Elswyth examined Mrs. Rose’s expression, which had turned sharply into a frown. It was the second time she had seemed repulsed by the mere concept of natural-born children. Shethought of Mrs. Rose offering her the vial of silphium and of her distaste for Persephone.
“Lord Harrow. That name sounds familiar,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose scoffed. “As it should. Lord Harrow is the queen’s most feared admiral and the ruler of British India in all but name. A man not to be crossed. I should hate to think what the Butcher of Bengal would do if he knew his bastard was despoiling some young lady in the hedges.” She shivered. “But I suppose that is in the bastard’s nature. Lascivious creatures, born of lust, and unable to control their base desires. Bastards make bastards, as they say.”
Elswyth frowned. She thought that was, perhaps, unfair—after all, the beast has two backs, not one, and Silas’s friend seemed a willing partner. But she said nothing.
“It’s risky, too, now that he knows your name. He has nothing to lose in terms of reputation, being a bastard already, but his young lady friend will still do anything to avoid being outed as a fallen woman. No,” Mrs. Rose continued, “you willnotbe spending any time alone with Sir Silas. In a laboratory or anywhere else.”
Elswyth raised an eyebrow. Shewasconcerned about spending time alone with Sir Silas, after their altercation in the hedge maze. But she thought Mrs. Rose referenced a different sort of danger. “Are you worried for my safety or for my maidenhead? I assure you I have no interest in the man.”
Mrs. Rose shook her head. “You don’t understand men, and especially men likethat. They have their ways, and they can wear down even the most pious woman. No—the best we can do is avoid him completely. If I were you, Miss Elderwood, I would stay far, far away from Sir Silas.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The name Foxglove may be derived fromfolk’s glove, a reference to the fair folk, also called fairies. Although the flower is highly toxic, it is also used quite successfully in treating coronary arrhythmia, among other conditions. In floriography, it meansinsincerity.
Elswyth wore the best-suited of Persephone’s walking gowns; her father had been reluctant to send more money for new dresses when she already had her sister’s. Of course, that did not stop Mrs. Rose from dragging her to dozens of shops to try on gowns she could not afford. They had gone to the modiste just that morning for an adjustment to the walking gown as well as for the removal of several large crimson bows stitched to the skirts. The gown beneath was black, in keeping with her period of mourning. She wore a bustle rather than a full crinoline, which meant she was less likely to knock over any nearby children should she need to change direction. Even so, the skirts tangled under her feet as she tried to walk, and Mrs. Rose followed so closely behind her that she was like to step on her train.
“Small. Steps,” Mrs. Rose hissed. “If you take small steps, you will not trip.”
A pair of older women passed them on the right, and Elswyth inclined her head, smiling demurely. One of the ladies smiled back at her before spying Elswyth’s scar beneath her lace veil. Her smile quickly faded. When the women were past, she dropped her own smile and turned back to Mrs. Rose.
“How is anyone supposed to walk in a gown like this? What if I need to run?”
“A lady never runs,” Mrs. Rose hissed from behind her. “She is never hurried. Small. Steps.”
Elswyth continued to take a shuffling step forward, careful not to trip. Mrs. Rose followed, a few paces behind, as was befitting a commoner walking with nobility. But it made her constant comments feel as though they were whispered down Elswyth’s neck.
A couple—a man with a top hat and a woman in a green wool gown—passed her. She nodded again, this time arching her neck into a shallow bow.
“No bow,” Mrs. Rose whispered. “A bow is for friends and acquaintances! Too low!”
Elswyth ground her teeth. Mrs. Rose had not let her leave the house for a week, and every day was filled with more endless, inane lessons than the last. Still, she was grateful to see the sun—however much it hid behind the clouds—and was determined to perform adequately on their walk. She took small steps, recited the proper greetings, remembered the order of introductions. A veil covered her face, a sign of her mourning, ostensibly, and a parasol provided additional protection from prying eyes. She peeked through it,hoping to get a glimpse of the sun, but Mrs. Rose whispered that she must keep her eyes forward.
Finally, after an hour of walking in the cold, stopping occasionally to greet Mrs. Rose’s many acquaintances, they ended their walk at the northeast corner of St. James’s Park and then made their way to the street.
“Well,” said Mrs. Rose, “I’d say that was a roaring success. Now, at least, you have a few introductions among the ton, so that you may greet them on future strolls. How exciting!”
“I’m quivering,” Elswyth said.
“Quite!” Mrs. Rose replied. Then she turned to the busy street across from them: carriages rolled by, their horses’ breath steaming. “Unfortunate we could not use your uncle’s coach. I shall have to hail us a hack. Wait here for a moment—and don’t speak to anyone, dear, lest they think you a trollop.”
Mrs. Rose turned and left the park, walking in short, quick steps toward the road. Elswyth wandered out of the gates as well, idly examining her surroundings. Then, above the busy road, not fifty feet from her, she saw a street sign. It read:OFFICE OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE.
The sign indicated a narrow road between two large stone buildings. From her reticule, she produced the paper map of London that her uncle had lent her and located the mark she’d made the first time she’d attempted to contact the police.
Scotland Yard—both the street and the police headquarters which bore its name—was not a block away. In fact, she could see one of the redbrick towers that marked its corners peeking through a nearby alley.
She stole a quick glance at Mrs. Rose—busily haggling with acoachman over fares—and then lifted her crinoline and ran across the street.
Elswyth, breathless, walked through the double doors of the police station and made for the reception desk. Policemen in uniform strode about in their black helmets, the silver buttons of their topcoats shining, their billy clubs held at their waists.
The officer working the desk only agreed to summon the inspector assigned to her sister’s case after she bluntly informed him that she was the niece of an acting member of Parliament. It was, of course, extremely improper for a lady of breeding like Elswyth to arrive unchaperoned at the police station. The man, uncertain, left to check with his superiors. When he returned, his attitude was deferential—he guided her up the staircase to the right, up to the top floor of the building. She looked behind her as they walked, breath still heavy, expecting Mrs. Rose to appear at any moment. There would be consequences to her actions—Mrs. Rose would surely write her father—but it would be worth it, if she could speak to someone about the message she’d found in her sister’s bouquet.
The officer—an Irishman named Lt. Woods—gestured to an oaken door set with glass, withDETECTIVE INSPECTOR EDMUND REEDpainted in gold letters upon the window. “On your left, ma’am,” the officer said.
The lieutenant entered the office, and Elswyth heard a brief discussion before she was permitted inside. It was a small room, with two windows looking out over the street below. A wide desk dominated the center of the office, with a single wooden chair acrossfrom it. In the corner near the window was a coat rack, which held a black coat and bowler hat, and on the opposite wall was a large corkboard, pinned with photographs and files.
