A Disappearance in Drury Lane (13 page)

The final travel arrangements were a bit awkward. Marianne would ride alone in a chaise provided by Grenville, while Donata, Gabriella, Peter and his nanny, and I would cram together in a hired landau. None but me and Gabriella were surprised by this. Donata explained patiently that, in the eyes of the world, Grenville’s actress-mistress was hardly fitting company for a young miss like Gabriella. We had to pretend Marianne was not part of our party, which I thought absurd, but Marianne surprisingly agreed.

“I’ll not have it put about that Gabriella was ruined because of me,” she said. “The newspapers can print whatever drivel they wish of Grenville and his second-rate actress, but Gabriella will not be a part of that, not if I can help it.”

And so it was decided. We set off for Bath the next morning, planning to break the journey at Reading and again at Chippenham. Had I been alone, I would have pushed through in a very long day, but my lady wife was not inclined to arrive in Bath winded and exhausted like a post horse, as she put it. Grenville, who staved off his motion sickness by riding horseback again, would need to change horses often as well.

Our journey took us through the heart of Berkshire, a cold land in this season, but the weather continued crisp and clear. As we neared Hungerford, Grenville informed us that Marianne wanted to stop for a time.

I understood why, and acquiesced. Donata was not adverse to stopping either—a quiet meal in the parlor of an inn was just the thing, and Peter could have a nap.

The innkeeper in the high street in Hungerford gave us his best rooms. He remembered me from my brief stay at the nearby Sudbury School, but was a bit more deferential to me now that I’d arrived with such a grand party. Donata retired with Gabriella and Peter to the upstairs parlor, and Marianne informed Grenville and me, in the common room below, that she was setting off on her visit.

“I want Lacey to go with me,” Marianne announced as she tied her bonnet. “Not you, please,” she said to Grenville.

Grenville drew a breath but let it out again. In another circumstance, he might grow angry, but I saw him rein in his temper. “Why not me?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Because he’s not afraid of Lacey,” Marianne said.

Grenville flushed but again I watched him dampen his anger. He understood, even if he didn’t like it.

“Very well,” he said, trying to make his tone light as we entered the hall. “I and the new Mrs. Lacey will sit upstairs, peer out of windows, and laugh at the quaint customs of the natives.”

“Why would you do that, Mr. Grenville?” my daughter asked, walking down the stairs. She’d been instructed to stay at Donata’s side, but I’d discovered she was not one to blindly obey. “Laugh at the villagers, I mean? I live in a village.”

Grenville’s cheeks reddened. “I beg your pardon, my dear. I said it in jest. I am a dandy. It is a requirement that I wear the best clothes, squint at people through my quizzing glass, and make rude remarks.”

“Why?” Gabriella asked in perfect candor.

Marianne laughed. “She sounds like you, Lacey. Shall we go?”

“Might I come with you?” Gabriella asked. “I feel cramped from the carriage. I’d love a good stretch.”

“It is a long way,” I said. “Another five or so miles. And Mrs. Lacey likes your company.”

“I am robust,” Gabriella said, looking stubborn. “And she and Mr. Grenville get on well. They talk about things I don’t understand, such as how it is correct to be rude to people.”

Grenville looked half amused, half discomfited. I enjoyed my daughter’s company, but I hesitated. Marianne’s errand was highly private, and it was not my business to say who could learn her secrets.

Marianne herself answered. “Of course you may come, Gabriella. But no more than you and Lacey.”

I agreed, and we prepared to set off. I went upstairs to explain to Donata, who was already settling in with newspapers, coffee, and cigarillos, that Gabriella would accompany us. Grenville joined Donata, pretending to be so weary from the journey he had to sink into a chair and not move for several hours.

I hired riding horses for us. Gabriella might call herself robust, but I had no wish for her to walk five miles out and five miles back in this cold. We had to go by horseback rather than the coach, as the last mile or so was off any good road. I was happy to see that Gabriella rode competently—Major Auberge clearly had taught her well.

The Kennet and Avon canal, which ran alongside the town of Hungerford, was icy though not frozen over. Ice and snow clung to the canal’s banks, and the air was frosty. We traveled along the towpath, trees cutting the rather sharp breeze that blew across the fields. After Froxfield, we left the canal and rode across country to the small house Marianne had led me to once before, nearly a year ago.

I noticed changes in the cottage immediately. The roof had been repaired. The woodwork looked more sturdy, and the stone walls had been refreshed with whitewash. While the garden was now covered with snow, I saw vegetable beds readied for spring. Smoke rose from the wide chimney, and the front door was firmly closed.

When Marianne had revealed her secret to me, I’d realized why she’d been stealing my candles and the remains of my suppers—she’d sent as much money as she could to this place, and filching from me let her provide even more coin. Grenville, once he’d learned about the house, had proved his generosity, as the repairs indicated. He gave Marianne as much money as she demanded, and Marianne, to her credit, sent it all here.

The door opened as we dismounted, the plump woman I’d been introduced to only as Maddie looking out at us.

“Oh, miss, I’m glad you’ve finally come. He’s been in such a state, wondering if you’d ever arrive, saying you’d been killed on the road.”

“Not at all,” Marianne said, speaking loudly so her voice could be heard inside. “It’s a bit snowy, and the horses had to go slowly. But we’re here now.”

Marianne went inside. I paused in the doorway, indicating Gabriella should wait as well.

“Marianne’s son,” I said in a quiet voice to Gabriella. “He is . . .”

I couldn’t finish, because I did not know what to say about David. Different? Unusual? Perhaps mad?

Marianne called back to us. “You may come in now.”

I ushered Gabriella into the house. The ground floor was a wide kitchen, warm against the winter day, a stair in the corner leading above. The flagstones were clean, the fire high, signs of dinner preparations on the long table. Marianne sat on the wooden settle near the hearth, her son David on her lap.

David was about eight, but he clung to Marianne as a much younger boy might. His body was plump, his legs long, his chubby face emphasizing his too-close eyes, large forehead, and slack mouth. He said, “Mummy,” again and again as Marianne rocked him.

Gabriella’s first surprise when she saw him turned to understanding. She moved to Marianne, unafraid, and sat down next to her. “Poor boy,” she said.

David, hearing a new voice, looked up, his face red and tear-streaked. Gabriella smiled at him. “I’m Gabriella. How do you do?”

David wiped his nose with his hand, smearing mucus on his faintly dirty face, and did not answer.

“This is David,” Marianne said. “My son.” She spoke fiercely, as though daring anyone to debate the fact.

“How is he?” I asked Maddie, who was his caretaker.

“Oh, full of mischief most days, but we rub along. Don’t we, Davy? He’s been asking and asking about his mum. He don’t like to be too much without her.”

“I come as often as I can,” Marianne said in a hard voice. “And I send the money.”

“Bless you, child, I know that,” Maddie said. “We’re ever so grateful. I bought Davy new boots. He wore right through the others.”

“Where is his father?” Gabriella asked Marianne in a gentle voice.

“Dead and gone,” Marianne said without inflection. She’d never told me who David’s father had been, only that he was dead.

“So you have taken care of him?” Gabriella said. “That was awfully good of you. And Maddie too.”

“Not much choice, was there?” Marianne asked, her tone still sharp.

Gabriella shrugged. “You could have left him in a hospital, given him to another family, abandoned him in the street. People do, you know.”

Marianne gave her a startled look then transferred her gaze to me. “Lacey, your daughter is a mite too worldly for her young age.”

“Things happen, even in the provinces,” Gabriella said. “One of my cousins was born like David. We look after him. Some of the villagers say he was cursed by God, but that’s nonsense. He’s a sweet boy. No, it happens when the child is growing in the womb, doctors say. No one knows quite what or why, but it’s to do with anatomy, not curses.”

Marianne pulled David close. “I tried to keep him with me. But others said stupid things, like he was bad luck, and they threatened to sling me out. So I found a home for him with Maddie. She was an actress in my company, but tired of it all.”

“Ready to put up me feet,” Maddie said good-naturedly. She’d returned to the table and began shelling peas into a bowl. “Marianne said I could have a house and allowance and look after David. Restful out here in the country.”

“Did you know Abigail Collins?” I asked her.

“Abby? Of course, I did. Everyone knows Abby. What a talent she has. I gather she’s done well for herself at Drury Lane.”

“She’s gone missing,” Marianne said.

Maddie’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye? How can she be missing? Season hasn’t started yet, has it? She always goes to the seaside and Bath, don’t she?”

“Perhaps not this time,” Marianne said then quickly told Maddie the tale of Abigail’s fright and departure.

“Do you know who would be cruel enough to try to harm her?” I asked Maddie.

Maddie went on shelling the peas, her movements slowing while she considered. “It’s been a long while since I had a conversation with anyone in the theatre. I left the traveling players—never went to London. There were those who were jealous of her, of course. Abby had talent, she did. But that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t know who would have it in for her now.”

“What about a place she’d hide if need be?” I asked. “A special place she liked to go?”

“Well, now, these days she’d have plenty of blunt to go anywhere she liked. Paris even. But in the old days, she had a couple of places. A little boardinghouse in Bath, in a passage called Cook’s Lane near the Old Bridge. She could put her feet up and watch the world go by, she said, and no one would know. Also in Brighton, in Hove, actually, in a little house. She wouldn’t tell no one where that was, not even me, and we were such mates. Now that she’s famous, she can afford a nice townhouse in Bath and likely one in Brighton itself. But I ain’t seen her in years.”

I mentally made note to check all these places regardless of cost. A frightened woman would seek refuge where she felt safe.

We remained a little longer, Marianne holding David until he grew restless and wanted to play. Gabriella, who I could see was good with children, let him pull her outside with Marianne. There she and David threw snowballs at each other, Marianne helping David form them. I saw Marianne let down her tight façade for a brief time, laughing out loud as she watched her son romp in the snow.

Marianne looked a bit older when she relaxed her cynical countenance, but her natural prettiness also shone through. I wondered if she’d ever allowed Grenville to see this side of her. I’d tried to persuade her to be more open with Grenville, but Marianne found it difficult to trust.

Marianne clung to David for a time before we took our leave. When we walked back to our grazing horses, Marianne’s face was wet. I pretended not to notice as I turned to boost Gabriella to her saddle.

“You like children,” I said to her.

Gabriella smiled down at me, my daughter, my treasure. “There are so many at home that I must be fond of children or flee. There are my four brothers and sisters, all younger than I, and my Auberge cousins, some of whom are now starting to have children themselves. We’re a large family.”

She spoke offhandedly as she voiced what I’d longed for all my life. Carlotta had given Auberge the family I’d wanted, while she’d been too terrified of me to share my bed.

We rode away, Marianne in silence, me regretful, Gabriella the only cheerful one among us. When we reached the inn, Marianne had composed herself, and said she’d sip an ale downstairs until we were ready to leave.

Grenville and Donata had managed between them to turn the inn’s rather spare parlor into their own den of comfort. Gabriella and I entered to find Donata ensconced on cushions, her feet up on more cushions, smoking a cigarillo and reading a newspaper. Grenville lounged in a deep chair, his feet up as well, a rug across his knees, a thick dressing gown over his clothes, and a sporting magazine in his hand. Matthias waited nearby, alert to top up coffee or claret.

“Ah, there you are,” Donata said. “You were a long time. We might have to put up here for the night.”

“Chippenham isn’t far,” I said. I seated my daughter then took the remaining chair in the room, which had no cushions at all. “And then an easy ride to Bath in the morning.”

“You do like to rush about.” Donata turned the page of her newspaper. The look she gave me over the paper wasn’t admonishing, though. She seemed elated about something.

“What is it?” I asked. I glanced at Grenville, who was watching me with an oddly satisfied expression. “You two are conspiring.”

“Not I,” Donata said. “Grenville, rather.”

Grenville gave a practiced yawn. “Can’t think what you mean, dear lady. I’ve merely been keeping my feet warm.”

Donata tossed down her newspaper, sat up in her chair, and patted the arm of it for Gabriella to come to her. Matthias brought Gabriella a cup of tea as she abandoned her chair and went to Donata.

“We haven’t spun away the time idly while you were gallivanting,” Donata said. “Keeping our feet warm, indeed. Grenville wanted to give you the impression that we have been lazy because he hates to be caught out being industrious. We’ve been looking at houses to lease, or perhaps to purchase. We believe we have found two or three in the area that might suit.”