expecting us.”

The small cottage was respectable enough, with its thatched roof and low stone wall. A pebble path led to a slatted front door with ivy growing over the lintel.

Arriving on the front step, they had no need to apply the knocker. The door was opened before either of them could raise a hand. A large, gray-haired woman in a matron’s cap filled the doorframe. She looked them up and down.

“Mr. Royce, is it?” she queried. “That man of yours said you’d be here today. My sister and I have been waiting since half past ten.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I am Mrs. Sturges.”

“Ma’am,” Gabriel said. “May I present Mrs. Flite.”

Effie took her elevation from miss to Mrs. in stride. She was, after all, a widow, and one who—judging by her unrelieved black—was still in her first year of mourning.

Drawing back her veil, she inclined her head to the woman. “How do you do?”

Mrs. Sturges examined Effie’s face with interest. “Mrs. Flite.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Royce was bringing a lady.” She stepped back. “Come in, if you will. I’ve made tea.”

Effie entered ahead of Gabriel. Mrs. Sturges led them from a cramped front hall through to a small parlor. An aged woman in a poorly fitting drab dress was seated inside on a faded chintz sofa. Her back was hunched, her calloused hands and careworn face indicating a life hard lived. She rose on creaking legs as they came in, fixing her rheumy eyes in their general direction. It wasn’t immediately evident if she was blind or merely approaching that state.

“My older sister, Mrs. Young,” Mrs. Sturges said. Raising her voice, she addressed the woman: “Vera? This is Mr. Royce and Mrs. Flite come to see you.” She waved Effie and Gabriel in. “She can’t see so well anymore, but her mind’s still quick as a trap. Sit down, the pair of you. I’ll fetch the tea tray.”

“I never knew you in St. Giles, sir,” Mrs. Young said, resuming her seat. Her accent was coarser than her sister’s, and the wisps of hair escaping her plain cotton cap were white instead of gray. “But I knew of you well enough. And so I told your man, Mr. Walsh.”

Effie sat down in one of the pair of threadbare armchairs facing Mrs. Young. Gabriel took the chair next to her. The printed curtains on the small window were open, letting the sun shine into the room.

“He claims you knew of someone else as well,” Gabriel said. “A servant woman who used to work for Mrs. Flite’s family some years ago.”

Mrs. Young’s wizened face took on an acquisitive air. “Mr. Walsh indicated as how there might be some small reward involved.”

“There might be,” Gabriel said, “if the information you provide is useful to Mrs. Flite.”

Mrs. Young turned her bleary gaze toward Effie. “This servant of yours, she end up in the Rookery, did she?”

“I believe she did,” Effie said. “It was a very long time ago. I’m anxious to learn what became of her.”

“I don’t recollect Mrs. Grace having been anyone’s servant,” Mrs. Young said. “She could never have stuck it.”

Effie’s brows elevated. “Mrs. Grace?” she repeated. “I thought…That is, wasn’t Grace her given name?”

“Oh no. Called herself Amelie or Celine or summat. A lot of them girls had similar-like French names what came out of Madam Marie’s. Though she weren’t there long. Couldn’t stick that, either. The madam threw her out, if I remember.”