The journey to St. Agnes was not an easy one. I had rewarded the hackney driver generously for waiting and would do so again for steering his cab through the storm that now lashed the streets. Yet the trip could not be helped. Time was of the essence. Every hour lost might mean another girl gone beyond reach.
The carriage jolted as it turned into Clerkenwell, and I braced a hand against the worn leather strap above the window. Even with the curtain drawn, I heard the neighborhood before I saw it—the hammer of cobblers at their benches, the hawk of costermongers calling radishes and rhubarb even in the pouring rain, the rattle of wheels that had known too many potholes. The driver muttered something beneath his breath as he slowed. When I leaned forward to pull open the curtain, the brick façade of St. Agnes came into view.
I pressed extra coin into the driver’s palm and told him to wait. He gave me a wary glance, then shook his reins with resignation.
As soon as I knocked on the wooden portal, one of the novices opened the door. Her expression softened into warmth as soon as she spotted me.
“Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her voice hushed as though the walls themselves were listening. “You honor us again.”
“Thank you. Would Sister Margaret be available?”
“She’s in her office but has visitors. Prospective parents who would like to adopt one of our waifs. I can let her know you are here.”
“Thank you. Is there a place I could wait?”
“Of course, she led me to a sitting room close to Sister Margaret’s office and withdrew. The shelter smelled of starch and clean linen, and homemade bread. It had to be laundry and bread-baking day. Somewhere in the distance, a babe wailed and then quieted when a lovely voice sang it a lullaby.
I didn’t have long to wait as Sister Margaret soon made an appearance. “Lady Rosalynd. What a pleasure to see you! Shall we talk in my office?” It was a wonder she could still offer a smile, given all that she had seen and experienced within these walls. But then she had her faith.
She led me through a narrow passage that smelled of soap and candle wax. The air, although heavy with silence, was broken now and then by the echo of girlish laughter from beyond a closed door. We settled in her small office, its shelves lined with ledgers worn smooth at the edges. A crucifix hung on the wall above her desk. Alongside it, two candles guttered in the draft.
“What can I do for you, my lady?”
I drew off my gloves and carefully placed them across my lap. “I will not waste time with pleasantries, Sister. I know how busy you are. Martha Larkin from the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society has given me the names of girls placed in service throughcharitable channels. About half a dozen or so have disappeared. One was found in the river.”
Sister Margaret lowered her gaze. “Anna Price. May God rest her soul.”
“You know her?”
“Yes. She was one of ours. Placed in service at a fine house in Bloomsbury. She was lovely. Blonde, blue eyes, with a sweet disposition. I was sorry to learn of her death.”
“Martha Larkin gave me these other names as well.” I handed her the list. “Do you know of others? More than those on this list?”
After she carefully read it over, she said, “I’m sad to say I’ve heard of more.” She reached for one of the ledgers behind her, its leather cracked with age, and opened to a page filled with neat script. “Mary, fifteen years. Sent to a household in Chelsea. Ruth, seventeen, promised to a place in Kensington.” Her finger moved down the page, stopping at one line after another, seven in total. “It’s the same story, over and over. It’s been going on for months.”
“Months?” The neat black ink seemed to blur before my eyes. Each name a life—hopeful, frightened, extinguished. “Did you report this?” I asked.
“I wrote letters. When I heard nothing back, I called upon the police myself.” She closed the ledger with a thump that echoed. “They told me girls will be girls. That some run off, others take to drink, still others…sell themselves. As though that were explanation enough.”
Anger licked hot up my spine. “How convenient for them to believe such nonsense.”
Her eyes, weary and sharp both, searched mine. “Without proof of wrongdoing, I risked more than disbelief, more than ridicule. The benefactors who support St. Agnes prefer not tothink such things possible. They like to believe their donations rescue the fallen. Not that the fallen are cast into deeper pits.”
I reached across the desk, laying my hand over hers. “Then we shall find the proof. You have the records. I will see to the rest.”
A shadow crossed her face. “You must tread carefully, Lady Rosalynd. Whoever is doing this is clever.” Her voice faltered. “They know the police will not investigate.”
Before I could press further, a knock came at the door. A novice entered with a tray of tea and curtsied hastily before retreating.
Once the tea was poured, I turned back to Sister Margaret. “This cannot go on. So many have vanished.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Too many.”
I drained the teacup in two gulps, the weak brew tasting of dust and desperation. “Thank you, Sister.”
As the nun rose to walk me out, I paused at the threshold of her cramped office. “One more thing,” I said gently. “Those names you showed me in the ledger—the girls who vanished. I know the ledger must remain here, but could you forward me their names and the places they were sent? The addresses, the households, and the positions, if you have them.”
She folded her hands, the faintest tremor still moving through them. “You mean to pursue this.”
