He’d been certain Peter would head toward his old neighborhood, and so they were slowly making their way in that direction. How quickly could a lad of seven years walk? It had seemed worthwhile to search the area closer to Thomas’s house first but now he worried that had been a waste of time.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse, which added to his concern. A cold wind swept through the streets, causing those outside to fasten their garments and tug down their hats. Bits of icy sleet blew with it, stinging any exposed skin. Peter didn’t have a very warm coat, something Thomas had meant to see to but hadn’t gotten around to doing.
He felt all the guiltier for the oversight.
They arrived in Mile End Old Town, the district where Peter’s family had lived. Thomas had the driver slow down so he could take a proper look at anyone near Peter’s size. More than once, his heart leapt to his throat at the sight of a boy only to realize it wasn’t Peter.
They searched for well over an hour, but still, there was no sign of him. Thomas felt he was missing something—a clue he’d overlooked. But what?
“Shall we take another pass up the street, sir?” one of the footmen asked.
Thomas hesitated. They had a long way to go before they had thoroughly searched the area, but something didn’t feel right. His instincts told him Peter wasn’t there. Where else might the boy have gone?
An idea took hold. “Let us go to the Whitechapel Workhouse,” Thomas said as his urgency increased. “Hurry, please.”
The boy had asked to go inside several times, but Thomas hadn’t allowed it.
The workhouse wasn’t far, and they soon arrived.
Thomas jumped out of the carriage before it rolled to a stop and rushed up the steps only to be halted by a different porter than the one who’d been guarding the entrance the previous day.
“Here now,” the man called out. “State your business.”
“I’m searching for a boy. Seven years of age. His name is Peter Schmidt.”
The man frowned even as he tightened the scarf around his neck. “You and everybody else.”
“Excuse me?” Thomas didn’t understand his remark.
“There’s already been—”
Before the man could finish, the door opened, bringing a blast of warm air with it. But it was the person who stood in the doorway who shocked him.
“Frances?”
“Thomas. Thank goodness you’re here.” The relief in her expression confused him even more.
She stepped to the side and revealed Peter, who held her hand, tears tracking down his cheeks.
“Mr. Sinclair,” the boy said as he looked up at him, blue eyes wide with fear and brimming with tears. “I’m s-so sorry.”
“Peter, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Thomas reached for the boy to hug him tight. “You gave me a terrible fright. I’m so relieved you’re all right.”
“I shouldn’t have left like that.”
Another servant, one of Frances’ footmen, if Thomas remembered correctly, stood behind them holding the small bag Peter had brought with him from America. Thank goodness Frances had brought an appropriate chaperone since the neighborhood was far from safe.
“Thank you so much, Frances,” Thomas began. “I’m grateful you found him.”
“Close the door,” someone called from inside the building. “You’re letting in the cold.”
“Oh, dear.” Frances stepped outside, bunching her shoulders against the frigid wind. “The weather has turned frightful, has it not?” She tightened the neck of her cape with a gloved hand.
“It has indeed.” Thomas’s thoughts still reeled with questions. “I’d like to know how you came to be here. Can you join me in my carriage for a moment to get out of this wind?” He glanced at her footman, hoping the man wouldn’t protest.
“Of course.” Her focus shifted to Peter who had taken her hand again. “Shall we, Peter?”
“Yes, miss.”
