Page 75 of The Marriage Method

The carriage slowed amid the traffic of the busy street. It was an overcast day, but still a dry one, and the storekeepers were doing a steady trade. Gleaming coaches jockeyed for position in the road as well-to-do ladies and gentlemen in fine clothes were assisted in and out of their vehicles by liveried footmen.

“Ah, that,” Effie said. “I ordered a new cane for you.”

“You what?”

“The one you already have is too recognizable. You’ll require another for Hertfordshire. Something plain and unobtrusive.”

Nell’s eyes narrowed. “And useless?”

“Far from it. The clockmaker’s assistant, Miss Peele, is rather talented with mechanized wheels and coils. She’s fitting it up with a spring-loaded blade just as your previous one had. It will still serve if you get into trouble. Which I trust you won’t with Mr. Quincey there to protect you.”

“Is Mr. Royce always there to protect you now you’re married?”

Effie smiled at the mention of her husband. “He tries to be, poor man. But he has his work to attend to. He can’t forever be chasing after me.”

A hollowness formed in Nell’s chest. She’d never had anyone who loved her so particularly. Who would be willing to chase her to the ends of the earth in order to save her, protect her. Not a sweetheart. Not a mother. Not even a friend. When it came to the point, Nell had always been sacrificed. Lady Belwood had given her up for selfish gain. Miss Corvus for the greater good. The end result had been the same.

And Nell wondered, is that what she would have done? Had she a daughter, a protégé, someone who relied on her, would she have set them aside? Abandoned them? Or would she have risked everything to assure their safety and happiness?

She gazed out the carriage window at the passing storefronts, a pensive frown notching her brow. The well-to-do ladies and gentleman with their fine clothes and their fine servants were far removed from the wretchedness that lay in the less fashionable parts of the city. Looking at them, one could almost believe that the slums of London didn’t exist. That there weren’t people there, even now, subsisting in the worst circumstances, struggling for their very survival.

“Would he object if we went to Whitechapel?” she asked abruptly.

“Unequivocally,” Effie said. “What did you have in mind?”

Nell turned back to her. “This will be the fourth night that Flora Brent has been on her own, somewhere out there, at the mercy of heaven knows what or whom.”

“We’re exhausting every effort to find her. Mr. Royce has already sent two of his men to make inquiries. And you and Mr. Quincey haven’t been idle.”

“I want to do more,” Nell said. “I’ve been thinking about where she might have gone after she fled the brothel. All she’s known is the workhouse. There are few places she would naturally trust. A church, perhaps? Or possibly she tried to find her way back to the railway station? Or what if…” A thought occurred to her. “Could she have sought out another workhouse? Whichever one there is in Whitechapel?”

“Not unless she’s possessed of no spirit at all,” Effie said. “What sort of girl longs to return to the workhouse?”

“A frightened one. One seeking sanctuary.”

“But Miss Brent is resourceful. If it were me, I’d be retracing my steps. Attempting to course correct.”

“So, back to the railway station?”

“She’d need fare first,” Effie said. “And there are few ways for a girl her age to earn it in a slum.”

Nell’s spirits sank at the implication. “She could be begging.”

“She could be,” Effie allowed, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“I can’t in good conscience depart for Hertfordshire without making another attempt to find her,” Nell said. “And something else. There’s a seamstress near Commercial Street. I spoke with her the day I arrived in town, but I left her no way to reach me. I’d like to see her again before I go.”

“What seamstress?” Effie asked.

Nell told her about Miss Jean. Effie listened with interest. It wasn’t often either of them encountered someone who had been able to withstand Miss Corvus’s maneuverings.

“You mean to say Miss Corvus tried to recruit this woman as a teacher?” Effie asked. “And she refused?” Her forehead creased. “I wonder what her special skill might be?”

“Sewing, I daresay.”

“In other words, she’s you.”

“If she is, she’s needed,” Nell said with ruthless pragmatism. “The girls can’t afford to be without a sewing instructor. And they will be until I’m able to return. None of the other teachers has a passion for stitchery.”