Christmas Rose Read online

  “Yes. Which is why I stopped and asked what she was doing. She told me her story, and all of a sudden I thought of our taking the baby. But I wanted you to want her. So I lied about tripping over the basket. I had no idea anyone saw me. But that was the only thing I lied about, Maddy. Surely you can forgive me, since it brought us Rose?’’

  “If I believed you I could forgive you, Jonathan. But I do not believe you. What was such a woman doing in our neighborhood? And how did you persuade her to give the baby to us? It is a preposterous story.”

  “It may be preposterous, but it is true, nevertheless. She was desperate. Her lover was on his way home from the war. She would have lost him, her home, everything. She was afraid of the street. And so she hoped a rich family would do something to provide for her child.”

  “I am sorry, Jonathan. They say appearances are deceiving, but in this case, I believe the appearances. You were her lover, you fathered her child. I am willing to grant you had kind intentions, but the fact remains that you were able to become a father with your mistress, and you wanted your barren wife to raise your child.”

  Jonathan was furious. “How can you think that of me? I could never act to cause you such pain. And I have had no mistress, I’ve told you that.”

  “You told me no widows. You didn’t say anything about whores.”

  “I am not that sort of man, Maddy, and you know it.”

  “Why should I, Jonathan? Men have needs. And most men have their needs met, one way or another, especially if they are not sleeping with their wives.”

  “And women don’t have needs?” replied Jonathan. “You did not miss sharing my bed? That is not the impression I have gotten this past year. And yet I believe you when you tell me you never went with any of your admirers.’’

  “I am sorry, Jonathan,” Maddy said as calmly as she could. “I am staying here with my parents. I am keeping Rose. You have not convinced me that your story is true.”

  “And what would convince you, Maddy, if not my word,” Jonathan replied bitterly.

  “The word of Rose’s mother. That should not be too difficult to obtain, should it? Or is she another man’s now?”

  Jonathan would never know what kept him from shaking or striking his wife at that moment. He thrust his hands into his weskit, ripping both pockets with the force of his anger, and let her go out the door. He knew her anger came from the pain of betrayal, just as his did, and he didn’t want to do anything to irrevocably separate them. Although how he would ever convince her, he didn’t know. Find one whore amongst the thousands in London? Impossible!

  Jonathan spent the night at Meare. The servants were in the process of cleaning and decorating for the holidays, and Jonathan could not help remembering the happiness of last Christmas. He rode over to Mansfield in the morning, but Madeline refused to see him, and so he left directly from there for London. All he could think of during his journey back was the night he had met Rose’s mother.

  Had there been anything, anything at all that she had said that would help identify her? Her lover had been in the army and had been away on campaign for at least a year. He was presumably Rose’s father. Rose had been about seven months old when they had gotten her, her mother could have been breeding two or three months without him guessing ... so that could put him on the Peninsula from October or November of 1810 to last December. Of course, thought Jonathan, thousands of other men were there too, so how this could help him find her, he didn’t know.

  He took the problem to bed with him that night and in the morning spent hours in the library trying to remember every detail about that snowy night. Had she spoken any names at all? Had she given any clue?

  She had clearly not been a street whore. As a gentleman’s mistress she would have been set up in her own house. There were only a certain number of areas in the city where men set up such women, so that narrowed things down a bit. But what was he to do? Tramp the streets, knocking on the doors of love nests until he found her? Think, Jonathan, think. There must be a better way.

  The house felt so empty and cold around him, despite the fires in every room and the servants going quietly about their duties. Without Rose and Maddy it felt like a mausoleum. He missed his daughter’s energetic curiosity, her babbling that made more and more sense every day, her smiles, and her chubby arms lifted up to him in the morning. In a few days it would be Christmas. It was to have been their first real Christmas together as a family, for last year they were barely used to being three.

  Jonathan heard a quiet knock at the library door and said, “Come in.”

  Stoughton entered apologetically. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, but it is impossible not to be aware of your . . . troubles, particularly since someone under my supervision caused them.’’

  “Don’t blame yourself, Stoughton. It could just as easily have been a servant from next door who saw us. To give credit where credit is due, Jeffrey held his tongue all this time when he could have made us the laughingstock of society. If there is loyalty in this household, we owe it to you.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I be so bold to ask whether you will be here for the holidays or will be going to Meare?”

  “Lady Holford has returned to her family, as no doubt you have guessed. Unless I can convince her that I’d never seen Rose’s mother before, she will, I fear, seek a formal separation. And I don’t know how to find the confounded woman, damn it.” Jonathan groaned and put his head in his hands.

  “I, er, have a suggestion, if I may propose it, sir,’’ said Stoughton after a moment or two of sympathetic silence.

  “Go right ahead, Stoughton,” said Jonathan, lifting his head and giving the butler an ironic grin.

  “Why don’t you call in a runner, sir?”

  “A runner?”

  “Yes, sir. The runners go anywhere they are needed. They get paid, of course, when they are on private business.”

  “Hmmm. And do you think a ‘robin redbreast’ could find Rose’s mother?”

  “If anyone could, my lord.”

  “You may be right, Stoughton. A runner would have his informants, wouldn’t he? He could cover the ground much more quickly and efficiently than I could,” said Jonathan, feeling a small stirring of hope.

  “I could send a footman down to Bow Street for you.”

  “Yes, why don’t you send George, Stoughton. And thank you,” added Jonathan with such strong feeling that his voice shook.

  “No need to thank me, my lord. We all want to bring Lady Holford and Lady Rose back where they belong.”

  * * *

  While Jonathan was trying to remember anything he could about Rose’s mother, Maddy was becoming more and more miserable. After the first flash of anger she was left with only a heavy sadness. She slept late and left Nancy to take care of Rose. She most certainly did not want Jonathan to have their daughter, but she found it difficult to be with the little girl and not look for some likeness to her father. Aside from the blue eyes, she could find none, but assumed that the resemblance would emerge as Rose grew older, and then how could she stand it?

  Lady Mansfield was so delighted to have her granddaughter for a long visit that her attentions more than made up for Maddy’s neglect. And Rose was so excited to be in a new place with all the holiday hustle and bustle that, for the moment, she seemed not to notice Maddy’s absence.

  A few days after they had arrived, however, Lady Mansfield sent her husband up to bed early and sat down with her daughter in the drawing room.

  “Madeline, you cannot go on this way. It is not fair to Rose.”

  “What do you mean, Mother?”

  “You are ignoring her.”

  “I have spent time with her every day we have been here,” protested Maddy.

  “Yes, a short amount of time during which you hold yourself quite aloof. The child is not responsible for her birth, Madeline,’’ her mother reminded her.

  Maddy’s eyes filled with tears at her mother’s reproof.

&
nbsp; “I know, Mother. But I feel so ... I don’t know, so far away from everything. I keep looking at Rose, searching for something of Jonathan. And I keep imagining what her mother must look like.”

  “Do you love Rose?” her mother asked quietly.

  “How can you even ask that, Mother? Of course I do.”

  “Then whatever the circumstances of her birth, whatever you feel about Jonathan, you must continue to show her that love.”

  “I know,” sobbed Maddy. “I hope I will be able to.”

  “You will, my dear. And what about Jonathan?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you intend to seek a separation? There will be gossip, which will affect Rose. Would it not be better to find a way to live with this revelation and to return to him? Especially now,” her mother continued gently. “Maddy, I have been wondering if you could possibly be carrying his child?’’

  “What! Whatever do you mean, Mother? You know I am unable to conceive.”

  “I also know that you have been very tired. That you have eaten little these past few mornings. And that you have thrown up what little breakfast you have tasted, according to your maid. I have borne three children, my dear. I know the signs.”

  “It is impossible. Of course my stomach is upset. The last few days have been very upsetting. It is the heartache and shock that are making me tired and sick.”

  “I don’t think it impossible, Maddy. I have known, over the years, a few women who conceived after years of barrenness. And I have an old woman’s feeling that you are sick because you are increasing. It is a shame that it may happen after all these years, and we cannot be rejoicing.”

  Madeline sat very still. It was true that her menses had not occurred recently. But that had happened before over the years, leading to false hopes and bitter disappointment. And her tiredness? Well, it did go back to before finding out about Jonathan’s deception.

  But surely her sickness was only because of the state of her nerves? She passed her hand lightly across her belly. It was flat, of course. If what her mother suspected was really true, she wouldn’t show for months anyway. Oh, but how could it be true now, after all these years of waiting. Now, when she hated Jonathan more than she thought it possible for her to hate anyone.

  * * *

  George came back from Bow Street with the news that a runner would wait on Lord Holford by the next day. Jonathan was in the library when he was announced. “Send him in, Stoughton.”

  A moment later the door was pushed open and in walked a mild-looking man, sandy-haired, pale, and holding a leather hat in his hand. He looked to be in his late thirties, Jonathan guessed from his face and receding hairline. He was not attired in the distinctive blue coat and trousers and the scarlet waistcoat which Jonathan had expected, and had he not known his identity he would have guessed him to be a clerk.

  “Gideon Naylor at your service, my lord.”

  Jonathan rose and motioned the runner to sit by the fire. He himself took a seat opposite.

  “I understand it is possible to acquire the services of a runner like yourself for a fee?”

  “Yes, my lord. A guinea a day as a retainer.”

  The runner spoke with a slight west country accent. “You are not originally from London, Mr. Naylor?”

  “No, my lord. From Somersetshire.”

  Jonathan smiled. “Then we are fellow west-countrymen, Mr. Naylor. What brought you to London?”

  “I was a soldier, my lord. After I resigned from the 47th foot, I landed in London. I had no family left in Somersetshire and no knack for anything but soldiering, so I joined up with the runners. I’ve been with them for over fifteen years.”

  “You don’t look like what I expected, Mr. Naylor. I thought you would be in uniform and . . . bigger. More threatening.”

  Naylor grinned. “Only patrol members wear uniforms, sir. And some of us look more like pugilists than others, my lord. As for me, I’ve found meek and mild as good an appearance as any. It lulls suspicion, it does. And a few times it has saved my life, I might add. The element of surprise, you know. But I assure you, my lord, I’ve grabbed my share of flash coves and murderers.” Naylor patted his pockets. “And I know how to use these.”

  Jonathan hadn’t noticed the bulges under his coat until they were brought to his attention.

  “You won’t need your pistols for this job, Mr. Naylor. I only need you to find a woman.”

  The runner lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “A whore. Well, not really a common whore. A gentleman’s mistress.”

  “Her name, my lord?”

  “That is exactly the problem. I do not have a name,” Jonathan confessed and told Naylor the story.

  “She never mentioned any names at all, my lord? Try to remember.”

  “I’ve been racking my brains for the past week. Do you think it is hopeless?’’

  “Well, not hopeless, exactly.”

  “We do know that her lover was on the Peninsula. We know she wasn’t a common streetwalker or in a high-class brothel. She had been set up in her own house. Surely that would narrow the search. . . ?”

  “To a few hundred,” said the runner with a grin.

  “Oh God,” groaned Jonathan in despair.

  “Now, don’t let’s give up hope, my lord. We can assume it was her lover’s baby?”

  “I think that is a safe enough assumption. From what she said, I gather she had been set up and well-taken care of in his absence.”

  “So, we are looking for a young woman in Kensington. Or maybe Chelsea. Who had been set up in a house or lodgings. Who had an officer ... we can assume an officer since she claimed he was a gentleman, as a protector . . . who lived alone from. . . ?

  “Let me see. Rose was almost seven months last Christmas. That would make her birthdate around May. Say her mother was three months along when the fellow left. That makes it a year ago last November. Who will even remember that far back?’’

  “If we are lucky, my lord, the gentleman came back, resumed his protection, and she hasn’t moved. The fact that he was away for a time and that she did give birth would make her stand out in a neighbor’s mind. It may take a while, but I’ll start my inquiries right away.’’

  Jonathan’s face lit up. “Do you really think there is any hope?”

  “Some, my lord. Some. I’ve had less information to go on and still found my man. Or woman,” he added with another quick grin.

  “I don’t suppose ... I know this is ridiculous to ask. . . . Could you find her by Christmas?”

  “Five days, my lord? Well, if it can be done, I will do it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Naylor. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “I think I can guess, my lord,” said Naylor.

  But as soon as he left, Jonathan’s confidence in him seeped away. He summoned Stoughton. “How did George come to hire Mr. Naylor, Stoughton? Do you think he is capable? He is so ordinary-looking.”

  Stoughton smiled. “George told me he went into the Garrick’s Head for a pint after speaking with the officer in charge. He overheard someone talking about Naylor. It seems he is one of their most courageous officers. He has been in more than mere hand-to-hand confrontation, evidently. They said he was like the famous MacManus, ‘mild with the mild, terrible with the terrible.’

  “Mild I can believe. It is the terrible part ...”

  Stoughton grinned. “I think you can rest assured, my lord. He’ll do his best for you.”

  “He has to be able to do it better than I, at least,” admitted Jonathan.

  * * *

  While Jonathan and Maddy suffered through the week, Naylor quietly and patiently went about his investigation. He was a slow and methodical investigator, for the most part, who, from the outside could appear plodding. What outside didn’t show, however, was that his patient disciplined turning of every stone was a technique he practiced to quiet his quicksilver intelligence, so that intuition would have time to surface
. He had found, from years of experience, that mysteries were not solved by the rational mind alone, but also by hunches. And so he liked to keep the rational mind at bay by keeping it busy through a go-by-the-book search, while giving his intuition complete freedom.

  He patiently blocked out a number of neighborhoods where gentlemen tended to keep their ladies, and he visited each in turn, making inquiries of the neighbors and tradesmen. He also had a number of informants whom he contacted to help in his search. It took him three days to cover the neighborhoods he was interested in, where first inquiries had brought nothing.

  On the fourth day, he was in the Garrick’s Head himself, enjoying the company of a few out-of-work actors. He considered himself an actor at times, considering the disguises he had utilized occasionally, and he enjoyed listening to all of them talk about makeup and costume and method. Several of them who had gotten him drunk once or twice and made him show them one of his characters had been amazed at how so neutral a countenance could be transformed. He had the required plasticity, they agreed, and could have become anyone: a toff, the lowest of flash coves, and even an old woman. Gideon Naylor disappeared and reappeared. That same intuition which enabled him to enter the mind of his prey also enabled him to enter a disguise wholeheartedly.

  On this night he only listened and drank, letting the ale and tiredness slow his brain. He glanced out of the window occasionally, watching the traffic go by. And at last, by the time the fourth hansom cab passed, he knew. Oh, not who she was. Or exactly where she was. But he knew if he revisited the streets of Chelsea and questioned the cab drivers that he would find someone who remembered driving an increasing woman home, or perhaps bringing the local midwife to her house. He bade his friends good night with a sleepy smile and made his way to his own lodgings.

  The next morning he was up early and out before the baker’s rolls had been brought out, their delicious fragrance stealing from beneath the green baize wrapping. He went immediately to Sidney Street and began reexamining the neighbors, who were once again sorry, but couldn’t remember. Some few obviously couldn’t. The rest, of course, didn’t want to get involved. That was true in every case, and it didn’t discourage him. Finally, just before noon, he came upon a hansom cab driver who not only had one of the few functioning memories on the street, but who was willing to talk.