Page 68 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

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They had to go out through the front door, back onto the street, which brought Atkins’s anxious face to the carriage window. Gabriel saw Phoebe wave a dismissive hand at her and she retreated, albeit with reluctance.

Madame Brunet, under the curious gaze of both Lovat and Atkins, locked the door behind them and led them into the alley beside her shop.

Gabriel hardly noticed its comparative cleanliness compared with the streets and alleys of the rookery. He was almost unaware of his feet touching the cobbles or Phoebe’s hand in his. Nothing seemed to matter but where they were going and who they were about to see. He was here. His real mother lived in one of the houses down this alley. He was going to come face to face with her at last.

The alley opened up into a small yard with what looked like rickety store sheds along one side, their roofs much in need of repair, and a low building at the far end with three tatty front doors indicating it was three separate houses. Madame Brunet approached the central door, which had the same peeling green paint as the others and a number 2 painted onto it, and rapped on it with her knuckles.

In the small window beside it, the curtain twitched, and Gabriel caught a glance of a pale face peering out at them. Then the curtain was back in place.

“C’est moi, Sidonie,” called Madame Brunet in a loud voice. “Il n’y a pas lieu de t’inquiéter. Ces gens ne vous veulent aucun mal.”

“What did you say?” Phoebe asked.

“I told Sidonie there’s nothing to worry about and you mean her no harm.”

The sound of a bolt being drawn back grated.

Gabriel could hardly breathe.

Phoebe glanced at him, her hand squeezing his. “It’ll be all right. I’m here.”

The door opened just wide enough for a thin face to peer out at them.

It was lined with age and suffering, the skin stretched so tight as to make it almost cadaverous. But the woman peering at them still possessed the remnants of her auburn hair, amongst the snowy white, and nothing could have disguised those violet eyes. They transformed her, even though she looked so old and worn, into a beautiful woman still.

Gabriel took a tentative step forward. “Sidonie Marechal?” His voice shook.

She regarded him with suspicion. “Yes?” Her accent was stronger than Madame Brunet’s. “Who is it that wants to know?”

Gabriel swallowed. She was right in front of him and he didn’t know what to say.

“Twenty-three years ago…” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “Did you leave your baby with a woman in Soho Square? A rich woman with a carriage?”

The door opened wider to reveal Sidonie’s spare body, her woolen gown hanging on her scrawny frame as though she’d recently lost a lot of weight. She stared, a mixture of emotions flashing across her face in quick succession: suspicion, surprise, shock, wonder, realization. But not joy. Never joy. Surely a mother should know her own son and be pleased to see him?

Very slowly, she nodded. “That is so. I did. But it is a long time ago, now. In the past. History.”

She must know who he was. She must. He was the right age, after all. He was her child, returned to her, and yet she made no move, and her face, washed clean of emotion now, was blank, as though this meant nothing to her. He wanted her to hold out her arms and welcome him back, but she didn’t.

“I am that baby,” Gabriel said, his voice shaking with emotion. The horrible thought that she’d given him away that day because she didn’t want him arose, and that even now she might be horrified that he’d returned to haunt her.

Beside Phoebe, Madame Brunet gave a gasp, her hand going to her mouth. She was no doubt delighted to be in on this revelation about her employee.

“I think you must be my mother.” The word sounded wrong on his tongue, wrong and out of place. She didn’t look like a mother, like his mother. He had a fixed idea in his head of what a mother should look like, and it was not like this. He mustn’t show his disappointment.

Sidonie licked her lips. “Your hand, monsieur,” she said. “Show me your hand. Your left hand.”

Phoebe released her hold on his hand, and he held it out to Sidonie.

She took it and turned it over to expose his wrist. Pushing back his cuff, she gave a little gasp. “Mon Dieu. C’est là. Son baiser d’un ange.”

Phoebe peered at Gabriel’s exposed wrist on which could be seen a small brown birthmark in the shape of a heart.

“It is an angel’s kiss,” Madame Brunet said, awe struck, and also leaning in close to look. “He has an angel’s kiss and Sidonie recognizes it.” She raised her eyes to Gabriel’s face. “You must indeed be her true son, milord.”

Sidonie sighed and let his hand drop, shaking her head. “No, that is not true. I am very sorry to disappoint you, jeune homme, but I am not your mother.” She paused as if to allow that bleak statement to sink in.