“So you had a word with him?”
“I did. Don’t know how you did it before. The man is sickening scum. Knows nothing at all about my mother.”
“Probably for the best. I prefer to think he had his way with mine once and then was done with her. Better than thinking she had to put up with him on more than one occasion.”
“Guess we’ll never know for sure. The one thing I am glad of is that he delivered us both to Ettie Trewlove.”
Sister Theresa was surprised when she saw Miss Kent walk into the rear gardens that afternoon wearing white silk and satin. She’d known the marriage was to take place that day; she just hadn’t expected to see the bride—and the groom, who was equally as stylishly decked out in black.
“Miss Kent, the last time you came to us wearing a wedding gown you looked much less joyous. I assume I’ll not to be taking this gown to sell.”
“No, Sister. And now I’m officially Mrs. Trewlove.”
“Congratulations to you both. My best wishes on your future happiness.”
“We have something for you, Sister,” Mr. Trewlove said, and handed her a small package.
Inside were several pound notes.
“We’ll be making periodic donations to the home,” he told her.
“You’re most generous. We appreciate it.”
She watched as Mrs. Trewlove tenderly touched her husband’s arm. “I’m going to visit with the children for a few minutes before we leave.”
“Take as long as you want.”
Lifting her skirts, the new wife raced to the area where children played and dropped to her knees, apparently not caring one whit that she was going to get grass stains on her gown as the little urchins whooped and gathered around her.
Sister Theresa turned back to the man whose hair, like hers when she was younger, was an assorted shade of blond unruly curls. “You are good for her.”
“She is even better for me.”
“I can’t help but believe that we have met before, Mr. Trewlove.”
“I don’t think so, Sister.”
“I doubt there is a person in Whitechapel who hasn’t heard of the Trewlove family, who doesn’t know that Ettie Trewlove’s children are all by-blows.”
He arched a brow.
“I find no fault with children born under those circumstances,” she rushed to assure him. “I do wonder, however, if you know who sired you.”
“I’m not in the habit of speaking his name. To be honest I find him quite vile.”
“It wouldn’t be the Earl of Elverton, would it?”
He stared at her as though she’d uttered Beelzebub, although for him they might be one in the same.
“You know him?” he asked.
“Our paths crossed some thirty-odd years ago. He could be quite charming when he put his mind to it.”
“I can’t speak to his charm. I only met him once. It didn’t go well for him. I broke his arm.”
A godly woman of her position shouldn’t take delight in hearing that, but then the earl had once broken her heart. “I hear no remorse in your voice, Mr. Trewlove.”
“Because I have none where he is concerned.” Then he smiled, and it was that smile that hit her in the solar plexus and confirmed what she’d begun to suspect as she saw more and more of herself reflected in him as they spoke. He was the child taken from her when she had succumbed to sin. Perhaps if she was not now devoted to the church, she’d have told him. But she knew another woman had taken her place as mother within his heart. She would not, could not, compete with Ettie Trewlove.
