What had happened was probably very simple. Procuresses met coaches from the country and enticed away lone girls with promises of honest employment or places to stay. The girls ended up in nunneries or walking the streets or as the private playthings of upper-class gentlemen. Some were lucky and thrived, but many, many more found their way to the workhouses and death.
Whorehouse or workhouse, I did not think Sarah's family wanted her back. They were upright, middleclass people who would view shame as a fate worse than death--best to sweep it far away and out of sight. But Brandon had shown Oswald a way to put his mind at rest--let Captain Lacey find out whether she's alive or dead. Captain Lacey was good at finding things out.
Things I'd found out in the army had cost me my health, my career, and most of my sanity, and had cast me onto the uncaring shores of London--a worn out, forty-odd, ex-captain of King George's cavalry who now had to hobble about with a walking stick. A hero from the Peninsular Wars against Boney the Bastard.
I extinguished my candles, pulled my linen nightshirt over my head, and crawled into bed. What lay before me was an impossible task, and I was curious enough and stupid enough to attempt it.
*** *** ***
Miss Clothilde Oswald, Sarah's aunt, lived in a house near Portman Square. The drawing room I found myself in at ten the next morning was neither ostentatious nor spare, but a balance that said I have money but spend it wisely.
Miss Oswald gave the same impression. Her neat, rather plain costume of lilac gown, gray jacket, and silk cap spoke of both modesty and expense.
She'd brought a companion with her, a woman in the dull clothes of a lady's drudge. The companion darted nervous glances at me then went to the corner by the fire and took up some needlework. A woman unused to men, I decided.
"Captain Gabriel Lacey?" Miss Oswald waved me to a chair then watched me sharply, as though certain I'd turn into a wild beast and ravish her and her companion together. I've been told that men do that.
"My brother said you wanted to ask about Sarah, but I do not know what more I can tell you. That was eight months ago, and we've heard nothing."
I understood. As far as Miss Oswald was concerned, Sarah was gone, and that was the end of it.
"Mr. Oswald told me that you were late to collect your niece at the coaching inn because of some altercation among your staff," I said.
"Yes, I remember distinctly. The cook had bought oysters for dinner and Miss Rice . . ." Miss Oswald cast a disparaging glance at her companion . . . "thought they were off and should not be served. The cook believed Miss Rice to be wrong, and they began a merry argument."
"And you went down to settle it?"
"I was forced to. It was very silly. When in doubt, throw it out, is my motto. No doubt miss Rice was correct. She is not given to fancies and hysteria."
Miss Rice glanced up from her corner, rather like a dog hearing itself being discussed. When Miss Rice caught my eye, she turned fiery red and hastily bent over her needlework again.
"By the time I'd settled the argument, it was a half hour past when I should have left for the coaching inn. I made all haste, but I was too late. Sarah was gone. Foolish girl. Why she hadn't waited for me, when she knew I was coming, I'll never know."
"And you made inquiries?" Oswald had told me, but I wanted to hear the story from her lips.
"To be certain I did. I asked the coachman if she'd been on the coach at all, and he assured me that she had. I did not like the look of him, but he seemed guilty of nothing more than drinking too much gin on the road. I asked the hostler and innkeeper and everyone who happened to be in the yard. No one noticed a thing. Useless of them."
"Your brother said that the hostler's boy saw her."
"Yes. After a few shillings, he told me that Sarah--or a girl who looked like Sarah--had gone away with a woman in a white cap and black cloak. He had the effrontery to claim that the woman looked like me."
"Perhaps she did," I offered, "and Sarah mistook her for you at first, not having seen you since she was a very small child. Or perhaps the woman told Sarah she would take her to you. Perhaps she looked quite respectable. From what your brother says of Sarah, it's doubtful she'd have gone off with a questionable stranger of her own volition."
"Sarah was nearly eighteen," Miss Oswald said impatiently. "No doubt the woman promised her a bit of jewelry or a fan or some frippery. Sarah was unhappy that she was to stay with me when she came to London. She wanted suitors and balls and operas, not sensible lessons."
As most eighteen-year-old girls would. Many young women were already married by eighteen, and Sarah might have begun to worry about being left on the shelf. "Sarah did not travel alone, did she? She must have had a maid or other servant with her, at least."
Miss Oswald sniffed. "Her maid became ill and could not accompany her. Sarah's father hired another girl to go with her at the last minute. Shiftless thing. Ran away as soon as they disembarked, the hostler's boy told me."
"Where do you think Sarah is now, Miss Oswald?"
She gave me a look. "Come, Captain, you and I both know. I am a spinster, but I'm not naive. Even if Sarah is alive, she'll be utterly ruined."
I got to my feet. "Thank you for seeing me, Miss Oswald. I will send word if I discover anything."
"No need. My niece is dead, Captain Lacey. Let her remain so."
*** *** ***
"I offered five guineas for any information regarding my sister," Robert Oswald said. "Nothing came of it."
Robert Oswald was a year down from Oxford and full of himself. He wore rouge and too much scent, and his collar points were so high he could not turn his head.
I met Robert that evening at a sporting house where we watched two women in scanty clothing box each other. I impressed young Mr. Oswald by winning a few pounds on the fight, then we adjourned to a coffee house in St. James's where I further impressed him by beating him at cards.
"And you have no idea where she might have gone?" I asked.
"Oh, I have an idea, as we all do. There's nothing to be done about it, and Father knows it. I rather believe he hopes she's dead."
"Do you believe she's dead?"
Robert shrugged. "Doesn't matter, does it? If Sarah were all right, she'd have seen the handbills and found me, wouldn't she? Or written."
"Why did not you or your father go to Bow Street and hire a Runner?"
"Damnation!" This was not addressed to me; Robert glared up at a young man who'd jostled him in passing. "Watch what you're doing, Godwin."
"If you didn't sit half out of your chair, Oswald . . ."
Robert's mouth thinned to a hard, white line. "If you wish to settle this with pistols, I will."
The other young man gave him a withering look. "No need. I beg your pardon."
He walked on. Robert returned to the game. "Beetle-brained oaf." He played a card, his face flushed, his breathing rapid.
I reminded him of my question about Bow Street.
Robert had to lay down a few more cards before he was calm enough to answer. "I did go round to Bow Street, as a matter of fact, though I never told m'father. A Runner spoke to me. He was rude and insulting, but he told me what I already knew. She's either become a tart, or she's dead. Either way, there is not much we can do, is there?" Robert jotted down points. "The devil, Lacey, you win again. You have cursed good luck tonight. Another?"
*** *** ***
The next afternoon, I went to the coaching inn, but I found no new information there. The hostler's boy told me exactly what he'd told Clothilde Oswald, that Sarah had gone off with a respectable-looking woman in a white cap. The offer of a few shillings produced no more information.
I did not find the coachman. The innkeeper informed me that the man had died in an accident a few weeks before on the Great North Road. I recalled what Miss Oswald had said about gin and was not very surprised.
It was quiet in the yard and outside in the street, between arrivals of the coaches from the south. The inn's gray w
alls reached to the damp gray sky, the only bit of color being the girl who lounged against one wall, her curls an artificial red. She wore virginal white and a threadbare cloak of dark blue, but in this drab setting, she looked as colorful as a butterfly.
On the off chance, I showed her the drawing of Sarah.
"Yeah, I know her," she surprised me by saying. "You her dad?"
"A friend of her family," I improvised. "Do you know where I can find her?"
"Suppose so. She's one of Ma Martin's."
"Who is Ma Martin?" I asked, trying to suppress hope.
The girl shrugged. "Everyone knows her. Her house ain't far."
Then why hadn't the hostler's boy recognized her? I glanced at the closed door of the stable yard, and the girl gave a little laugh.
"Did they tell you they'd never seen her? Course they did. She pays 'em to keep their mouths shut."
I ought to have guessed. "Will you show me this house?"
"I could, but the girl in this picture ain't there no more."
My hopes faded. "Do you happen to know where she went?"
The girl's gaze drifted down my bad left leg. "Does it pain you?"
"It does," I said. "Especially in the damp."
She straightened up, turning the full charm of her large brown eyes on me. "You come with me then. I'll tell you all about it inside, once we get you warm." She grinned. "Promise."
*** *** ***
I knew full well that the young woman could lead me away and try to rob me, possibly with cohorts waiting in her rooms. I went with her regardless, not wanting to miss some vital bit of information about Sarah. Besides, I had little to steal.
She led me down a tiny lane to a faded door that opened right onto the cobbles. Behind the door, a narrow stair went up between walls covered with faded paper to a room bare of all furniture except a low bed with a moth-eaten coverlet.
The girl hung up her cloak and stirred the fire on the small hearth to life. "Sit yerself down. And let Frances take care of yer."
I limped to the bed and lowered myself to it. I couldn't hide my grunt of pain as my knee bent. It did feel good to take my weight from it.
Frances knelt in front of me and slid my boot from my left foot. I winced when she seized my stiff knee, but she started to knead the muscles, her hands warm and strong.
I leaned back and let her have her way with me.
"Do you know where Sarah is?" I asked, a bit breathily.
Frances smiled, showing crooked teeth. "You said you were her friend. Does that mean you fancy her?"
"I said I was a friend of the family. Her father is worried about her."
"I ask, because she didn't much like men. She told me she hated them." Frances winked. "Not like me. I like a gentleman just fine."
"Why did Sarah leave Ma Martin's? Did she manage to run away?"
Frances continued to rub my knee, my muscles relaxing beneath her skilled touch. "She didn't need to run away. Someone came in a carriage and took her away. A fine coach, it was. She's got someone to look after her now."
I saw my task grow impossible again. "Then you do not know where she is."
"I never said that. She's in Clark Street."
I sat up quickly and sucked in a breath as pain shot through my knee. I put my hands over Frances's, stilling her distracting massage.
"Do you know who this man was?" I asked. "Did you recognize the carriage? Had he come to Ma Martin's before?"
"No," Frances said, and I whispered, "Damn."
Frances grinned. "Fooled you, didn't I? It weren't a man. It were a lady."
I stared. "A lady?"
"A lady from Clark Street. She came back to fetch Sarah's things and told Ma Martin to send the rest to Clark Street. I never heard where in Clark Street, though. Must be one of those good works people. The kind I hides from." Frances winked. "Have I helped?"
"You have. You have helped very much. You've given me a place to start."
"I meant about your leg."
"That as well." I flexed my knee. The ache had subsided, and the joint felt loose and warm.
"Good. Want me to rub something else?"
A few years ago, I would have smiled and wiled away the rest of the afternoon with this warm young woman in her cozy little room.
"I have a lady," I said gently.
"And I have a man. But he knows what I am."
No doubt he did. I dug into my pockets and emptied it of the coins I'd won from Robert Oswald the night before. I left myself a few shillings to pay hackney drivers and gave the rest to Frances.
Frances's eyes widened at the money on her palm. "Well, ain't you the generous one? And all I did was fondle your knee."
I kissed her forehead. "You have made me ever so much better," I said and left her.
*** *** ***
Clark Street, not far from the heart of banking London, held a double row of respectable middleclass houses that curved away from where I stood.
I'd arrived in time to see the married gentlemen of the neighborhood--clerks, bankers, and barristers--return home to wives and children. I made careful note of their house numbers and dismissed these. I doubted any wife, no matter how charitable, would let a street girl into a house with her husband.
That left about fifteen houses on the crescent for me to try. I milled along, passing the time with peddlers and vendors, trying with my questions to narrow the number further still.
Five of the fifteen houses, I learned, were occupied by elderly gentlemen, five by single gentlemen of independent means, and five by widows or spinsters and their companions.
At seven o'clock, I took a card from my pocket and wrote on its back with a stub of drawing pencil, "Would be pleased to speak with you regarding Sarah Oswald," and made to approach the doors of the widows and spinsters.
At the first two houses I was turned away by rude young footmen, one of whom kicked away my cane. I gave him a look as I retrieved it that sent him scuttling to the safety of his vestibule.
At the third house, a maid took the card, disappeared with it, and returned after an agonizing quarter of an hour to admit me and bid me follow her upstairs.
The maid ushered me into a cheerful drawing room that held nothing luxurious or stylish. The furniture had a worn, comfortable look, and the fire grate was brightly polished--the room of someone who loved living in it.
A woman rose from an armless chair before the fire as I entered. She was about forty, thin and plain, but her watery blue eyes looked kind.
"Captain Lacey," she said. "I am Miss Sandington. Will you sit? How may I assist you?"
I took the chair she indicated, and she resumed her seat. "If you know anything about Sarah Oswald," I said, "please tell me. Her father is very worried about her."
"So he might well be. I will speak plainly, Captain. Sarah is here, but she will not leave."
Elation and relief chased through me--Found, by God--followed by puzzlement. "Is that your stipulation or hers?" I asked.
"Neither. Sarah is dying. She will likely not recover."
Miss Sandington spoke unwaveringly, but as the last word faded, so did her resolve. Her thin face crumpled, and tears flooded her eyes.
"Forgive me, Captain," she said, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips. "Sarah is very dear to me."
I offered her my handkerchief then sat silently and let her cry, knowing that finally I'd found someone who gave a damn about Sarah. A small clock ticked on the mantel as we sat, tiny slices of time.
When Miss Sandington had recovered somewhat, I resumed my questions. "How did Sarah come to stay with you? Did you discover her at Mrs. Martin's?"
She looked up, anger replacing sorrow. "So you know about that woman? I could not let Sarah go back to her. Sarah had been an innocent until that awful abbess got hold of her. I decided that Sarah could stay here, that I could look after her."
"It was kind of you."
Miss Sandington flushed. "No, Captain. It was not only kindness. I fell in love
with Sarah Oswald." She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Have I shocked you?"
"No," I said. "Surprised me, rather."
"Sarah is a sweet-tempered, very pretty girl, and I am an old fool."
She gave me a savage look but also a proud one. She would not apologize for her feelings.
"Will you tell me what happened?" I asked.
"I will tell you everything. You may go back to her father and repeat the story, so he can know what he has done to her. Mr. Oswald sent Sarah to her aunt in the first place, because Sarah refused to marry at his wish, to some country farmer twice her age. Sarah went with Mrs. Martin because that devil woman convinced Sarah that she'd have a job in a respectable shop, where she might meet a fine and handsome gentleman of means. Sarah thought this would suit her better than purgatory with her aunt. She had no way of knowing what Mrs. Martin was, poor lamb."
"And how did Sarah come to meet you?"
"A gentleman friend of mine sometimes finds . . . company . . . for me. He saw Sarah and thought she would suit me. I liked her at once; she was pretty and affectionate, and she told me she actually preferred . . . our way of doing things.
"The next day, she cried and clung to me and begged me not to send her back. She'd told me her story, and I had no intention of returning her to Mrs. Martin. I went to the house myself to collect her things and tell Mrs. Martin exactly what I thought." Her long fingers twitched in her lap, and she folded them into her palms. "That was six months ago."
"When did Sarah become ill?" I asked gently.
"Oh, she is not ill, Captain."
I stared in surprise. "You said she was dying."
"She is. But not from illness." Miss Sandington stood. "Come with me, Captain. I will show you."
I got to my feet and followed Miss Sandington out of the room and up another flight of stairs. She took me to a bedroom, which was dark but for one candle on a chest of drawers. When Miss Sandington lit another candle, I saw Sarah Oswald.