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.”
